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
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