From days before I would run around in my blue bikini with the little yellow coconut tree holding my crotch wanting to pee from excitement. Not having yet grown any boobies at the age of 5, my bikini top was always askew, with one triangle tucked neatly in my armpit and the bottom half hiding in my butt-crack.
But when it came time to get into the car for the two hours journey to Mayaro, the screaming and stamping would start, not only from me, but from every family member I threw up on in the years passed. I was the tiny ball of vomit no one wanted to hold.
Seven cars would head down one behind the other like a funeral procession. The journey was filled with traditions everyone adhered to. We would stop for breakfast that was stored in the trunk of the car my grandmother was in. Roti, curry chicken, bake and salmon and sardines, bake and cheese and any of the million things she loved to cook.
After some loud belchin, yawnin and strechin, we would pile back into the cars, never in the same one you started the journey in, and head off again. The next stop would be for boil corn, then soaked pommecythere, then salt prunes and red mango, then doubles, then bake and shark...At some point at least 3 cars would stop abruptly and a child's head would pop out the side and lunch, snack, breakfast, snacks and some unknown objects would fly out their mouth.
After two hours of non stop driving and eating ( and they wonder why i threw up on everybody shit man) we would suddenly get a whiff of fresh fish and wet sand. A slow, musical breeze would hit us unexpectedly and there in front of us in the distance would be the waves cloaking the shores.
Every year for 6 weeks, my entire family headed to Mayaro for a typical trini vacation by the sea. Everyone had to go, no exceptions, even if you were there only for a day, you had to be there.
We stayed in the oldest, creepiest, biggest, darkest, freakiest house in the area and we loved it. There was room for hundreds. Every floor space was covered with a mattress and pillow. Every corner filled with wet bathing suits and towels. The long wooden table in the dining hall could hold about 3 billion people.
We would rush in drop our bags claim a mattress and run out to the beach as fast as we could, stopping suddenly at the edge of the water before the waves touched our toes to say a prayer before we went in.
We would bath and play until we got dragged out for lunch, then after the hour to digest, head back in again.
The afternoons were my favourite times... After showering in the nastiest bathroom ever built and putting on shorts and vests and slippers, the women would all go for a walk down the beach. A long lazy walk, picking up shells and sticks and hunting for the tiny rivers that cut through the forests and escaped to the sea.
Dinner would be done when we got back, the smell of sada roti, fried fish and green tea. We would eat and then play all fours late in to the night. Then off to bed.
I have memories of early mornings... of walking along the beach with my grandmother, to meet the fishermen as they came back to shore. Of helping them pull in the lines and of choosing our own fish to cook. She would wrap her skirt around her knees and bend over, examining the catch closely. Haggle for a few minutes, make her purchase and then grab my hand and contentedly walk back towards the house.
I would run inside and jump into my blue bikini, sniffing the smell of fried fish coming from the kitchen. I could already hear my family awake and rushing about. Our the door and into the water, for another day at the beach...
But when it came time to get into the car for the two hours journey to Mayaro, the screaming and stamping would start, not only from me, but from every family member I threw up on in the years passed. I was the tiny ball of vomit no one wanted to hold.
Seven cars would head down one behind the other like a funeral procession. The journey was filled with traditions everyone adhered to. We would stop for breakfast that was stored in the trunk of the car my grandmother was in. Roti, curry chicken, bake and salmon and sardines, bake and cheese and any of the million things she loved to cook.
After some loud belchin, yawnin and strechin, we would pile back into the cars, never in the same one you started the journey in, and head off again. The next stop would be for boil corn, then soaked pommecythere, then salt prunes and red mango, then doubles, then bake and shark...At some point at least 3 cars would stop abruptly and a child's head would pop out the side and lunch, snack, breakfast, snacks and some unknown objects would fly out their mouth.
After two hours of non stop driving and eating ( and they wonder why i threw up on everybody shit man) we would suddenly get a whiff of fresh fish and wet sand. A slow, musical breeze would hit us unexpectedly and there in front of us in the distance would be the waves cloaking the shores.
Every year for 6 weeks, my entire family headed to Mayaro for a typical trini vacation by the sea. Everyone had to go, no exceptions, even if you were there only for a day, you had to be there.
We stayed in the oldest, creepiest, biggest, darkest, freakiest house in the area and we loved it. There was room for hundreds. Every floor space was covered with a mattress and pillow. Every corner filled with wet bathing suits and towels. The long wooden table in the dining hall could hold about 3 billion people.
We would rush in drop our bags claim a mattress and run out to the beach as fast as we could, stopping suddenly at the edge of the water before the waves touched our toes to say a prayer before we went in.
We would bath and play until we got dragged out for lunch, then after the hour to digest, head back in again.
The afternoons were my favourite times... After showering in the nastiest bathroom ever built and putting on shorts and vests and slippers, the women would all go for a walk down the beach. A long lazy walk, picking up shells and sticks and hunting for the tiny rivers that cut through the forests and escaped to the sea.
Dinner would be done when we got back, the smell of sada roti, fried fish and green tea. We would eat and then play all fours late in to the night. Then off to bed.
I have memories of early mornings... of walking along the beach with my grandmother, to meet the fishermen as they came back to shore. Of helping them pull in the lines and of choosing our own fish to cook. She would wrap her skirt around her knees and bend over, examining the catch closely. Haggle for a few minutes, make her purchase and then grab my hand and contentedly walk back towards the house.
I would run inside and jump into my blue bikini, sniffing the smell of fried fish coming from the kitchen. I could already hear my family awake and rushing about. Our the door and into the water, for another day at the beach...
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