Mozzies And Other Irritants
Waking up in the tropics still has that dream-like quality for me. I’d been half-dozing since a quarter to five this morning—with my earplugs not quite filtering out the occasional crowing of an over-enthusiastic cockerel—so I felt half-jetlagged when I finally decided to get up.
I wondered (still) who’d left the heating on high overnight and what that strange golden light was, up there on the wall where the sun filtered through the airholes (just imagine: open walls and window grids in December!) The gauze of the mosquito net gave the view a dreamlike quality. A single determined mosquito kept circling just above my head, bumping into the mesh as if trying to ram its way through, and sticking its proboscis through the holes, raising its hindlegs in a determined effort to pump blood out of thin air.
Ha. Take that!
I hopped out of bed, put on the fan and blew it away.
It was seven thirty. It seems the mozzies are working overtime here.
*
Getting out of bed was less difficult because I’m settling in, and am actually happier outside my room (confined spaces are bad news). I was less certain about going out of town, and not just because money is tight and my first call would have to be the bank to cash my emergency traveller’s cheques. Getting to Bucco shouldn’t take long and I already have the ticket. I bought it two days ago—thinking I’d check the place out for Sunday, maybe even relocate there—and had taken a seat in the waiting room when a man who worked there walked past muttering. “I wish the bus was here already to take everybody where they are going.”
You and me both, mate.
He muttered something more under his breath, went to talk to some of the people further along and then walked back to the door proclaiming: “first there are no buses and then there are four or five at once. I am not happy!”
Since my own bus was due in about ten minutes, I stepped outside and saw that the fuss was about. About four or five buses should have been departing but there was no sign of them. Then they trickled in, one-after-another, late.
“Where are you going?” somebody asked me.
“Bucco.”
“Into Bucco itself?”
“I guess so, I don’t know the area.”
“There has been an accident, buses are not running there. Go and talk to one of the men.”
Oh, cheers. I walked over to the men (and they were all men) who had gathered in their blue shirts on top of the stairs. The one who turned around at my approach was the one who had done the muttering.
“Yes. Can I help you?” He gave me a radiant smile which I thought must be to cover his irritation, yet at the same time couldn’t help thinking was genuine.
“I’m going to Bucco. I hear there’s been an accident?”
“Yes. No. That’s just what I told the people.” He was a bit uncomfortable—almost squirming—as if I had found him out.
“So there are buses to Bucco?”
“Where do you want to go? Into Bucco itself?” What was it about that question?
“Guess so.”
He looked uncomfortable again. “No bus right now.”
“That’s OK, I can wait,” I said, thinking about coming back later. On the other hand, perhaps the bus was just late. I decided to wait a little longer. I had narrowly missed the 11:30, due to overrunning in the internet café, and now the day was half-over. I didn’t want to lose an entire hour and, sure enough, two more buses turned up.
I walked back to the guy. “Is one of those going to Bucco?”
“No they—” he paused. “I can send one of them to Bucco for you.”
You can’t fault the service here.
“Heavens no,” I said. “I think I’m the only one who wants to go there, and it can wait until tomorrow. Is the ticket still good tomorrow?”
“Of course it is,” he said.
So here we are, two days later, and I’ve still not left town. Yesterday evening I checked my bank account and found that I’m near destitute. Today is Friday, my traveller’s cheques will only last me until Monday and I’ll probably have to ask to pay for my accommodation in retrospective, which is not how I usually do things.
The people here are easy about it, but I’m not happy.
Tags: Americas, Tobago, Tag Index
Denni