The Manicou Report

This is funny. I mentioned before that I had a friend Jacob from Oklahoma come visit about a month ago. On the second day he was here I took him down Port of Stain (the day I had my “filthy country” revelation) and took around to see all the sights - including that of a vagrant smoking crack right there on Queen Street.

It was a hot beef roti for lunch with slight pepper (goat was still on the fire) upstairs Town Center Mall. Was it Town Center Mall that had their recent sanitary issues? In any case I declined the rat shit roti in favour of beef. Whether or not there were any surprises in it, I don’t know, but it tasted good. Jacob liked it, but he decided he wasn’t fond of the split peas in the dahlpuri and preferred paratha instead.

Brian Lara

After lunch we left Town Center and I decided I wanted to take him around the savannah. However seeing as I don’t drive I opted for finding a taxi on the St. Ann’s taxi stand. My formula for finding one was simple. Walk along the long line of taxis till the first one offered his services. This worked great the last time I had a friend come visit me. Sarah and I walked along the taxi stand till one driver, who was pretty far back in the line, hailed us out and offered his car for hire. We were offered a tour around the Savannah for $20 US. $20 US. Obviously he thought I was a tourist also.

“$20 US? So much drive? Me eh no Yankee yuh know,” I protested.

“Oh, ho,” he replied pensively, “Daiz ok, Gimme $60 TT then,” he replied.

Notice how he cut the fair in half the moment I opened my mouth exposing the green verbs stuck between my teeth. $60 sounded fair though, so Sarah and I had piled in for what turned out to be a pretty good tour. He was a good tour guide too. He even slowed downed next to a mas camp and pointed out some trashy looking Carnival costumes on display (complete with jamette-looking fish nets) and told her that she could come back and play mas with them. Coincidentally enough, the very next building he pointed out was the POS General Hospital where he told her she could go have her babies. Right.

So it was a good tour, and I figured why fix it? So Jacob and I walk down the stand waiting for an offer to be hurled at us. Apparently the further back in the line they are, the more willing the drivers become. If anyone has seen that St. Ann’s taxi stand recently they’ll know why.

Pretty soon a man in his 50’s says, “Taxi?” and after negotiations are through, we pile in. It started out ok although he wasn’t anywhere near as knowledgeable as the first man. He talked quite a bit, but digressed a lot into the state of the roads and the job the government was doing. But, no big deal. I decided to point out the sights myself.

So we’re driving around the Savannah and pretty soon he starts driving up this hill. I’m thinking “where the hell is he taking us”? Just as soon as I complete my thought, he lets us know that he’s taking us to see Lara’s house. So I’m wondering “ok, does Lara mind it when the commoners drop in?”

“Can we do that?” I ask.

“Yeah man, people does come up here all the time. Dat eh no scene”

“Ok”

I’m mindful that Lara’s the “Prince of Port of Spain” and although there may be no moats and fire-breathing dragons, surely there must be armed security who’ve been trained to shoot on sight.

So we pull up to Lara’s pretty house and he wonders out loud if Lara is home.

“I don’t know,” I say, “I hope not….”

“BEEP, BEEP, BEEEEEEEEP,” 50ish taxi driver begins pressing the horn. I mean the guy is leaning on the horn, like Lara owes him money”

“Um, what yuh doin’ drive?” I ask.

“Ah trying to find out if Lara home. BEEEEEP, BEEEEEEEEEEEP”

All this time Jacob is sitting on the front seat, as casual as ever. To him (an American) Brian Lara must seem like a 2×4 sports hero compared to people like Michael Jordan and Wayne Gretzky. I, on the other hand, am freaking the hell out.

“You know, that’s ok. It looking like he not home anyway. Next time,” I say

“Nah man, he have to at least see Lara,” the driver insists. “BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP”

(Oh my gosh, this guy can’t be for real.)

He turns a little in his seat and sets eyes on a mango tree laden with mangoes half of which have all over Lara’s lawn.

“Look at mangoes Lara have! I wonder if I could ask him for some”

So at about that time I’ve already decided that this taxi driver is absolutely bat-shit insane. Following this he’s going to take us to the Lady Young Road lookout and drive us over it.

In my mind I start pleading with Lara not to be home. I won’t be able to stomach his bewilderment if he was to come out of his house to the disappointment of three unfamiliar faces in a beat up old Bluebird. Plus as everyone knows, Lara has a bad temper.

“BEEEEEEEP, BEEEEP, BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!”

And then there was a face in a window. (Oh gosh, we dead)

The curtain shifts back into place and the door opens. But it’s not Lara, thank God. It’s a medium build guy who looks to be about 25 or so.

“Good Evening,” says the madman.

“Yeah, what happening?”

“Lara dey? Tell him I have someone from America who wants to meet him.” (lie)

“Nah, he not here, nah.,” the guy replies with a laugh, “He in the country but he not home.” (Halleluiah)

“Ah, ok, ok. I seeing some mangoes there, Lara would mind if I take some before I go?”

“Nah, you fix up man,” he replies still smiling.

“Ok then, thanks,” says the madman. “You’s he bredda?”

“Nah I does just take care of the house.”

“OK then. Thanks”

“No problem.”

“(to me) Yuh doh like mangoes, boy?”

“Nah, not really (lie)”

“Boy, I real like mangoes!”

What does the madman do next? Does he get out and pick up two or three? No. The madman gets back into the car and reverses onto the Brian Lara’s manicured lawn. He switches off the car, pops the trunk and gets out. Pops the trunk, I say. And then he starts scurrying all over the lawn like a deranged squirrel, and starts filling his trunk with mangoes. We sit there for a good five minutes (speechless) to the intermittent sound of mangoes being dropped into the trunk. He takes what seems like forever and I have enough time to make a phone call and send two text messages.

You would think that a man on a job wouldn’t do that sort of thing, but you’d be wrong. I’m not even sure he’s aware that he shouldn’t. I kept hoping that Jacob wouldn’t think that all Trinidadian taxi drivers were like this. We did have a good laugh about it anyway.

Finally after many agonizing minutes he decides he has enough mangoes, closes the trunk and gets back in the car where he resumes his monologue about how much he loves mangoes. We take off and I’m hoping that we don’t encounter Lara coming up the hill.

“Boy, I does cyah pass up free mangoes,” he reveals.

“No shit,” I think.

Fast-forward to yesterday. While waiting for a taxi on the St. Ann’s stand I spy the old beat up Bluebird. I walked up to the car and leaned down to the window and asked him how his mangoes were. He watched me like I was a madman (how ironic)

“Like yuh doh recognize meh? How was Lara’s Mangoes?”

“Ohhhh, you was with the white fella that day! Dem mangoes wasn’t nice, man. Me eh even know what kind it was, but it wasn’t nice. If it was long mango, that was another thing, but dey wasn’t sweet.”

All my embarrassment for naught.