Close encounters with death in Trinidad

I often ask myself what would have happened to my parents if either I or my sister died in Trinidad while they were in the U.S. How would they feel? What would they do? What would happen to the surviving sibling? Thankfully those questions did not have to be answered. But they almost were on several occasions - unbeknownst to my parents.

There was the time that I saved my sister from the piercing horns of an ornery goat. In hindsight, it probably was not a good idea to throw stones at the goat while it was eating. But we persisted in the taunting: whinnying, and make noise to distract the goat.

Allana and I stood halfway in between where the goat was grazing and the house. We were pretty much at the same spot where my sister and I tried unsuccessfully to build our playhouse, when the goat decided – enough is enough – and without any warning CHARGED!

His intentions left little to misinterpret. He wanted our behinds.  His little feet and narrow legs were moving with swift speed, dust from the dirt path kicked up behind him, and his little tail waved like a raised battalion flag being marched into battle.

My sister and I reacted with equal speed and agility. We quickly turned and started sprinting towards the house.

30 meters to go.

I looked back and realized the goat was gaining ground on us. I was faster than my sister and she was quickly losing ground to me and that goat was slowly closing the gap.

“Run Allana run!” I yelled in what played out like a scene from Forrest Gump.

I slowed my run enough to grab my sister’s hand to pull her along. At that moment, I made a conscious decision to go around to the side of the house instead of through the front door which I saw was closed. I knew the back door would have been wide open allowing us to dash right in.

20 meters to go.

We cut around the side of the house. The path was narrow with low hanging branches from trees growing off the hillside adjacent to the house. I ran with my left hand extended in front of me pushing the branches away. My right hand held a firm grip on my sister’s wrist. 

We thought the goat would end its chase as we entered the side of the house. I looked back and saw that the goat was still running at top flight speed.

10 meters to go.

My sister and I entered the clearing at the back of the house. Roosters and hens scampered about with some flying one foot of the ground in every direction to keep from getting trampled under our stampeding feet. The goat was almost right on top of us – bending it head slightly ready to gore my sister in the buttocks.

Upon seeing this, I stopped, turned, grabbed my sister and pulled her behind me, raised my leg back and waited and waited. And as it was about to gore me, I pivoted slightly counterclockwise on the ball of my left foot and planted a swift kick on the side of the charging goat’s head with my right. Its left horn closely missing the inside of my right thigh. The goat stumbled to the ground.

This gave us enough time to turn and dive inside the back door as the startled goat regained its composure.

0 meters to go – Safe inside the back door!

My sister and I laid on the floor looking at the goat as it walked off following the trail that had led it to the back of the house. We got up and brushed ourselves off thinking that we just had a close encounter with death. We never did mess with that goat again.

There was another time that my sister almost drowned. Sunday was beach day in Trinidad. My grandmother would pack up food for the day and travel to Maracas Bay beach on the Northern Coast. We would be accompanied by various relatives who would take advantage of getting the young children of the family together.

Maracas beach was a haven for families and tourists on Sundays. Most people took the North Coast road that stretched from the base of the Northern Range Mountains just north of Maraval all the way to Toco – the very northeastern tip of Trinidad. In between Maracas and Toco, there were places where the North Coast road was not paved and was impassable during the rainy season. The road was built by U.S. soldiers in the 1940s and 50s. The two-lane highway wound its way up the mountains and back down as it approached Maracas. On many occasions we would learn about cars that had plummeted down the deep precipices that bordered the road.  

One Sunday we traveled to Maracas to enjoy the sun filled day and bathe in the warm waters of the Caribbean. Every inch of white sand was covered with bodies and sheets. Calypso and Soca filled the air from small radios while children ran and played among the waves and kicked footballs around.  And many people were eating homemade pelau and drinking Carib.

My sister and I were not great swimmers and were always warned about the strong undercurrents and riptides Maracas was known for.  It seemed like every weekend someone was drowning at Maracas beach.

On this occasion my sister and I were playing in waist deep water when a big wave came upon us without warning and engulfed my sister and me. I was thrown off my feet as water rushed passed me towards the shore. Panic enveloped me as I furiously tried to gain my balance and rise to my feet. I rubbed my face with my hand as I slowly started stumbling back to the safety of the shore. I started looking around for my sister but could not see her. I spun 360 degrees looking and yet still nothing. I called out for her but there was no reply.

I then started yelling “Help! Help!” Just then a gentleman from the shore ran past me in a hurry. His legs high stepping the waves creating large sprays of water when his feet penetrated the rushing ocean. He dove straight into a cresting wave, disappeared and emerged swimming to a young girl who was struggling a few meters from the shore. It was my sister, Allana. She was slowly bobbing up and down with her arm flailing as the rip tide carried her out to sea.

He reached her just when I saw the last glimpse of her head go under the water. For what seemed like minutes, the man disappeared under the water and later surfaced holding my sister in his arms. A crowd had gathered around me including my Grandmother and Aunt. The rescuer slowly made his way back to shore where others ran into the water to relieve him of his selfless act and pull my sister onto the dry sand. They laid her in a supine position and one of the life guards started pumping her chest and almost immediately she coughed and spit out water. Dazed, she looked at the crowd and started crying. My Grandmother and I were already by her side reassuring her that everything was okay. We left for home as soon as my sister regained her strength. She was still shaken days later.

We returned to Maracas many times since then. However, we never really enjoyed swimming there since the incident. We found other calmer beaches like Las Cuevas.

My Grandfather's funeral

I shed several tears when my Grandfather on my Mother’s side died. However, it was not because I missed him dearly, but rather from the stiff slap I received from my Grandmother that landed squarely on my jaw as my Grandfather’s body was being laid in the ground. My cousin Ken and I had seen it fit to run around the grave site, dodging in and out of mourners and family members gathered to pay their last respect. My Grandmother after several warnings to stop running and be still, stepped one foot back and with the stealth of a ninja cocked her hand back and swung it forward striking my jaw. Her follow through caught Ken square on his forehead at which time she quickly recoiled her arm - and still holding her Bible in the other hand - returned to her forward facing position as if nothing had just occurred.

The strike stunned me and pain shot through my jaw to the top of my head. I had decelerated my trot in an instant. Tears welled up in my eyes and as it reached its maximum staying capacity started pouring down my cheek. I finally stood still.

The death of my Grandfather introduced me to the ritual of burying a loved one in Trinidad.

First there was the wake that we attended in a small house on Seau Deau Road across the street from an open air bar. The brightly orange colored building bore the scars of years of neglect, wear, and tear. The paint on its facade was chipping and the routine noon gathering of patrons seemed to care less about the looks of the drinking establishment and more about the temperature of their beer.

The wake lasted three days – day and night. People who knew my Grandfather traveled from afar to pray with the family and offer their condolences to my Grandmother.

The wake was a festive occasion. My Grandmother and other family members cooked food, bought liquor, and fixed up the two room wooden shack that stood a few feet from the busy two lane narrow street that cut through Maraval village. The same street used by taxis and jeeps to transport people back and forth from Port of Spain to Paramin village located deep in the Northern range. A wooden bench next to the front door often had two men sitting on it, smoking cigarettes, drinking Carib beer, and commenting on passersby. Music from the bar’s juke box blared well into the night with songs by Roberta Flack, The Carpenters, The Four Tops, and many more U.S. groups.  And much to the distaste of my Grandmother, the music often would drown out the prayers given to secure safe passage into the afterlife for my Grandfather.

We had lots of food. There was fish broth, pelau, provisions, callalou, and various vegetables. There were lots to drink as well – rum, whisky, and Carib. Some people who visited the humble abode were unfamiliar to me. But they exhibited no hesitation or unfamiliarity with eating as much as one could devour. As I would come to know years later, there are some people who frequent wakes just for the food and liquor. The food and drink were consumed with expediency like vittles disappearing in front of a ravenous mob. Both men and women lost their inhibitions and spoke volumes of my Grandfather’s life as the night passed and empty liquor and beer bottles became more visible. I knew more about my Grandfather than I did when he was alive by the time I walked into the church on the day of the funeral.

The Maraval RC church where I served as an altar boy was filled with mourners paying their last respects to my Grandfather. The church was three-quarters filled with people. My Grandmother along with my sister and I sat in the front pew of the church. My Grandmother did not shed one tear as she sat three feet from her now dead husband. At the conclusion of the mass, my uncles rose to their feet, took the wooden casket, and carried it to the entrance of the church to begin its long procession to Calvary Hill behind the church where the burial ground was located.

It was a fairly long walk up a dirt path approximately 200 yards. My cousin Ken and I had started playing prior to the funeral and continued as the procession made its way up the hill to the burial plot.

The long trail of mourners reached the plot and people circled the hole in the ground trying to secure good footing on the soft brown crumpling soil. Two men dressed in pants and dingy colored white tee shirts stood over the plot with shovels in hand. By the looks of their clothes, they had just completed digging the hole. Two thick ropes were laid across the hole and held by two men on each end. The casket was laid over the ropes and slowly lowered into the ground as the men holding the ropes loosened their grip. The ropes were tossed into the ground and over the casket as it reached the bottom. The priest said some prayers as people started picking up dirt and throwing it on the casket below. The men with the shovels bent at the waste and started to pick up dirt with their shovels and tossed it on the casket.

Ken and I had started running around the plot playing tag. We were more interested in enjoying each other’s company than standing in the hot sun watching dirt being poured into the ground and listening to mourners bawl. It was on one of those passes behind my Grandmother, Ken in hot pursuit behind me, that I saw my Grandmother’s hand come forward but it was too late to dodge the blow. Like an insect being annihilated in mid-air, my jaw caught the full brunt of the swing while Ken received a glancing blow to the forehead. The fun was over. I stood their crying silently, watched as people made the sign of the cross, sloughed off the main group, turned, and slowly walked back down Calvary hill. My Grandmother gently grabbed my hand and started walking down the hill as the last dirt was poured and the two men started patting the top of the grave site with the back of their shovels.

For the next seven nights, family came over to our house to pray, eat, and drink. Women at first separated themselves from the men and said some prayers on their own. Then they joined the men and continued the prayers for what seemed like hours but was closer to sixty minutes. The seven-day prayer vigil continued every night without fail and was accompanied with a lot of family bonding. My sister and I were made to pray every second looking forward to the moment it ended.

To this day that is how funerals are carried out among the majority of African Roman Catholics in Trinidad and Tobago. When my Grandmother died some years ago, the ritual repeated itself at the wake on the hills of Mazzilli, the funeral service at the Maraval RC Church, at the burial plot next to my Grandfather on Calvary Hill, and the seven-day prayer vigil at my Aunt’s house. Last year, I attended my Grandmother’s (on my father’s side) funeral and participated in prayer on the last day of the seven-day pray vigil. In contrast to my youthful exuberance to play during solemn ceremonies, I cherished the time I spent with my relatives in Paramin last year, bowed my head in deep prayer, celebrated the life of my Grandmother, and wished the moment not to end.

Coming of age story of my St. Lucia Trip (Part 6)

My lips pulled away from Evelyn’s lips. My eyes were still closed and a rabble of butterflies had erupted in my stomach and they were making their presence known.

I had never kissed a girl before. And here I was locked in a small supply box outside the school with Evelyn, my hands on her shoulder, our legs crisscrossing each others, and believing I was in Xanadu listening to an Abyssinian maid sing her joyful song.

“…nine, ten…your time is up!” said voices from outside the closed box that was just big enough for the two of us to fit comfortably in. Their intrusion into my virgin kiss shocked me back to reality and forced me to open my eyes. Evelyn was looking at me as if I had pierced her heart with my tongue and allowed every measure of her love to find the nearest boy – me. Everything moved in slow motion, the door opened, our heads turned in unison to the peering eyes that emerged in the daylight, and slowly turned back to gaze into each other’s eyes once more to acknowledge the reality of what we just shared.

“Thanks,” I said and crawled out of the box that sat atop a similar sized 4x4x4 foot box.

My friends started asking me to tell them the details as soon as my foot hit the ground.  Without paying them any attention, I turned and reached for Evelyn’s hand to assist her in getting out of the box. She was my friend and at that point the most important person who made me happy.

Up to that point in my life, I had never experienced such feelings. It made every dendrite in my body come alive. It was as if I had discovered some unique ability that was hidden deep within me. I realized I was still holding Evelyn’s hand as I walked past my friends whose mouths were agape and eyes wide open.

For the next few days, Evelyn and I were inseparable. We did everything together. Her mother and brother did not seem to mind that we spent every waking hour in each other’s company. Even when I had to engage in Cub Scout duties and activities, Evelyn was not far.

We talked about everything from school, to friends, cricket, and football. She asked me questions about my parents and how it felt living apart from them. She appeared truly concerned and offered suggestions to ease the pain of my separation. I thought she was coolest person on earth.

My male friends were never that curious about my feelings. My conversations with my buddies always focused on sports. How much did Garfield Sobers hit for the West Indies during their test match against England? And how many wickets did Viv Richards pick up?

My friends did not bother with me too much. I believe they too wished they were in my shoes. Joseph had given me a dirty look and cut his eyes on one occasion and I quickly went up to him and told him that if he wanted to talk to Evelyn he could. I told him that I did not want to lose his friendship. I was not being very honest at that point for I would have dropped every friend on earth to be with Evelyn.

The next few days were the happiest I ever remembered being. The girl in the white dress had faded from my memories and the preadolescent clowning of my Scout members was long gone. The green lush surrounding of the school seemed to invite Evelyn and me into a paradise of naïve pleasures. We would steal away behind the school and hide ourselves behind broad banana leaves and embrace.

As time drew near for us to leave, we started to acknowledge the reality of the impending separation. Soon we would not see each other every day or even on a regular basis. Her brother, Erik, was not even in my class and furthermore they lived in Tunapuna on the other side of Port of Spain from Maraval – my village. And she attended Tunapuna RC girl’s school.

In the end, we made plans and promises to see each other as best we could. But we both knew that it probably would take a miracle for us to be friends forever.

The day we left St Lucia en route to Trinidad was a sad day in my life. I felt that I was losing a dear friend. Although we were on the same island it felt like we were separated the same distance as I was separated from my parents.

I felt sad when I returned to Trinidad. My grandmother continued to prod as to my time in St. Lucia. I responded that I had a great time and asked how far was Tunapuna from Maraval.

Coming of age story of my St. Lucia trip (Part 5)

Blue Devils

                         Douen

          

           Lajables

                 Soucouyant

      
          Jumbie Tree

As I lay on my cot thinking about what had just transpired, I could not help but focus my attention on all the folklore stories my grandmother had told me through the years. She spoke of devils and ghastly demons that walked the earth to cause trouble for God fearing people. Some I had seen and some I never wanted to see. These stories heightened my anxiety about the young girl who died in the latrine.

The Blue Devils were the scariest ghouls because I got to see them every Carnival season without fail. The Blue Devils from Paramin, my father’s village, were men and women who painted themselves with blue dye, ran from house to house, and said to anyone who would listen that they would enter the house and steal all children if they did not receive money. It was akin to an evil Santa Clause expecting money instead of cookies.

The Blue Devils usually came down the hills stopping at every house as they marched down to Maraval village - dancing and jumping around and making a lot of noise. You would hear them coming from a distance. Drums beating, bells ringing and lots of whooping. The sound often started oh so faint but grew in tone and volume as their steps got closer.

The Blue Devils often were trailed by a band of music men. The band dressed in regular clothes. They were not devils but the devil’s imps. They were considered lesser beings - there to do the bidding of the devil. And in this case, their duty was to play music, blow horns, and make noise.

My sister and I would stand by the road to the entrance of our property waiting to hear the initial sound of the drums. It was usually early morning on Carnival Monday - always the Monday before Ash Wednesday.

Upon hearing the drums, we would call out to our grandmother warning her of the approaching Blue Devils. When they would come around the bend on the top of the hill, we would usually see large men in front tied up in chains with smaller Blue Devils tugging on the chains to hold the big Blue Devils back. Other Blue Devils would be jumping and walking around with mean looking faces and twirling their tongues in an unnatural manner. Most of the Blue Devils carried pitch folks that they would thrust in the air with every roar that was yelled from their mouths.

We would run back to the house when the Blue Devils got closer – always heading straight to the bedroom to kneel on the bed and peer out the window. We always hid our faces behind the window curtain making certain not to let the Blue Devils see us. I would tell my sister to run through the backdoor if they come in the house. They would travel down the dirt path to the house dancing and kicking up dust. When they reached the front of the house they would dance wildly and poke their pitch forks at their imaginary adversary. My grandmother would watch them for awhile standing on the porch. We were enthralled by the quick tempo of the dancing and rhythmic cadence of the chants. It was amazing!

My grandmother would give the Blue Devils some money and they would bow and turn and dance back down the path and on to the next house. My sister and I would sit and chat about the experience for hours thanking God that the Blue Devils had not captured us this year. 

But there were other ghouls that caused us anxiety.

Douens were the worst of all the unseen jumbies – a term we used to call all ghosts and ghouls. Douens were young children who died without being baptized. Often the size of toddlers, they were faceless and without visible sex organs. Their feet faced backwards which was probably their most striking feature. Douens would try to entice young children by calling their names, having the children follow them into the forest, and leaving the children there – lost and afraid. We were always told before going out in the yard or across the street to fetch fresh water from the stream that we should not stray too far from the house because the Douens are out there and they will get us.

I never saw a Douen in my life and would not want too. That was the creature we most feared because we could not stomach getting lost in the bush and having to possibly face a soucouyant.

A soucouyant was an old woman who made a pact with the devil in exchange for becoming a shift changer. She lives like an old woman during the day and at night sheds her skin and becomes a ghoul. She can readily turn into animals or put a curse on individuals so they would change into animals. She does all her dirty work at night - routinely sucking the blood of her victims. But before the sun rises in the east, she must return to her skin or she will forfeit that skin forever. Soucouyants would also suck on your body like a bat. Young men and women with a hicky were often asked if a soucouyant sucked him or her.  

Another frightful devilish creature was the Lajables. A Lajables was another woman who was the devil in persona. She had a veiled-covered corpse-like face with a wide brim hat on her head. She had one regular foot and the other foot was a hoof. She often would hide the hoof in grass or under a long dress. She would ask unsuspecting men to walk her home. She would lead the men into the bush, disappear, and then they would be lost. The men would either be eaten by wild animals, bitten by snakes, or fall to their death in a ravine.

All these jumbies lived in the jumbie tree. The jumbie tree was and still is a revered tree in Trinidad and Tobago as well as the entire Caribbean and Central and South America. On some islands, the tree is called the Kapok tree or Silk Cotton tree. It is believed that the tree’s roots stretch to the underworld and jumbies dwell inside the tree. Cutting it down would open the spirit world and cause havoc on earth.

These folklores were real to me. The characters struck fear into the hearts of young children. And year after year the tales were passed down from sibling to sibling and mother to son, slowly indoctrinating unsuspecting youth with tales that would generate nightmares for years. It certainly kept me in line, obedient, and inclined to not venture too far from the house on my own.  

So there I lay on the cot looking up at the ceiling thinking if the little girl in the latrine was still out there waiting to show her face and maybe her backward facing feet.

A coming of age story of my St. Lucia trip as a Cub Scout (Part 4)

I had to use the bathroom and the only way I was going outside to the latrine was with Mr. Orosco at my side. I got up off the cot, walked over to the other side of the building, and stood right by the side of Mr. Orosco’s cot. I looked up at the clock on the wall which read 2:30am. It was early.

I bent down and shook Mr. Orosco’s shoulder with my hand.

“Mr Orosco, wake up. Mr. Orosco, I need to use the latrine.” I said in a soft raspy voice making certain not to wake the other parents that slept close by.

My Orosco turned and picked up his glasses from off the floor. I thanked God I didn’t step on them.

“Why are you up Salandy? What is the matter?” He asked sounding half asleep looking up at me.

“I need to use the latrine.” I replied curling my legs in and bouncing to accentuate my urgent need.

“Go get John, your group leader and have him go with you. You all be careful. Take the flashlight sitting by the window.” He said as he pointed to the window where we stood earlier looking out at the village boys.

I walked back to the boys’ cot area and found John. John was a pack leader. He was from Woodbrook where his parents owned a small grocery shop on Ariapita Avenue. He also was a very good athlete. He usually came in first in the 100 yard dash every time we had the Rosary Boys sports day.

I approached John’s cot and bent down and tapped him on the shoulder. He woke up instantly and asked what was wrong as he rubbed his eyes. I told him I needed to go to the bathroom and Mr. Orosco wanted him to accompany me.

John said something under his breath and got up. He also woke several other boys up. I would have a phalanx of boys escorting me to the latrine. No ghost would dare attack five boys I thought. When we got to the front door however, only John was behind me. He had the flashlight that he retrieved from the window sill in his hand.

“Come on lets go.” John said as he walked past me with the flashlight beaming straight ahead.

“Where are the other boys?” I asked

“They will be along in a moment. I think they are trying to find another flashlight.” He replied as he stepped down onto the path.

I started feeling scared. Thoughts of the dead girl crept into my mind. I stayed very close to John. Even though he was my height, he did have broad shoulders and weighed a lot more than me. I looked around left to right and back left as we walked down the front path.

We turned slightly right at the end of the path and towards the open door of the latrine. It was dark inside and had a putrid smell. The sounds of crickets could be heard from all around. John stopped when he got to the door. I stopped with him.

“Okay go. And hurry up.” He instructed as he leaned against the wall at the opening.

“Do not leave and make sure you point the light so I can see, John. Really!” I said as I groped for the opening of the closest stall.

I found the stall and walked in. The stall had a cement seat with a hole in the middle. I pulled down my pants and underwear and started to pee. I called out to John but he did not respond. The brightness from the flashlight had faded a bit.

“Hey John are you still there?” I said knowing that he was because of the still faint beam of light. There was no reply.

“Stop playing and answer me.” Still there was no response. I tried to hurry as best as I could. I started to feel my heart beat faster and louder.

I was still peeing when from the stall to my right came a slight noise. It was like a whishing sound. I turned my head to the right to get a better listen when a crashing roar pierced the silence. I instantly screamed. Just then, a white apparition appeared from over the top of the barrier that separated the stalls. I screamed louder, threw my hands in front of my body, and stumbled back. My shorts and underwear were hanging around my ankles. I continued to scream as pee ran down my legs. As I fell backward out of the stall, I began to twist trying to get my shorts and underwear up and get out of the latrine and away from whatever that was. I called for my grandmother.

“Mama! Mama!” I cried over the roar while doing everything to get up and out of the latrine. I tried to get to my feet but stumbled on the wet ground. I got back up and stumbled out of the latrine door and quickly caught sight of  John standing in the front.

“Run John!” I cried and I ran past John. I did not get far when I realized that he was laughing when I ran past him. In fact, he was laughing so hard that the beam from the flashlight kept bobbing up and down dramatically.

I turned and looked at him. He looked at me and then doubled over in laughter.

I stood there seething mad in my urine drenched shorts and underwear.

Then to my amazement out came three boys from the latrine. The same three boys John had awoken. They were all laughing hysterically. One was holding what appeared to be a broomstick, a coat hanger, and a white sheet. One was yelling, “Roar!”

Another boy was imitating my screams for my grandmother. I turned towards the school to walk back to my cot just to catch Mr. Orosco flying out the front door with his flashlight in hand.

“What going on out here? Who was screaming?” He asked as he walked towards me.

I turned around to look at the boys who by now had stopped laughing and turned back to Mr. Orosco and said “Nothing. I was just using the latrine and thought I saw a snake.”

Mr. Orosco told us to get inside. He turned and walked back in. I followed him in and walked to my cot, took of my clothes, and wiped myself with a small towel I retrieved from my bag. I could hear the other boys giggling as they entered the building. In no time we were all laying on our cots. The pranks had begun.

And by the time we left St. Lucia, I would come to be known as the best prankster ever.

A coming of age story of my St. Lucia trip as a Cub Scout (Pt. 3)

           Gros Piton and Petit Piton: The Pitons of St. Lucia

It was hot in St. Lucia. The Pitons stood tall in the distance. Gros Piton and Petit Piton we were told are St. Lucia’s treasures.  They certainly looked beautiful like two green ice-cream cones turned upside down.

Much of what we saw on the drive to the school looked like what we saw every day in Trinidad. Children were running, playing football and cricket, and walking to get water. Vendors were selling mangoes, bananas, plums, and all sought of other fruits and vegetables.

The sight of all the food vendors reminded us that we had not eaten since breakfast and some of that food was still lying on the floor of the plane or soaked into the clothes of some of the boys. It was lunch time and we were hungry.  

Just when I was going to suggest to Mr. Orosco to allow the bus to stop and get something to eat, we turned onto a road that twisted up a slightly sloping hill which emptied out into a clearing behind a row of trees. Before us was the school.

It was a brick u-shaped one story structure. A gravel-paved parking lot sat in the front of the school. There was a building off to the left side of the school that had a sign on it read “latrines and showers.” The two edifices were not connected.

We got out of the vans, grabbed our bags, and waited for Mr. Orosco to direct us on what to do. A man came out of the building along with two ladies and greeted us. The man had very dark skin. He wore black pants with a white guayabera and sandals. The two middle-aged ladies looked like they could have raised several children. They wore bright colored flowery dresses with slippers. But what Joseph and I noticed were the white aprons that they had on over the dresses. Food, we thought. They had been cooking.

After a brief greeting, we walked across the concrete path to the front doors of the school. We walked into a huge room – easily the size of a quarter of a football field. There were cots lined up in rows on the right side of the room. At the end of the room to the right was a stage with a piano. Joseph remarked about there being no desks and chairs.

To the left and at the end of the room was a cafeteria with long tables and benches that easily could have seated 40 children and adults.

We were asked to grab a cot and that would be ours for the rest of our time in St. Lucia. Joseph and I walked over to the cot area and decided on two next to each other. We were told to secure our bags, use the latrine if we wanted, and come back and have a seat at the tables for lunch.  

Both Joseph and I decided to go to the latrines along with some other boys. As we went outside, we saw that a few boys and a girl in a white dress had gathered in the parking lot - no doubt alerted by the commotion of the vans arriving with potential new playmates.

“Hey, where are you all from?” called out one of the boys who stood with his right hand on his right hip and all his weight resting on his left leg. Joseph and I stopped to answer as the other Cub Scouts went to the latrine.

“We are from Trinidad. We are Cub Scouts.” Joseph said in a friendly tone as we approached the group.

“You all are staying there?” The same boy asked with some sarcasm in his voice. Some of the other boys started snickering as the boy finished his question.

I looked at Joseph and he looked at me. We looked back at the group. The girl was the only one who had not snickered. In fact, she had no emotive expressions on her face.

A couple of Cub Scouts had walked up during this exchange. Kevin, a young boy from St. James, heard the question and replied, “Yes. We are staying here for about a week. Why?”

The young St. Lucian boy said, “You all better be careful. That school is haunted. A little girl died there in those latrines.” He pointed to the very latrines that we were about to use. “And she still comes around now and then but mostly at night.”

“How did she die?” I asked.

“No one knows. They just found her body there one morning. People say she is still walking around trying to figure out how she died. Some villagers hear her at night crying or laughing sometimes.” He explained with a straight face.

“Do you all go to school here?” Joseph asked.

“No! Parents stopped sending their kids here. The children were afraid.” The boy who initially started the conversation said.

I could not stand to hear any more. I turned and walked away towards the latrine. I had to pee real badly. Joseph followed. “Where are you going?” he asked - kicking up gravel as he rushed to keep up.

“In there.” I said pointing to the latrine as I walked swiftly to the door. “I am going to pee and then go inside and eat. I am hungry.” I turned towards the opening and walked in. Joseph did not follow.

The latrine was an open air building with a galvanized steel roof. As I entered, to my right were sinks and to my left were latrine stalls. In the back and at the end of the hallway were the shower stalls. I stood there for a moment trying to capture every detail inside the building.

I hopped into the stall closest to the door. The latrine was well lit from the sunlight beaming outside. I quickly peed, washed my hands and walked with a speedy gait to the exit. Joseph stood waiting outside as I exited the building.

“You don’t have to pee?” I asked.

“Yes and I did already.” said Joseph.

“When? Where?”  I asked.

“I peed on the side of the latrine when you were in there peeing. I am not going in that latrine.” Joseph said shaking his head and pointing to the open door of the latrine.

“You peed on the side of a latrine that works?” I said shaking my head. “Suit yourself. Not going to the latrine will make your bowels block up and then you will have to drink some of my grandmother’s bush tea to get diarrhea. Wait till your bottom explodes.” I explained as I walked towards the school.

Kevin and some of the other Cub Scouts were still talking to the St. Lucian youth. The girl in the white dress was gone. I panned the grounds in search of her – but did not see her.

We went in and sat at the tables. The ladies had made some sandwiches. I devoured mine in a hurry. We had some orange juice that tasted very good better than I have ever tasted in Trinidad. I asked for another sandwich and devoured that one faster than the first.

After eating we went to explore the building and the rest of the surroundings. On the opposite wing from the eating area were chairs and desks stacked high - apparently stored to make room for us. Maybe the boys were fibbing about students not attending school here. I decided to ask the man who first greeted us.

I went back to the kitchen area and asked the man who at that moment was pounding a nail into a piece of wood, “Excuse me sir? Do kids attend school here? And did a young girl die here? Is this school haunted?” The questions came out in rapid succession.

He gave me an amazed look like I had just said something that I should not have known about. After a slight pause, he said, “Yes kids go to school here. Yes unfortunately a little girl did die here. Well not here but in the latrine. And no, this school is not haunted? Who told you this?”

“Some boys outside. Oh yeh, and there was a girl with them.” I said

He stopped and paused for a moment. Looked to the window and then back at me. He got up off his knees, walked over to the two large glass pane windows, and peered outside. I followed his every step and stood next to him by the window.

The boys were still outside talking to some of the Cub Scouts.

“Those boys live in the village. They probably are just curious as to who you all are.” He said. “Where is the girl you were talking about?”

“She was gone when I came out of the latrine.” I replied.

“Hum.” The man said bringing his hand up to his chin rubbing it as if trying to figure out a puzzle. “What was she wearing?” he went on.

“A white dress.” I said not knowing what to take from his additional question about the girl.

“She is probably from the village too.” He said as he walked back to resume pounding nails into the board.

I said thanks and walked away to meet up with Joseph who was fiddling with his suitcase that lay on his cot. I explained to him my conversation with the man and highlighted that the man appeared curious about the girl we saw with the boys outside. Joseph did not think anything of the man’s curiosity.

However, I did.  And that night, as I sat on my bed contemplating whether to wake Mr. Orosco to ask if he could accompany me to the latrine, I was about to meet that girl.  

A coming of age story of my St. Lucia trip as a Cub Scout (Pt. 2)

               LIAT Plane

All the Cub Scouts were gathered together walking inside of the cavernous Piarco airport. Some parents walked with their children and seemed to have a nervous look on their faces - maybe anxious about letting their children go off to another country without them. Others seemed to be just as giddy as their children – maybe happy about getting some free time away from their children. We were told that some parents were coming along with us as chaperones but we did not know which parents.

All I had with me was a very small light blue hard plastic suitcase. It was strewn among the other luggage piled a mile high next to the LIAT ticket counter. There was a woman in a LIAT uniform behind the ticket counter talking to Mr. Orosco and reviewing documents that seemed like birth certificates and airline tickets.

After a few minutes, Mr. Orosco turned to the group and said, “listen up boys. When I call your name raise your hand or say present.”

Mr. Orosco in a deep voice that could penetrate the thickest air drum called, “Khan!”

Curtis Khan, an Indo-Trinidadian lad that was smart as a whip and never seemed to leave the first row in class due to his excellent test scores said, “here!”

“Salandy!” Mr. Orosco called.

“Present sir.” I replied, making certain to have an air of respect in my voice.

And so it went, until all 26 boys were present and accounted for.  We were the Rosary Boys RC Cub Scout pack. Some boys were from Mr. Orosco’s class and others from various other classes at Rosary Boys RC.

Eight parents came along as chaperones as well as Evelyn, a 10 year old girl that was the sister of a Cub Scout from another class. She was beautiful, and dreamy, and nice, and with her mother who looked as no nonsense as Mr. Orosco. I had never seen Evelyn before, but on that day she was going to St. Lucia with me, on my plane, and I was overjoyed.

I was not the only one that noticed her. One of my friends made mention of her as he and I walked away from the check-in counter to the gate.

“Hey, did you see Erik’s sister?” said Joseph, a bespectacled slender boy like myself. Joseph was from Belmont and we often hung out together at recess.

“Yes.” I said, as I looked at him quizzically.

Why had he chosen me to point her out to? Had he seen me gawking at her with my mouth wide open?

“She is really pretty,” said Joseph, still looking at Evelyn, his head swiveling and eyes trained on her as he walked next to me.

“She is.” I replied. Trying to change the subject, I asked, “What seat are you in?”

“11a,” said Joseph as he finally took his eyes off Evelyn and looked down at his boarding pass.

“Great! I'm in 11b,” I said smiling, “Mr. Orosco probably put us together knowing that we are friends.”

We moved past the screening area where they checked our bags and scanned our bodies with a black magic wand that beeped when it passed over our belt buckle. We then made our way to the seating area for the departing flight. Mr. Orosco pointed through the big glass windows at the plane we were to fly in. It was a small twin propeller plane. It was LIAT’s plane of choice to ferry passengers from island to island in the Caribbean. It still is their plane of choice to this day.

Needless to say, I was expecting a big plane not a small rinky dink plane like this. How are we all going to fit in that small plane, I thought.

We sat playing for some time before an announcement came over the speaker that our flight to St. Lucia is boarding. We were asked to line up and were quickly shuttled to the entrance of the boarding gate. With my boarding pass in hand, I moved quickly to gate agent who ripped the pass in half, kept one half, and returned the other to me.

Joseph asked as we descended the stairs to the tarmac for our walk to the plane, “Are you scared?”

“No,” I said. “I have been looking forward to flying on an airplane for some time.”

“I have been too,” said Joseph as he looked to the ground.

There was a sense of unease in Joseph’s voice. Maybe he was scared. The doors at the bottom of the stairs opened up to the tarmac and sunlight filled our vision. My hands quickly went up to my brow as I turned my head slightly away from the sun. We saw an attendant pointing to the stairs connected to the plane and motioned to us to move in that direction. As we approached the stairs, we noticed our luggage being placed in the belly of the plane. I tried to find mine in the kaleidoscope of suitcases and bags that were being tossed into the cargo hold by two young men. No luck. What a great job they have, I said to myself.

We climbed the stairs being careful to hold onto the railing. I certainly did not want to have the misfortune of tumbling down the stairs and breaking my leg moments before my adventure. The thought of my grandmother’s friend tripping over our playhouse construction, breaking her leg, and having to cancel her flight popped into my head.

We entered the cabin of the plane. The flight attendant was a beautiful lady with a broad white smile. “Welcome Cub Scouts!” She said with a voice that seemed to envelop me with warmth. As I passed her, I looked back at Joseph and raised my eyebrows. He responded by giggling and giving me a slight push in the small of my back.

The aisle was narrow with two seats on either side. Joseph and I walked on down and found our seats. I grabbed the window seat and Joseph did not complain with the aisle seat. We buckled in and sat ready for takeoff.

The flight attendant closed the cabin door and indicated that the plane was ready to depart. A few minutes later, the plane was barreling down the runway - shaking and making more noise than I had anticipated. Joseph grabbed my arm and asked, “Is this normal?”

I said, “I do not know, I have never flown before remember.”

Soon the noise had subsided and we were in the air. I could see the airport down below getting smaller and smaller from the open window.

“Wow!” I said as I looked out the window on the sprawling land that was Trinidad. “The cars are tiny and I can’t even see the people!”

Joseph stretched his neck to see out the window. “Next time I am sitting by the window,” he demanded as he viewed the earth from 1000 feet in the air for the first time.

Excitement filled the cabin since this was the first flight for most of the boys. There was much chatter on the 40-minute flight to Grenada. Boys were yelling and turning around in their seats to talk to others behind them. Mr. Orosoco was up front with some of the parents and seemed not to mind the noise.

Landing in and taking off from Grenada were uneventful. And the 30-minute trip between Grenada and St. Vincent was okay as well.

However, things changed dramatically on our ascent away from St. Vincent. The flight to St. Lucia was expected to take 30 minutes. But ten minutes into the flight the captain came over the intercom and said we were going to experience some turbulence.

Turbulence, what is that, I pondered. Just then, the term became crystal clear. The plane started to shake violently. Moments later it dropped and my stomach felt as if it was trying to escape my body through my throat and mouth.

There were lots of screams. Boys that just a few hours earlier seemed impervious to risk, played with snakes, captured bugs, climbed tall tree, and professed to be the world's greatest footballer were reduced to crying infants that pleaded for their mothers or just simply yelled for their God.

The plane stopped dropping and leveled off as if a big hand was placed on the underbelly. Sobs and whimpering clearly could be heard, some coming from Joseph next to me. I was scared but not to the point of terror. I thought it was cool actually. I never experienced free falling and that is what it felt like.

I looked over at Joseph and asked, “Are you alright? You do not look good. You are sweating really badly.”

“I feel like I am going…” Joseph said as the words coming out of his mouth were replaced by a torrent of vomit.

“Oh no! That’s nasty.” I said, as I moved far away as possible from the mess that was littering his clothes, shoes, seat, the cabin floor, and dripping down his chin.

I stood up and looked to the front for Mr. Orosco. I saw the flight attendant at another boys seat four rows up. She was bent over the boy doing something. When she stood up, I could see she had a bunch of napkins in her hand and a disgusted look on her face. Those pearly white teeth and broad smile were hidden for the moment. I motioned to her saying, “Miss, my friend vomited.”

Boys turned their heads to look at me as if I had said a bad word.

“I will be there in a minute,” she said as she walked back to the front of the plane. Moments later, she came back with a fist full of napkins and started wiping up the vomit from Joseph’s lap and clothes. 

“Are you okay sweetheart? Let us get this cleaned up for you,” she said as she started to wipe up the mess. She seemed to be wiping and keeping an eye on Joseph at the same time. I didn’t blame her. I would have done the same to prevent becoming a victim of further vomiting.

The screams, turbulence, and rising stench went on for most of the flight. By the time we landed in St. Lucia, most of the kids and adults seemed traumatized. Fortunately, I was not.

As we disembarked, it was obvious that many more boys had thrown up. I would not want to be the crew to clean that plane, I thought. That did not seem like a good job.

We descended the stairs attached to the plane and were directed inside the terminal. Mr. Orosco had gathered the boys and parents and inquired as to everyone’s well-being. We were all fine - just shaken a little.

We got processed through immigration in a timely fashion. Some boys had to go to the restroom to clean up however. I accompanied Joseph to the restroom just in case he needed my help. The other boys went to retrieve their luggage and we joined them moments later.

We gathered our luggage and headed through customs and into the streets to a row of vans waiting to shuttle us to the school.  I had survived my first flight. Little did I know as we drove away from the airport, I would have to survive something more sinister on this trip.