Raphaels Country

Raphael ’s Country A Trinidad & Tobago Diary

by Jens O. Magnussen

RAPHAEL’S COUNTRY A TRINIDAD & TOBAGO DIARY by Jens O. Magnussen

PREFACE In the autumn of 2011 I started planning a longer journey to a faraway part of the world, I’d never before visited.

For too long I had been swimming around in my comfortable, little goldfish bowl without real appreciation.

Time to swing that wooden leg at a different party. Step out of the old, assumed identity for a while.

At first India and China were on top of my list, but I’ve never been too keen on crowds, and, of course, in their cities there are lots of people everywhere.

Then I thought of an obvious alternative.

For the last 15 years or so I’ve been walking with trinidadian poet, playwright and journalist, Lennox Raphael, once a week in the forest, Dyrehaven, north of Copenhagen, introducing him to this lovely piece of Denmark, where I went horse riding every second day during puberty.

First time we talked was at a night of poetry reading, music and dance in Copenhagen Art Club.

Without thinking twice, I asked which african country he came from, and when his smiling answer was: ”I’ve never been to Africa apart from Morocco”, I felt distinctly stupid, and more so when I realized I didn’t know for sure where Trinidad & Tobago actually was.

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He clarified that for me without the least sign of either resentment or sarcasm.

When we began our walks he told me anecdotes about growing up on his father’s cocoa estate surrounded by forest so much different from our danish ones. Also talked about his time in politics, among other things as a spokesman for the PM, ANR Robinson and, naturally, Trinidad & Tobago’s famous carnival.

To cut a long story short, I decided to go and see for myself the native country of one of my very best friends.

Lennox in turn alerted some of his old friends, and they were all most hospitably willing to meet me and show me around.

Thus it’s my pleasure to dedicate this book to Lennox Raphael, Ronald Ramcharan, John Paul Fernandes, Raoul Pantin, Susanne Kheri, Chris Knowles, Anthony Milne, and to my hostess in Port of Spain, Mary Jane Charbonne, and, in Crown Point, Ramo (never got his last name) and to the many others for making this trip so enjoyable.

Jens O. Magnussen – March 7th 2014.

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1 As soon as I stepped off the plane in Barbados, the humid tropical heat embraced me, and the first thing I did after retrieving my luggage was to get out of my long johns, thick vest and sweater and roll up my shirt sleeves.

It had been minus five Celcius when I left Copenhagen the day before.

Arrived at Fabienne’s Guesthouse in Port of Spain two hours late, because my plane from Barbados was cancelled, and as all the billboards just said cancelled, Chris Knowles, who was supposed to pick me up, had no idea when, if at all, I was coming that night, so I had to take a taxi into Port of Spain.

A talkative one. This friendly pro, originally from Greece, knew all the talk of the town, but was practical and helpful too.

I had called and explained my delay, so when I got to Fabienne’s Mary Jane was still up waiting to receive me.

Carnival started already on the plane with a celebrating company in the seats right behind me laughing loudly at any minor joke and clapping and cheering, when we landed safely at Piarco International Airport.

Wasn’t prepared for the noise (sorry, loudness) of Port of Spain during carnival days, and crickets mating in the mango tree.

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When I said I brought ear plugs to at least have the choice of silence now and then, Mary Jane just shook her head: “Won’t help you much. This is Carnival!”

I showed her my 6000 TT $, and she advised me not to carry it around on me, which, by the way, I had no intention of doing, and she kindly offered to keep them for me in a safe box well guarded by her friendly dogs, Rex and Bella.

In spite of crickets squeaking like an old rusty merry-go-round and several bands practicing all around, I was so tired after the long trip from Denmark, I slept like a baby through the hullabaloo.

Next morning I went to a chinese supermarkt in nearby St. James for water (tap water here is drinkable but has a tinge of chlorine), yoghurt, cheese and fruits. As I was walking back with my shopping bags, a car pulled up beside me and the driver asked: “Are you Jens Magnussen?” and when I confirmed that, he said: “ I’m John Paul. Lennox told me you were coming.” He then drove me to F’s and we agreed to meet later.

First I thought he recognized me from my Youtube readings, but apparently Mary Jane had told him, where I was going and provided a fairly good description of a bald european in a blue shirt.

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After breakfast I walked along Ariapita Avenue checking out the many tempting restaurants and from there up to Queen’s Park Savannah, where they were preparing for the big carnival parades.

Beautiful scenery: Wide green plains with gentle mountains behind.

And enjoyed a first treat of icecold coconut water, which will become my favourite refreshment throughout the stay. So delicious and energizing and available all over town. Admired the skill with which the lean, little man chopped off the top of the coconut with a big machete.

Funny: Mary Jane was the first to caution me: “Don’t trust anyone, Jens!”

And now again: as I was crossing the empty field of The Savannah’s northern part, a ragged man came towards me (we were all alone right there) and when he passed, he said: “Be careful!” (not: “Take care”) and it sounded more like a threat than a friendly warning. Didn’t really scare me though, as it was broad daylight, and I obviously was bigger and stronger.

Besides I know petty criminals all too well from my two months in Marrakech Civil Prison and feel pity rather than fear, though of course I watch out for lonely places and dark alleys.

On the way home I saw a lot of interesting colonial architecture. Elegant stucco on many of the freshly painted houses, french and spanish style, and fine old Victorian mansions.

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Had a tasty fish dish on Park Street and went home for a cooling shower

by Tragarete Road past the slightly spooky Lapeyrouse Cemetery, casting tombstone shadows in the setting sun glowing through the dusk.

Tropical heat really isn’t my idea of fine weather, but the body is slowly getting used to it and there’s so much new to see everywhere, that I simply forget I’m soaked with sweat all the time.

Thought maybe I was sweating out years of scandinavian melancholy, but soon discovered, that was too easy an explanation. The cleansing hadn’t even started yet.

Even skeletons sweat.

It’s now 11 pm and there’s music and crickets in the air. One advantage, I can practice on my flute till way past midnight. Nobody hears it anyway.

Tomorrow I’ll get a sim card for my cell phone and call 3 of Lennox‘ other friends, Ronald Ramcharan, Raoul Pantin and danish Susanne Kheri.

Lots of loud talking and hearty laughter through my open window while I write this.

Don’t miss my hashish pipe a bit. Whole atmosphere gets me high quite nicely.

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2 Started the day going to the bakery for fresh bread and when I returned Chris, about my age, bearded, scholarly looking, was there waiting for me.

Sat in the courtyard under the mango tree, home not only to delicious fruits and noisy crickets but small lizards running up and down its trunk.

We were having a nice long talk along the usual first-meeting-lines, and later he drove me to Long Circular Mall for a TT sim card. Before leaving for an appointment with his daughter, we agreed to meet again Wednesday or Thursday after carnival (Chris: “My carnival days are over.”)

With a now functioning phone I called Ronnie and Susanne.

So tonight Ronnie is picking me up at 7 to go to a steel drum competition, Panorama (pan: steel drum), which I really look forward to. Some of these guys and girls are very competent musicians.

Susanne mentioned a possible party tomorrow night, but would call me back later.

Sweet Mary Jane does everything she can to make me feel comfortably at home including giving me a mug for my coffee. “Never drink coffee out of a plastic cup. Just doesn’t taste right.” When I said I was going to the Panorama, she advised me not to carry wallet and pipe in my shoulder bag, but put the money in my stockings and pipe in my pocket. Good idea considering the dense crowd. Perfect hunting grounds for pickpockets

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Jackie Hinkson & Ronald Ramcharan

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Oh Panorama! Competent is an understatement. With amazing agility they could play together up to a hundred in extremely complicated rythms, captivating, mesmerizing the mind of this clumsy flutist, who knows only the unsteady beat of his own nervous heart and must jump over stories, past premices’s conclusions to enjoy and learn the delicate art of unfocused attention, cool and careful, embracing, simultaneously alive Ronnie, telling interesting stories of life on this island and introducing me to several of his friends including the brilliant artist, Jackie Hinkson, whose home studio I shall visit later, was great company.

With a natural, friendly authority he led me through the crowds.

And the women! Such an abundance of beauty: Enticing faces of playful sexuality. An event to remember mirroring September, don’t forget this is a classic diary: just what happens, basically, with paint.

I’ll dream in colour, pulsating light and images of unnerotic eroticism tonight. These running, waving, ever changing rythms carried me through my sleep on a flight of silver wings.

(Blafrende og distinkte rytmer legende sig ud og ind af hinandens musikalske puls). A little danish for you.

On our way to the concert, Ronnie showed me a street art exhibition on Tragarete Road by the Queen’s Park Oval, a mecca of Test cricket. Fabulous paintings, not grafitti, nicely hung pictures by some of T & T’s best artists.

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3 How do the time travels of 300 lsd trips effect one’s experience of newness, being taken by surprise when everything never seen before has indeed been seen in previous lives, phsychological or factual, flesh or karmic costume?

Subtle rubbish, but carnival offered both moments of total astonishment and strange recognition (not to be confused with memory fragments from documentaries).

Announced by extremely loud soca music from huge loudspeakers on trucks it caught me off balance that first morning of J’ouvert, where its common to throw mud, paint or even chocolate at each other.

Think of this: Each of these loudpeakers had the volume of a Jumbo jet starting, and they just kept coming one after the other down Ariapita Av. right around the corner from Belle Smythe St. where I stayed. After a few hours I was close to a nervous collapse, but stubbornly hung on to the inevitable conclusion (the only useful one), that this was a kind of collective therapy to break down all barriers of cool, calm and collected, freeing the inhibited spirit in a most brutal way.

There were moments during these days, - driven to tears by by the aggressive monotony of soca, - I wished I’d gone to a Mozart festival in Salztburg instead. I began to understand why Ronnie, Chris and Raoul all said: “Enjoy it. I won’t be there. My carnival days are over.”

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Well, mine just began, and I’ll be damned if wall-shaking music and youngsters on rum, coke or whatever shall stop me loving, enjoying and learning what’s there to love, enjoy and learn.

I may well be a person of a certain neurotic disposition, but I prefer that it be my choice when and where to reach the breaking point of delight (even though it never really is).

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4 Woke up at the crack of dawn to witness J’ouvert, and just as I was about to leave Fabienne’s a young girl, all covered in mud, chocolate (I guess) and green paint, approached me begging: ”Can I use your bathroom, please!!!”

But I was only a guest and had a distinct feeling Mary Jane would disapprove, so reluctantly I answered: “Sorry, but its not for me to allow. I’m just a guest here.”

Managed to keep a safe distance and avoided getting dirty myself.

Later on a walk to the harbour I ran into the children’s carnival. Their costumes as carefully made as those of their parents: a charming sight, and I got some fine photos.

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Days of “dancing in the streets” and playing “do it in the streets”.

To walk along the loudspeaker trucks for hours I decided to wear my best earplugs hoping to avoid severe tinnitus.

They made the sound just about bearable, but I still felt the bas vibrating through my body and shaking my bones.

Don’t get me wrong.

I love a lot of the good soca, but why so loud?

Well that question has already been partly answered.

Though I did see a black Bach, wig, coat and all, it wasn’t his music dominating the show.

After a hearty siesta I met Susanne and, from 4 pm till midnight, we joined the bacchanal chipping and wining along the parade down Ariapita Avenue eventually ending up for the big final in Queen’s Park Savannah.

Wining: It’s popular, people (young and older), who don’t neccesarily know each other, having simulated sex right there in the middle of the street, unmistakably making the movements for a few seconds or minutes and then parting laughing.

Though we scandinavians like to think of ourselves as very sexually liberated, the public display and obviousness could have embarassed many a dane.

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Susanne Kheri

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Suddenly a man in full cherokee gear, tomahawk lifted, came running straight at me, - but luckily heading for the bar truck driving up right behind me. Took off his feathers enjoying his rum and joint.

The beauty of the street parade is that you can get quite close to the costumes and sculptures and appreciate all the lovely little details and most of the mas players gladly posed in front of my cell phone.

Neither Susanne nor I had tickets for the grandstand in the Savannah; and first time we tried to enter together with a lot of others we were stopped by police with machine guns. That immediately cooled down my flare of courage, but Susanne just said: “Don’t worry! Nothing’s gonna happen!”

Guess these weapons are just part of their costume like a wizard’s wand or Cupid’s bow & arrow.

And right after that she got us both in past police and guards to sit on first row close to the panel of judges with a perfect view of the whole splendid scenery.

The grand finale in the Savannah was a swift and mesmerizing display of more than 70 bands (so I was told) dancing, jumping, gesturing their way across the big stage in all kinds of exquisite costumes, each one stopping for a couple of moments in front of the judges, each band presenting

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a different theme of idea, myth, colour, story and cascades of movements flashing by.

Some acrobatic, some almost obscene, some quietly dignified and others merely chipping past the cheering audience.

After the first 20 (of often a hundred per band) I was completely dazzled, feeling this abundance of images will linger in my mind for years to come.

Some costumes, like the ones I had seen earlier in Ariapita Avenue, were actually moving sculptural meditations on wheels drawn by the stronger mas players. Huge birds (humming birds of course), wavering angels with purple wings, bony Mr. Death himself on poles with long claws for fingers dangling from his arms, suns, moons, stars and what not entering this defenceless head of disbelief gazing his eyes out in the hot trinidadian night.

Riveted by rum and everchanging displays, there were moments I had no feeling of self or anything remotely reminding of a normal state of mind.

Completely removed from recognizable identity’s existential sense of order and aestetic distinction time and place became just abstractions without meaning.

But oddly, though I’m a poet of the surreal inclination, my notebook remained empty for several days after. Words were inadequate, and, as a matter of fact, I wanted to remember first impressions as they were, rather than how I would choose to describe them.

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The ingenuity when it comes to costumes, was endless: shows of colour and form I’ve seen only vaguely in dreams and, even there, veiled in a mist of distance.

Playing mas (masquerade) is here - in Trinidad, third biggest Carnival in the world - an exquisite art form unlike anything, you’ll ever see in modern Europe: what an extravaganza of imagination and pure joy of life thrilling to even the dullest of minds. Have never been to Rio or New Orleans, but T&T’s version - allthough, of course, it does follow certain rules - has an enchanting touch of anarchy which I fell for immediately.

There are only so and so many words for fantastic, amazing a. s. o. and endless praises usually get a bit boring to read for those, who weren’t there, so I’ll just recommend this unique event to any of curious mind.

Drink with me, she cried out loud, don’t be so high and dry, in this hot and gaudy crowd release that sigh and fly, see the monster mind break down, feel it in your bones, no one hears your groans Dance with me, her voice was thick, read my ruby lips, through the raging blast of night and devils’ flaming whips Let go of selfish inner peace, it is not for real, easy for a girl to tease knowing how you feel.

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5 Slept most of the day and night recovering from the mix of too much rum, extreme noise and damp heat.

Journalist and poet, Raoul Pantin called, asking what I was doing, and just laughed when I told him.

Look forward to visiting him with a clear head.

Ate only a handfull of nuts, banana and yoghurt the whole day. Drank a lot of coconut water and after a while the totally miserable condition wore off.

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6 Was picked up by Chris Knowles at 10 am and we drove in his daughter’s airconditioned Nissan over the mountains to Maracas Beach.

There I understood what Lennox meant when his only answer to my occasional complaints about big waves at Bellevue Beach near Copenhagen was: ”That’s nothing!”

Every half minute I was simply knocked off my feet and had to give up any idea of trying to swim. Also had to watch out for a very strong undercurrent threatening to pull the weak swimmer out to sea. Actually saw parents with ropes around the waists of their kids to make sure.

So I just stood there in the surf and embraced the powerful breakers.

Most refreshing after the hot streets of Port of Spain.

Later enjoyed a delicious potato pie with cheese (stomach wasn’t ready for their famous bake & shark yet).

Chris told about his years at boarding school (British style) and seemed to have merely good memories except for one unpleasant teacher who turned him off Wagner for life. Sad, because he (Wagner) really is a wonderful composer, which I only myself recently discovered.

Mentioned my big brother’s bad experiences at Herlufsholm, upper class danish highschool, where it was quite common every day life that senior bullies junior and teachers and prefects, those in charge, accepting and even encouraging these conditions. British style.

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After the beautiful drive back over the mountain and Saddle Road, Chris dropped me off at the library where I checked my mail and answered the important ones.

Walked home through St. James to Fabienne’s for a short nap. Had a shower (very salty ocean) and went out to eat at Veni Mange on Ariapita Avenue, where I should give the owner, Rosemary Hezikiah, a copy of Lennox‘ “Poetry”. Unfortunately, it was closed.

Try again tomorrow.

Bought a box of stewed lentils at a take away and ate it under the mango tree to the reeling music of lovesick crickets.

Read about the carnival tradition of J’ouvert in THE ROUGH GUIDE to TRINIDAD & TOBAGO. Good night.

Chris Knowles

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7 Well seated in Veni Mange after a warm reception from Rosemary H (“I haven’t seen Lennox for years! How is he?”), I look back on another fine day in P. o. S. Called Raoul this morning and he invited me to visit him in the afternoon.

Asked Mary Jane if it was within walking distance, and according to her it would take me 3 hours. “The heat, you know”, but she is grossly overweight, and I don’t think she goes anywhere unless by car, so I tried my luck.

When I got to the Savannah, I asked a guy on a bench for directions, but as he had problems explaining it clearly, he decided to drive me there in his car parked at the curb right in front of his bench and, lo and behold, when we got there, it turned out that Raoul had picked him up years ago while he was hitchhiking. All smiles: Favour returned.

Raoul is an interesting and open person, and we had a long talk in his sister’s garden looking at bougainvillea in blossom. He is primarily working as free lance journalist now, but also just finishing a new collection of poetry.

While his rather timid dog, Saddam, was watching, he showed me an older book of poems, Journey, from back in the seventies. Strong stuff.

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Besides he has written a recently published book, Days of Wrath, about his 6 days as hostage during the attempted Muslim coup d’etat in July of 1990. He was working as a TV reporter at that time, and the gunmen of Jamaat al Muslimeen attacked both Parliament (The Red House) and the TV station of TTT. A security guard was shot dead and the Prime Minister, ANR. Robinson, who was among the hostages, was shot in the leg along with an MP who later died from loss of blood. Quite an ordeal. Shoot-outs lasting several hours, riots all over P. o. S. and lots of confusion as to how to deal with this quite unexpected menace to democracy.

One day Raoul and his colleagues were locked into a small room with a box the terrorists claimed contained explosives, wires sticking out and all, and again, after days of exhaustion and fear, not knowing if they would survive the next couple of hours (or minutes for that matter). Raoul still has recurrent nightmares from that experience and, no wonder, receives treatment for post traumatic stress syndrome.

When I was leaving, he followed me down to the main road, and I easily found my way walking back to Fabienne’s in about an hour.

Typical of the kindness and concern I’ve met here: just as I returned, Raoul called to make sure I got home safely: “So nice to have met you, Jens.”

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Raoul Pantin

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A couple of his new poems: CROSSOVER Our old men crinkle their eyes brimming rivulets on desert’s edge again this dry land, parched sand, sun-scorched grey horizon aquiver, In this hush a baked stone explodes.

Our women go to bind children to their backs. Young girls soak our clothes at the last waterholes.

They smile little though young boys wrestling astride duned rims retell how their fathers fought dragons their mothers bathing those bloody fire wounds.

How in lush foothills they swam

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the greenest rivers: home!

Not this heat-warped haze where iguanas laze where tarantulas thread dry webs inside the darkest crevices.

Our priests don’t pray for rains anymore they grow not to believe in miracle again.

Our leaders huddle closer round this truth: we growing older.

One more crossover may strand us out there!

Night falls. A hollow gong.

Brave shout pelted at an infinite silence.

Moonrise lights our battered column heads lowered into howling winds.

PILAR Pilar stands small thin feet flat on the sand laughing with her small thin body and hands clutched at her side.

Pilar runs slightly up on her toes down the narrow corridor past the white bathroom on the right into her yellow room.

Pilar cries cunning in her screams one eye on your surrender to her infant rebellion.

She knows you can’t resist.

Pilar loves her hands cupped

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as they touch your face her blue-grey eyes seeing you through seeing you do seeing you.

Pilar sleeps busy head tossed backwards, small frail body flung everywhere dreams perhaps of intangible worlds.

Pilar I gave you nothing but a name a wild imaginary vision.

The straddling of three continents.

The fulfillment of my tribe.

Had a shower and short nap before going to Veni Mange.

Best meal I had for years. Flying fish with unfamiliar vegetables deliciously spiced and a fine wine. And the restaurant itself as charming as its hostess, partly gallery for local artists and at times scene for musicians.

Sweet incident: A kid got tired of being well behaved and became a bit restlessly noisy but, instead of making it a problem, Rosemary just prepared a small, cosy bed for him on a bench so the parents could relax and enjoy their food. Promised her, I’d be back and walked home for a good night’s sleep.

Mary Jane gave me two connected rooms further away from the street noise this morning.

What a delightful trip!

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8 Woke up by Ronnie on the phone: “I’ve been neglecting you, Jens. I’m taking two guests from Guyana for a drive around the countryside today and would like you to come along.”

So half past eleven he picked me up, and we went first to Mount St. Benedict Monastery 234 m. above sea level with a fabulous view of Trinidad to the south. Again I noticed the absence of tourists, busses, postcard stands a. s. o. and Ronnie said Trinidad maintained its cultural independence by not having to rely on tourism with oil and natural gas for its income.

He worked in politics for years, but now has his own private company (see notes).

But there is quite a bit of hard core poverty here, and I imagine a certain restricted amount of tourism could provide welcome earnings for some of these people.

Well, Lennox warned me: “It’s not Denmark.” Meaning not a Welfare State scandinavian style. Indeed not, and though I don’t belong to those who think our model necessarily has to be exported to the rest of the world, I do however believe that money from state owned wealth-generating resources should be more evenly shared.

The guests from Guyana were a woman working for an IT company for which Ronnie had done some consulting jobs and her daughter checking out possibilities of a medical education in Trinidad.

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When I mentioned, that only yesterday I’d noticed a small Ingrid’s Take Away on Tragarete Road and told them Ingrid was quite a common scandinavian name, the daughter showed an intimate knowledge of the danish royal family. She knew that Ingrid was the mother of our “charismatic” Queen Magrethe 2nd and, of course, she also knew all about Frederik and Mary. Apparently a world famous lovestory / fairytale: “They’re such a beautiful couple!”

Ridiculously, the old republican at heart, I couldn’t help feeling a touch of pride.

After a drive around the country surrounding P. o. S. Ronnie wanted to buy us rotis, but when all the places in the indian quarters of St. James were crowded, we finally chose the restaurant at Long Circular Mall. Very tasty meal. When we parted, he promised to call me about accommodation on Tobago later. Unfortunately there was something wrong with my phone, so I could neither call up or receive calls. Thought I needed to pay more money on my sim card, but when I went into a bar for that purpose, they quickly found out that wasn’t the problem and fixed my phone in a minute for nothing. Such Friendly people: “No problem, Sir. Glad to be of help!”

Got Ronnie’s call. Walked further down Ariapita to where Susanne and I had dinner Sunday night and enjoyed a late night snack of shark nuggets

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with carrots and orange juice. Seemingly, the waitress remembered me.

After I’d finished, she asked with a coy little smile: “Was it excellent, Sir?” The word I used last time with Susanne.

I’m really beginning to feel quite at home here, and though everybody tells me to to be carefull, I haven’t experienced any unpleasantness at all.

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9 Second day on my own. Just relaxing, reading, writing, doing my exercises. Later a walk to the Zoo and beautiful old Botanical Gardens.

Zoos, even the nicest, always make me a bit sad. I hate to see anyone locked up, especially animals, that should be roaming the plains, flying around or hunting in the forest. They all look depressed, and who can blame them: quite unable to live according to their nature. Hope to see parrots out of cages in Tobago.

Enjoyed an hour under the magnificent old trees of the Botanical Gardens. Called Raoul’s sister, Maritza, for copies of his DAYS OF WRATH, and she kindly offered to send her husband over with two the following morning. One for me, one for Lennox.

Chinese fish dish with rice and deep fried vegetables for dinner. The smiling waitress didn’t understand, “Check, please”, but a kind lady translated, and I went home for the day’s 3rd cool shower. Made a few notes, then straight to bed.

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10 John Paul Fernandes called and invited me for a drive to T’s northwestern parts. Had no other plans and thanked him, yes.

Shortly after he picked me up in his big, comfortable BMW and took me first to the pharmacy, where I bought plaster for a nasty corn on my right foot. (Had to rip half the skin off the toe beside the pinkie toe. Treated it with iodine and aloe vera, fine now).

We went by the place, where Lennox‘ theatre was, before it burnt down and then to see The Country Club of which he was part owner, a huge estate with ballroom for a thousand guests, upstairs rooms, swimming pool, two tennis courts and outside bars that his father, who made millions on rum, bought from the British when they left. Somehow dilapidated now.

The atmosphere of colonial & post colonial high life still there with ghosts dining, drinking, dancing, talking business.

From there we went along an endless string of marinas to Coral Cove

by Chaguaramas Bay. A beautiful spot that would have been crowded anywhere else with tourist busses and fat americans or germans with cameras on their bellies, but not here: just a few locals, and John Paul and I listening to howler monkeys from the nearby mountains.

After we’d properly enjoyed the scenery, he bought me lunch at one of the marina restaurants, close to where his own yacht is moored. We had a delicious Caesar’s Salad with shrimps, and he told me how he’d experienced the attempted coup d’etat in -90.

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When he first heard gunshots down town, he thought it was a bank robbery gone wrong, but, turning on the TV, soon realized the full scale of the disaster.

Everyone was taken by surprise by the world’s first Muslim terrorist attack on the western hemisphere simultaneously on parliament and the national TV station. Riots broke out all over Port of Spain, and he became very nervous that people with machine guns would turn up at his front gate. It’s still a national trauma here and, as a matter of fact, they are having a new inquest into the incident right now with Raoul as key witness.

We talked about a lot of things. He told me about The Pelican, famous bar where writers such as Naipaul, Derek Walcott, Raoul, Lennox, himself and a lot of journalist colleages, politicians and other distinguished intellectuals would meet, drink and discuss before they became distinguished, and how Lennox‘ theatre was another important meeting place for as long as it existed.

An intelligent and easy-going man to be with.

Late in the afternoon he drove me back to Fabienne’s, so I had time for a shower and short nap before taking Susanne to dinner. We had planned on going to cosy Veni Mange, but it was closed, so we walked further down Ariapita to Sweet Lime, where we had our first more intimately talkative meal together. She too is good company. An independent woman who, in

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spite of traumatic experiences with her family, has managed to make a decent life for herself. Quite the adventuress she has travelled extensively in Africa, Japan, Egypt (where she broke her back falling from a camel) and of course her beloved Trinidad & Tobago, where she has been coming to every year for more than 20 years for this amazing carnival.

Went home early as I was going to be picked up by another of Lennox‘ journalist friends, Anthony Milne, next morning. He wanted to show me the east coast.

John Paul Fernandes

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11 We’d agreed on 10 o’clock, but he called me already at 8 suggesting he come earlier. I told him, I hadn’t had breakfast or shower yet, and as generally a slow starter I’d prefer we stuck to our first appointment. Nevertheless he arrived at 9:45. First thing he asked: Did I have any Panodol for headache.

I didn’t but gave him some other pain killer I brought along for just in case. Then he took a pill for nausea, and we waited for a taxi to City Gate, where we’d catch a bus for Sangre Grande. Had to pay his fare too as he was “short on cash”, which I did willingly happy to have an intelligent guide along.

Anthony Milne

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Clearly a journalist down on his luck, like out of a Graham Greene novel, who hasn’t been taking care of himself for years and yet with a resigning / defying unsaid: “Yes, I know” well aware of what he is doing to himself.

But he is a kind and observant person with a wry sense of humour and we enjoyed each others company.

Drove through P. o. S.’s suburbs, bush and a string of villages. Past stray dogs, fenced in schools with kids in uniforms, sheds selling sandwiches, rotis and coconut water plus many churches and other houses of worship.

Seemed like a lot of people needed saving. Forests of red, black and white mangrove trees, beautiful mango, papays a. s. o.

After Sangre Grande we entered a shared taxi with two chubby and cheerful women heading for Guctuaro Point past Manzanilla, the last 15 km. along the east coast. I asked the driver if we could go for a swim, but he shook his head: “Too windy, waves too big.” And all the way thousands of palm trees like out of a wide screen travelling camera’s view just before the storm hits, but, except for me, not a single tourist in sight.

The rain started as we arrived at the small village of Mayaro, so we entered a roti shop for something tasty. I had a vegetarian, and Anthony, chicken.

There wasn’t much to see, that I hadn’t seen already, so after a little strolling around we found a jamaican taxi driver to take us back the same way we’d come to Sangre Grande.

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They talked about jamaican politics and culture, as Anthony once worked there as correspondent for the daily Trinidad Express; and I told them stories about Denmark. How our many political parties, in spite of public quarrels, actually manage working together on most issues and about the unique existence of Freetown Christiania, ten minute’s walk from the danish parliament.

In Sangre Grande, we entered a maxi taxi (or minibus) full of schoolgirls with the most carefully arranged hair styles, which I had plenty of opportunity to study close up especially since I was seated right behind one who must have spent hours taking up her black curls. Most becoming.

Unfortunately, the only seat left allowed no room for my legs, so my right knee hurt every time the driver stopped short. Finally some of the girls got off, and I moved to a more comfortable seat beside Anthony. That seemed to annoy the driver, so I asked him directly if he wanted me to sit elsewhere. He ignored that, but at the next stop he suddenly told us to get out and take the next minibus. I politely asked him why, but he just kept telling us to get out. Couldn’t figure out what we’d done wrong. Thought perhaps he’d heard me talk about being danish and was a muslim remembering the cartoons, or that I wasn’t allowed to sit on that particular seat I moved to, but it didn’t make much sense that he was so grumpy. Didn’t really bother to care, though. There are petty people everywhere.

Don’t ever try to please them!

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Only months after my return to Copenhagen, I got a mail explaining the incident: Now back to your book. I’ll write what I remember of the incident Lennox heard and remembered. We were not too far from home, Port of Spain.

On that part of the trip home, late in the afternoon, we left Sangre Grande, I think it was, in Trinidad’s north-east, in a maxi-taxi, or mini-bus, full of passengers and a driver with a nose as keen as a hound’s.

It must have been the delicious roti, the flap full of ground split-eye peas, and curried soft-chana, a bigger, soft pea, with a choice of curried meats (goat, chicken with or without bone, duck, beef, or shrimp), together with my celiac disease.

This forbids my eating anything made with flour, like the roti flap, a soft bake, holding everything together – a meal-sized sandwich the ingredients of which were brought here by Indian immigrants who now make up nearly half of Trinidad and Tobago’s population.

I felt no pain, but there was gas there, all right, wanting to leave in silence.

And it did. The first time, the driver looked straight at us in the rearview mirror. Jens, happily talking, apparently smelt nothing. The driver was the only open critic in the bus. Perhaps he felt very strongly about this in his bus, full of silent passengers.

The second time, the driver pulled onto the verge of the highway and began to speak loudly to us. Why us? The only whites. Anyone might have

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done it. No one else in the bus said anything. But the driver was sure it was us. Jens argued with the bus driver. What was wrong? Had he been abusive to any of the women on the bus. He felt he, or we, were innocent. He really was most offended. All he wanted was for the driver to explain, so he could apologise and stop doing whatever was offensive. I remained silent.

We were nearly home now, so I did my best to keep it in. It came nevertheless, in bits and pieces I hoped the driver would not pick up. But, as I’ve said, he had a hound’s nose.

He pulled onto the curb very angry, stopped the bus, and ordered us both out of his vehicle. Jens went to town again about what was wrong. I remained silent. Couldn’t talk English, perhaps. The man, and he was big, said if we didn’t get out he would pull us out.

He wasn’t joking. He opened his door, came round to the sliding side door, not on the side of the bus facing the highway, ordered us out immediately, not asking anything or answering questions. Jens was livid, but we both got out peacefully with our bags, paying nothing, and off went our bus without us.

It didn’t take long to get another bus. He took us into Port of Spain’s City Gate, and we were off to bed, poor Jens still asking what went wrong. As far as I remember, I didn’t have the courage to tell him. This must have been last year or the year before.

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Recently I was emailed from Denmark, where Jens lives, and was told Jens was writing a book, or diary, about his trip to Trinidad, the whole thing, not just the bus trip. Would I please write about this, which Lennox, a Trinidad writer in Denmark close to Jens, told him about.

Well, I wasn’t all that offended or later livid as Anthony seemed to think.

Anyway, here’s what the PM of The Republic of Trinidan and Tobago, Kamla Persad-Bissessar said about him, when he died last year: Today, we also remember the dedicated service of Anthony Milne. Described as one of the best “wordsmiths in local newspaper” by his colleagues, Milne’s passion in writing led him away from the family tradition of studying law and into literature.

He began writing for the Daily Express and was adored for his sense of humor by those who worked with him despite his reserved personality. He is also remembered for his deep appreciation of literature and local arts which is evident in his short stories.

After waiting only five minutes we got on a big bus (plenty of room for the legs), that took us to City Gate in half an hour.

When I told Anthony I wanted to walk home from there, he was astonished: “But it’s very far!” “No, not that far and I need the exercise after all that sitting in busses and taxis.”

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Got the same reaction when I asked for directions. “You gonna walk?!”. Not many pedestrians; and I’m not surprised. The intense car traffic and sidewalks full of holes and rusty spikes suddenly sticking up make it a hazardous undertaking. But, after about an hour, soaked in sweat and coughing from all the cars’ exhaust, I returned to Fabienne’s 7 hours after we left and went straight under the cold shower.

Tired, but happy.

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12 Last day in P. o. S. I walked past the Savannah to the National Museum for an interesting view into the country’s history, zoology and artistic life. Situated in an old victorian mansion the museum is a stately place: and, again, I was the lone tourist; as a matter of fact, the only visitor apart from three women arriving ten minutes later.

It was quite informative on preand colonial times, education, slavery / worker’s condition, the struggle for independence, and a beauty of an old british printing press.

On 1st floor there was an impressive contemporary art exhibition. Some of these paintings are brilliant. Very inspiring; also a section of old water colours and drawings from about 130 years ago.

Many landscapes look the same today. Enjoyed the zoology / wild life section with butterflies, spiders, snakes, turtles, monkeys (red howling), birds, lizards a. s. o. Well worth a visit.

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Here’s from a school book of the 1930s by J. O. Cutteridge: Tim is up in the hut Tot let the pup sup The pup can sup from the cup Tot and Tim can sup from the cup in the hut Sam and Pam like jam Tom and Tot like ham Is the ham in the jar?

No. The jam is in the jar I like ham and jam Has Pam a yam. No. Musical, isn’t it? .

Spent an hour there and it was pouring down as I left, so I took a shared taxi back which of course got stuck in traffic jams, so I could have walked the distance in about the same time it took the old stuffy cab without air condition (40 at least inside as the rain made it impossible to open the windows).

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Back home I went straight for the cold shower, followed by a relaxing pipe and mint tea. Then I called Susanne, who agreed to let me use her computer to check up on mails. She has rented a nice little house in St. James 10 minutes walk from my place.

I wrote to Lennox about how it was going so far and answered a mail from Mariane Bitran, my flute teacher.

Before I went home, Susanne and I made an appointment to get in touch when she comes to Tobago on Monday.

Had a delicious dinner on Ariapita Avenue, did my exercises and went to bed early after the day’s last shower.

Tomorrow for Tobago. More tourists there, I’m told.

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13 When I was about to leave, Mary Jane was all sweetness and good advice: “Be careful over there. Don’t trust anyone!” That’s been her sad anthem since my arrival and as much as I appreciate it’s a well-meant expression of concern for my safety, I think it’s a pity that there is so little mutual trust in this otherwise friendly and beautiful country.

Told her I was an experienced traveller by now and well able to look after myself. She understood, and when I changed the subject and added (with ill hidden pride), that I already had been approached twice in the street by foreigners asking directions, she laughed saying: “Well Jens. You look like a local. A white Trini!”

I was sure I stuck out a mile away. Always the typical scandinavian explorer trying too hard to blend in.

Half past eleven the taxi came to take me to Piarco Airport, where I boarded the plane to Tobago. Was seated beside a young couple with a tiny baby. When the usual noises started, the little beauty began crying and mom sent me worried looks. I immediately gave her a smile and said: “Noisy eh, the engines I mean. Hate it myself too. He’ll soon get used to it.”

And we all relaxed for the short flight. Actually more like a long jump.

Before my departure from P. o. S., Ronnie gave me the telephone number of a guy called Ramo who had an affordable guest house not too far from or close to the airport. Called him right after landing and ten minutes

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later he picked me up and drove me the short distance to my new residence, V. I. P. Holiday Resort in Crown Point. He is a friendly smiling man, who, according to posters in his office, is a follower of guru Sai Baba. An interesting change from Catholic Mary Jane and Presbyterian Kemira, (M. J’s old friend and assistant). Makes me feel more and more atheist for each devotee I meet.

My room here is actually an apartment: large bedroom, toilet / shower + kitchen-dining room fully equipped with a round dinner table, three chairs, sofa, TV, fridge, gas stove and everything needed for home cooking.

Even a small porch with two chairs outside.

Watching TV (BBC) after two weeks of happy ignorance was a bit depressing. The evil ways of the world hadn’t changed an inch, although I thought I had. After a nasty report on the syrian crises, I jumped straight into the swimming pool.

All this luxury for measly 300 TT Dollars a day. Thanks Ronnie!

After dinner from the local take away and a short nap I woke up to torrential rains. For the dry season it’s been pretty wet this last week. Good thing I have an umbrella. Certainly didn’t bring raincoat or rubber boots.

When it stopped I took a walk around the neighbourhood enjoying the rural atmosphere with lots of sheep, chicken and silence.

Back home I made a couple of drawings and wrote a poem. About time I bring some poetry into this factual diary!

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Black hens on fences puddle become pond, lizards tricking senses dusk waves the wand, dogs at home alone a’barking eerie moon behind the cloud, fat frogs courting, gloating, nocturnal bird sings out loud Silence full of sound all around Time for a quiet beer where she smiles from ear to ear

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Ramo & Zoe

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14 Got out of bed at half past five to the drumming and splashes of more heavy rain. Still half asleep, I had visions of floods and water all over the floor, but after an hour or so it slowly stopped, and since they have an efficient draining system here, I’ll soon be able to go out without getting my shoes soaked.

At nine, Mary Jane called to hear if I was content with my new accommodation. Her concern is really quite touching; almost like a mother’s.

At ten Ramo took me for a drive around the vicinity: The bank for money, past Store Bay where I bought fresh King Fish for dinner right out of the fisherman’s boat, a corner shop for fruit, vegetables, cooking oil and seasoning.

When we returned he introduced me to his staff and two friendly dogs (another Rex - same name as Mary Jane’s big one - she also had Ella) and Zoe, his talking parrot, who looked directly at me saying: “Hello, hello.” not a big vocabulary, but one word’s more than none.

Ramo has kindly offered to lend me his canadian mountain bike (at no extra cost), but suggests I try it tomorrow (Saturday), when there’s less traffic on the main road. No bicycle lanes here, but I did meet a few daring bikers in the streets of P. o. S. chosing whatever side of the road they felt comfortable with. The argument in favour of riding with the traffic was mostly based on following general laws. Against was: at least you can see

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what’s coming - bit like the dane cyckling without light on an unlit country road at night.

I’ll sure give it a try. Main concern is that my weak shoulder would start complaining again making my right arm numb after just a couple of minutes.

After a lunch of almonds, sweet potatoe and a banana, I went by the airport to book my flight back to Piarco from where I’d eventually return to Europe, London – Copenhagen.

“Better do it in good time”, was Ramo’s sound advice. Went wrong, but not because of him.

I’ll get to that in a couple of weeks.

On my way down to Store Bay for a swim I came across one of these surreal situations this trip is full of, once I keep my receiver ready.

From a distance I heard european classic from the radio of a car parked by the curb. Here came Spring Theme from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons streaming out at about the same volume as carnival’s soca. On and around the ramshacle Nissan sat a group of 5 frustrated teenage boys well on their way through a bottle of rum. Didn’t look like that was the radio station of their choice.

Well, walking by I didn’t hear them say a word as Spring became Summer, Autumn Winter. Side effect being the appreciation of how much music

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matters to mood: After just a few minutes of Vivaldi (his name has Viva in it!), I felt lighter, easier, fitter than from the heavy thud, thud, thud of drum and base celebrating just one rythm with pounding beats.

After my dip in the luke warm waves I went back to V. I. P. cooking my King Fish with lentils, onion, tomatoes and green pepper. Fine food.

A short nap, and then Anthony called for a chat.

Did my exercises as my shoulder gives me hell again. It worked. After an hour of intense physical manipulation and a shower, I felt good enough to make a couple of small drawings.

Watched BBC’s latest reports on the Syrian hell and wished there were some kind of political exercises taking care of that sore limb.

Meditated on the unnecessity of evil, practiced a slow blues on the flute and went to bed with Raoul’s book.

Patience and fear.

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15 This morning Alvin came to change my sheets and give me keys for the bike. Wasn’t quite ready yet though. Something wrong with the brakes, Ramo said.

Fine. Think I prefer to walk anyway, though it’ll come in handy for a short trip to the supermarkt. He’ll have it ready for me Monday.

When I told him about a taxi driver friend of Susanne’s offering to take me around the island at a special price, he smiled sceptically asking: “What’s special?”

When I answered, “700 TT $”, he shook his head: “That’s too much. I have a friend, who will do it for 400.”

Guess he is not entirely without selfish interest in the matter, but 300 saved are 300 for other purposes, so I cancelled my previous appointment.

Went for a swim in the postcard scenery waters at Pigeon Point. Had a reliably looking elderly couple watch my stuff, while I splashed around in the warm, very salty waves. Lovely, but I begin to miss the refreshingly cold water of Bellevue Beach, north of Copenhagen.

Ate a nice salad with coconut water and walked slowly back for a short nap.

Later, while I was doing my exercises and it started raining again, Ramo came by to find out if I wanted to tour the island with his friend the next day. I accepted once the rain had stopped falling. Land slides, especially driving in the mountains, can be a real danger, he said.

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So, with a bit of blue sky luck, I’ll be picked up at ten to spend all Sunday going from swamps to mountains, inland waterfalls to ocean views. Scarborough to Roxborough, Charlotteville, Plymouth and back. Or so I imagine. Don’t know the exact route yet. Must remember my binoculars for bird watching.

Watched some more depressing TV: Train wreck, harrying tornados, floods and genocide, until I turned it off, had a swim in the pool and finished yesterday’s drawings.

Good night.

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16 The tour of Tobago with Kimba driving and her cousin Amanda napping on the back seat was both a relaxing and spectacular experience. Professional skill and personal kindness in a friendly balance.

Only got first part of the route right.

At Scarborough’s Fort King George, we met a phenomenon I also bumped into with Chris on our way to Maracas Beach: The rhyming trubadour playing his little guitar and on the spot improvising a short song from the cue Denmark. Quite funny and talented. Well worth 20 TT $. When I told Kimba and Amanda, that I could appreciate it professionally being a poet myself, it didn’t interest them a bit. Fine with me. Saved me trying to explain what I myself barely understand.

After Scarborough we drove along the coast to Roxborough, Speyside, Charlotteville, L’Anse Fourmi, Bloody Bay, Parlatuvier Bay, Englishman’s Bay, Castara Bay. Then over Mount Dillon, Runnemede, Moriah, Mason Hill, Providence and back past Scarborough to Crown Point.

From one magnificent view to another, a stunning experience of the oceans vast immensity. At one place overlooking the Atlantic, I must have been standing just about where the original population once watched Columbus‘ ships approach and got a chilling sensation of what they might have thought, had they known it would eventually lead to the extinction of their entire population and unique culture. What could they have done?

Fleeing even to what’s now Venezuela wouldn’t have saved them. They were

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Amanda

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doomed from the moment these sails appeared on the horizon. In spite of the scenery’s apparent beauty, a sudden sadness overwhelmed me.

And then, seconds later, I had flashbacks of photos from Greenland, former danish colony.

What happened to the eskimos when Europe came ashore?

All the way pretty 18 year old Amanda suffered from severe hangover from a party last night. When I bought us lunch a few miles past Charlotteville, she ordered chicken with rice and salad, but after just a few bites she had to go to the toilet, and we asked the waiter to put the remains in a doggie bag to take along. Guess she felt like I did after Carnival. She had my deepest sympathy.

Driving through the mountains I saw what Ramo meant when he talked about landslides and water erosion. Several places only half the road was passable, and at one point a stretch of 5 m. asphalt had completely gone with a hole 1 m. deep in the road. But Kimba is a skilled and daring driver and tried to go on with the foreseeable result that we got stuck. The wheels just spinning on the gravel, but when we placed some flat rocks under them, and I pushed as hard as I could, we finally succeded. What a relief.

Making us all pals.

We drove past many chuckling waterfalls, through the most picturesque little villages, watched the prettiest, beautifully coloured birds and at one

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place a large dead snake in the middle of the road. Kimba suggested it had just been eating and was therefore too slow crossing.

Tobago’s biggest tree was impressive.

(Kimba didn’t know it’s name or age, but I saw a smaller version on a later visit to the Botanical Gardens in Scarborough and learned a bit more about this tree).

In size comparable to the famous californian sequoia. One of Nature’s wonders and such a beauty for hosting a variety of other plants.

Photographed it from all possible angles.

Stopped philosophizing perspectives.

The day gave me a good idea of the island’s dimensions and rich nature.

Original forest like I’ve never seen before.

Back at 5 after 7 hours on the road, I was tired with my head full of new views, heights, valleys, villages, pauses & going ons and took a nap to let it all sink in.

Watched BBC News to my lentil salad but quickly turned it off. Putin is not good table company. Coloured yesterday’s drawing and went for a walk before bedtime.

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Kimba

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17 Woke up early when it was still nicely cool and worked on an old drawing.

Finished the poem I started last night.

When the wheel turns and fire burns itself out with lazy perfumes softening against a hazy sunset

When thought grinds down a gullible mind to states of emotional mathematics, there’s just you and me, unobtainable goddess of broken hearts, where real dreaming starts

Just you and me, goddess of twilight I’m flesh and have to rediscover flesh thinks, has minds of it’s own coexisting constantly confusing the survivors moan

You and me all alone in a slim canoe down rapids of mountainous hopes

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At nine Ronnie called to hear how I was doing, and I thanked him for the nice accommodation he’d found for me. He told me he was going to Guyana by the end of the week, but would call again before I left for Denmark.

Maybe he comes to Tobago after Guyana.

After breakfast I walked down to Store Bay for a swim and on the way I bought two hand carved pipes from the old rastaman selling bathing trunks, slippers, hats a. s o. I asked him if they were good for smoking tobacco and he said: “Oh yes, tobacco. Or hashish if you like that.” When I told him I’d decided not to risk anything dopewise after hearing about a tourist who got 6 months in jail for a joint, he laughed: “Well, life is a risky business. Don’t let it get to you!”

But I’ll be firm. Haven’t had as much as a puff of weed now for almost 3 weeks and feel fine with that. Don’t miss it a bit. Think I really needed a longer break, and as I’ve been smoking daily with only a few interruptions since the age of 18, all I have to do is lean back, close my eyes, meditate for a short while and I’m stoned again. It’s that familiar a state of mind.

When I returned to V. I. P. the bike was standing on my porch and, after a short nap, tried it in the quiet streets off the main road. Works fine. And dogs love to race it snatching at my heels.

Made scrambled eggs with onions, tomatoes and the rest of my lentils and had the first good news from BBC so far. Seems like Obama is in the

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lead for his second period. Hope so. All the republican candidates are rather hopeless from just about any point of view save a narrow-minded one.

And then: Think positive has been the anthem of my meditation throughout this trip, but I can’t help returning to the seemingly inevitable snake in Paradise: Noise. I sincerely hate it! In this nice appartment surrounded by lovely nature and kind people it’s a box on the neighbouring house just outside my bedroom window; most likely a kind of ventilation. During daytime it’s just a low whisper, but, of course, when I go to sleep, it increases to a loud buzz penetrating even my otherwise rather effective earplugs. Try to take Ramo’s advice: just ignore it. But I can’t, and, to me nothing is more ruinous to a sound nights sleep than a constant noise, and nothing can be done about. After finally falling asleep, easily ignoring the mosquitoes, I woke up several times in a state close to despair.

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18 When I went to Ramo this morning explaining my predicament, he was seated eating nuts with a friend and two women. They first joked about it, suggesting I move my bed away from the window (which by the way can’t be closed) or get some female company for destraction: “That should do the trick!”

But a moment later one of the women knocked on my door saying maybe they could give me another room tomorrow. Shortly after Ramo brought me a new pair of earplugs, hopefully better ones than my own. Guess they realized I was being serious. They are probably so used to the sound themselves, they stopped noticing.

Tried just to let it flow with all the other sounds, but this last night it just hit a sore nerve.

Took the bike to the airport where I’ll catch the bus for Scarborough.

Nobody knew when it was leaving or where to buy a ticket, so I went into a car rental near the bus-stop and asked.

“Don’t know, but I think I got a ticket you can have”, the smiling woman said. She dived into her handbag and voila: One ticket. And she wouldn’t hear of me paying for it! Again utter kindness. Enough to chase away any dark moods of a sleepless night. Waited for half an hour (Ramo: Oh, it goes all the time) and when it came it didn’t stop. I was told: “You have to stop it!”

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Ignorance of local costoms nearly cost me another half hour, if an observant maxi-taxi driver hadn’t noticed my impatience and picked me up.

Took me to Scarborough for 30TT$.

In Scarborough Botanical Gardens I found the little brother of Tobago’s biggest tree with a nameplate: Silk Cotton Ceiba Pentandra. Now that’s settled. No age though.

While I was admiring a strange tree with an extensive root net shooting out in all directions and what looked like thin ropes hanging from its branches, an old man came up to eat lunch on a bench under it’s wide canopy. When I asked, what kind of tree it was, he said it was an oak. I said, “No, That can’t be. Where I come from we have lots of oaks, and they look nothing like this.”

“So you’re from Denmark”, he replied, now making me really curious, “How did you guess?”

“Well, I’ve studied in Denmark, Norway and Sweden - Scandinavia.

Name is Edison Tailor, botanist”.

He explained that the rope-looking things actually were more roots, the oak could send down from the branches for water if needed.

And he went on: “I’ve also been studying and teaching in London. You know, you can make a strong tonic out of the Silk Cotton’s bark. Chop it into little pieces, boil it and drink the water. Keeps you young. I’m 75”, he proudly added.

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“Seems to work”, I said politely though he didn’t look particularly much younger than his age.

Talking about the Silk Cotton Tree I mentioned the Giant, I’d seen yesterday and much to my surprise he informed me, that it was only about 200 years old. Maybe I got it wrong, or that’s what I call a fast growing tree considering the moderate size of our 1000 year old danish oaks. He also told me, that there were plans to cut it down, as its huge roots were undermining the road by which it stood. “That would be a terrible crime!”

I couldn’t agree more, and hardly believed my own ears, but he insisted the authorities entertained such considerations. Sincerely hope he’s wrong.

After strolling a little about the narrow streets of Scarborough, I asked a woman where to find the bus back to Crown Point. She just pointed straight ahead, and there it was. Streched out my hand and got into a comfortably cool, modern bus, that quickly brought me back to the airport. Got on the bike and, as soon as I was back at V. I. P., undressed and jumped into the pool. Swam for a quarter of an hour, had a pipe + a cup of mint tea and a short lie down before supper.

Think I can get used to this kind of life!

Later, enjoyed a late night swim under the nearly full moon with the bats flying over my head.

Went back in and watched MSNBC’s coverage of Super Tuesday. Looks like it’ll be Mitt Romney against Obama. Shouldn’t be a big problem.

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19 Early morning, and thanks to Ramo’s earplugs after a long, deep sleep.

Swam in the pool before breakfast and coloured one more drawing. Just too big for this summer’s Art-money exhibition, but they’ll come. Plenty of time.

Biked down to Crown Point’s internet cafe, where I answered Lennox, found Robert Roth’s next line in our ongoing poem, Transatlanticism, and sent Camilla (niece) a mail about this inspiring trip. Bought the necessary ingredients for tomorrow’s pea salad and went home for another swim before siesta.

Long siesta. Seemed to need some more deep sleep, but woke up to crazy dogs barking all over the place. Couldn’t figure out what made them so wild until night, when the full moon appeared sharp and clear on the tropic sky.

At eight I went for my dinner appointment with Susanne (fish & salad).

There were some pretty loud drummers entertaining, so we could hardly hear each other talk, before they stopped at about ten thirty.

Romance in the air? Well hardly if one has to ask, though we did give it the perfect chance walking down to a totally deserted beach, talking and drinking under the magic moon. But none of us were up to the next step and parted at one o’clock as we met: Good friends.

Walked home to the music of crickets and the occasional sheep not yet asleep.

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Had one last drink and went to bed dreaming about a cartoon eagle staring down from a moonlit cloud.

20 Quiet day. Not a lot to say. Went for a swim. Had a whim. Barking dogs.

Torrential rains. Invisible mosquitoes. Finished a drawing. Read some of Lorca’s letters (very interesting). Answered a mail. Dinner. Exercises.

Good night.

Day of leisure, lazy pleasure, treasure hunt of the mind What to find on Crusoe’s isle Patience’s smile Eating flying fish on a chest of dreams jelly fish with a dish of beans Where everything is just what it seems.

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21 “Waiting for the bus, I guess?”

“That’s right. It goes every half hour, I’ve been told.”

“Roughly.”

That short conversation is Tobago in a nutshell. No timetable, just BUS painted on the asphalt showing where to wait. Patience is a necessary virtue here. When it came, my ticket wasn’t valid and you can’t buy one from the driver. I’d have to walk the about 200 m. into the airport for it and then the bus would have left.

An old man in his hat and coat (in spite of the heat) noticed my problem and immediately said: “Just get on the bus. I give you a ticket.”

It’s only 4 TT$, but that sort of kindness is also Tobago in a nutshell. If one can help, one helps. Happened again and again. Thing to remember on a grey sulky day in Copenhagen.

From Scarborough I got on another bus direction Black Hills to Grafton Bird Sanctuary. Lovely place for a walk, but I’d chosen the wrong time of the day for bird watching. Could hear them all around in the thicket, but only saw a few. Was later told one should go in the morning or evening at feeding time for a good look.

Did see two Agoutis though, quickly scurrying into the bushes when they heard me coming. Charming little piglet-like animals.

Perfect place for philosopher’s sweat in real jungle. Original forest for mind and feet.

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Waiting for the bus back I had a mug of coffee overlooking the Carribean Sea from the Cafe’s terrace in the company of Marlon (the young host) and Curly at 65, smiling with only two teeth in his mouth, who told me he had a friend in Denmark. Was neither Lennox nor Susanne though and he couldn’t remember the name, as he hadn’t heard from her for 12 years.

When I stepped out on the road to be ready for the bus, it started raining and a middle aged couple from England stopped. “Do you want a lift?”

And so they saved me the ride past Scarborough driving me to Milford Rd., where I could get a bus directly to Crown Point. “But no need waiting for that. Just stretch out your hand and somebody will pick you up”, Angela said.

So I did, and in two minutes a car stopped and took me straight home in ten for just 10 TT$.

Went to a nice little garden restaurant and enjoyed a delicious Flying Fish with potatoes, salad and garlic bread. While I was eating four danish women entered. I thought for a moment of saying hi, but they looked (and sounded) distinctly boring, and I wasn’t in the mood for the usual, predictable smalltalk about how long I’d been there, where I was staying, when I was going home a. s. o. As I passed their table leaving, I couldn’t help just saying, “Velbekomme” though.

Bought a fresh notebook and postcards at the airport, sweet potato, tomatoes and bananas on the corner of Store Bay Local Rd., drove back to V.

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I. P. and jumped right in the pool.

After a short nap and late dinner I made two new drawings (abstract parrot) and meditated on the futility / usefulness of personal ambition when it comes to art; producing either fine work or disappointment depending on whether you’re making use of or being used by that whip of inspiration.

Thoughts to sleep with. Magic charm under the pillow.

THICKET Walked in the jungle, saw an agouti rush through the bushes, odd little beauty In the trees all around me invisible birds, strangest music I ever heard whispering flowers whiling hours

Lizard size of my pen scurried past, wild dog barked, sudden scream Entered original dream at last.

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22 For the dry season Tobago’s really been pretty wet.

Woke up at 7 wanting to go for an early walk while the air is still cool, but soon it was pouring down and continued to do so until 3 pm. As my shoes aren’t waterproof, I chose to stay in and get some work done. Made a poem and a drawing before having a rainy swim in the pool.

When the blue sky finally appeared behind the clouds, I walked to the airport to buy a pencil sharpener. Can’t get my Caran d’Ache colour pencils properly pointed with my rather blunt kitchen knife. The small plastic ones I got work ok when used with care. From there I went to Store Bay to get tickets for a glass bottom boat ride tomorrow. They sail at 10 and 14 and cost 20 US$. Had to pay in TT$; all I had. Enjoyed a bake & shark and walked back home, as it looked like more rain. Played the flute for about an hour, again wondering why it seems to sound better here than back home.

Did my exercises, jumped in the pool, watched some TV, had a nap, ate an egg salad, and that’s about it, apart from lots of thoughts, of no interest to anyone but me. More to write about tomorrow, I’m sure.

All this rain makes puddles all over, which in turn produce millions of mosquitoes. Haven’t been too badly stung yet, but when the sun comes out there will be swarms. Trick is: Keep the light turned off in the bedroom in good time before going to sleep.

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23 Woke up at 7 after a long dream getting lost in the jungle before finally finding my own danish livingroom (a bit dilapidated) on top of a very tall tree. Was just about to fall out of my armchair fumbling with liana strings for a parachute of large leaves when I woke up on the comfortable mattress. Relief.

Went for a swim in the pool and, as I got out of the water, three pretty, young girls drove in with the car radio turned on at full blast. They stepped out, placed an almost empty bottle of rum on the roof of the car, and started dancing. Drunk driving if ever I saw, but they were certainly a sight for sore eyes. Wild young women at 8 in the morning. Guess they never went to bed. Invited me to dance with them, but after a few clumsy steps I danced on into the kitchen for breakfast. Didn’t feel at all that young and careless.

Boiled black eyed peas, cut up onions, tomatos, and green pepper for tonight’s salad. Shaved, smoked a pipe of tobacco and suddenly felt very tired. Returned to bed for a short nap before going to Store Bay for the glass bottom boat to Bucco Reef’s corals and Nylon Pool. Had to wait for a bus to take us a few kilometers, as the waves were too big to board at the usual place.

Soon we all got in, but nothing happened. Our captain, with the body of a 17 year old athlete and face of a 17th century buccaneer, just stood there waiting. Not a man of many words. In fact no words at all. Probably fed up

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with tourist chit chat. As the only foreigner I didn’t want to be the first to show sign of impatience, but after 15 minutes a nice looking, middle aged woman asked politely: “What are we waiting for, Captain?”

“The go ahead”, was all he said.

Finally, our guide stood up to excuse the delay, and off we went.

The Coral Reef was a beautiful and mysterious landscape just one or two meters below us, but not at all as gaudy as I’d expected. And, in places just dead. Coral ghosts of the strangest shapes in shades of ivory, beige and grey.

Suddenly: “Look, look!”

And there it was: The famous Parrot fish right under the glass bottom.

Seemingly as curious about us as we of it. Returning again and again looking up at us as if thinking: “Who are these strange creatures up there?”

More likely it simply hoped for a treat overboard from the picnic.

Splendid specimen.

Next stop was time for snorkeling and the good swimmers jumped in wearing life vests and holding on to a long rope tied to the boat.

Our guide said: “Don’t let go of that rope. The current here is so strong, you’re likely to end up in Venezuela.”

Felt no need to test my swimming skills, so I stayed on board with a couple of other timid souls watching the daredevils splash around in the waves.

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The guide was a charming young man, who knew exactly how to flirt with the pretty girls without antagonizing their boyfriends / husbands.

And a very agile swimmer too. Disregarding the current he immediately swam out and rescued an elderly guy, who did let go, before he drifted too far away.

Third and last stop was The nylon Pool: A natural low water area a couple of hundred meters from shore with a bottom of decomposed corals surrounded by deep water. Allegedly named by Princess Margaret, who,

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when she went there in the 1950ies, said, that the water was as clear as her nylon stockings. It was lovely and I jumped in with all the rest, who soon started dancing to soca from the Soca Queen anchored only a stone’s throw away from our boat. Very loud, happy music, that still lingered in my ears from carnival in P. O. S. So I too danced around with a skinny woman from Scarborough, Tobago, feeling 30 years younger.

The captain got in too, scrubbing seaweed off the sides of the boat. I asked how old it was, and he said: “40 years.” Thus encouraged I asked, how many years he’d worked as captain. “45 years.” “So you’re quite experienced?” “Yes.” And that was that conversation. He wasn’t being unfriendly or dismissing, just not much of a talker.

After a couple of hours we returned to the mangroves, where the bus waited to take us back to Store Bay. There I wanted a cup of coffee, but everything closes at 4:30, so I walked back to V. I. P. and my pea salad.

Watched BBC’s coverage of the anniversary of the japanese earthquake / tsunami. Gruesome pictures showing the overwhelming power of a swelling ocean.

After a short nap, I went for a refreshing swim in the pool, washed my sweat-soaked clothes, made a new drawing and went to bed at 11 soon dreaming about a singing fish that could dance too.

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24 Got up at eight for coffee and pipe on the still cool porch. Coloured yesterday’s drawing before breakfast and had the day’s first dip in the pool.

Alvin greeted me from the balcony: “Everything all right?”

“Everything just fine!”

After the swim I practiced some Händel on the flute. Then Susanne called about tomorrow’s barbecue. The mosquitoes are giving her a hard time. Maybe her blood tastes better than mine. I “only” have 3 stings on my right arm and 4 on left ankle. Lucky me.

After a short siesta I went to have lunch at Kariwak Village, recommended by Lennox. Had their fish salad and orange juice. He’s quite right.

Lovely place. Delicious food at a reasonable price. Conveyed his greetings to the hostess.

Went for a walk. Found a barbershop around the corner. Had a haircut (fine job, cheap). Had another walk in the dusk; tropical, fast, and with the pungent smells of a hot day cooling through gloaming.

Exercises. TV. Shower. Reading.

Sleep.

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25 Started colouring as soon as my feet hit the floor.

Never mind my drawings don’t look much different from what I do at home.

Try to refine technique. Kind of light making colours & contours look either very close or a bit out of focus. But Caran d’Ache colour pencils are all I’ve got.

Knock on the door.

Nicole Orr to change my sheets.

Really had to do this, though I told her it wasn’t necessary. Explained that I shower every night before bed and can sleep with that bit of sweat.

But she whispered, “It’s my work.

Ramo wants me to take good care of the guests.”

Clearly what was meant as kindness on my part was becoming a problem for her, so, of course I said, “Sorry, please, go ahead.” And actually the floor could do with a bit of sweeping.

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While she was working, I continued colouring, and when finished she looked over my shoulder. “You’re an artist?” “Well, I try.”

She told me she had a cousin, who was a wizard with a pencil and could draw just about anything to a likeness.

Admitted I mostly did faces, profiles and abstract forms, only had limited technical skills. Geometrical patterns out of my head was what I liked.

She looked again saying, “And you do it well.” Think she meant it.

Vanity, wishfull thinking? Never mind, made me happier than I would have been without.

There’s a gentle, sad kindness in her way making me wish I could do her justice drawing her portrait. Maybe a poem.

At ten Susanne called. She had another tough night with the mosquitoes, but said I’d be picked up at 11:30 by Keith for the barbecue at No Man’s Land. And at 11:45 there she was with this professional entertainer.

I’m always a bit sceptical of events designed especially for tourists, but Susanne’s recommendation put my mind at ease.

And indeed it turned out to be a very nice afternoon with the kind of relaxation and fun you’d be a fool not simply to enjoy. Delicious food, rum cocktails ad lib. and good company. Close encounter with rays coming as near as two meters from my feet looking for bits from the barbecue, but of no real danger at a safe distance from their stinging tails.

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Had an interesting conversation with an english psychologist from London, who, working with young men suffering from psychological problems had discovered that making them jump into ice cold water relieved their depression. An obvious and effective alternative to electroshock. When I told her about my winterbathing, and that I, the viking, had learned it from a man who grew up in Trinidad, she laughed, and said she would tell that educational story to her patients.

Well, there’s no doubt: Mix of shock and the anaesthetizing effect of the cold water does miracles to a moody mind. Its healing effect on the whole body too. I’m not particularly depressive, but now and then I just don’t see the point. My daily dip in the cool sea of Øresund helps me focus on essentials rather than trifles & trivialities. Wakes me up from spiritual slumber.

Later had a chat with Doc (never got his real name), who sailed us out to No Man’s Land. A friend of his was the first to offer me a joint of ganja they just lit up. But I explained, that though I’d been a smoker for 45 years, I actually enjoyed being without it for a while. They understood and knew right away, as I’d learned myself, that it’s no big deal. One of the beauties of hashish: Only takes a bit of willpower to put it aside any time you decide.

One may stumble into pits of inexplicable sadness after a couple of weeks, but nothing a good meditation / fluteplaying / cold water treatment can’t handle. When I filled my pipe with Orlik tobacco, Doc held it up to his nose and said, “It smells like food.”

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Doc and Keith

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Quite the philosopher too. Told him about Lennox‘ persistent positive approach (all-in-the-mind-like) to life and his only comment was, “Yeah, that’s the way. Thinking creates the experience and vice versa, so your thoughts are both trap and treasure. Dissolve them and see what’s behind.”

After a few rum cocktails I couldn’t have put it better myself. He sold me a funny hat made out of coco leaves, and I was very pleased to get my first headgear with built-in ventilation (not much use on a rainy day though).

In the middle of the afternoon it was Limbo time. As if I was part of the crew, Keith asked me to hold one end of the stick, while Susanne held the other. Fine with me. I’m not too keen on that kind of party games anyway, and it was fun to study the determination on some of these tourists faces: Gonna get this right!

Susanne was our bartender, and we’d agreed I should have no more than 7 rum cocktails (tough hangover). Well, considering the size of their drinks (half & half as Keith said) that should be enough. After 4 I felt unusually talkative, and the fifth made me step out in the water for a longer conversation with the rays.

A good sip of water and delicious meal of king fish, lentils and coconut salad helped clear my mind, so when we sailed back to the pier in the mangroves I was ready for the notebook waiting for me at V. I. P. But time is different here than merely clockwise.

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Keith drove away with the other tourists, and that was the last we saw of him for three hours. Susanne called him and was told we’d be picked up at Doc’s place, so we tried to find that.

Quite surreal, there was a Boulevard through the swamps.

When we got there at sunset, I was surprised to see a beautiful, modern villa. Bit like the house my cousin, who’s an architect, built for himself in Nærum north of Copenhagen.

Doc received us most hospitably, though Keith hadn’t prepared him for our arrival. After the long walk we then had to wait for another two hours.

I was pretty tired, and didn’t quite understand, why I shouldn’t have the same service as the rest of the guests. After all I paid too. But I guess that being with Susanne, who was one of the crew, made him think of me as “part of the family” and that I wouldn’t care. Well I did. And told him so.

Not angrily but politely, though I was fed up waiting. Three hours in a swamp full of hungry mosquitoes is not my idea of fun. Susanne: “You tell him. I can’t.”

Well, eventually he came and drove us back. In my frustration I asked him to stop at a liquor store, so I could buy a bit of vodka. He said, “I thought you would have no more to drink?” “Maybe so, but I’m not a man of principle”, I answered sarcastically. We parted on good terms though, and what irritated me the most was myself getting grumpy over nothing.

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Back home I had a couple of more drinks just to relax and jumped into the water with a party of indian trinis, who were having a pool side picnic.

After a short nap I walked down to Brown’s Supermarkt and bought a piece of their excellent cheese. Said goodbye and thanks to the kind lady who always had a smile and helpfull word for a stranger. “And I liked having you”, she said. Quite a good looking woman, and strong too, I guess, with the liquor store next door.

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26 Last day on Tobago on my way down to Store Bay for a last swim in the smooth carribean sea I came across a sight I hadn’t seen since visiting my ex., Adelheid, in her house by Lammefjorden in Denmark: walking goats on a leash like one would dogs.

A. adopted the idea when we travelled for half a year in Morocco 1972, and the goats just love it. But strange to the danish eye.

Bought necklaces for my niece and her daughters and sat for a while after the swim on a bench taking proper leave of the azure blue, salty water I’ve enjoyed so much.

Called Susanne to thank her for good company and for introducing me to the trinbagonian way of life. We agreed to meet again back in Copenhagen. She returns on Saturday. We’ll see. Often such appointments never happen, but we’ve been getting along so nicely, I think this one perhaps will.

Went back to Kariwak for one last Tobago fish salad. So good! Just finished the meal when Mary Jane called to hear if everything was all right.

Amazing. It’s been two weeks since I left Fabienne’s, and she still worries about my safety.

Walked back for a short nap. Later exercises, a swim in the pool, a boring bit of TV, and then early to bed.

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27 Day of departure (or so I thought). Woke up confident all was well planned, packed and prepared. Breakfast and one last swim in the pool. Goodbye to Nicole, Alvin, Zoe and the dogs before Ramo drove me to the airport, where the trouble started.

At check-in the kind lady told me my ticket was for the 16th (following day). She checked and doublechecked, but obviously I’d bought ticket to P. O. S. for the 16th, same date as my ticket to London. I was puzzled, but there it was: black on white: so I called Ramo who quickly came and picked me up again.

Back in V. I. P., I put my legs up and got ready for one more day on Tobago. Luckily I just wanted to have one more look at my ticket and - - panic!

On the page before the actual ticket it said: Going back on the 15th. The 16th was day of arrival in London. Apparently when I bought my ticket from Tobago to Piarco showing my return ticket to Europe, they had misread it too.

I jumped up, but Ramo had gone to Scarborough. The lady in the office immediately understood my predicament, though, and said, “Get your stuff together. I’ll drive you!” Fortunately I hadn’t unpacked yet. Back at the airport the plane I’d planned on taking had already left, so my ticket was changed to a departure getting me to Piarco with only one hour before take off for London.

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Well, to cut a long story short: With the luck of that day, of course the plane was half an hour late so, as we landed at Piarco, I saw passengers for my BA boarding, and when I finally retrieved my luggage the gates had closed. No way I could get on board that plane.

A compassionate young girl at the BA counter gave me a telephone number saying she was sure they would rebook me. To be able to concentrate (airports are noisy places) I went to the toilet to make my call. Not the best idea as toilets are noisy too. Travellers talk loud and the constant flushing had an echo, but after half an hour of waiting and more waiting, I finally got my rebooking for Monday (now Thursday). Then called Ronnie to ask if he knew of a cheap hotel close to the airport, and he at once invited me to spend the night at their place, but I didn’t want to inconvenience him, just because I made the mistake of trusting a woman in uniform, so I said I’d try Fabienne’s and call him back, in case all her rooms were taken. Mary Jane was happy to hear from me, but sorry I missed my plane. She’d have the rooms ready at a reduced price (250 TT$ a night), and when I arrived we had a little conversation about fate. She said: ”I know you don’t believe in God, but maybe there’s a meaning to this.” Anyway we agreed, that now I had four more days here, I might as well enjoy them.

Called Ronnie back to tell him I was OK, and he promised to send a mail to Lennox and have Helga call my mother (88 and alone), so she doesn’t worry when I don’t return according to schedule.

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Now time for a rum & tea to relax and a good night’s sleep. What a day! And I left out all the little details of observation that would make a poem of it. Later.

Mary Jane Charbonne – Rex & Bella

28 Though exhausted, I hardly slept a wink during this long night of vexation.

Woke up from the nastiest dream in which I was a murderer of the syrian army slashing throats of babies, raping their mothers until apocalyptic knights from out of the dark side of carnival chased me over stormy plains of burning grass to the edge of hell.

Feeling sorry for myself and angry that I could be such a fool as to accept this woman’s word without checking myself, though my instinct told me she was wrong. Would have been almost in London by now and soon back in nicely cool Copenhagen, and then, suddenly worrying that my rebooking hadn’t gone through after all. Didn’t have the ticket in my hand yet. It would be sent to my mail address.

I’m an expert when it comes to blowing non-existing problems out of proportion even when reason tells me that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Woke up all in shambles and couldn’t wait to get my hand on that ticket.

So as soon as the library opened, I was there to use their computer. But! I had to be a member to do so, and for this I should fill out a form.

Think the blank faced woman at the counter noticed my nervous impatience and got a kick out of teasing me, so it took her five minutes to find the right form, and when I’d finally filled it out it was incomplete, as I couldn’t remember Fabienne’s number on Belle Smythe Street and Mary Jane didn’t answer the phone. And did I have proof, that I was actually staying there? A. s. o., a. s. o.

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I’d soon had enough and said, “This is ridiculous. You can keep your bloody form. I’m going somewhere else!” and left slamming the door.

Childish reaction, but I was in that state of mind.

First thought of calling Ronnie and have him print out my ticket, but then luck decided to give me a break. Accidentally I asked a group of young guys by a garage if they knew of an internet cafe in the neighbourhood and bingo: Just around the corner a small computer shop with one machine available. The friendly owner of Indian descent quickly started it up, logged me on to Gmail and, lo and behold: there it was: my ticket; which he printed out for me in two copies. 10 TT$, and that was that. Relief.

I thanked him warmly and went on to the bank to buy 30 Pounds for the shuttle between Gatwick and Heathrow, but before I got very far I noticed I’d taken the librarian’s pen with me, when I rushed out.

Just an ordinary, cheap pen, but that wouldn’t do, so I went straight back, put it on her desk and said: “Sorry, I forgot to give you this back when I left.”

And she smiled. The blank face could smile!

In the bank the same bureaucratic charade. I just wanted to buy 30 Pounds, but several papers had to be filled out and signed, passport examined, and when I wanted to pay with my Visa card, the man said: “You have to pay in cash.”

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I said, “Excuse me, but this is a bank, isn’t it? If I go to the grocer around the corner, he willingly accepts my card, so why not here?”

“That’s the rule”, he answered, “You must go over there, make a withdrawal and then return here to pay in cash.”

“Of course”, I said, “Why make things easy, when they can be complicated.”

He didn’t seem to appreciate my irony.

So I had to stand in line twice and wait for another ten minutes.

When the transaction finally was completed, and I was about to leave, a woman from the bank, who had seen the little intermezzo, came up to me asking, “Everything all right? and I gave her my widest smile, “Sure, very amusing!”

Looked like she appreciated the irony.

Practical things taken care of I walked home for a well deserved nap and woke up after an hour calm and rested.

One last problem to solve, though: I’d run out of pipe cleaners and a dirty sour pipe is no fun, so I called John Paul, who was surprised to hear that I was back in P. o. S. He suggested I go to Long Circular Mall, where I had rotis with Ronnie; and suddenly I remembered seeing a shop there with pipes. They did have this exotic item: pipe cleaners at 30 TT$ a bag, but then, of course they were in all colours of the rainbow.

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Went upstairs for a corn soup and fish dish and then home in the beautiful dusk with the mountains behind me.

Tickets in my hands. Pounds in pocket. And clean pipes to smoke.

Day well spent.

Exercises, wrote this: and now for a good night’s sleep!

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29 As I said: a good night’s sleep. Woke up nicely rested, all my anxieties gone, maybe theatre tonight.

Then Ronnie called: “Jens, are you a lover of jazz?”

“I am indeed. Very much so.”

“Well, no more talk. There is a concert tonight. I’ll pick you up at five. All right?”

“Absolutely. See you then. Bye”.

Again Ronnie saves the day!

After breakfast I wanted to take a good, long walk and say goodbye to the Savannah, and to the Botanical Gardens, which I only briefly visited the first time.

Thought of just strolling around a bit and then sit and relax in the shade of one of the many huge trees with dense canopies, when one more surprise this trip had in store for me appeared in the shape of a small crooked man in a greenish shirt.

He said he was the Botanical Gardens tour guide and right away started to tell me about trees, bush and flowers. I knew immediately he’d be asking for money later, but the way he talked and brushed off all my attempts to refuse his service, made me curious.

I said I’d been there before and already had the tour once. His sharp answer was: “Yes of course, but I am the only guide here.”

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So I just accepted the situation and followed him around listening to his impressive knowledge. Without referring to a book or reading the boards he talked incessantly for more than an hour about each and every plant, vegetation and tree in the garden knowing all about their fruit, medical use of bark, leaves and flowers, where they came from, who brought them there, a. s. o., a. s. o.

I was amazed. An incredible memory and insight, but at the same time it all came out mechanically with the sole purpose of getting money out of my pocket; or so I felt.

Several times I was just about to stop him with another bad excuse, and when I finally did so after an hour and fifteen minutes, he looked right through me: “Oh, so you have an appointment down town? Well of course, but we’re nearly finished”.

And every time I tried to say something, he just repeated my words like an impatient echo.

When I did leave, he introduced himself as David Primus and gave me THE LEAF OF LIFE, originating from Africa, telling excactly how to use it. I should first keep it under pressure between the pages of a book, until it grew thorns at the edges, then plant it in a pot, where it would soon take root. It worked beautifully and, thanks to him, I now have this bit of Trinidad on the windowsill of my bedroom.

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Oh, sweet smell of money. Remember it well from growing up in the northern suburbs of Copenhagen.

The Maraval Rotary Club at the O’Farrell’s estate in the beautiful valley of Santa Cruz.

Charity Jazz Concert.

“Ladies and gentlemen. We are the Jazz Pickle. Do enjoy!”

Started off with a Cannonball Adderley classic while fireflies lit up in the bush and under the orange trees. Then The Boy from Ipanema. Coy presentation of each member of the band followed by a delicious version of Autumn Leaves.

I seem to be the only smoker present here. Ronnie left to ask if I could indulge in my vice and returned smiling: “Permission granted!”

Of course it’s up me to step aside, so my pipe doesn’t annoy the other guests, but there’s plenty of space in the surrounding park.

After a short break Ruth Osman with Jacoustic took over. Pretty girl on the violin; and the singer playing the transverse flute too. Not exactly a carribean Yusef Lateef, but she can certainly sing and is a charming performer, which gets her more than half the way.

Then an Irish folk singer, whose name I didn’t catch. Just one song raising the spirit a nudge followed by Elan Parle with a brilliant pan player.

And strangely, for the first time since my arrival at T & T, I don’t have to wipe sweat off my forehead all the time. Realized that Chris was right,

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when he pointed out the Santa Cruz Valley (where Lennox lived before coming to Copenhagen) on our way to Maracas Beach saying, “It’s cooler than in any other part of Trinidad.” In fact so chilly, close to midnight, I wished I’d brought a shirt with long sleeves.

Maybe having gotten so used to the heat, I shall freeze on my return to Denmark Tuesday.

Well, nothing a good cold water swim can’t cure, I’m sure.

Anyway, If I should ever live here for a longer period, S. C. would certainly be the place, although, during daytime, it’s still fairly hot.

Pan player is great! And so is the sax. Soothing music for soul and body relaxing all tensions of the previous days.

And over our heads the night flying bats doing a fine job of ridding us of some of the mosquitoes having a feast on the many bare arms, legs and shoulders.

The whole band plays exactly that kind of wildly experimental, improvising jazz I’ve loved since the age of sixteen.

Before the next band, Overdrive, also with a brilliant pan player and a blind man on the keyboard, I had a brief encounter with Mr. O’Farrel himself. Think he was Ireland Honorary Consul; name does indicate irish descent, though he is as british as they come. We had something in common, both stepping aside for a smoke, and before I had time to light my

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pipe he offered me a cuban cheroot. “A little present from Mr. Castro”, he said, while picking a fresh orange for my breakfast.

Thought we had a nice little chat about politics, Cuba and smoking, when suddenly I was abruptly dismissed: “Now, if you will, go join your party.”

And, of cause, I answered politely: “Yes. I think I’ll do just that.”

Cheroot with an off taste or maybe he only wanted to enjoy the beautifull singers now entering the stage.

Four bands. Two last ones clearly the best.

We sat for a while enjoying the freshness in the air, emptying our glasses, and then drove back to Port-of-Spain.

A pleasure meeting Ronnie’s wife, who I’d so far only talked to on the phone. Got the immediate impression of a kind woman with an intelligent and easy going sense of humour.

On our way out we drove past Ronnie’s villa in Mareval. A beautiful, big, red house formerly owned by Patrick Castagne, the poet, who wrote T & T’s national anthem.

They took me straight to Fabienne’s, and well inside I had a rum & tea, scribbled a bit before bedtime and fell asleep with my head full of smiles and fine jazz.

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30 Last day in P. o. S, I hope. Although I’ve enjoyed a wonderfull time here, I do look forward to cool Copenhagen and Bellevue Beach.

Got up early, and after breakfast took a walk down Warren Street in the opposite direction of the Savannah and centre. Got to Woodbrook Graveyard and went in to read the headstones thus disturbing a small, skinny dog that barked and growled to show me this was its territory. Watchdog of the dead suspiciously following me around while I found quite a variety of names from all over the world showing the obvious multiculturalism of T & T: Nestor Baitz, Henry Chee Wah, Bogwantra Ramdeen, Ellen Agatha Gillette, George Proudfoot, Annie Mycoo, Richard Anthony Wrong (think I would have changed that last name. Guess to what), Leonard Preudhomme a. s. o.

Further down Warren Street I turned right and came upon a big Hindu temple, known as a mandir.

It was closed, but through the windows I saw altars for their gods: Lord Krishna, Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, Hanuman etc. Otherwise much like an ordinary church with lines of seats for worshippers. And in a corner stairs leading up to a room: For meditation only.

An old couple were about to close the gate, as I turned a corner, and I said: “Hope I’m not trespassing. Just a curious tourist.”

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The woman looked at me with a face contradicting her words: “No, no. You’re welcome.”

On leaving I asked the old man for the name of the place and he just pointed to a sign over the gate: SANATAN DHARMA MAHA SABHA PASCHI KAASHI HINDU MANDIR Among the many indian street names of St James such as Ganges St., Benares St. and Bengal St. I suddenly came across Finland St. and Anderson St. Wonder what Anderson that could be.

Went up to Ching Lee’s Supermarkt on Western Main Road, to do some last minute shopping: almonds for a night snack and yoghurt for breakfast.

Then home for the day’s first cooling shower and a short siesta.

Later I walked down Ariapita Av. to dine at Veni Mange, but it was open only for drinks, so I chose a chinese place where I had fried rice and vegetables with prawns.

Wrote a poem while waiting for the food and, after eating, went home to read some more of DAYS OF WRATH. Felt sorry for all involved. All victims. Some nerve-racking ordeal! Book highly recommended.

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Made my exercises, packed all the stuff I wouldn’t need before leaving, called the taxi driver, Barath Kalloo to make sure he’d pick me up in good time for check-in tomorrow and had the evening’s last shower.

Early to bed.

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31 And up early for the day’s first coffee and pipe. Had just finished shaving, when Ronnie called: “Remember we talked about visiting that artist, Jackie Hinkson. Well, he’s been away yesterday, but he can see you today, if you have time before leaving.”

It was only 10 and Barath wouldn’t come until 2, so I said: “Yes. I’m just about to have breakfast. Say, in about an hour?”

“I’ll come by at 11.”

The famous artist lived in a beautiful house with rooms, garage and studio full of oil paintings, watercolours, drawings and, in an open shed in the garden, wooden sculptures.

Some of his portraits had the intimacy of photos taken without the objects knowledge in a very private moment, while others clearly were models posing to look their best.

Right away his paintings reminded me of my old friend, the now 90 years old norwegian painter, Laurie Grundt. There were obvious similarities in his way of speaking about inspiration and choice of motifs. Even down to the diversity of their work, they had a lot in common. Jackie had made large pictures for a church with religious motifs in a contemporary setting. So has Laurie. When I mentioned it to him, he just laughed. Didn’t seem like a man obsessed with his own uniqueness.

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When he heard I was a poet, he told about his friendship with Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott, also an old friend of Lennox’. Called him a brilliant art critic of vast knowledge. Added, that he (D. W.), in spite of a fragile physique, loved to travel all over the world. Though I am rather robustly fit, I don’t, as long as the transatlantic airlines spray the cabins with these chemicals which they claim are harmless to humans. Nevertheless very irritating to both my eyes, nose and, for some reason, stomach.

Jackie Hinkson is such an impressive artist in every field he explores that I hardly know where to begin, but my personal favourites are his watercolours, charcoal drawings and larger-than-man sculptures, some of carnival’s angels and demons. Fascinating!

And his work of more than 35 years is a detailed record of trinbagonian culture, daily life and history. His immense productivity also reflects a man, who clearly loves his work and loves to show it, even to a complete stranger (though, as it is, I’m the friend of a friend’s friend who also happens to be his friend).

As Mary Jane said, when I returned to Fabienne’s after missing my plane: “God has a reason for everything!”

Well, if I had boarded that plane, I’d missed the jazz concert in Santa Cruz and never met a very inspiring artist. Just as I was about to leave, he showed me one of his notebooks, which Ronnie says he always carries with him for sketches, occasionally later to be turned into paintings.

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Ronnie drove me back in good time for a last shower and coffee.

Barath came to fetch me 20 minutes earlier than agreed, but, of course, better too early than late. And a good thing too, as it turned out. When we were about 10 km. from Piarco Airport we saw a huge, black cloud of thick smoke ahead of us, so the highway was closed and we had to make a detour.

Well, no panic this time. My plane wasn’t taking off until 18:15, so we could have made several small detours just for the sake of sight-seeing.

When I arrived at Piarco to check in my luggage, I met the lovely, young BA employee, who so kindly helped me in my distress last Thursday afternoon by giving me the telephone number for rebooking.

She smiled: “Everything ok now, Sir?” “Everything just fine, thank you. Going home now.”

“Well that’s nice!”

Had two hours to spend before boarding, so I went to a place with local food, recommended to me by Barath, instead of the burger joints at the airport. Enjoyed one last bake and shark, Maracas style. Delicious!

When I boarded the plane I felt fine. No problems whatsoever, but 5 - 10 minutes after they had sprayed with chemicals against germs, I was miserable. Eyes and nose itching and running, sore throat and worst of all, constant flatus.

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So for those reasons and the uncomfortable seats without enough room for my legs, it was 8 hours of torture. And I wasn’t the only one. My neighbour agreed, and throughout the night there was sneezing, coughing, sighing and babies crying all around. And, as if we weren’t being poisened enough already, the terrible food!

A steward I asked about the chemicals said they had been approved by W.H.O. I imagined what a pleasure it could have been with just a few corrections, but of course it all comes down to money, and any airline company would say, that if we want more comfort, we’d have to pay more. They know there are no alternatives except for millionaires with first class tickets or private jets.

As soon as I was out of that cabin, I was fine again.

Coach from Gatwick to Heathrow is easy to find and quick, and there I noticed the first difference between T & T and Northern Europe. There outside is warm, inside airconditioned cool. Here outside is cool, inside hot to a sweat.

Though I was just on transfer, the mere fact that I came from Trinidad meant emptying my bag going through everything in detail. Good thing I’m totally clean. Though I guess their excellent ganja (so I was told) is cheaper than the moroccan hashish you get in Copenhagen, I didn’t feel the least

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tempted to try my luck. As a matter of fact I plan to stay clean now that I’ve enjoyed a different kind of high and energy not being stoned every day.

On so many levels a journey of cleansing.

And naturally this trip of so many surprises had to end with just one more: There is no way Lennox could have known when I’d arrive back at Østerport Station, but, as I got off the train from Kastrup Airport, there he was on the platform on his way out for a cold swim in Øresund. None of us cared to try to explain it with telepathy or such sophisticated reasons. Coincidence does happen and that’s that.

He helped me get my luggage home, and I passed on greetings from his old friends who had helped so much in making my stay a lot more interesting than the mere tourist’s.

In this world of so much needless misery nothing would be easier than to fall into the inviting pit of resignation, safety and boredom, but on this trip, face to face with pure joy of life, though unresolved inner conflicts were constant companions, I was relieved into reliving new possible lives several times.

To everyone who can and cares: Go there!

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READING ANDRÉ GIDE Coloured lightning Gold, pink, pale ruby flashing over Mayo Kebbi I got frightened of the word I But I was there Though never in person For no apparent reason the sun turned blue and the sky began to burn scorching every living soul out of the rat-hole of my brain Praying for rain with a voice so dry every word said goodbye

Puff the magic stuff that mysteries are made of Puff Tragedies overcome to come And sweet scented fumes Puff flew language like revealing mist eager to explain itself backwards over reeling flowers Puff Saw the future return to the past my facination of this as an absent-minded professor Puff who’s forgotten his keys Well I’m a pipesmoker become invisible and Mr. Present rush towards the moment’s perifery as a mute syllable in the world’s longest word To make sure he’ll be the first to leave this bubble of fleeting joy The earth started pounding like a heart in love under my feet

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NOTES LENNOX RAPHAEL

By J. O. M. Playwright, poet, novelist, journalist, former politician and artistic activist L. R., was born and brought up in the republic of Trinidad & Tobago and is presently staying in Copenhagen, Denmark, with wife and daughter, after having lived in Morocco, Brazil, Puerto Rico and New York, where his first play, CHE!, ran in Manhattan for over a year. There he also met John Lennon and later joined the PLASTIC ONO BAND in a concert at Cisner Arena, Michigan.

But, as in his own words, “biographical details are signs designed to confuse (in the effort to impress) the viewer, listener or reader; or even himself”, I suggest you go to Google for further information on his impressive career.

We’ve been close friends for soon 15 years, and on our weekly walks in the forest north of Copenhagen (and reading his books) I’ve noticed among his many talents especially the one of working beyond, what merely grows out of skill and experience. Compelled by a persistent curiosity of language yet to come describing future as now and of moment itself filled with endless possibilities from everywhere in the flexible movements of time. A po-

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etic meditation most beautifully explored in his latest work. And his awareness that accumulated knowledge and intellectual excellence are never the keys to wisdom (or a happy life) as such, and that achievements and public praise shouldn’t make you think you’ve got it made, found the recipe for making of fine art and poetry. Every day you have to start all over again.

From scratch.

Besides being about to finish NAIPAUL’S COUNTRY, a large novel of fiction, human transformation and magic, he is in the process of staging his new musical, WAITING FOR OBAMA, somewhere in the States.

A devout winterbather (pure medicine with no side effects - and its free!) he has become acclimatized to the cool scandinavian weather even more than many a native.

And let me finish by saying that since his arrival here in Denmark he has been a source of constant inspiration to all those fortunate enough to know him. An excellent cook too!

CHRIS KNOWLES I have spent most of my working life in manufacturing, mostly sugar, and spent many of those years in London. I have been a retired Engineer in Trinidad for seven years, and I do occasional work related to business administration.

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RONALD RAMCHARAN BSc Special Mathematics, UWI, Mona. 1966 BA Theology, UWI, St. Augustine. 1996 Postgrad. Dip. Mediation Studies, UWI, St. Augustine. 2004 Has worked in the field of developing Application Systems and Software Development since 1968. Started Consulting company in 1974. Now works as an independent Consultant in this area.

Has facilitated over sixty workshops in Conflict Management/Resolution in Private, Public, Social, Church and School environments.

Certified as a mediator by the Mediation Board of Trinidad and Tobago.

Currently a member of the panel of mediators selected for the Court annexed pilot project.

Member of the faculty, St. Andrew’s Theological College – Conflict Management/Resolution, Church History.

Member of the Board of Directors, TT Transparency Institute.

He was involved in active politics in Trinidad and Tobago, 1980 – 1990, and was a candidate in the General election, 1981. He served as Party Treasurer of the Organisation for National Reconstruction and the ruling Party, the National Alliance for Reconstruction.

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SUSANNE KHERI

By J. O. M. Born and living in Copenhagen, Denmark, Susanne is the only native dane I know (apart from Lennox’ wife and daughter, Helga and Papaya) with an intimate knowledge of the trinbagonian way of life.

One couldn’t wish for better company during the hectic days of carnival, as she has been attending this spectacular show for more than twenty years.

She has also travelled in Africa and Japan to mention two of this globetrotter’s destinations, but keeps coming back to her beloved Trinidad & Tobago to the extent that her impeccable english is pronounced with a charming trini accent.

RAOUL PANTIN I’ve just completed writing my memoir, titled RIDING THE TIGER (taken from the Chinese proverb, ‘he who rides a tiger cannot dismount”, the tiger in my case being journalism). Among the things I noted was I have been an eye-witness to two of the most dramatic developments in Trinidad’s

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post-Independence history: the 1970 Black Power upheaval that shook this country from stem to stern in 1970 and the bloody attempted coup of 1990, in which I was held hostage for six days, along with some two dozen other television journalists, when the Islamic insurgents stormed and took over Trinidad and Tobago (TTT), where I worked at the time. I’m also the author of the screenplay BIM, made into a full-length Trinidad film by the late American Director Hugh Robertson (editor of ‘Midnignt Cowboy’) and the author of six stage plays, all of which I have produced on my own. At age 70, this is my 51st year as a practising journalist here, though I now work as a freelance columnist for the ‘Trinidad Express’ mainly from home. I’m single (divorced twice) and the father of two lovely daughters.

JOHN PAUL FERNANDES According to Lennox, John Paul, for him, is ‘private family’. Trinidadian ‘beyond the marrow & blessed with the lightness of being’, he is the eldest son of J. B. Fernandes, pioneer of quality rum & a celebrated philantrophist, in whose name & spirit is the J. B. Fernandes Memorial Trust II. John Paul, himself, a conceptual & fine artist, is tuned in to the ethical anarchy of style & taste.

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ANTHONY MILNE DIES AT 62 Published: Tuesday, October 29, 2013 Geisha Kowlessar Former journalist and writer Anthony Milne has died. He was 62. In a brief telephone interview yesterday, his mother, Patricia, said her son complained of feeling unwell and went to the Eric Williams Medical Sciences Complex, Mt Hope, last week for tests. While warded there he suffered a massive heart attack around 10.30 am on Sunday, she said. Saying the news of her son’s death has shocked family members, Milne’s mother added: “We did not expect him to die. He just went into the hospital for some tests and then this happened.” She said funeral arrangements were yet to be finalised but it could take place later this week. She described her son as “very quiet” and someone who was passionate about his work. Milne was divorced and had no children.

A former reporter at the Trinidad Express, he also wrote short stories, often humorous. His interest in writing led him away from the family tradition of studying law and into literature. In the media fraternity, the news of Milne’s passing also came as a shock. General secretary of the Associa-

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tion of Caribbean Media Workers Association (ACM) Wesley Gibbings was unaware Milne had died. “The last time I saw Anthony was at the MATT elections a couple months ago... this is really a shock,” he said. Gibbings began working with Milne at the Daily Express in 1985. “We were reporters at the Express back then and you could describe Anthony as one of the best ‘wordsmiths’ in local newspapers,” Gibbings recalled. On his personality, Gibbings said Milne was “always very reserved” and also eccentric.

“It was very easy to misunderstand him and he would have been a victim of that,” Gibbings added.

T&T Guardian editor in chief Judy Raymond also worked with Milne at the Express. She described him as highly intelligent, with a finely honed sense of humour, gifted but troubled and often passionate to the point of obsession. “I had hoped he would achieve a peaceful old age and I am very sorry to learn that is not to be,” she said yesterday. Publications editor of news and features at the Express Deborah John was taken aback when the T&T Guardian told her Milne had died. A friend of his for many years, John said: “He was a talented person who appreciated literature.” She also cited the poem, Death Be Not Proud by English poet John Donne, which she said both she and Milne enjoyed reading. “We both used to say that poem to each other a lot. It was the best expression of the sentiment on death,” John added. The poem begins: “Death be not proud, though some have

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called thee “Mighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so,“For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow “Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.”

JACKIE HINKSON The quintessential Caribbean Artist. A national of Trinidad & Tobago, he has for decades been a painter and interpreter of the landscape, seascape, architecture and people of his country and of the regions’ islands, in watercolours, oils, acrylics, ink, pencil and crayon and in his sculpture and murals.

Hinkson is no closer to adequately explaining his art now than he was decades ago. He sees art as a complex process and believes a work can simultaneously have several layers of interrelated meanings. This makes it difficult to verbally interpret art and very easy to misinform. One of these layers of meanings is communicated through imagery, which can be literal and/or symbolic. In plein-air painting, once he has decided on his subject matter, and this he does instinctively, his total focus shifts to technical considerations. He edits, distorts and simplifies. He searches for the correct weight of tone, for the correct juxtaposition of shape, for the right light.

And it is this intuitive search for a particular light and mood that has characterized his career as a painter. For him a wall, a roof, a shadow, a

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doorway, a cloud, a strip of sea all have the potential to function as light, tone and abstract shape while simultaneously evoking symbolic meaning.

In his studio painting, murals and sculpture, his intuitive approach also dominates.

He thinks there is an increasing tendency in contemporary art to emphasise the didactic, to support causes. This compels artists to overexplain their art to an understandably insecure public. For him, in the end, meaning in the work must come through as something felt rather than analyzed.

Text, drawings & photography – Jens O. Magnussen © Graphic design & layout – Kenn Clarke ©

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From ZEN OF INNER WALKING WITH A DANISH WRITER Lennox Raphael on Jens O. Magnussen …even as I struggle on the mountaintop, he is having a whale of a time, I’m sure, in one of Carnival’s greatest shows on earth in the Republic of Trinidad & Tobago.

How has yr trip to Trinidad affected yr outlook/inlook re the making of literature/art: Too early to tell, but it certainly has.

A new feeling of self and endless possibilities. New sense of colours.

Then, surprise!, after running into him on the train platform, I followed him to his house, spent an hour drinking mint tea & chatting & marveling about how different he seemed after the carnival & hot sea, well…