Mykel's Caribbean Blog Chapter FOUR: BINGO!

by Mykel Board

ENTRY FOUR

October 11, 2013

[Recap: From the start, it didn't look good for this trip. Everything went right... a bad sign. Nothing portends disaster more than everything going right.

Easy subletter in New York, smooth flight to Miami, promises of “meet you at the airport/seaport” for the whole trip. $10 a night accommodations in Guyana, the rest free.

Uh oh! Too good. The better the news, the bigger the fall later. And things get worse. (Better) The plan is to stay at the Hollywood (FLA not LA) home of my long-term friend and sometimes partner in crime, Sharon I. With a couple small exceptions. The Miami trip went so smoothly you could cry.

Then on to Trinidad where my friends picked me up at the airport, took me around drinkin'.Then I moved to the South of the country, some fun adventures, a Goddess... er... Empress of a girl. Back to the airport and the flight to Guyana.

One thing after another... clicking into place. It's sort of like a Bingo game in reverse. Only when you do NOT get the blocks in a row can you call BINGO. If things come together in a row, one after the other, vertically, horizontally, diagonally, that's normal. That's losing. When things DON'T click... when they don't work out. That's BINGO.

I leave for Guyana tomorrow. My facebook friends from KEEP YOUR DAY JOB! will meet me at the airport. From there, we go to Kareem's place (not his real name, but I've changed it for legal reasons... you'll see why later.) This is the only time I'll be paying for a place to sleep this trip. 15 days for $150US. Not bad. I'll have my own room and cool company.

The plane leaves on time. Customs to leave Trinidad is a breeze. We take off and land at the small airport in Georgetown. I'm one of the first to get off the plane, but I'm having a bit of difficulty organizing my few bags. A few people pass me as I make my way to the immigration line. There are three lines: GUYANESE CITIZENS, CARIBBEAN NATIONALS, OTHER VISITORS. I get on the line for OTHER VISITORS... BINGO!]

The airport in Georgetown is small. The hundred plus of us from the plane are the only ones there. As I prefer to sit in the back of the plane, I'm at the end of the line at immigration. Actually there are three lines. One for Guyanese citizens. One for Caribbean nationals. One for everyone else. There is one agent for each line. The everyone else one curls around, back through the gate from the plane.

Outside is hotter than it was in Trinidad. The immigration office is not much more than a large wooden hut. No AC. The other two lines move quickly, but our line creeps along at a slug's pace. Soon the other windows are empty.

One of two guards in the center walks to our line. He puts his arm across it about three people behind me.

“You people,” he says, “please move to the other windows. They are free now.”

The people behind me move to form two new faster moving lines.

Those of us in the first third, have to stay put. Time passes. At least half an hour

Again the other lines clear out. There are only a few people ahead of me now... less than half a dozen. Only a few people are left in the airport at all. Our line still doesn't move.

The woman ahead of me bolts, runs to a longer, but more quick-paced line. Now there's only two people ahead of me... they're together... a father and daughter. They go to the passport window together. They don't speak English. The immigration officer obvious doesn't speak Spanish. It takes at least a quarter hour for them to realize they can't communicate.

After that quarter hour, the immigration agent gets up, leaves the booth... speaks to another immigration officer. They call over the boss. There's a meeting.

Nobody speaks Spanish. I'd volunteer, but it's already late, I'm tired, and people are waiting for me. It's been an hour. I can't get involved in diplomatic matters at this time of night.

I move to the only line NOT involved in the Spanish matter. Of course, as soon as I move, the problem is cleared, and the woman who was BEHIND me, steps to the window. I'm still waiting.

Somehow, I manage to get out of there. I'm in the airport lobby where a few people wait.

“Taxi? Taxi?” they shout at me. “You need Taxi? Where you going? You speak English?”

I'm looking for the punk rockers. I hope they didn't give up and go home... but they're certainly not here. I leave the airport terminal, wondering if I should take a taxi somewhere. Where? Then it hits me. I have NO MONEY. Nothing is open and I don't have a cent of Guyanese currency. The technical name for my position is SCREWED!

“Are you Mykel Board,”comes a voice from the side. I recognize GAVIN and RYAN, from KEEP YOUR DAY JOB.. the only punkrock band in Guyana. SAVED!

Keep Your Day Job!

From the airport to the bar. (Where have I done THAT before?) First stop... ROCK'N'ROLL Karaoke. I'm getting a feeling for the way people look... a mix similar to the Trinis. Indian or Negro-looking. A few people are mixed... usually making an extremely attractive combination.

At the bar, I do not want to sing Hotel California, but I watch my new friends sing Should I Come or Should I Go and a bunch of metal songs I don't know.

This guy with a big smile comes up to me. Skinny, mid-20s, less of an accent than most.

“You're Mykel,” he says.

Out of habit, I give him the once-over, checking for weapons. Nothing obvious.

“Yep,” I say, “that's me.”

“I'm Kareem,” he says, giving me a big hug. Suddenly he's off. Doing a Karaoke duet with some attractive girl wearing blue harem pants with white stars on them. I've never heard the song before, but Kareem looks practiced.

He starts his part looking deep into the girl's eyes. Before the second verse, his hand is around her back. By the second chorus, his knee is wedged between her legs and she's bent backwards over his outstretched arm. They do not kiss.

Then we cross the street to another bar where we meet even more people.

“Lets get some more beer,” says Kareem. “We can stick in our mouths and suck on it, like a big one.”

Gavin goes to buy beer for everyone. I'm feeling guilty-- not buying anything, but the reality is... I HAVE NO (Guyanese) MONEY! Zero. By the time I got through immigration, all the banks... including the mini-money changing booth at the airport... were closed. What could I do?

We start with the local favorite BANKS BEER. Yep, that's me with my first. It's tempting to make a joke about JEWS LOVE BANKS, but I have more taste than that... so does the beer. Not bad at all, a bit light, but at supercold temperatures, it's perfect for the heat.

“Do you hash, Mykel?” asks a guy with a Mowhawk, sitting at our table.

“I don't really take drugs,” I tell him. “I gave them up after college.”

“That's not it,” says Kareem. “It's that their cock-sucking substitute: jogging. They jog and they drink. Then jog some more.”

It's then that I notice that Kareem makes a penis reference at least once in every spoken paragraph.

“Oh yeah,” I say, “I saw some of the hashers in Mongolia. I think they used the same name: Hashing. The group was run by an Indian, I think. I like the idea... except for the running part.”

The beer flows. It's like Trinidad. It's been a long day, but the beer keeps flowing. I keep drinking.

“Lets buy some rum and go to my place,” says Kareem. “We can beat our dicks on the balcony there.”

I'm beginning to like this guy. He's generous, funny, a character. EVERYBODY knows him. You'll hear more about that later.

I forget the name of the guy who's driving us around, I'll call him Caleb. He was the one who drove the car to pick me up at the airport. He's tall, thin, and right now he's pissing on the street with his cellphone in one hand and Kareem's favorite organ in the other. (His own organ, not Kareem's.)

Someone has brought a rum bottle to Caleb's car, and before the trek to Kareem's place, we share the bottle and wash it down with some Coca-cola.

Kareem lives in the far south part of town. He's got the top floor over a restaurant. There's a little space in the middle of the floor with three bedrooms off to the side. Kareem lives in one and rents out the other two. One of his tenants is a white guy-- late twenties.

Kareem introduces me. “And this dickhead is Amos,” he says.

Amos shakes my hand, smiles, and returns to the computer set up on a tiny desk in the apartment common space. I set my bags down in that space. We walk through a door onto an outside porch. There's a cool breeze that stirs relief from the heat, and brings the mosquitoes.

Soon other people come... including a few girls. (One of the big differences between Guyana and Trinidad (and the African countries I've visited) is that, here, girls go out on their own... or with a group. They don't need a BOYFRIEND to chaperone. They're just one of the gang.)

 

One of the girls here is Addevi (I don't know where these names come from... maybe India.) At first she seems like an ordinary girl, not someone you'd... but wait. After a little bit of talking, a lot of laughing, a completely free attitude, she turns sexier than an xvideos ad. Wow! She is the coolest new person of the night!

“Can I try on your hat?” she asks me.

“Sure,” I tell her, putting it on her head, imagining it's the only thing she's wearing.

Kareem comes over and interrupts the fantasy. He points to stain on her shirt.

“See that?” he asks, “I did that.” He makes a masturbatory gesture. “SPLURGE!”

By now I'm as drunk as my first night in Trinidad. I'm sitting on the edge of the balcony... a few inches from a 20 foot drop. The conversation, as in Trinidad, is hard for me to follow. But here it's NOT because of the accent. It's because of the topic.

“The Zeo Rangers had is all over the Turbos,” says Caleb. “There's no comparison.”

“You're so wrong,” says Gavin. “Turbos were the shit. Even the Aliens were better than the Zeo.”

“How could you say that?” asks Kareem. “Are you thinking with your dick?”

Usually, it's pretty hard to shut me up, but a conversation about THE MIGHTY MORPHING POWER RANGERS will do it.

Around 5AM it''s time for bed. Kareem takes me to his room. There is a single bed in the room. On the floor is a scary looking hypodermic needle, a small cooking pot and a bunch of empty gelatin capsules.

An ancient air conditioner blows in luke-cold air.

“Sorry, Mykel,” says Kareem, “I thought you knew we'd have to share the room. Still, it's only ten dollars a night. Right?”

“Umm,” I stutter, pointing to the single narrow bed in the room, “That's a mighty small bed there. I don't know you that well.”

Kareem laughs.

“That's my bed,” he says. Then he points to the floor next to the hypodermic. “That's your bed.”

[You can read previous travel blog entries below.

You can subscribe to this blog by clicking the RSS link at the bottom.

You might also want to check the blog of Mykel's columns here.

WARNING: The column blog is not PG. It might make you mad, or disgusted. The thin-skinned, politically correct, and easily sickened should probably stay away. You have been warned.]

Mykel's Caribbean Blog Chapter THREE: Trinidad to Guyana

by Mykel Board

ENTRY THREE

October 3, 2013- October 10, 2013

Recap: From the start, it didn't look good for this trip. Everything went right... a bad sign. Nothing portends disaster more than everything going right.

Easy subletter in New York, smooth flight to Miami, promises of “meet you at the airport/seaport” for the whole trip. $10 a night accommodations in Guyana, the rest free.

Uh oh! Too good. The better the news, the bigger the fall later. And things get worse. (Better) The plan is to stay at the Hollywood (FLA not LA) home of my long-term friend and sometimes partner in crime Sharon I. (Now Sharon G, as she's been ringed!)

After I leaving the plane in Miami, I rent a car for a day and drive to her gated place. The trip there is smooth as Charmin. A bit of rain, but life-threatening, hair-loss causing, money-eating tragedies – not one.

Then on to Trinidad, where annoyingly enough, things go so smoothly I could break an ankle. Randy meets me at the airport, within an hour I'm limin' on the street with a Stag (beer).

For the next few days I stay with Randy... at his parents' house... in the guest room. You heard right... A whole room to myself, my own bed, shower, toilet, and AIR CONDITIONING. A private room... enough space for me, my computer, and private viewings of xvideos.com.

I wake up, S-S-S, have coffee upstairs, Randy's mom makes a little something for breakfast, Randy drives me into town... I explore my old haunts from years before.

Somehow the country seems more serious than 5 years ago, or whenever it was I was there. The shop-keepers, the cops, strangers on the street don't seem as ready to get drunk with you as they were in the middle of last decade. Maybe even Trinidad can get caught up in the world economic malaise.

It's a minor complaint. My friends here are still MY FRIENDS. Every night is DRINK NIGHT. Rum and beer... and limin' a-plenty. On Saturday, we visit a couple of amazing Hindu sites. Doin' tourist stuff I missed last visit.

According to Wikipedia, the religious breakdown of Trinidad is: 29.6% Roman Catholic, 34.3% Protestant, 25.6% Hindu, and 6.6% Muslim. A small number of individuals subscribe to traditional Caribbean religions with African roots, such as the Spiritual Baptists (sometimes called Shouter Baptists); and the Orisha, 0.1 percent. The smaller groups are Jehovah's Witnesses (1.8 percent) and unaffiliated (2.2 percent). There is also a small, but active, Jewish community on the island.

I never saw another Jew... I don't think. But you never know. There are certainly no synagogues. Officially there are several dozen of us.

 

 

For me, it's the Hindus who are the most interesting. Most of my friends here came from an Indian background. Many are still practicing Hinduism. You'd think they'd have it down by now.

One of the many things I like about the Hindus is that they have a shitload of Gods... one main one, Om, but thousands of sub Gods. You choose the one you like best. Or take two, they're free.

One cool one is Hanuman. His name sounds like a Hanukah superhero. He's part human, part monkey, all god. Trinidad has the largest statue of him in the West... maybe in the world. It was an adventure to see it, in the middle of nowhere... someplace near Waterloo... that's the town name. I shit you not. (It's actually in Carapichaima and the Temple in the Sea is in Waterloo. I found out late.)

The statue is huge. You can see that I don't even come up to the lotus pedestal.

More colorful than Ms Liberty, I'd love to see this guy in the middle of Times Square. It'd be a ton more interesting that the stupid former Times building. (On new year, they could drop the ball from Hanuman's head.

Besides the statue, we go to THE TEMPLE IN THE SEA. (No, the sea does not part. It's not THAT kind of temple.) This one is really in Waterloo.

The story I heard from Cutter's father-- more on him later-- is that the temple was build entirely by one man. Every day, he'd ride his bicycle with a bag of cement and some wood. He'd go to the sea, do as much work as he could with the materials, then ride back and do it again the next day.

Here it is:

 

In the ocean shallows, around the sea, are colored flags. One of the things I learned on this trip is that you can tell a Hindu house... or Hindu temple... by the bunch of colored (red, black, blue, a spectrum... one color to a flag) flags stuck in the ground around it. Each flag is a symbol for one of the gods.

After the temple, it's time for THE GLORY HOLE. Yeah I know, but that's the name of the new hangout in town... actually at someone's house/apartment. Free food and drinks. Alan is making pizza for everyone... including a cheese-free pizza for the only vegan I met in Trinidad. (His wife's Canadian, he tells me.)

The booze, food, and conversation flow like the water at the Temple in the Sea. When we get there, a rasta-looking guy is playing with his young son. People drink and listen to VERY LOW-VOLUME music (mostly punk, or alternative... or heavy metal... all ROCK) on the computer.

 

I ask the rastaman to pose with a just-poured beer. After all, this is THE GLORY HOLE, people should be able to see good head.

Here he is with the beer.

A problem: I'm having trouble following the conversations. The combination of island patois and the aural effects of 30 years of punk rock make it difficult to understand speech. (This is a constant problem. So listen kids, EAR CONDOMS PREVENT HEARING AIDS! I know they look dorky on stage, but wear 'em in the clubs.)

Alan and this cool guy with a little goatee (I forget his name) trade stories. Something about being chased by a dog, climbing a fence, falling, body injuries, alcohol, and the spices that do not belong in pizza.

Cut! Scene change!

As you can imagine, I'm a bit too much for some people. And worse, for some people's parents. In Guyana, I wanted to stay with my e-friend Gavin from Keep Your Day Job, the only punkband in the country. His parents weren't too keen on the idea.

“Hah,” I tell Randy, “they probably think that I'm some kid Gavin's age (22). So they don't want me to stay there and cause trouble. Little do they know I'm older than they are.”

“Mykel,” says Randy, “they don't want you to stay there BECAUSE they know you're older than they are. What you gonna do with their 22 year old son?”

Ya think so?

 The next day I'm off to San Fernando in THE SOUTH, staying with Cutter. His real name is Yadav, but everybody calls him Cutter because of some superhero he liked when he was a kid. His nickname came from a comic book.

My accommodations in San Fernando are a bit more primitive than at Randy's. I'm on a mattress on Cutter's floor. Cutter has a double bed and his brother (who looks like Adam Sandler) is in the attached room. No AC, but a pretty decent fan.

On my first night there, Cutter's “former girlfriend” falls asleep in his bed and spends the night. They didn't do anything to wake me up.

Cutter also lives with his parents and grandmother. They're all Hindus, and there's a picture of their guru Sai Baba (He's called something else-- not a guru-- though. I forget what.) on the wall. The guy wears orange robes and has an Afro.

Cutter's mom is a school teacher. She's very friendly, but rather shy socially. She says hello, talks a bit, but stays proper. I have a great conversation with Grandma (yes, she's older than I am) about her stay in India (lots of Trinidadian Hindus have made the pilgrimage to their ancestral homeland.)

In a typical dose of ugly Americanism I hear (from Mom or Grandma, I forget which) about how American hippy tourists use the Ashram like a free hotel. There wasn't enough room for the actual devotees. Fortunately, the guru put a stop to that and limited the Americans to a 3 day stay. I think THAT was too generous.

(Of course, I expect the action was called racist-- like countries that charge white people more than natives. Yeah for them, I say. I'm not rich, but I make in a week what they make in a month. I SHOULD pay more.)

Cutter's dad is a character. Funny, full of stories. He actually saw the man who built the Temple in The Sea bicycling to and from. We talk religion over a great curry dinner... cooked by Dad.

(This will be the first of several home-cooked dinners in San Fernando. Another will be by Cassie's mom. Cassie is the girlfriend of Bryan, singer of ANTI-EVERYTHING. She's also a friend of mine.

“Mykel,” says Cutter, “you need to be on your best behavior with Cassie's mom. She's Christian and conservative. Nice, but, you know. Please don't act like Mykel Board around her.”

We get along famously.)

Back at Cutter's:

“So,” says Cutter's father, “you're Christian, I guess.”

“No,” I tell him, “I'm a Jew.”

“Really,” he says, “Indians are a lot like Jews, you know. Value education, good with money, you know.”

I nod.

“We've both got a lot of us outside the homeland,” he continues, “if you know what I mean.”

That night, Cutter, his former girlfriend and I struggle to find an open bar. We do. The next day is a trip to the Wildfowl reservation. It's there that I meet the amazing Kai Leigh. A photographress, student, interested in Iceland, smart, funny. My Trini friends tell me she's not a goddess... She's an Empress. You can see our day with the fowl here. Just click on the picture to see 'em all:

Sanctuary

Here are me, Cutter and Kai Leigh enjoying a late beer after the birds. Looks like a Benetton ad, doesn't it?

I return to Randy's for my last day before Guyana. Randy's home, check. Randy's brother Reeaz can drive me to the airport, check. Royal Castle at the airport, check. Plane leaves on time, check.

One thing after another, clicking into place. It's sort of like a Bingo game in reverse. Only when you do NOT get the blocks in a row can you call BINGO. If things click in a row, one after the other, vertically, horizontally, diagonally, that's normal. That's losing. When things DON'T click, when they don't work out. That's BINGO.

I leave for Guyana the next day. My facebook friends from KEEP YOUR DAY JOB will meet me at the airport. From there, we go to Kareem's place (not his real name, but I've changed it for legal reasons... you'll see why later.) This is the only time I'll be paying for a place to sleep this trip. 15 days for $150US. Not bad. I'll have my own room and cool company.

The plane leaves on time. Customs to leave Trinidad is a breeze. We take off and land at the small airport in Georgetown. I'm one of the first to get off the plane, but I'm having a bit of difficulty organizing my few bags. A few people pass me as I make my way to the immigration line. There are three lines: GUYANESE CITIZENS, CARIBBEAN NATIONALS, OTHER VISITORS. I get on the line for OTHER VISITORS... BINGO!

[You can read previous travel blog entries below.

You can subscribe to this blog by clicking the RSS link at the bottom.

You might also want to check the blog of Mykel's columns here.

WARNING: The column blog is not PG. It might make you mad, or disgusted. The thin-skinned, politically correct, and easily sickened should probably stay away. You have been warned.]

Mykel's Caribbean Blog Chapter TWO: Miami to Trinidad

by Mykel Board

ENTRY TWO

October 3, 2013- October 6, 2013

Recap: From the start, it didn't look good for this trip. Everything went right... a bad sign. Subletter in New York, smooth flight to Miami, promises of “meet you at the airport/seaport” for the whole trip. $10 a night accommodations in Guyana, the rest free.

Uh oh! Too good. The better the news the bigger the fall. And things get worse. The plan is to stay at the Hollywood (FLA not LA) home of my long-term friend and sometimes partner in crime Sharon I. (Now Sharon G, as she's been ringed!)

After I leaving the plane in Miami, I rent a car for a day and drive to her gated place. There's an electronic directory. I punch her number. No answer. Finally, here it comes... I sleep in the street tonight, or cut into my exceedingly slim budget.

A car pulls up in back of me. The gate opens. Both of us cruise through. Sharon is home and welcomes me with a great hug and a beer. What else could you want? (Come on... she's married!)

The next morning is hell rain. The pool looks like it's gonna flood. We take a ride to pick up Sharon's dogs. Then we head for breakfast. On the road, the lights go out... all of 'em. It's a torrent. No plane could take off in this. I'll be stuck here for 7 weeks. Here it comes...

But it doesn't. We get to the restaurant. They tell us which food cooks with gas, which with electricity. They'll serve us the gas, as long as we pay cash because the credit card machines don't work. And don't worry, there's still some (fairly) hot coffee left. No problem.

Worse than that, within ten minutes of our egg arrival... the power's back up, and annoying TVs are blasting sports news that neither of us gives a shit about. The rain doesn't let up, though... torrents... a Niagra... and we have to slosh our way back through the security gates.

Dinner plans are with Sharon's friend, Margaret. She's an original South Floridian, and a veteran of Florida's punk rock scene... and she's had enough bad luck to warrant a lifetime of future fortune.

Margaret's story: Her mother's gotbrain cancer. Margaret takes care of her as she slowly succumbs. She'd just gotten married to a scenester from Florida, and this was supposed to be a happy time in her life. Yet she watches her mother slowly dissolve into death. It takes half a year.

As if to ice the death cake, her pet finch dies a month later.

Enough? Nope... by the end of the NEXT six months, her new hubby buys the farm. Cancer again. See what I mean?

Sharon's plan is to take her out, bring her to her old haunts, get her back in the swing. She's up for going out come hell (unsure) or high water (here right now: Looking out the window, through the monsoon, I can Noah working on the nailing together some wood. Animals are lining up, two by two. )

“Are you sure you want to go out in this?” I ask her.

She nods.

“Mykel,” she says, “Margaret wants to meet you. She knows the city. And we need to get her out of her depression”

Ok. I've got a rain coat. Let's go.

It's hard to describe wading through the city. The streets fill with water. Half the streets are shin deep and it doesn't look to be letting up soon. Sharon Margaret and I-- none of whom rank high in the vertical department, wade from one bar to another. Sometimes, we back track and try another crossing because the streets are too filled to ford.

 





Mykel & Margaret trying to look Edward Hopper

 

We swim from one bar to another. Margaret keeping up a running commentary:

“And see this pink police car? It's a memorial to our last... maybe only.. cool police chief.” I frown a you-know-what-oxymoron-means? frown.

 

“Remember the demonstrations here in 1972?” she asks. “You know Mykel, the rest of us weren't born yet.”

 

Wiseguy.

“They had those riots in Chicago a few years before,” she continues, “but chief Rocky.”

“Aw come on,” I say.

 

“No really,” says Margaret, “everybody called him Rocky... and he takes Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin and goes out drinking and smokin' with them... explaining how there's not gonna be any riots here... how everybody's got a right to their opinion... buys those boys beer, gets 'em stoned. No riots at that convention.”

It's not too long before the rain stops. The street tides recede. It's an easy ride home. Not a bad night at all... Uh oh.

At around 1AM, I text Randy in Trinidad to remind him I'm coming. I'm proud to have a dumb phone. Talk and text only. The only problem is that it's a US phone. It's a different system in the islands, you know, man? So I gotta text from here. In T'dad, Randy has an old phone he can lend me when I get there to the friendliest country in the Americas.

I get a reply from Randy in the morning.

Yeah yeah yeah,” it says, “I know. Just don't text me anymore. Okay? I don't need your texts. Just text me when you get to the airport.”

Shit! He sounds pissed off. I did something. Probably woke him up. Maybe he was... er... doing something personal. I interrupted. He lost the... er... mood. Damn, I'm in trouble now.

At the airport in Miami, customs is so snappy I don't notice it. Bang! I'm at the duty free shop. A fifth of Jack Daniels... that'll take the sting off the late night texting.

It's only on the plane that I remember I CAN'T text Randy when I arrive. My phone won't work. Do pay phones still exist? You certainly can't text from them. What the fuck am I gonna do?

Trinidad Airport. Customs. Look for a phone. INFORMATION says the sign.

“Is there a pay phone in the airport?” I ask.

The young Indian woman behind the glass frowns.

“You know,” I say, miming the action, “a phone where you put in coins. Then push the buttons. Then say YO IT'S ME.”

She stands up, walks out of her little booth, goes somewhere... comes back in a couple of minutes. She still isn't smiling.

“There's a coin phone over there,” she says, pointing vaguely to the right.

I thank her and head vaguely to the right, looking for the coin phone. I ask an Indian-looking man at the money changing booth.

“It's over there... somewhere...” he says pointing in the same direction. It's at this point I realize that coin phones need coins. I have a few hundred Trini dollars (about $30 US) from my last trip, but no coins.

I ask the guy in the change booth if he has change. He shakes his head. Try the bank booth over there. No change there either. A bank with no change... you gotta love it.

I head for the Royal Castle branch in the airport. I pull out a $20. [NOTE: Royal Castle makes the best fried chicken in the world, and they top it off with the best pepper sauce in the world. If they came to Kansas, they'd put the colonel out of business.]

I ask the attractive Trini-colored girl behind the cash register. “Do you have change for this twenty? I need it for a coin phone.”

The big guy on line next to me turns and tilts his head to the side. “They still have coin phones in Trinidad?” he asks.

“I hope so,” I tell him.

The cashier shakes her head, “I can't open my drawer.”

“I'll be happy to open your drawer,” I don't say.

“How about if I buy something?” I do say.

“Then I could open my drawer,” she says... without smiling.

I buy a juice. Get my change. Leave and look for the coin phone.

There is no coin phone.

I open my dumbphone to check the time. It's going on 10:30 PM. I wonder how long Randy will wait before just showing up... or going to bed. Then I see it... the bars. There is reception here... at least the phone thinks there is reception here. I try dialing Randy. It works.

“Meet you outside in 15 minutes,” he says, not sounding angry at all.

I know Trinidad. As I expect, in 45 minutes Randy pulls up to the airport doors. I go back to his place for my first night in the country in 5 years. Randy's not at all angry. I give him the J.D.'s anyway. We're out limin for the night. It's like old times... with me and the gang. Here's our picture in the drunk tank... just before they closed the outside gate:

 



Everything works out. Not smooth, but the problems: a minor sexy scratch on a perfect eyebrow. Shit, what kind of horror does this luck bode for the future? Stay tuned.

(more soon...

You can subscribe to this blog by clicking the RSS link at the bottom.

You might also want to check the blog of Mykel's columns here.

WARNING: The column blog is not PG or PC. It might make you mad or disgusted. The thin-skinned, politically correct, and easily sickened should probably stay away. You have been warned.)

Mykel's Caribbean Blog: Chapter One NY to Miami

by Mykel Board

ENTRY ONE

THURS- DAY September 26, 2013 to

October 3, 2013

I hate it when things go right. It spooks me. Going right is the lull before the explosion, the tranquility before the hurricane, the beer before the hangover. Going right is the wiggling fish at the end of the hook.

In a few days I leave for my latest adventure. With a few minor exceptions (computer problems, printer out of ink, annoying eBay customer) things have gone WAY too smoothly.

Airline tickets? A snap. Punk rock contacts in Guyana? Check. Band, ready and waiting for me. Reply from Simon's brother in French Guiana? Ma maison est ta maison. Uh oh... this does not bode well.

I need an apartment sitter to take care of my New York place during my journey South. I'm not making money from the place, I just need enough to cover my home expenses while I'm away. But my place is tiny... and cramped with records and books to the ceiling. Not a dainty Architectural Digest New York home.

I post my need on Facebook. (Not THAT need! Everybody posts THAT need on Facebook.) And POW, up come two offers that cover a part of the time. Then POW TWO ! A message from an Australian friend whose former work-mate needs a NY place EXACTLY for the time I'll be away.

Another thing going right? Jesus! I don't know how much more I can take. When will it end?

Her name is Danielle. She's an actress/IT geek. Pretty, funny, smart. Judge from the picture:

We meet at the Peculier Pub. I'm with Marilyn, my best friend... neighbor... and girl who'll be responsible for my mail, and lived-in look if no one takes the apartment. I'm nervous. If she doesn't take the apartment, I'm gonna have to have friends take care of the mail, neighbors check in and walk around, make the place look lived in, worry about break-ins and who-knows-what. Awful. Plus, it'll cost me a ton to pay for a place I won't be in.

After the Peculier, I build the place up to her.

“Every subway line in the city is within a block... or two... about... here,” I tell her. “And there's a supermarket just down the block. And the apartment has a TV. You can't get any channels, but I've got lots of DVDs and Video tapes.”

I bring her over to look at the place. Once inside the front door, we walk to the elevator. “Oh,” she says, “you have an elevator.”

YES! I think. She likes the elevator.

We enter the apartment. She does not grimace. Doesn't display a trace of repulsion. We take the tour.

“And here's the bathroom. You push this level to flush the toilet. This curtain hides the shower. And I could make room in the closet for some clothes... and clean out two drawers of this dresser here. And this ladder goes up to the loft... you have your choice of sleeping locations. The loft is warmer. The couch has the TV...”

“Well,” I finish up. “you can move in whenever you want to...”

“I need a night to sleep on it before I make a decision,” she says. “I don't like to jump into things without thinking them over. I'll call or text you tomorrow.”

Uh oh. I know what that means. Not one question. No asking about where things are kept... how to take care of the garbage. Not a good sign.

Ok, she's pretty. She's clean. She's from a country that has a lot of space.... places for kangaroos and koalas. How's she gonna live in an apartment with a guest toothbrush hanging on the bathroom wall?

Shit, that's an extra $1600 I'll have to pay for these 7 weeks. MORE of my retirement flushed away. I'm down to about 3 months now. After that it'll be seppuku at the Gambian embassy. Nobody can live on Social Security... except maybe in Detroit.

Even if I live, with $1600 extra, this will be my last trip... unless somebody pays for the next one. I'll ask Sid. He's got that hustle down. Been all over... on THEIR dime! He's the one on the left. The one who ISN'T Charles.

 

AND my apartment will be empty and who knows what mayhem will take place while I'm gone.

It's about 18 hours before I get a text from Danielle. I'll take it.”

Marilyn and I text in code. You have to read it out loud to figure out what she said when I tell her.

Were duhs kin nut diss cry bum eye shock.

Mine neither:

Danielle and I meet again. She pays cash. I give her the low-down on how to use the VCD/DVD/Internet. I take a picture and put it on a note to my neighbors, and Allen, the landlord. I explain that I'll be away, and this is who will be minding the flat when I'm gone. I put one under the door of my neighbors. On one side, a young couple who just moved in. The other, Molly, who's been plagued by bedbugs: twice. I haven't heard much from her lately. (I've had the dogs in to sniff around. My apartment is officially declared BEDBUG FREE!)

At Columbia College I had a writing professor who thought everyone lived in their own world. Billions of mini-universes, each person living a different life, with different surroundings.

“Somebody has to be the one to catch that bus,” he said. “Somebody is on it. They all didn't have the door closed in their face after they sprinted five blocks.”

“The only explanation,” he continued, “must be that those people on the bus are like props. Your own world conspires against you. For each of them-- in their worlds-- YOU caught the bus, and THEY were left stranded outside.”

I write this at the gate at LaGuardia Airport. Who are these people whose gates are right next to security check-in? Who are these people whose bags are NOT inspected to see that the mosquito repellant really is less than three ounces? Who are they who run from security to the mensroom and DON'T have someone in the next stall who is loudly (aurally and nasally) relieving himself of the effluvia of last night's Mexican dinner? I guess for THEM, the answer is me. Is this enough to save me from the current plague of good luck. I don't think so.

FLASH BACK: It's 11:37, my flight leaves at 1:45. I like to be early.

I would have been earlier, but after going out for Drink Club Lite^® last night, I came back, set my alarm for 9AM and flipped the switch. (NOTE: All the clocks in my apartment are 40 minutes fast. This lets me teleport anywhere in Manhattan. If I have to be someplace at 10, I leave at 10. I'm on time.) 9 AM, my time, gives me an hour to do last minute packing, take the garbage out, make a cup of coffee, make the bed before Danielle gets here. I could leave at 10 (my time) and be at the airport by 10:30 (real time). That'd give me about 3 hours to eat, find the flight, walk to the last gate in the furthest terminal, and still be on time.

Startled out of a dream I don't remember I wake up. Nothing serious, just age and beer calling me to get up and go. It's 6AM. Back to bed. Another dream... another wake up... another clock check: 9:50. Shit! The alarm was, of course, set for 9PM.

I'd planned to give myself an hour. Now I'll be half an hour later. No time for coffee.

POW! Dressed. POW! Packed. POW! Walk out into the hall to take the elevator downstairs. I hear Molly's door unlock.

“You're going?” she asks.

“Yep, two months,” I tell her. “You got the message.”

She nods, “It's just that I spoke with the bed bug guys and they want to do a one month check. I know you had the dogs in twice and they didn't find anything, but they might want to leave a trap inside just to double check.”

That's just what I need. I'm away, uncontactable, and they're gonna find a bedbug. My tenant will pack up and leave. Demand her money back or she'll tell the landlord. I'll have to fly back. Worse. I'll be thrown out of my apartment, and be out on the street when I return. I knew it... it was just too good.

“Introduce yourself to Danielle,” I say. “I'll be able to take care of everything.”

She nods. I wave and get into the elevator. I get to the airport just after 11.

I already have my boarding pass (printed out at home on my computer with the ink just replenished), so I head for dreaded security, get through that, then look for the gate. I follow the signs... wrong. I'm turned around, but unlike real men, I ask directions.

“See that right turn way over there,” says the attendant at another gate, pointing far into the distance.

I nod.

“Turn right there,and follow the hall all the way down... to the end.”

What did I expect?

The airport stay is uneventful. I text Randy in Trinidad to tell him I'm leaving New York. And will be in touch. My cellphone won't work in Trinidad, so I have to do everything from the States. I ask him to please reply because I never know if the messages get through.

There is no reply.

But I'm going to see Sharon in Miami. And I'm sure she's there.

First call for seating on the plane. Who could've imagined? It's embarrassing. I get priority boarding... on my Amex gold card! Ouch. Ok, beat me up!!! But I got suckered into the card at the airport a couple years ago... and it does get me a free trip every year. (I'm not paying for this one to Miami.) Yeah, the card costs $125 a year, but it more than pays for itself. All those miles... on OTHER people's money. That's the joy of credit cards!

You doubt it? Read The Joy of Debt in Jennifer Blowdryer's excellent: Good Advice for Young Trendy People.

At Miami Airport: I get turned around a bit looking for Hertz. ($50 for a 2 day rental with GPS-- frequent renter miles) and have to hike through the airport... TWICE... to find the tram that goes to the car rental center. Still, it's too smooth. Too easy. Only twice? With my sense of direction... I should STILL be there.

I'm just looking for things I can say are wrong. Some ants in the honey. Some fly in the ice cube. Some sand in the KY. SOMETHING WRONG! Somehow it will prevent a disaster.

The rental at Hertz goes easy as a drunken floozy. Fuck!

Did I get to Sharon's place and find it was in a gated community with the gate closed... and nobody answering the intercom? YES! Did that stop me for more than 2 minutes before some ELSE opened the gate and I cruised in? Unfortunately not.

Sharon was a great Ms Hostess. And the dogs were as friendly as... dogs.



Did we go out to a famous dive restaurant and find that it was too crowded to park... and every table taken? YES. Did we find a place to park 2 seconds later in an abandoned driveway down the block? YES. Did we find a newly abandoned seat outside, in the middle of the local characters? Yes. Did we have a great time in the famous local dive? yes.

Jeezus! Will this horrible good luck never end? You bet it will... and maybe someone will post pictures of the raw pieces of my naked, tortured body at the end of this blog. But it's not happening yet. Right now it's TARKS

The “alligator tail” does taste like fried chicken... but you gotta believe 'em. And what a collection of local characters. Hoooey! Loud, drunk, funny. Beer floating from in to outside. Just the place you want on your first night in a foreign city. It's too good! No!! Please!! What horrors does this portend?

Everything is smooth as an apple skin... the worm! When am I gonna bite into the worm?

The bed in the guest room at Sharon's is mystical. My usual sleep schedule is 1-6 (my time), then up until 9, when I sleep again until 11:30.

That first night I sleep straight through. One to ten, a 20 minute late night kidney break... that's it. The morning after the perfect night, I awaken to freshly made coffee... ready for me in the kitchen. It's raining out, but this is Florida. Rain is normal. This, however, is not normal rain. It's torrents. Sheets and sheets. A rain of rain. A hurricane of rain. The water in the pool looks like it's struggling to get out. The streets are rivers. Sharon has to pick up the dogs at the groomers, bring 'em home, and then we'll go to breakfast. She'll brave the storm... what choice is there? I go with her, throw my coat over a puddle for the dogs to walk across. That's me, ever the man of macho chivalry.

We get the dogs. Get 'em home. Go out again. Wet. Wet. Wet.

In the car, we reach a busy intersection.

“Look Mykel,” she tells me pointing straight ahead. “The traffic light is out.”

I look around. All the lights are out.

(more soon... you might also want to check the blog of Mykel's columns here.

 

WARNING: That blog is not PG. It might make you mad, or disgusted. The thin-skinned, politically correct, and easily sickened should probably stay away. You have been warned.)