Back Home or The Final Mykel's Caribbean Blog

by Mykel Board

ENTRY TWENTY

Nov, 2013

[Recap: From the start, it doesn't look good for this trip. Everything goes right... always a bad sign... Nothing portends disaster like everything going right.

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

Uh oh! Too good. The better the news early, the bigger the fall later. And things get worse. (Better) Miami goes so smoothly you could cry. The only problem is a lot of rain-- heavy rain. The streets are rivers... waves in the pool. I get wet. Very wet.

Then to Trinidad, where my friends pick me up at the airport and take me drinkin'-- and more drinking. It doesn't rain so much in Trinidad.

Then to Guyana.

In Guyana, my facebook friends from KEEP YOUR DAY JOB! meet me at the airport. The two weeks of my stay in Guyana are adventure-filled, and beer-dulled. Most days, it rains. Sometimes for just an hour or two in the afternoon. Sometimes all day.

“I don't get it Mykel,” says my pal Jamal. “This isn't the rainy season.”

“Rainman,” I say.

He still doesn't get it.

The plan is to travel to Suriname with Keep Your Day Job! But, uh oh... a drummer problem. Two drummers agreed to tour with us. One, a close friend, the other, more PUNKROCK. They ditch the friend for the punkrocker. He bails at the last minute. The now former-friend doesn't answer emails. This cannot work out. We go to Suriname anyway-- drummerless. It works out.

In Suriname, I stay with Jose, a punkrock student and his super-generous parents. They cook for me every day. I'm the guest of honor. It rains a lot.

Then it's on to French Guiana, where the brother of one of my top ten pals, Simon, lives with his girlfriend Marie. His name is Florian.

I take a small boat across the river that separates French Guiana from Suriname. The captain lets me choose my port of entry: “legal or backtrack?” I choose legal. At customs, I annoy the white immigration officers by asking for a passport stamp. It's raining.

My first days in French Guyana are distress free... unless you count the bottom paddling I get from my friends' spare bicycle. I have one of the best days of the entire trip: canoeing through the Amazon with Florian as my French guide. Chased by dogs, paddle-blistered hands, bitten by mosquitoes, stuck in the roots of swamp trees... it's wonderful.

The only thing better, I'm told, will be THE CARNIVAL... an all night festival my hosts and their friends have been working on for months.

Nope.

It rains... pours... torrents of rain... non-stop. A field of dreams turned to mud. I'm outta there the next day. After a banana boat ride back to Suriname, I again find myself back at Jose's. It's monkey meat and gamelon--- probably less of a strange combination than it seems. Then, back to Guyana.

This time, I'm staying a couple of days with Peeps. The IT guy you met the last time I blogged about the country. ]

This will be the last entry in the Caribbean blog. I want to write about Detroit, but that was months ago and I've already forgotten. Maybe I can dig up my notes.

Right now, let's go to Ryon's (Peep's) place where I've got the front room... full of windows... with my own bed and a fan that blows just right in the sultry air.

(I stole this one from his Facebook Page)

Ryon (pronounced Rye-On, with an emphasis on the ON, to distinguish him from Ryan.. pronounced Rye-In) is the IT guy. Ryan is in Keep Your Day Job Exclamation Mark guy. My other friends call Ryon PEEPS, because of his thick glasses. And, he's one of those people who is cool enough not to care about nicknames. (Unlike me, who is easily irritated by shorty, baldy, or gramps.)

Besides me, Uncle Kennard is also staying at Peep's place. Skinnier than An Intellectual History of American Football, Kennard's not his real name. I can't remember what it is... and the internet tells me Kennard is the number one boy's name in Guyana. Unlike most Kennards, this guy is... let me rephrase that, unlike most of the humans on earth, this guy is...

“Yeah Mykel,” he says, sitting on the couch next to me, wearing only a stained pair of boxer shorts. “Did I ever tell you about how we were poaching fish from Suriname. Always one step ahead of the cops... weird... catching fish on an empty stomach... you know meth...” he waves his hands in the air as if dispersing smoke. “Well, you don't feel like eating... so... where was I... the cops... they were after us... POW! POW! I don't know if they were trying to scare us with the guns or... look at this...” He shows me a round scar on his shoulder, “that there's a bullet hole... not from that time... from some other time... Anyway... we were hauling in the fish... no visas, of course.”

“I didn't think fish needed visas,” I say.

He looks at me and squints.

“Where was I...,” he continues. “Oh yeah, the cops were shooting at us, so we had to go inland... follow a stream... just a little biddy thing... mostly mud... but it went through... far enough away... I mean the cops were afraid of going in there... caymans and howlers... I donno... but we got away... then we realized we didn't know where we were or even how to get out... so we stopped to do some more fishing...”

And it goes on like this for some time. Most of the stories have left my head in fits of senility over the last year, but this guy was absolutely the most interesting person I met on the entire trip... and he cooked me French toast for breakfast. I wish I had a picture. (I'm going to have to steal a lot from the internet for this blog!)


I'm only in town for a couple days. So Gavin, Ryan, and Ryon arrange my farewell party at Peeps' place. We meet early and go to the local SURVIVAL supermarket, just around the corner. We pick up some BANKS for the party. I enter the store and see a big sign: WEDNESDAYS SENIOR DISCOUNT-- 62 or older.

Oh yeah, in case you forgot, BANKS BEER (actually headquartered in Barbados) is the main beer in Guyana. Here is a fine (internet) picture of the beer.

"Hey, I can save us money” I say, turning to look for my fellow shoppers. They're gone. I'm an escaped toddler in the Christmas rush... A lost puppy fallen from the box... I'm... where are they?

I walk around the store looking for my friends. Not here. There's no way in hell I can find my way back. I'll be spending my last night in Guyana... on the floor of the supermarket. I'm done for. Serves me right for so much good luck!

I leave the store.

Ryan stands outside looking worried. “Where were you Mykel?” he asks. We're gonna bring all this beer home.

“I coulda got you a discount,” I whine. “I'm old.”

“Oh that Senior Day thing?” he asks.

I nod.

“It's no good for booze,” he shakes his head. “They don't think old people should be drinking.”

SHIFT TO RYON'S HOUSE, the front room... “my room.” It's a party... my party... a ton of people... all my favorite Guyanese. Gavin and Ryan and Jamal and Addevi and people I don't know, and their friends. Only Uncle Kennard isn't there.

And the beer starts... then a bottle of Jack Daniels KYDJ! brought back from Suriname... duty free.... then a bottle of Jim Beame I brought back from Suriname... duty free... ... then the weed... It's coming on 9 o'clock.

NINE PEE EM and the party is ALREADY in full swing. I'm beat, the trip has caught up with me. In New York, I'd be just starting at Nine. They're here for me and I want to go to sleep. I try to be nice, but my eyes close. I feel my head wobble on my neck.

“My” bed is full... packed. People lying and drinking and smoking... a couple I don't know makes out at the edge. I can barely keep my assload of real estate. I can't stand... I don't have to... someone shoves another Banks into my hand.

I need to sleep... I'm going back to Trinidad tomorrow. The music is loud... mostly hip hop. Somehow I slip deeper into that assspace. I sleep, an old man falling asleep at his own farewell party. I can't help it... I...

BANG! The silence wakes me up. I open my eyes, but the rest of me is paralyzed. I hear a shuffling around the room. All I can see is directly in front of me... empty beer bottles... cigarette butts... roach ends... empty scotch bottles... cigarettes butts in empty beer bottles. There's more shuffling... I think it's Ryon... I have no strength to move my eyeballs to check.

Into my field of view moves Peeps. He's wearing pajamas or loose sweat pants or something. I want to look up, smile, let him know I'm awake, but it's like a dream. I can't move.

He's cleaning up. Moving the ashes from one beer bottle to another. Shuffling left-over contraband and heavy things I can't see. My eyes are locked-- like the rest of me... unable to move in their sockets. Then I notice it. His pants... pajamas... I don't know... they're sticking out in front... just a bit... poking up like happens to guys in the morning... a little tent. I shouldn't be staring at this. I shouldn't even be noticing. I can't help it. I can't do anything... turn away, even close my eyes... This cannot come to anything good. He's gonna look down... see me staring... then I'm in trouble...

The glass of the bottles clinks as he goes on his way, clearing, cleaning, he and his hard-on... still right in front of me... turning this way and that... I shouldn't be seeing this... I am seeing this... I should close my eyes... I can't close my eyes... I can close my eyes... I wake up and the room is empty.

I forget how I reach the airport that day. Probably the KYDJ! guys drive me. In Trinidad, Randy's brother Real picks me up at the airport. I'm staying with Randy at his parent's house. There is some tension in the air. I dunno. I get the feeling they're not happy to see me. Randy and his brothers are fine. But mom and dad... I don't know.

I'm only here a few days. Randy has scheduled some studio time. I was supposed to have written the words to a few songs. I had the MP3s in my computer--- the whole trip. More than a month to work on lyrics. I fucked up... forgot.

It's all last minute, and the words don't quite fit the tunes... or they do, but I didn't rehearse them enough. One song that Randy called PENN STATE, I rename I'M A PERVERT.

I love to release the feces and grease of a brown one

I love to splatter dung matter as I down one

Off your ivory tower my friend

A nice brown shower my friend

CHORUS

I'm just a pervert. You know I'm just a pervert

I'm glad to be a pervert... a pervert for you.

I love to explode just off the commode and then eat it

All the whole while releasing my fly so I can beat it.

You think I'm reckless my friend?

Want a pearl necklace my friend?

CHORUS

I love to sit close to the toes of my host and to taste them

I love to sniff deep and they call me a creep when I embrace them

I won't be saved by you

I'm depraved by you...

I'm a pervert. I'm just a pervert

Here I am in the studio... a fancy place... a relic in this age of home recording... a professional place... people who know a Sennheiser from a Shure... A real recording room... I can see the engineer and Randy on the other side of the window that looks into the control room. It's a chorus of eye-rolling.

All on Randy's (and Bryan's) dime... and I'm just fucking up... one tune after another. I can't make it work. My voice won't go the same way as the music. I have no control... like my eyes at Peeps' place.

I'm just a Pervert! I'm just a Pervert!

I sing/shout... missing the beat every time. The harder I try, the more I fuck up. Eventually, we give up.

“Good job, Mykel,” Randy says to me the same way you might tell a toilet-training toddler “Good job,” when he just about hits the bowl.

The next day of my short stay it's off to the hummingbird sanctuary with Randy's mom. Also joining us is the mother of Bryan, the singer in ANTI-EVERYTHING and one of my recording sponsors.

Bryan's mom, a school-teacher in Port of Spain, greets me with “Mykel! I've heard so much about you. I've wanted to meet you for a long time.”

What a switch! Usually people who've heard so much about me... run like hell when they get a chance to meet me.

On the way to the car, I dump the lyrics to I'M A PERVERT and the other sick songs in a garbage can near the street. Then I get in the car... and we're off.

Randy's mom drives us to the sanctuary. Up in the mountains, through dirt roads that run along the sides of cliffs. My ears pop. The roads become narrower. The scenery becomes more... er... rustic. If they threw me out of the car and raced off, I'd have no idea where to begin. They don't.

Finally, we park... not in a lot... but in a precarious space at the edge of a cliff. One false move and it's Thelma and Louise! No false moves.

We get out of the car and walk up a steep hill to a closed gate in front of a massive house. Randy's mom rings a bell, and the gate swings open by itself. It could be the entrance to Dracula's castle. On the other side of the gate is another steep climb to the bird sanctuary where the birdman of Trinidad has thousands of hummingbirds... different colors... sizes from bumble bee to a Peeps-size erection.

The first thing I notice is the hum. I don't hear it. They're hum-fucking birds and there's no hum.

“Why do they call them humming birds?” I whisper to Bryan's mom.

We sit on what looks like a large porch outside a country house. There's going to be a lecture, and then a tour of the sanctuary. There are chairs and space for about three dozen people.

“You don't hear it?” she asks.

The sanctuary head, an elderly colored gentleman, looks at me and smiles.

“Some people can't hear it,” he says. “I'm not sure what it is. But for some people, humming birds don't hum.”

“It's 35 years of punkrock,” I don't tell him. “Waddaya expect?”

The presentation is fascinating. All the while this guy is telling us the history of the place, these tiny birds are flitting around him and the feeders hanging around the porch.

[Aside: Bird-watching is something I've changed my opinion about. I had this image of bird-watchers as nerdy old people in the park-- with binoculars. Hah! David Klauber, the only friend I have left from high school, is a bird-watcher. He's also my only friend who's gone to more countries than I have. He's visited Port Moresby, the highest crime city in the world. You can't walk on the street after 5 o'clock because some guy with a bone in his nose is gonna come up behind you and cut off your head... and shrink it. He went there to see this special bird you can't see anywhere else in the world. So don't tell me bird-watchers are wimps... They follow their passion... danger be damned... more than any other group I know... including bungee jumpers-- or punk rockers.]

The birds are amazing, fascinating, I took a ton of pictures-- and I can't find any of them. They're gone from my hard drive... from the camera... from the back-up. Disappeared like my memories... sad... but real. So here's a picture I got off the internet: 

Back at the bird sanctuary, I lean over and whisper in Randy's mom's ear. “This is terrific. Thanks for taking me. I wonder how they can maintain all this for free.

“It's not free,” she says. “It's expensive.”

They paid for me! And a lot... wow.I had no idea.

“Tell me how much it was,” I don't say. “I'll be happy to pay my share.”

I still feel a bit guilty about not paying anything. Such a good time on someone else's dime... er... dollar. I should have taken them out... but there was the feeling... the strange unwelcomed feeling I was getting from Randy's mother. Nothing overt, but just a cold feeling... very noticeable among these warmest Caribbean people.

It's my last day in Trinidad. Randy's mom won't even talk to me. Her only words: “I'm so busy, I just don't have time to talk.”

I'm worried. What's up? What happened? Maybe she found my PERVERT lyrics in the trashcan. I dunno...

It's leaving time. Rael's driving me to the airport. Mom's upstairs doing something with the laundry. Sorting or bagging or something... bent over a suitcase. I walk over to thank her... say good bye...

“I'm leaving now,” I tell her.

“All right,” she says.

“Thanks for everything,” I say, walking towards her. I reach out to give her a hug. She pushes her hand in my chest... completely repulsed.. a DON'T TOUCH ME gesture. I don't get it. Had she walked in on me when I was... er... doing something private? I didn't use the sheets as a tissue. What's the problem? Guests aren't supposed to do that? I don't know the etiquette here. But I bet I'm not a guest again. Had she seen me through the window? Heard the rumors? Read the book? I don't know, but it's very sad... for me.

[OH NO! A long time ago, I complained to a friend of mine that she seemed annoyed. I asked her what I'd done. "It's not just about YOU, Mykel." she said. I thought it would be cool to make her an IT'S NOT JUST ABOUT YOU, MYKEL t-shirt to wear around New York. I never did it though. 

Now, after trashing Randy's mom, (She and Dad were so GREAT to me the first time I was in Trinidad), I find out that there was all kinds of background stuff I wasn't aware of. Personal problems, health problems, troubles that had NOTHING to do with me. I need to make an IT'S NOT JUST ABOUT YOU, MYKEL t-shirt for HER to wear! I feel better now, knowing that it WASN'T me. But I also feel guilty about complaining about her hospitality. 

Have I learned my lesson? Somehow, I doubt it.]

At the airport, I buy Rael some Royal Crown chicken and we share a farewell meal. My last taste of the greatest fast food chicken on the planet.

From Trinidad, it's on to Miami, a night with Alan and Sharon, then back to New York. When I arrive, it's not raining.

My apartment looks different. My subletter has returned to Australia. In her wake, the bathtub is white. 30 years of soapscum have been removed from the sink. I can see the grain in the wood floor. I can run my hand along a shelf without the need to wash immediately after. All the lightbulbs work. There is no garbage in the kitchen bin. The refrigerator smells like... like... nothing.

It'll be a week or so before I feel that I'm really home.

-end-

============

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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.

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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.)