Chapter 8
Kevin gave his mother a kiss and hugged his father before boarding American Airlines Flight 272, bound for Miami. He was leaving a day early. Unexpectedly a new set of tickets and a revised itinerary arrived from the Trinidad and Tobago Travel Office moving up the day of departure by one day. He didn’t mind this as it meant he’d see Kiran a day sooner. It was nine a.m. and the flight was scheduled to arrive just before one in the afternoon. Kevin was excited, but a little scared, because he had never been out of the country before. He knew nothing about Trinidad and had no idea what to expect. After the usual long taxi to the DFW Airport runway, the plane finally took off.
Once airborne, everyone got a continental breakfast from the flight attendant. Kevin ate everything. He sat back and read the newspaper he purchased just before boarding the plane. After a while, he put the newspaper on the empty seat beside him and laid back to rest. Before long, he fell asleep and began to dream.
In his dream, he re-lived the assassination attempt. He felt the sting of the bullet piercing his flesh and the excruciating pain that had driven him into unconsciousness. Then the dream shifted. He was at the morgue. A man in a white coat led him down a long empty corridor. She was lying on a table with a sheet covering her body. The man lifted the sheet. "No! ...No–"
The stewardess put her hand on his shoulder. "Sir, are you all right? Would you like a cold drink?"
Kevin opened his eyes and looked up at her. "Huh? . . . I’m sorry, what did you say?"
"A cold drink? Would you like a cold drink?"
He sat up and blinked his eyes. "Oh, yeah, uh huh, thank you.”
Kevin looked around and noticed people watching him. He turned away and gazed out the window to hide his embarrassment. He felt drowsy. He was pleased to see the stewardess with his drink, hoping the caffeine would help him wake up.
At twelve-thirty, the pilot announced the plane was making its final descent into Miami. Kevin put his newspaper away and began watching the Florida Everglades below. Precisely at one o'clock, the plane touched down.
Since he had a two hour layover before the BWIA flight to Trinidad and he was hungry, he found one of the terminal cafeterias and got a hamburger. When he was done, he decided to go to a foreign exchange booth and trade some American dollars for Trinidad-Tobago dollars, or TTs, as they were called. Then he caught the tram to the international terminal.
At the gate, he showed his passport and ticket to the clerk. She gave him a boarding pass. While he was waiting, he took a good look at the passengers that were getting ready to board the flight to Barbados, and then on to Port of Spain. They were a varied group, primarily of African, Spanish, and Indian descent. Kevin felt strange because, for the first time in his life, he was a minority. Now he was getting a little taste of what it was like to be different. He didn’t like it.
After about thirty minutes, it was announced that boarding would begin. The crowd stirred and everyone started scurrying to the gate. Kevin gave the attendant his boarding pass, descended the long ramp to the plane and went aboard. He took his seat, anxious to get underway. The flight was sold out, so he knew someone would be sitting next to him. He watched the passengers file by, wondering who it would be. A tall Hispanic man, weighing at least three hundred pounds, hesitated in front of his row. Please, . . . keep going.
Finally, a pretty black girl stopped, took a look at the seat number and dropped her carry-on luggage next to Kevin. Relieved, he smiled and greeted her as she sat down.
"Hi."
She didn’t respond so he wondered if he should try to talk to her or just mind his own business. Her eyes didn't show any particular interest in him. After a few moments of silence, he couldn't resist the urge to talk.
"You going to Trinidad?" he said.
She looked at him for the first time and gave him a once over. "Yes."
"So am I. Do you live there?"
The young lady gave Kevin an annoyed look and replied coolly, “Yes, I live in Port of Spain.”
"What do you do?"
"I'm a teacher."
"Oh, that's great. So what brought you to Florida?"
"I took a holiday. I've got some friends in Miami," she replied and then looked over at Kevin and smiled. "What brings you to Trinidad?"
"Just visiting," Kevin replied not feeling comfortable in divulging the actual purpose of his visit. "What do you teach?"
"History and Government."
"Oh, my favorite subjects. What grade level?"
"Secondary school."
"Hmm. That’s cool."
"I hope it doesn't rain too much for you while you're visiting."
"Do you get a lot of rain in Trinidad?"
"Oh, yes. It usually rains every day. We get about eighty inches per year. I get so tired of it sometimes."
"I don't know much about your country. I went to the library to learn as much as I could, but there isn’t much on Trinidad and Tobago at the Dallas County Library.”
"Yes, Trinidad is a very small country–about the size of your New Hampshire. We have only a little more than a million citizens."
"Your government was modeled after Great Britain, right?"
"Yes, how did you know that?"
"I read that in a travel book I found at the book store. I also know you have a Prime Minister."
"Right."
"Do you have a king?"
"Oh, no. We don't have a king, thank God."
"I thought, since your government was patterned after Great Britain, that you might."
"No. We have the Prime Minister and Parliament. That's about it, except the courts, of course."
"How many political parties do you have?"
"Quite a few, actually. To understand the political structure of our country, you've got to understand that about forty percent of the country is of African descent and represented by the PNM party. Another forty percent is Indian and represented by the UNC party. Right now the government is run by a coalition between the UNC party and the NAR party. It has been that way for the last five or six years. The PNM used to run the country, but it was ousted in the mid-nineties, in a very close election. There are numerous other minority parties."
"Hmm. Has Trinidad been pretty stable?"
"Oh, yes. There hasn't been any trouble here since the early 1970's, although someone tried to assassinate our Prime Minister when he was in Texas a few months ago."
Kevin took a deep breath.
"Yeah, I know about that. Who do you think was behind it?"
"I'm not sure, but a lot of people don't like how the Prime Minister has embraced the United States and committed Trinidad and Tobago to the Caribbean Free Trade Agreement."
"Why wouldn't Trinidad want free trade?"
"Oh, I don't know. I guess some people are afraid all the big U.S. companies will come to Trinidad and gain control over the economy. The people of Trinidad are fiercely independent. We like Americans, but we don't want to be controlled by them, or anyone else for that matter."
"I can certainly understand that."
"Well, I hope you have a nice visit to Trinidad."
"I imagine I will."
The young lady laid her head back and closed her eyes. Kevin was starting to get tired as well. He had been up since five in the morning. By this time, the plane had taken off and was heading south over the Caribbean. Kevin peered out the window and looked down at the vast ocean. He was amazed at the large number of beautiful islands that were appearing and disappearing beneath him. Occasionally, he would see a cruise ship or a freighter below and wonder about its destination. The flight attendants strolled the aisle, serving snacks. When he had finished off a bag of pretzels, he started reading a paperback he had purchased in Miami. Finally, the plane began its descent into Barbados.
Kevin observed the fine beaches and fancy hotels as the plane landed. He wished he had a few days to check them out. After dropping off quite a few passengers and picking up others, th
e plane was once again in the air. Kevin resumed reading his paperback. An hour and a half later, the captain announced that he was preparing for the final descent into Port of Spain. The flight attendants gave each passenger a custom's declaration form to be filled out prior to landing. Kevin filled his out and then anxiously awaited his arrival.
As he looked out the window at the island beneath him, he wondered if Kiran would be there to meet him. He figured that would probably be too much to expect. More likely, he would be met by some low-level diplomat, or perhaps a police detective, whose job it would be to transport him to the Prime Minister's home. It didn’t really matter who met him. Soon he would see Kiran. It was just a matter of time now.
The plane came to a stop. Everyone got up, grabbed their carry-on luggage and began to deplane. Kevin followed the passengers in front of him off the big jet. When he got onto the pavement, he saw everyone was going into a small hangar that had been converted into a customs office. He followed the crowd inside and got in one of the five lines. After thirty minutes, he made it to the front of the line and was called up to a customs official.
"Passport, please," the officer said.
Kevin handed his passport and customs declaration to the officer. He opened it, inspected the declaration and asked, "What business do you have in Trinidad?"
"The Prime Minister invited me. He's supposed to have someone here to meet me."
The officer gave Kevin a skeptical look.
"The Prime Minister? Ahmad Shah?" he asked.
"Exactly."
"How long will you be here?"
"A week or ten days."
"Where will you be staying?"
"With the Prime Minister."
The officer gave Kevin a hard look. "Does he know you're coming?"
"Of course, he invited me."
"You would think someone in the travel office would have alerted us,” he said as he stamped the passport shaking his head. “All right. Have a nice stay in Trinidad."
"Thanks."
Kevin walked out of the hanger and followed several passengers into the main terminal of the airport. He looked around, wondering if someone was going to be there to pick him up. He was a little scared, as the airport was very small and kind of run down. The lobby was filled with all kinds of people; African, Anglo, Spanish, Indian, French and Chinese. Most of them were not well dressed, and Kevin, coming from one of the wealthiest communities in the United States, was understandably uneasy. He scanned the lobby for a sign with his name, or someone who looked like a government official.
After fifteen minutes had passed, he decided he had better go get his luggage. He followed the signs to the baggage area and searched through the bags that were stacked up against the wall. When he found his suitcase, he carried it to the middle of the room. There he stood for a while wondering what he should do. After some thought, he decided to go to the front of the terminal and see if his escort might be out there. He followed the foot traffic outside to the front of the terminal. Immediately, he was bombarded by a dozen taxi drivers wanting to take him to his destination. A couple of them grabbed his suitcase and began fighting over it. Kevin got in the middle of them and took it back.
He walked quickly down the sidewalk, waving the taxi drivers off. Looking around anxiously, he saw a sign that read–Don't ride with un-licensed taxi drivers. Confused and becoming worried, he began to get angry. I can’t believe this! There should be someone here to pick me up. Jesus, the Prime Minister begs me to come down here, then doesn’t have the courtesy to send someone to pick me up.
When his anger subsided, he started to contemplate what to do if someone didn't come to meet him. He figured he'd have to find a phone and call the Prime Minister’s office or perhaps the U.S. Embassy. With another rush of anger sweeping over him, he started looking around for a phone. Not seeing any in sight, he was about to go back inside the terminal when a short, friendly looking black man approached him.
"Kevin Wells?” he asked.
Relief, like a fresh breeze, swept over him. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Hello, I'm Obatala, I'll be your driver while you're staying in Trinidad."
"Oh, great. Did the Prime Minister send you?"
"The Prime Minister? Oh yes, the Prime Minister is very anxious to see you."
"Oh, good. I've been waiting here for almost an hour."
"I'm sorry, traffic was very heavy. Don't worry though, I'll take you right away to his office."
"Is he there now? It's kind of late. I think you're supposed to take me to his house. I'm supposed to stay there while I’m in Trinidad."
Obatala picked up Kevin's luggage, avoiding eye contact.
"Okay. My car is over here," he said.
Kevin followed him as he made his way through the crowded parking lot to his car. It was a very old Toyota Corolla. Kevin frowned. A cold chill suddenly engulfed him. The exterior was in good condition, but the inside was old and worn out. Kevin hesitated when Obatala opened the door to let him in. They didn’t even send someone in a government car? Give me a break. He looked skeptically at Obatala but not wanting to appear rude, he said, "Boy, this is really an antique. I have a 1985 Mazda that I thought was pretty old. What year car is this?"
"It’s a 1971model."
"1971?”
“Right.”
“Oh, then this obviously isn’t a government car?"
"Oh, no, I own it myself. I bought it used in 1976. It has been quite reliable."
Kevin shook his head, got in and sat down. God, this is a poor country. They make everyone use their own cars. Obatala shut the door gently and ran around to the driver's side. He cranked the engine, but it wouldn't start. Kevin squinted and looked anxiously at Obatala. I can’t believe this. A few more cranks and the engine finally started with a jolt. They took off and left the melee of taxi drivers behind. Kevin was surprised to see the cars driving on the left side of the street, rather than the right side. It seemed very strange and he was glad he wasn't going to have to drive while he was in Trinidad. Obatala drove fast, weaving in and out of traffic like an Indy driver. Kevin searched in vain for a seat belt.
"So how was your flight, Mr. Wells?" Obatala finally asked.
Obatala’s friendly demeanor made Kevin feel a little better. As they talked he became more at ease and less concerned about the odd manner in which he was welcomed to Trinidad. "Fine, I met one of your secondary school teachers on the plane and she told me all about Trinidad. She was very nice. Talking to her made the trip seem much shorter."
"Yes, we have many fine teachers in Trinidad. My wife is a teacher. She may know her. Did she tell you to what school she was attached?"
"No, I wish I would have asked her, but I didn't. She told me a little bit about your political system, especially the UNC-NAR coalition and the PNC."
"You mean the PNM. The Peoples' National Movement."
"Yeah, right. All of those abbreviations are kind of confusing."
"Yes they are, until you get used to them. You know the PNM ran this country for over thirty years."
"Thirty years?"
"That's right. It was a great shock when the UNC got control. No one could believe it. Pretty soon the PNM will take back control of the government."
Kevin frowned, shocked by the glee in Obatala’s voice. "Oh really? Is that what the Prime Minister thinks?"
"No, he's too stupid to figure out that his time is about up. The NAR will withdraw their support soon and his government will fall like a brick."
Obatala’s statement jolted Kevin, the cold chill he had earlier felt returned with the vengeance of a blue norther. “Huh?” he said, suddenly realizing Obatala hadn't been sent by the Prime Minister to pick him up. Oh shit! . . . Who is this guy and where in the hell is he taking me?
Kevin didn’t want Obatala to know he was scared so he went along with the charade as if he suspected nothing. "Ah. . . . Where does the Prime Minister live anyway?"
"He lives in the bourgeo
isie section of town. It's just forty-five minutes from the airport."
Bourgeoisie? Oh, God. I’ve been kidnaped by communist. . . . Kevin bit his lip. He looked back to see if anyone was following them. He couldn’t tell with so much traffic. He began to shake, fear overwhelmed him. Okay, relax. Take a deep breath. Don’t let him know you suspect anything. . . . "I bet everyone was upset when the Prime Minister was attacked in Dallas."
"No, actually a lot of people were wishing the assassin had done his job."
Kevin sunk back in his seat. He felt sharp pains shoot through his neck and shoulders. His head started to throb. This sure wasn't the reception he had been expecting from the people of Trinidad and Tobago. He peered out the window of the cab and noted they were traveling through a slum area. He considered opening the door and jumping out of the car, but the thought of being the only white boy in a black slum was not too appealing.
"So, are you staying for Carnival, Mr. Wells?"
"Huh?" Kevin murmured.
"Carnival. Will you be staying for it?"
"I don't know. When does it start?"
"It starts in about ten days, but next week there will be all kinds of things going on to get ready for it. Do you like the Calypso?"
Kevin hesitated. Okay, get a grip. You’re overreacting. Don’t be paranoid. "I don't know. I've heard of Calypso, but I'm not really that familiar with it."
"Calypso originated in Trinidad and is very popular here. Before Carnival there are dozens of tournaments and competitions to find the best performers to participate in Carnival."
"Hmm. That does sound interesting. I'd really like to see it."
"If you'd like, I'll take you to see the Calypso competitions at the Queen's Park Savanna this weekend."
"Well, I don't know. I'm not sure what my schedule will be like."
"Just call me if you'd like to go. I'll take you there, or anywhere else, day or night."
"That's really nice of you. If I need any transportation, I'll keep you in mind."
Kevin's anxiety began to wane again as he continued to talk to Obatala. Although he wasn't a supporter of the Prime Minister, he seemed to be a decent person. As the old Toyota made its way through the streets of Port of Spain, Obatala enthusiastically pointed out all of the landmarks of interest and answered most of Kevin's questions about the country. Kevin took in the sights and sounds of the city with great interest. He noticed that overall, the city was old and not well maintained. The people were obviously poor and struggling for survival. For the first time in his life, he began to understand what the term third world country meant.
Finally, Obatala pulled into the bourgeoisie neighborhood and advised Kevin that they were coming up to the Prime Minister's residence. Kevin felt better at being in a neighborhood more like his own.
"See, these are the big houses that the rich people of Port of Spain live in."
"Oh really, what does a house like this cost?"
"Most of them are around a million dollars."
"Trinidad dollars?"
"American dollars."
"Really? These houses wouldn't go for more than two hundred thousand dollars in Dallas."
"Prices are high for luxury items in Trinidad."
"I guess so."
Obatala pointed ahead.
"There is the Prime Minister's home."
Kevin looked at the mansion ahead with great interest. It was a fairly new, yellow stucco building, maybe five thousand square feet he guessed. It was nicely landscaped and there was a large swimming pool along the side. A fence totally encircled the residence and two guards were stationed at the front gate. Obatala pulled the Toyota up to the gate and Kevin got out and walked up to one of the guards.
"Hi, I'm Kevin Wells from Texas. The Prime Minister invited me to stay with him for a week or so."
"Kevin who?"
"Wells. The Attorney General asked me to come to Trinidad to participate in a line up. I'm supposed to stay with the Prime Minister while I'm here."
"The Prime Minister is out this evening. There's no one here."
"Well, can I wait for them? I came all the way from Texas. I don't have any place else to go."
"I'm sorry, but no one is allowed to loiter around the Prime Minister's residence. You'll have to move on."
"But, isn't there someone you can call? Like the Attorney General, maybe? He's expecting me."
"I don't have a telephone out here. I'm sorry. Come back in the morning."
"In the morning? Where am I supposed to stay tonight?"
"Come on, Kevin," Obatala said putting his hand on Kevin’s shoulder. "I'll take you to the Trinidad Hilton. You can stay there tonight."
Kevin looked at Obatala in disbelief. “How much will that cost? This trip wasn't supposed to cost me anything. I can't believe this! Jesus, I should have never come here.”
"See why we need a new government? Prime Minister Shah is a disgrace. He doesn't even know how to treat his own guests. Don't worry though. I'll take you wherever you want to go. Are you hungry?"
Kevin turned and walked slowly to the car. "Yes, actually I am kind of hungry."
"How about a giant steak?"
"Sure, that would be great."
Kevin got back in the car and Obatala took off, heading back toward downtown. When they passed the U.S. embassy, Obatala pointed it out to Kevin. Then he drove down a dark, deserted street and parked in front of what looked like a warehouse. It had a small sign near the door that read: The King's Place Restaurant. They got out of the car and went inside. The interior of the busy restaurant was ornately decorated in red and gold drapery and linens. A hostess directed them to a table. They sat down and began to look at the menu.
"I think I'll go for the ribeye," Kevin said. "What are you going to have?"
"Oh, nothing. I'll just wait for you to eat and then take you to your hotel."
"Nonsense, I'm buying. What do you want?"
"Oh, I couldn't impose. I'm just your driver."
"I don't care, order something."
Obatala hesitated, but finally picked up the menu and started to study it. It wasn't long before the waiter came and asked for their orders.
"I'll take the ribeye, medium," Kevin said.
"Give me the prime rib," Obatala added.
"Is the prime rib good here? I was considering that too," Kevin said.
"It's excellent here. This place has the best steaks in Trinidad."
"I hope you're right."
"Just wait, you'll see."
"Will you take me to the U.S. Embassy in the morning? I think I'll go there and try to straighten this mess out. They knew I was coming, so they should be able to help me make contact with the right people in the government."
"Yes, of course. I'll pick you up at eight-thirty, unless you want to stay at my home tonight?"
"Stay with you?"
"Yes, my wife would be pleased to keep you. Our house is modest, but we have an extra room, since my brother is away."
"Your brother lives with you?"
"Yes, and his family. But he and his wife are away on holiday. We are watching his three children."
As the two men were talking, the waiter brought their steaks. They started eating and continued their conversation.
"Do you have your own children?"
"Yes, three."
"Oh my God, you've got ten people living in your house?"
"Unless my mother-in-law is visiting, then we have eleven."
"I think I better stay at the hotel, I wouldn't want to impose."
"Whatever pleases you, but it wouldn't be a bit of trouble. Really. My wife's a great cook. She'd fix you up a fine American breakfast."
"That's really nice of you, but I couldn't impose. She must have her hands full, with both you and your brother's kids, not to mention working."
"I help her as much as I can, when I'm not on the job myself."
"So, do you make a good living as a taxi driver?"
"I do quite
well. I do best during Carnival. I make half of my annual income during the two weeks when all the tourists come."
"Really? Carnival must be some celebration here. I wish I could stay for it, but I think I'll be leaving about the time it starts."
"You should stay, there's nothing like it in the world."
After dinner, Kevin paid the check with the Visa card his dad lent him for the trip, then they headed for the Hilton Hotel. When they arrived, Kevin went up to the front desk to see about a room. A tall, thin desk clerk was on duty.
"I'd like a room please," Kevin said.
"I'm sorry, but we're full tonight, you know, with the Calypso competition and all."
"Really. Shoot. Are there any other hotels around where I could stay?"
"You might want to try the Holiday Inn. I'll call them, if you like?"
"Great."
The desk clerk called the Holiday Inn, but they were full too. He tried several other places, but none of them had a vacancy. Kevin was beginning to panic. Where in the hell am I going to stay? Damn it. I can’t sleep in the street–not in this god-forsaken country. Should I stay with Obatala? He seems nice, but who the hell is he anyway? He obviously doesn’t work for the Prime Minister. Oh, God. What is going on? Kevin looked back worriedly at Obatala, who was waiting to see that he got a room. He thanked the desk clerk and walked back to the car.
"Well, I hate to impose on you, but it seems there's not a hotel room available anywhere tonight. Are you sure your wife won't mind if I stay with you?"
"No, no. It is our pleasure to have you. Come, we'll drive home straight away. You must be very tired."
"I am beat. It's been a very long day."
As the old Toyota rattled along the bumpy streets of Trinidad, Kevin desperately tried to analyze his situation. Obatala seemed friendly, but he could imagine the conditions he must be living in. He was grateful he had a place to stay and someone to drive him wherever he wanted to go, but he was still apprehensive. He closed his eyes and prayed that he would make it through the night.
When they arrived at Obatala's home, it wasn't nearly as bad as Kevin had imagined. It was small, but very clean. Obatala's wife and several of the children were sitting in the kitchen when Kevin walked in. A woman stood up to greet him.
Obatala said, "Kevin, this is my wife, Cetawayo."
Kevin nodded and said, "Nice to meet you, ma'am."
"These are my children, Kemba, Taiwo and Atiba."
"Hi, guys," Kevin said as he shook each of their hands.
"I don't know where everyone else is, but they'll show up eventually."
Kevin gave the children a hard look, then glanced at Cetawayo and Obatala who were holding hands. "Boy, you've got some good looking kids. Let me see, do they take after their mother or their dad?"
"They look quite a lot like their father, actually," Cetawayo replied.
"I hope you don't mind having me stay here tonight. I can't believe there isn't a single hotel room in the entire city."
"Yes, I'm afraid it will be that way until Carnival is over. But don’t worry. You’re welcome to stay here."
"Thank you. . . . So you're a teacher?"
“Yes, I am,” Cetawayo replied.
"My mom's a teacher. She teaches math."
"Oh, I'm not good at math. I prefer liberal arts."
"Really? So do I."
"So how do you like our country so far, Kevin?"
"Oh, it seems really nice, but I just got here. I haven't had time to enjoy it yet."
"I think you'll like it."
"I'm sure I will."
"Kevin got stood up by the Prime Minister,” Obatala noted. “He was supposed to be staying with him tonight."
"The Prime Minister? Why would you be staying with him?"
"I met his daughter while they were in Texas a couple of weeks ago. They invited me down here."
"Oh, the Indian girls, they love white boys," Obatala said.
Kevin laughed, "Is that right?"
"Yes, without a doubt."
"Well I hope Kiran likes me, she's very beautiful."
"She's a manipulator like her mother," Cetawayo advised. "Be careful."
"How do you know that?" Kevin asked.
"That's what they say in the Express. She always manages to get what she wants, no matter what the cost."
"The Express?"
"It's our primary newspaper, the Daily Express."
"Well, you can't believe everything you read, I guess," Kevin said. "I hope they're wrong."
"Okay,” Cetawayo said, “we should let Kevin get some rest. He's had a long day. Come on Kevin, I'll take you to my brother's room.”
"Thank you. You've all been very kind."
Cetawayo took Kevin to a small room with a double bed. It was adorned with photos and memorabilia of the family. Kevin said good night and closed the door. As he was getting undressed, he couldn't help but look at the dozens of pictures of the family that decorated the room. He looked at a picture of the kids swimming in the public pool, another of them playing cricket and a family portrait taken in Queen's Park. Kevin picked up a group picture sealed in an ornate wooden frame under glass. As he sat on the end of bed examining it more closely, he thought of his mother and father and contemplated what their reaction would be if they knew where he was staying. They would just die!
As Kevin continued to study the picture, he squinted to get a better focus on Obatala's brother. A cold chill suddenly engulfed him as he recognized the face. The frame slipped from his fingers and shattered on the tile floor. Oh, my God! This can’t be happening. It’s not possible. Please, Lord, . . . no. This can’t be Ray Mohammed’s bedroom!
The Prime Minister's Daughter Page 8
