Carlos
There is a huge garden behind the house—more of a field—and it belongs to Carlos who lives in the house next door.
Carlos tried to chat me up the minute I stepped into the lounge which, at Hope Cottage, is also the entrance hall.
“Later,” I said and prepared myself for the inevitable. By the time he made good on his word I was several rum-and-cokes ahead and, to my surprise, found that I enjoyed it.
At first.
We talked about spices. It turns out that Carlos comes from a catering family and is passionate about food. I had smelled his curry chicken earlier in the kitchen and it was good. Now he took me back there and showed me the some of the vegetables he grew, not all of which I know by name. Okra seeds (I’d never seen okra seeds before), beetroot, bok choi. There are no slug holes in his bok choi.
“My god,” I said, impressed. “You should really run some cookery classes here. The kitchen is ideal for that.” And it was. It’s big enough to comfortably accommodate half a dozen people. Cooking classes could really take off on Tobago.
Matters took a less comfortable turn when Carlos took me by the hand and showed me the garden—the one that is really a field, with most of the soil turned over.
“It’s too dark to see,” I said and he agreed and led the way back. I was relieved, thinking that was that, until he insisted to show me his room.
I started with trepidations, then voiced a thinly veiled threat, but he told me to relax. He was insistent. It would be rude to refuse.
“I’m not that kind of man,” he said as we stood in the dank room, gardening tools leaning against one of the walls. “Do you think I could stay here if I was? Or that people would come to stay?”
No, Carlos is not that kind of man. But he had ignored me when I said that I was married. Repeatedly. Now he wanted to cook for me, to take me to Bucco and do some liming at the famous Sunday School.
“It’s no good if you go on your own,” he said. “If you’re with me, people will respect you. Leave you alone. I’ve taken many women liming, shown white ladies a good time in Bucco.”
I bet he had.
But in the end Carlos is nice—like all the people I’ve talked to here. He left me alone without me having to brush him off to hard. He likes me because I’m friendly. A friendly lady. It won’t do to be rude to people here.
It was ten at night. The mosquitoes had retired, and so had Carlos. I hid in my room for a while, then sneaked out to the kitchen for some coke. There was only a German solo traveller left sitting in the lounge. He nodded at me but took no further notice, even though I tried to open the front door repeatedly to get out for a smoke. It was shut, bolted and locked.
He and I hadn’t exchanged a single word. This is not unusual for travellers, particular if he’d picked up my stressed-out vibe. But I wish I had someone to confess to.
I’m not feeling so good.
In my room, sucking on my e-cig (I’m in a cage again!) I kept thinking about Carlos. How he kept touching my hand, in that over-familiar way…
Oh my.
[EDIT: I’m feeling better about the situation now. I’ll have a word with Carlos tonight. Jeez–I may be a nervous wreck, but I’m no longer nineteen!]
Tags: Hope Cottage, Neither here nor there, Scarborough, Tobago, Tag Index
Denni