Syringes 'n' stuff

If you’re planning a trip to the Caribbean and want your typical, coconut-lined shores with hustlers galore and soaking black 6-packs glistening in the afternoon sun in addition to incalculable mangled-toothed English backpackers, then you probably shouldn’t include Trinidad in your itinerary. However if you want an abundance of unbelievably delectable dishes, locals whose corners of their lips know no other direction but upward and a city that is arguably the party capital of the world, then reconsider.


One of B.C. Lara's 14 houses in Trinidad

Upon our arrival in Port of Spain, Trinidad (after our plane left Barbados an hour late because the photocopier at the airport was broken?!?!), I’d be lying if I said it were a smooth passage through customs. But then again, I’m a chronic liar. But regardless, Dunny and I were held up at customs for the best part of 20 minutes. Not because of the heroin stash I sealed inside the backing of a postcard; nor as a result of Dunny’s Osama bin Laden-esque beard that had now become a home for many festering seagulls, rats and plankton; nor due to being recognised as the bassplayer from Venus Fly Trap/Wormholes Exist; but because we were being challenged to a game of cricket by the customs officer. As soon as he realised we were Australian, he proceeded to give us his contact details, ask us for Australian coins as a token of Gilly’s knock in the final, provide every detail of his cricket club and begging us to round up 11 men to take on his club sometime in the next 4 days. Meanwhile, the less-than-impressed travellers waiting in the customs line behind us had grown into a queue around 20m long. Of course, we were unable to round up 11 men over the next 5 days, so needless to say, the game didn’t eventuate.


With the Jarvis family and Uncle Michael on the left. Herbert Jarvis - one of the true West Indian characters.

On the Wednesday, after making a visit to the Saatchi & Saatchi Trinidad office (yes, they have an office there. With around 70 employees in fact), I was ready to take on the main Trinidad surf spot – Maraccas Beach. But I use the term ‘surf’ exceptionally loosely. Their idea of surf involves something similar to what Iain and I have been doing at Bronte Beach for years – posos. Put simply, “posos” (short for “posing”) entails a human being striking a pose directly under the lip of a wave as it is about to break and allow yourself to get absolutely pummelled into the sand/rocks/reef/whatever happens to lie underneath. Pain is the main sensation experienced during this activity. And if the locals at Maraccas aren’t getting drilled into the ocean floor, you’ll see them sprinting away from each and every wave that breaks. It’s no wonder Trinidad has produced the likes of Ato Boldon! It’s also not particularly reassuring to see the one and only lifeguard on duty virtually passed-out/stoned in a hut more than 50m from the water’s edge. Nice.


The sole lifeguard on Maraccas beach. It must've been taken before he smoked and passed out.


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Andy in one of his many nomadic moments.


Saatchi & Saatchi office in Port of Spain, Trinidad. I believe they do some work there occasionally.


In the foreground is a syringe. In the background is the Australian High Commission. You do the math.


The improv dude on the way down to Maraccas beach. He'll sing a song about anything you want. And I mean anything

It was also in Trinidad that I experienced my first nightclub rejection so far on the trip. Sure, my shoes were filthy beyond comprehension with the soles practically non-existent, but didn’t they know who I was?! Pathetic.

One of the highlights of our stay in Trinidad was the day trip through the north western islands of Trinidad, which stretch to just a few miles off the coast of Venezuela. It was not only interesting to see a unique part of Trinidad that most locals haven’t even seen, but also because of the history through these islands. For almost a century, this was a renowned drug trafficking route, with small rafts from South America offloading my cocaine supplies into alcoves in cliff faces at night. But it was on this day trip that we started to realise how irrationally obsessed with cricket we are. At one point we were playing with a quarter slice of a tennis ball and a discarded beer bottle on a wharf no more than a metre wide.


On the boat to the Bocos Islands with Uncle Michael


Arriving at the plantation house on one of the Bocos islands. It was 5 dudes and 2 dogs. It could only end one way.


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This was before the ball broke and the bat was soaked.


Comedy. Making one thing look like another. Andy funny.

I was sad to leave Trinidad, not only because it’s an amazingly unique place (particularly the traffic jams in the city at lunchtime with everyone heading home for a power nap), and definitely somewhere I’ll return to live at some point, but also because from now on, I was on my own. No more uncoordinated Dunny and nomadic Andy to keep the ribs in shape from constant laughter (at them). But at the same time, it means I no longer have anyone to verify my stories on this blog. Haha Sweet. Ok, gotta go. I’m being called. Pamela, I'll be there in a sec!

Oh wait. But before I head to NY. Here are just a handful of highlights and lowlights from my Caribbean leg of the trip.

Things I liked:
• Seeing our 70 year old companion Gerry Foster at Alfred’s Bar in Negril, Jamaica at 1am
• Somehow ending up at Karen King’s (Bennet King, WI coach’s wife) house until 5am one night in Antigua
• The England v West Indies game. I hate you Paul Nixon.
• Tonys Bar in Antigua – the ‘Charlie?’ incident.
• Driving along the south coast of Jamaica from Kingston to Negril
• Drunken Poms

Things I didn’t like:
• Leaving my passport on the plane in LA
• Leaving my and dunny’s passport in a restaurant in Grenada
• Leaving my passport, wallet and camera on a bus in Barbados
• Drunken Poms

Laziness is a virtue.

I know I know. I've been fuckin lazy lately with this thing. I'll try and get some new shit up here soon. I'm in Dublin at the moment and loving it like an investment banker likes to tell people he likes cocaine.

So, you can soon expect my blogs from Trinidad, New York, London and eventually Dublin. Some of the words are written, just lazy with uploading pics and shite.

And just remember kids, you're alive.

almost up-to-date

We’re all pretty much aware that the ending to this, at times puzzling, tournament was an interesting one. It was no better than a bunch of 12 year-olds running around the backyard in summer, trying to squeeze some play out of every last daylight saving sunray. This is actually how dark it was at the first call of stumps.



Nonetheless, it didn’t prevent the budgie smuggler brigade from, once again, parading their pathetic excuses of packages around the perimeter of the ground. Mind you, it also didn’t prevent me from watching them fervently, foaming at the mouth.

Ha. Kidding about the foaming bit (sort of).

So from our third stint in Barbados, it’s off to Trinidad & Tobago – my true, spiritual homeland (along with Bungalow 8).

p.s. why is my blogspot in german? help?

Witty title for a blog about St Lucia

Now, here's my blog from St Lucia. Words are good.
---
Fuck, it’s hot. I’m sweating out of orifices I didn’t even know existed. And if I did know they existed, I’m glad they now have a use. We’re now in St Lucia and I don’t recall sweating this much or seeing someone sweat this much since…(the audience waits eagerly in anticipation. What humorous metaphor, comparison or pop-culture reference will Gruthdog use? Will he use the old “paedophile in a primary school” line?; will it be a reference to genitalia? Will it be a reference to a particular uni lecturer with whom only half the blog readers will be familiar, yet the other half will chuckle in spite of it being a private joke, and subsequently have to awkwardly retract their mistaken laughter?)…ummm, I’ll leave it at that.

Apparently St. Lucia is the honeymoon capital of the world.I can see why. In terms of touristy-type activities and sight-seeing, St Lucia has it covered. Waterfalls, canopies, rainforests, volcanoes, mineral baths and springs, rum distilleries, brothels, washed-up celebrities in hiding, you name it!


The Pitons.


How to take a photo of a busker without leaving a cent. Stingy.


Dunny getting fed by a tourist.

As with most the islands, the most logical way to see most of the sights is to take an island tour. So we did. The sulphur springs in Souphreite (I can't remember how to spell it and don't have my st Lucia book on me. Well, I do, but it's in my dirty underwear bag. And I wet the bed last night) were probably the highlight of the tour as they’re located in the crater of an active-ish volcano. Although the last time it actually erupted was around 10,000 years ago (just like Wilson), it is still considered active. On the tour, and despite not actually visiting this particular island attraction, I developed a new obsession: the flying fox. My love affair with this contraption began in Antigua, where we were staying on the beach at the bottom of a valley, with a popular nightclub located on the cliff face overlooking the valley and coastline. I concluded that it would be far more efficient to travel home by flying fox over jagged rocks and gigantic palm trees after a night on the booze, as opposed to the more common road taxi. And free too. I can see it now – Haydn Scarr catching the flying fox from George St in the city down to Northies in the Shire, just to save a couple bucks.


Our tour guide takes revenge on Mick. Perhaps for the centuries of black persecution?


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Diamond Falls.


Diamond Falls. The team.


Sulphur Springs in the crater face of the volcano.

We also managed to cross paths with Ben Barnett and posse on several occasions in St Lucia, including one rather large night (involving around an hour of loitering outside a Shaggy-headlined music festival), which, once again, preceded a day of sight-seeing. On the aforementioned night on the town, I was approached by a typical ganja dealer. After declining his kind offers, he then offered his services as a fortune-teller. Curiously, I handed him the nominal $5 and proceeded to hear about how I must be careful of who I marry and that my chosen career path is doomed. I have a feeling that if I had bought some weed from him, my fortune would’ve read slightly more positively.


With Jordy and Ben Barnett and Dunny at Cave Bar. It's battle of the fringes. Howie - I appoint you the judge.


I'm wearing a funny hat. Now, laugh.


I just though it was funny that they named a flower after Jamie Durie


Mmmmm. Canopies. Not to be mistaken for canapes. Oooh pretentious.

I also had the privilege of watching around 400 budgie-smuggler clad Aussies in the party stand for the semi final. It was horrendous. Even some of the locals were questioning what they had done to deserve this. Admittedly, when a handful of Aussies invaded the playing field during the break, none of them were game enough to remove the budgie smugglers; presumably for fear of humiliating themselves when revealing their stereotypically white ‘belongings’ amidst a black community.


One of the game Aussie streakers. Going...


Going...


Goooooonnnnne.....


Another generic cricket group shot.


One word: English.


The budgie smuggling posse in preparation.

Fare thee well for now.

Ok, found it.

So, I found my thumbdrive. I'll now proceed to upload a few now-out-of-date blog entries from the last leg of the Caribbean.

Hello my collective sweet peas. Back in Barbados for another few days – primarily to watch England v West Indies. A week ago, this was a fruitless game as both teams have now been eliminated, however since Brian Lara announced his retirement from all international forms of the game, we were guaranteed a spectacle. And a spectacle we got, with dickhead Paul Nixon somehow carrying England to West Indies highest total of the tournament, with only a couple balls to spare. By far one of the best displays of one day cricket I’ve seen in a while. Up there with Michael Bevan’s 4 off the last ball against the West Indies around 1998, and the 1999 world cup semi final against South Africa. Allan Donald – you idiot.



Oh, and I’ve been reliably informed that the quality of my “jokes” is rapidly declining. I beg to differ, as I’m of the opinion that my ganja-influenced wit is on the incline, and none of the subscribers to this blog have risen at the same level. I sympathise for you all. But seriously, if I decline to the level of Akhmal, kindly prepare a noose for me. And him.

Anyway, we were only in Barbados for three days this time, so I’ll get out of your hair quickly.

Now, if you want to eat fish, Barbados is the place to come. Last night I ate what is potentially the best meal I’ve had in my life. By far the best fish, at least. I never thought a marinated Marlin steak could be so fucking good. The queue at the “Fishnet Grill” at Oistins fishmarket on Friday nights generally extends to around 80m. It is an experience unto itself. If it were Bunt, he’d be bottling it right now. I honestly can’t describe it, and the chef wouldn’t disclose his secret, so all I can say is get there.


One of those 'you had to be there' kinda moments.


A monkey. His name is Mike Goldman.

The only problem with eating fish here in the Caribbean is that we’ve noticed a direct correlation between eating fish and having bizarre, bizarre dreams. We’ve almost developed a ritual of post-fish dream analysis the following morning. Some of my dreams have included terrorist attacks at cricket games; trying to smuggle heroin and cocaine into the US; Gumby being king (with the Blockheads his servants at arms); being forced to live inside Daniel Johns’ knee; and the Roosters winning a game. So, if anyone can shed some light on why this is happening, do tell. Especially the Daniel Johns’ knee thing.

We managed to score ourselves an invite to Tony Cozier’s beach house for a BBQ, hangin’ with Beefy Botham, Mark Nicholas and co. (note – “and co” actually implies that there was nobody else there of note other than those listed, otherwise I would have continued the list). Tony’s place is located right on the beach (on the north east coast I think) of Barbados. So, naturally another competitive game of beach cricket ensued. This time, a cricket team’s worth of locals, including a handful of cocky, hard-talking kids, challenged us to the game. And they smashed us. If only the West Indies cricket team played the way they play beach cricket. Except for their ridiculous rule of playing ‘two hands one bounce”. My protests were fruitless after being repeatedly dismissed within an over.


Mild hangover grins. Tony Cozier's deck. That's 'deck', not 'dick'.

But we did have a reasonable excuse for getting belted around the beach. The night before, after countless rum and red bulls and sangrias at St Lawrence Gap, was potentially the most intoxicated I’ve ever been. Except perhaps that night at the CSU unibar, when I continually harassed the Jebediah bass player and then spewed in my bed only to roll over and continue to sleep in my own fluids, before wearing the same t-shirt to dining hall the next morning. I hold Symcard accountable for that one. So no, our heads weren’t in the best shape for cricket. Andy spent a decent slice of the cricket game passed out on the sand, being used as a boundary marker, with the locals taking their own personal retribution for centuries of enslavement.


Dunny delivers to a psychotic local.


We had little chance of victory.


Photography. Me.


Red Alarm, at the Reggae Lounge. St Lawrence Gap

I hear that BB8 is about to commence back home?! And are apparently targeting more “intellectual”, older types? Shit. And bloody Gretel. Is she in a walking frame yet? So many crows-feet. So many memories.

Church, priest, tabernacle.

missing thumbdrive

Hello twits.

I'm currently at Trinidad airport waiting to board a flight to the big apple. Yes, sadly, my Caribbean adventures are all but over. This also means I am parting with my beloved tour party Andy, Dunny and the 'rents. Mick and Sarah bid farewell last week from Barbados.

I have a couple more posts to update from St Lucia, Barbados (another) and Trinidad. I can't find my USB drive (yes, nerd), so I will get onto that when I locate that blasted device.

A couple words on the Cup final - yes 'twas quite the farce. Unbelievable knock from Gilly, but I felt so sorry for the Lankans. Everyhing was against them. The light at the end of play was absolutely ridiculous. You wouldn't even play a backyard game in those conditions. Nevertheless, everyone was in a rum haze, so all seemed to be forgotten within minutes.

More updates and picsss soon biatches.