Charlotteville: Hotting Up
No panic attacks this morning. The local weed was helping, and I could tell that it was the weed and nothing else because I’d acquired my very own man-pest—my pet-fucker—yesterday night.
What I mistook for friendliness is no such thing. Instead of thinking to set sail for Trinidad next week, I was thinking to bring it forward to the following Tuesday. I’d committed to stay in Charlotteville for aweek—paid for it—but what the hell. It was Saturday. Buses would run. I could book passage. Maybe I could make the boat on Monday. Maybe I could make it tomorrow.
I was on Red Alert.
I would have to play games again, but I was in no mood to play games. Charlotteville—the place I’d turned to to calm down—had turned noxious.
This morning, I was up with the roosters. The sun had not yet risen, but there wasn’t a notable mosquito problem, which was just as well since the net was too short and so riddled with holes that it was little more than a gesture. So I sat down to write.
If I had understood his drawl correctly, Mathio—my very own man-pest, my little pet-fucker—had advised me to wear socks, pants and long sleeves at night, in defense against the mozzies—although most of the time he advised me to wear nothing at all. At least not while I was in bed with him, and only him. I was his own little whitey. That much of the local patois I understood when he leered after every female arse that was passing our way. Small wonder the girls didn’t bid us good night.
Here’s what I miss about travelling in Muslim countries: restraint. There is none of that here. And that meant that I would have to play his game, play him off against his own people. Either that, or get the hell out of here.
Suddenly the notion of the ageing swingers at Crown Point was almost inviting.
*
The Lonely Planet warns that the unwanted attention in TT can get a bit much for female travellers, but I have long since stopped listening to the Lonely Planet. Anyway, I thought it wouldn’t be a problem for somebody of my age. People have long since stopped calling me “Sister” and call me “Mamma” instead.
But it’s funny how people travel within their own cohorts. Almost everybody who’d hooked up with me so far was about my age. Man-pests included.
There was no way of escaping Mathio. The worst was that I was wearing that ridiculous dress yesterday evening—the one I’d brought along for Christmas—because my brown dress was sweaty and due for a wash. I wanted to check out the beach bar where a party was in progress, although I hadn’t planned on staying long.
I got as far as the bench in front of Green Corner Villa. The problem is that the balcony overlooks what Jimmy—my Canadian neighbour and the only other person staying here—described as a “busy intersection” (trucks kept clattering up-and-down the hill), and Mathio’s bench is right in front of it.
He waved me down.
He had alcohol on his breath when I had first met him, at around noon, and almost as soon as I joined him, he went off to buy a bottle of Hard Wine (with my money, but he would later buy a bottle of Puncheon with his own. It wasn’t money he was interested in).
As we drank the wine, Mathio’s slur gradually worsened, although he took care to speak what he called “the language of the people from my island”. The worst was that he kept dropping his voice to a conspirational whisper. Not that the meaning was unclear. He didn’t want me to go partying; if I hooked up with another bloke he’d never speak to me again (now there’s an idea…); he approved of my dresscode, but I should be careful whom I go out with (he spent about half the night setting me straight about the competition)—and every time a local girl passed, he leered at her. Chiefly at what may have been his poor, misguided ex-girlfriend: “I have a whitey sitting next to me! A whitey! My own little whitey!”.
Mathio—as he made abundantly clear—prefers ‘whiteys’ to black girls.
One of his friends came by with some money he was owed and for a while I relaxed while they chatted in patois. Then he went off to get more Hard Wine. I told him to hell with it, get some Puncheon instead. I was playing his game, but the idea was to get drunk quickly and get back to my room. I was practically under arrest.
It started to spit with rain again. The sky had been thick with clouds all day. Mathio had left his bag behind, an ICC Cricket World Cup, West Indies 2007 number. Was it really only back in 2007? It felt an age ago. The bag made me think of Brodie, and what amounted to almost another age.
I refilled my cup and drank deeply, dreading the thought of heading across the street and hiding behind the curtains.
Looking behind me, I could see the inside of the house next to the bench through an upen window. A wicker basket with blue plastic flowers hung from the corrugated metal ceiling. Two boys flip-flopped up the street, stomping their feet to scare away a stray dog. It was only half past seven.
I took a deep breath. Another one. Another gulp of Hard Wine.
Yep, I was a captive on what Mathio calls “the island of the free”.
When he returned, his vibe changed for the worse. His advances became more blatant. It was clear that guys like him have no respect for the likes of Jimmy whom he referred to as ‘cheap’. “Are you sleeping with the white guy upstairs?”
“I’m not sleeping with anyone. I’m sleeping on my own.”
It was also clear that guys like him have no respect for ‘little whiteys’ like myself. This is why this is harder than travelling in Indonesia: over-familiarity.
I took two drags of the joint he offered (once he got it lit. They may have king-sized Rizzlas in village shops in the UK, but you can get no rollies here), then I made my excuses.
There is this to say about the local grass: it’s better than Xanax. I think I need to eat hash cookies for breakfast.
I think I’ll need them here.
Tags: Americas, Charlotteville, Tobago, Tag Index
Denni