Monthly Archives: November 2013

You think you’ll be here two weeks, you think you’ll have plenty of time to explore, but early on you realize you have to be on the boat to meet, wrangle, cajole and supervise contractors. If you’re not there, work doesn’t happen. And even if you are, workers drift off after a few hours and you have to chase them down and get them back on track. As we finally got within sight of the finish line and saw our time in Trinidad coming to an end we joined another Jesse James tour that purportedly drove around a large part of the island. That it also included tasting Trini’s wide variety of foods added to the appeal.

We started at 9am with my new favorite breakfast, doubles, the spicy chick pea concoction on two small chapati-like breads, and went on from there. By noon I didn’t want to eat another thing but the places we went made a pretty big dent on our tour-time disappointment.

Since this was a food tour we mostly stopped at roadside stands but as we ventured further from the crowded capital of Port of Spain we saw more and more of the beautiful topography of Trinidad, the forested mountains, the farming and dairy lands of the central plains, the more remote southern mountains, and the pounding surf of the eastern and southern seashores silted with the runoff from the Orinoco River not too far away.

We stopped for lunch at a park on the beach where we found a dozen Hindu families picnicking and making offerings to the Goddess of the Sea. I asked a woman if I could take a few photos and she invited me to their makeshift shrine on a blanket where a holy man was tying bits of yarn around their wrists and saying prayers.

“I have shoes on,” I said, holding back because they were all barefoot. “It’s ok,” she said and she took my arm and led me onto the blanket. She told me her name is Joyce and asked where I’m from.

“I’ve been to America many times,” she told me, then asked if I would take her picture “with the baba.”

Joyce invited me to stay and share their food but my group was already making its way down the beach to a free picnic table and I reluctantly left this idyllic spot and these welcoming people. Joyce hugged me and kissed me as I left. I’ve rarely felt such warmth from total strangers before.

After lunch we drove further along the south coast and stopped at an isolated roadside stand for watermelon picked hours earlier in the adjacent field.

As darkness fell we continued to stop along the road for whatever was still on offer this late in the day, like these homemade hot sauces.

With less to look at in the dark, Jesse turned his attention to boosting his numbers by piling on more tastes of Trini, most of which seemed to duplicate things we ate earlier. I wished the emphasis had been a little less on quantity and a little more on variety and distinct cuisines. Nonetheless, the encounter with the Hindu family on the beach will stay with me for a long time.

I don’t know why I’m writing this story. I don’t think of myself as a foodie…I like it, but obsessing over it just doesn’t seem like much fun. Well, not as much fun as tucking into a grilled Mahi-Mahi fresh off the barbie.

So here we nine are stuffed into the infamous Jessie James mobile with it’s blinged-out chromed wheels, low aspect ratio fat tires, custom silver paint and an unusual array of mirrors, front and back. Mr. James is just getting into his patter, already a Wikipedia full of minutia is beginning to leak out of my brain, dripping out of my right ear making an ugly spot on my only clean polo shirt.

Just as I feel myself drifting off to that never-never land between sleep and awake, somebody pulls out a printout of an old blog of Mr. James’ Taste of Trini Tour in which they enumerate each and every tidbit they tasted…76 in total and Mr. James confidently states that he can easily beat that now.

And they’re off, ladies and gentlemen! I don’t think we passed one single roadside stand without Mr. James pulling over abruptly, hopping out while negotiating for something wrapped in dough, roasted, fried, or baked in brown and green, promptly cut into nine imperfect portions and served on styrofoam plates that we printed our names on in ink while driving away giving an encyclopedic dissertation on the little dough ball you had just swallowed which came from (blank) cuisine and shows (blank) influence with a Trini twist which was usually “peppa”. It was amazing.

Several of the women in the bus are TAKING NOTES! Asking for spelling and such! So is Marce! Things like the brown dough ball that I was choking down had pork (a collection of pig tail bones with some fat.) I don’t call bones pork, and the green dough ball had callaloo and was Creole because it was fried. At least I think it was fried, I’d have to check the notes, but does it really matter?

The numbers were adding up and we were still on breakfast. Mr. James was obviously just reaching his stride as it all was becoming a blur to me, the ladies scribbled away, little dough balls were put in front if me on the styrofoam plate marked JACK in ink on the top, and Mr. James pulled over abruptly again negotiating the whole time, a brown paper bag stuffed with…stuff, imperfectly divided into nine pieces and we’re off again with a lengthy explanation by Mr. James.

It was about at this time that I noticed a lot of food ending up in the garbage bag, which was strategically located in front if me. Somebody behind me, was not pulling his or her weight.

I don’t think, dear Escapees, that I’ve mentioned that I was just getting over a Trini-cold and was not at my best but I was determined to hang in there. The spectacular scenery kept me awake along with the constant offerings from Mr. James. I have no idea what number we were up to when Mr. James pulled into a beautiful beach side picnic area and turned off the motor while we all shuffled out of the van. The surf was pounding in and an extended Indian family was just finishing their Diwali obligations which seemed to consist of throwing fruit into the ocean and picnicking. I’ll never understand religions.

Ah, lunch with a lovely, peaceful, and stationary view. Ok, the pounding surf was a little off-putting, I don’t know why, but there it is. We see Mr. James making a beeline for the van so we surreptitiously dump what’s left of lunch and follow him only to be told we can’t board until after he’s finished swatting the sand flies that have snuck into the van in our absence.

The rest, dear readers, I’m afraid is a little fuzzy. I may have fallen asleep momentarily but I do remember stopping, Marce asking something like how does this dough thingie compare to that last dough thingie? I quickly realized that “I have no idea” wasn’t getting the job done so I started making things up. She warmed to my new strategy immediately and scribbled happily away. As I say, my memory is none too clear except for the more or less constant stopping, starting and the comparison questions to which my answers seemed to no longer satisfy and she started with trick questions for which I was in no shape to deal. I decided the non-sequitur route would give me a little peace. This worked until we ran into heavy rain in the mountains…oh, and I remember something about Brazil nuts and a big ugly ancient looking pod. If what I was chewing on was supposed to be a Brazil nut then I don’t know what a Brazil nut is supposed to be. I remember the guy looked like Brian, our yacht refinisher who always quietly hummed a syncopated Latin tune while running his left hand slowly over the finish of our boat then he’d sand a little and then he’d tap the sandpaper to clear the grit. TapTap…Tap in just that syncopated rhythm. No, I must have dreamed that one, but I do remember that Mr. James ran out of money and had to ask everyone to pay-up so we could continue his quest for the record.

The next thing I can recall is waking to an intense discussion about chocolate, with Marce holding court, and apparently we were on a quest to find the finest chocolate in the world. It was dark as we were herded through heavy downtown Port of Spain traffic. Mr. James knew just where we could find some. Marce looked skeptical, she likes ninety plus percent bar chocolate and this turned out to be very tasty bon-bons. Grenada wins in her book. One last stop for some average ice cream and it was home where we got out of the van 200 feet from Escape Velocity directly in front of the boat yard toilets. The ladies squabbled a bit about the final tally, which I’m told, was somewhere north of eighty.

Record set, waistlines expanded, scenery marveled over, it really was a great way to sample Trinidad.

With workmen on and off the boat, with frequent heavy rains, and with time spent researching and ordering a new autopilot, we haven’t had much time to explore beautiful Trinidad on our own as we’d like to. We learned shortly after we arrived that the Hindu Festival of Lights, Diwali, coincided with our stay here and I wasn’t going to miss it. Folks around Chaguaramas recommended we go with a local tour guide, the famous Jesse James, so we signed up.

Jesse took us to a town called Felicity where we were welcomed with traditional drumming into the temple of a local Hindu school. The baba gave us a little background on the meaning of Diwali which I didn’t understand a word of because my ears are still not accustomed to the beautiful lilting Trini English. Then there was some traditional — or maybe Bollywood, I’m not sure which — dancing and singing, and a communal meal served on leaves in the school lunchroom.

But the real treat was just strolling on our own through lovely Felicity, seeing the rows of little clay pots burning coconut oil that give Diwali it’s name, literally row of lights.

As we walked the streets a man tending a row of pots asked me if I wanted to light one. Of course I did, and as I set it on the wall, he told me, “Be sure the wick faces west!” I dutifully turned the pot so the wick lined up with the others, then asked him the significance of having the light face west. “So it doesn’t blow out!” he said, and he pointed in the direction of the breeze wafting up the street. Duh.

Every house and business was adorned with electric lights and rows of clay lamps, sometimes in grid patterns. Tradition requires the lights remain through the night and they need near constant tending to keep them filled and lighted, so families were often outside in their new clothes greeting passersby wishing us Happy Diwali. Some of them gave us bags of homemade sweets.

The main road was hung with rows and rows of red flags and I asked someone if the red color was important. No, I was told. Digicel was a sponsor and it’s their corporate color. I’m 0 for 2 in attempting to ascribe spiritual significance to practical matters.

Diwali is celebrated worldwide wherever there’s a large Hindu population, but it’s a national holiday in Trinidad and Tobago, along with only India, Sri Lanka, Nepal, Myanmar, Mauritius, Guyana, Suriname, Malaysia, Singapore and Fiji. We were glad we happened to be here at the right time. It’s a happy holiday to celebrate the triumph of good over evil and I suppose we could all use a little of that once in a while.

As fast as I check off items on our to-do list more to-dos are added so that the over-arching effect is one of going backwards…fast. Escape Velocity is responding to all this love, attention and money with ever lengthening lists of things that she would like doing. I feel like we may have turned a corner on at least some of the simultaneous projects that are going on right now. For a change most of the projects are of the sprucing-up variety but as always, safety takes precedence. The big project is a new autopilot and I couldn’t be happier contemplating pulling the old unit that has bedeviled us out from under our bed.

Breaking with custom and tradition the new autopilot arrived on time thanks to the great ladies at Marine Warehouse, and the installer said he’d start a day earlier than we agreed on!

We’re taking the opportunity to redo the ad hoc instrument wiring that has bedeviled us while adding a new GPS antenna that should improve the performance of our old chart plotter. This was another Marce find which we bought in Miami but never installed because of the incredible disruption caused by the need to take down the ceiling panels. Being already well disrupted we said now it’s a no-brainer. The real skill is getting the old stuff to play nice with the new stuff. Not for the faint of heart or amateur installers. We’re kind of like the Tower of Babel of boats with everything speaking in different tongues like NEMA 0183, NEMA 2000, Can-bus, old SeaTalk, new Sea Talk and that’s just the ones I’m aware of.

So many good friends have stopped by to marvel at the changes to Escape Velocity, most are heading back up North but once again we’re here until the autopilot is working because I have refused to go to sea without an autopilot that I trust. We’re not there yet, but we’re close.

We can’t wait to see our friends back in Grenada…well that and a fresh baguette right out of the oven!