Bused Off
As time dragged on, I left the cool sanctuary of the ticket hall for another cigarette. A flock of frigate birds was circling overhead like something out of a Hitchcock film. I had no idea what they were doing there. I’ve never seen them feed., but as far as I know frigate birds are parasites, robbing other birds of fish. The only fishing birds here were a couple of brown pelicans near the harbour. Maybe they had become scavengers.
Watching them circling below the clouds in the sticky heat had an almost hypnotic effect. Amidst all the people waiting for the bus, I suddenly felt like a castaway.
There was no bus. I went back into the ticket hall and talked to one of the men (“You wanna go out with me some time?”). He promised to send the next bus that would arrive on to Charlotteville and I thanked him, because there were quite a few people waiting to go that way now.
Finally we were underway. Calypso music was playing on the radio, bemoaning the rise of crime in TT (“The hills are alive in a different way…”).
My arrival in Charlotteville was almost a repeat of yesterday’s. I wanted to go to Pirate Bay—I had an almost ludricous notion that my mask would be there, dangling from a branch—but I needed to find an internet café because I was behind with my postings. Of course I would have had all the time in the world to do my uploads in the dead hours I’d been waiting for the bus. That’s the problem with the local service: over-ambitious schedules and no way to keep them. I’m sorry to say that the buses are better organised in Indonesia.
Mathio caught up with me before I had taken a dozen steps, taking care of my indecisiveness. We set off in search for Doctor P., but before we reached the hill he saw a woman on the veranda of the Green Corner Villa: Patsy Christmas, who promised me a room for 100 TT a night if I’d stay a week. It was a done deal. I would not spend Christmas in Castara after all.
I was happy to buy the man a beer in return, but then decided to go back to Scarborough and go to the bank, take care of all that business so that I would not have to go back there.
The return bus was late. Then the driver went to lunch. There was no lunch for the people waiting for it. There was an internet café within spitting distance of the bus stop, but without knowing when we would get away, I could not go there.
“The bus come just now,” people kept assuring me.
The minutes crept by until it was so late that the best I could hope for was to catch half an hour online before the place in Scarborough closed. I would not get back to the guesthouse in time to write my entry before the evening’s cacophony would start up. I grew hungrier and grumpier.
At least I saw the Iguana again. He honked his horn several times while I squinted at him, then at the other people standing at the bus stop. Finally he started his engine and drove closer so that I could recognise him. He had a pretty blonde in the seat next to him.
“Fancy seeing you here!”
He grinned, the shades reflecting the bay behind him. “You’re coming to Sunday School this week?”
“Another time.” I could feel my age. The Iguana, it seems, has never grown up in some ways. I could imagine him on stage with Shaggy, jamming the night away. But that is another story, for another time.
This was an irritating day, but at least I was mostly back to my old self. As we finally trundled up the winding road, I was considering sticking to my original plan and spend Christmas in Tobago, New Year in Trinidad. Because don’t get me wrong: Tobago is touristy. Almost everyone I spoke to in Charlotteville wanted to offer me a tour or acted as an informal guide. Compared to my usual travels, the place was positively overrun. I began to crave adventure again.
However, I would have to decide by tomorrow or do the round-trip to Scarborough again, early next week. I would have to sail on the Monday or Tuesday after Christmas. Probably on the Monday, in time to find somewhere to stay for New Year’s.
*
The Department for the Prevention of Rash Decisions in my head was saying “no” to Trinidad when I woke up. I would spend the weekend in Charlotteville and make a decision later. I could go back to bloody Scarborough on the Monday or Tuesday and book a place then.
Mainly I didn’t want to rush around with my full backpack, because rushing was still a compulsion that I failed to get under control. The other people in the guesthouse were beginning to notice. Turns out that the landlord was a psychologist in a former life. I had to get the hell out of here
As always, I imagined having plenty on my plate. I had to go to the bank, wash my clothes, write…
But not right now.
I popped half a Xanax and waited for it to kick in. I could feel it after twelve minutes, but this time I waited a little longer. I got to the bus station with ten minutes to spare before the scheduled departure time. The ticket hall was deserted.
“Can I help you?” It was a woman in a blue shirt. Good to see that there were women after all.
“Yeah, I need a ticket.”
“The girl is not here. She has lost the key. The door is closed.”
I gaped at her.
She continued unperturbed. “She’ll have to go home and come back.”
I muttered a half-curse under my breath.
“Pardon?”
“I have to go to Charlotteville—” I looked at her almost beseechingly, as if she could somehow magic the door open. Then something occurred to me. “Can I leave the bag and get a ticket?”
The woman looked at her watch. “Charlotteville bus leaves in—”
“Seven minutes,” I interrupted. “But it’s never on time.”
Except when you’re late.
I raced down the street, bought two eight dollar tickets, and ran back again.
“Take your time!” a man yelled in my wake.
I’d had enough. “I don’t have time!” I yelled back, suddenly wanting to laugh. “They take my time! They eat it, suck it dry! They are like vampires!”
So help me, back at the station (9:39, and no bus) I saw a tourist selling a three dollar ticket to a bystander.
One of the old geezers who were sitting in a row of chairs in front of the office beckoned me over. “Where’re you going? Down the countryside?”
“Charlotteville.”
He nodded, consulting his watch. “The bus leave just now.”
This time he wasn’t far wrong. We left at ten to ten, the same time as yesterday morning.
Tags: Americas, Tobago Buses, Tag Index
Denni