Last year a Trinidadian musician was kind enough to help me out with my final Master’s journalism project, so when a year later he contacted me asking for help on his website, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.

I did, however, hesitate when he insisted on us doing “something fun” alongside our website discussions.

Granted, my recent life since I became a working stiff had gotten fairly boring, but I was still a bit skeptical about attending the event he suggested, which a friend of his was throwing: ladies’ night with male strippers.

I had no idea male stripping was legal in Trinidad. Or female stripping for that matter.

Regardless, I wound up at the event — and my escort, the musician, wasn’t even allowed to sit in the audience since it was ladies’ night.

He hovered somewhere behind with the other males, while I sat in the audience losing whatever smidgen of innocence I might have had left.

But hold up. I’m getting ahead of myself.

Condoms and cockroaches

My first inclination that the night would be interesting was upon entry, when I dutifully collected my free drink from the effeminate (and gorgeous) twink waiter-boy wearing a beaded necklace and gold glitter spandex pants with a huge bulge in the front, and picked up a couple of free condoms (both male and female, mind you!) by the bar.

My escort introduced me to his friends as “a journalist”, though I was already well aware that I would be journalisting nothing tonight.

I made my way over to the rickety chairs surrounding the stage, to sit amidst a thick fog of insect repellant — the purpose of which soon became evident when a few dozen cockroaches scuttled by .

The MC for the night was a man wearing a tube top as a skirt, with a brown cold-weather parka (in 35-degree Trini weather!) and hair in tiny plaits scattered over his head. His makeup was appalling, but not even a fraction as imposing as the lewd suggestive remarks to the crowd.

The first performer was Chi-wa, a slender-bodied Trinidadian graphic artist of Chinese descent. He wore ample tattoos and piercings, and proceeded to draw on himself with a black marker.

His long body contorted rhythmically to the music as he writhed on a chair and peeled off his clothing, until he finally pulled at his underwear suggestively before hiding the goods from the audience that screamed “TAKE IT OFF!”

Erotic art, perhaps?

Well, it was meant to be. It was certainly the most artistic piece.

The night soon descended into gross decadence.

Cutters and Candyman

There was “Cutters” – a teenage boy with a pair of scissors that managed to go on for at least half an hour cutting strips of cloth from his animal-print boxers but still managing to hide the goods — until an audience member finally snatched it away as he walked through the crowd when he left the stage.

He kept looking at the audience with something that surely was meant to be seduction but sadly came off as merely bewildered exhibitionism.

There was “Candyman” – who took off a sweater, a forest-green vest, black roomy pants, and then allowed an audience member to disrobe him from the multicoloured net shorts with underwear that unraveled at the pull of a string.

He proceeded to jump atop my lap despite my insistent shoves and pleads to get the hell away.

Congo and Cunt

There was “Oompawoompa” – whose silhouette scampered across a white sheet as he masturbated and beat his flaccid penis on the back of a chair.

The Mighty Sparrow’s “Congo Man” (tsk tsk, if the Birdie only knew about this usage of his song!) played on and on and on repeatedly as the audience grew restless.

A huge round of applause exploded when he finally pulled back on his yellow-and-red thong and ran off the stage in a Carnival mask.

There was “Office Boy” – a good-looking sex-god with dreadlocks, crawling around on the stage to “You Spin Me Right Round Baby Right Round” as he quivered his pectoral muscles and peeled off his shirt, jacket, “Cunt my anti-drug” t-shirt, knee-length shorts, grey vest, grey brief shorts, and thong under that (wayyyy too much wrapping to get to the present).

Why couldn’t he be the one who insisted on humping me, instead of Candyman? (But I digress….)

Cocktails and cock

Showerman took the cake, though.

While every other performer flirted with nudity but held back that vital shred of cloth, Showerman went all out under the hose and bucket as he rocked back and forth on the steps, exposing full frontal (and well-endowed) nudity, to the rampant cheers of the ecstatic audience.

But the real performer — who was called back repeatedly by request — was Barman, who shook it up and stirred it up to the female delight, removing his jeans behind the apron to expose tight black-and-red briefs and a six-pack washboard stomach, to the tune of “Blame It On The Alcohol” (what else?)

There were a few more that, thankfully, I missed when I ran off to use the bathroom after someone dumped some beer on my legs…

At the end the boys/men all lined up for a final dance-off, and then many of them humped a few ladies in the audience (thankfully this time no one came near me for humping purposes).

One did, however, come up to extend his hand on my way out.

“I’m Martin,” he said politely.

I shook his hand and said my name before I hightailed it out of there.

Journalisting…

As anticipated, no journalisting got done that night — it took me a full week and a half to process the night to even bang out this blog review.

What journalisting should I have done, now that I think of it?

What do you ask a young Trini man who is beating his penis against the back of a chair for a ladies’ night extravagazna?

“So… how did you get into stripping?”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Does it pay well?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” (…Or boyfriend, for that matter?… I’m open-minded)

“So, like… does your body (read: penis) have to be a particular dimension to qualify to enter this event?”

“…Little boy, WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?”

Hmmm….

But the night was memorable and at times even enjoyable, journalisting or no journalisting.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Me, ever the world-weary trekker to all corners of the globe, methinks: London, oh sweet pedagogue of so much, London my love… YOU DID NOT PREPARE ME FOR THIS.

But, I suppose, it was good to know there are many corners of Trinidad I have yet to experience.

……………………………..It wasn’t until I was in the car on the way home that I realised the last thing Martin touched before he touched my hand… was most likely his penis.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

By the time I remember I mean to be writing regularly on this blog, a month or two have flashed by.

By the time I think to comment further on what’s gone by – politics, for example – it’s already stale.

By the time I sit to write, everything I want to say has left my head.

Something must be done about this!

Indeed.

…But what?

Finding time to find time

Where do we manufacture time, where do we fabricate industrious vocabularies and magnificent splendour in literary etchings on the Web?

I don’t know.

But forget the normal blog rules about needing tags and categories and links to other sites, and all that.

I don’t have time to find time to have time to come up with wonderful ideas for blogging anymore!

From now on I will just write.

Today I thought I would share something.

Those who know me will be well aware of the very few times I will make a nice comment on my country.

So here’s one for the books (and in Trini slang, screw the Grammar Nazism rules!):

A Trini tale

Rainy season hit. You know we don’t get rain all the time so when it rain it rain plenty plenty.

So me on meh way home ah day, I sit down in a maxi-taxi, rain pounding de window and de roof and all kinda ting.

A woman, few seat in fronta me, she start frantically searching thru she bag.

Like she eh find wat she lookin for so she tun round and ask a nex woman, “Aye excuseee… you have a plastic bag I cud borrow?”

The next woman give she a plastic bag. Then she tun to a next fella and ask for piece of the papers he reading. So she get that too – he give she the front and last page leaf, coz that not important: “same shit different day, only politics and crime,” he say as he hand she.

So Miss Lady now, she proceed to start folding up the piece of newspaper into a funny shape.

Then she wrap the funny shape round her hair like a turban, and put the plastic bag on top of that.

She find some clip in her bag to hold the whole contraption to her head.

Then bout two minutes after she finish, she press the bell to stop the maxi.

And if you see meh girl, walking out high and proud, crossing road, cool and calm, getting soaking wet… but the hair covered.

Nobody in the maxi bat an eyelash.

The woman who did give her the plastic bag smile as she look out the window at Miss Lady.

She know the feeling, yuhknow… who care bout rain, as long as you don’t waste your trip to the hairdresser!

Only in Trinidad.

Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes… you just got to love it.

Image: Gregory Szarkiewicz / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The blood crawls. The squiggle of distaste shudders down the spine.

Eeek. Eeek.

Another, at the side of the road: “Chair’s and tables for rent”.

Eeek. Eeek.

One, a street away from where I live: “Concret block”.

Eeek. Eeek.

Is it just me? Am I the only one that feels physically assaulted by seeing these signs?

Grammar Nazi

I’m a writer with a heavy dosage of self-confessed obsessive-compulsive disorder behaviour when it comes to certain things.

So I know not everyone has the same blood-crawling reaction when it comes to seeing words abused.

But there are other Grammar Nazis out there. Identify yourselves!

Grammar Nazis have a bad reputation for being annoying, self-obsessed people who always think they’re right and take pleasure in correcting those who are not.

I beg to differ.

The power of words

I love words.

I love their power.

I love the way a rich one feels in your mouth before it rolls off your tongue.

I love the way words can mean different things depending on their context, on the way in which they are spoken.

I love how their meanings, their nuances, can change so subtly from one minute to the next.

I love how culture can colonise words.

…I hate hate hate hate hate to see them abused.

Fair enough if a 40,000-word novel has the odd typo (though I’ve actually PUT DOWN books I’m reading, when I spot one).

But in the newspapers… that sacred place where ALL WORDS SHOULD ALWAYS BE DOUBLE-CHECKED A ZILLION TIMES… God forbid.

And in a sign with less than 10 words??? Come on!!!

Eats, Shoots and Leaves

It brings us back to that Grammar-Nazi Bible favourite, “Eats Shoots and Leaves“.

The title comes from a joke:

A panda walks into a cafe. He orders a sandwich, eats it, then draws a gun and fires two shots in the air.

“Why?” asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes towards the exit.

The panda produces a badly-punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder.

“I’m a panda,” he says. “Look it up.”

The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds an explanation.

“Panda. Large black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves.”

Funny, yes, ridiculous, yes: but author Lynne Truss makes a good point.

Language is so crucial, and its abuse so unnecessary, so inane, so difficult to digest.

Ignorance or laziness?

I don’t think the problem is ignorance.

For a country with free education, and a country proudly boasting over a 98% literacy rate… you would think that the average Joe could spell.

Sadly… no.

Now, I’m well aware of the 1% or so of people that can’t read or write.

My dad used to teach adult literacy. And I once worked in a telephone company, and met a fair share of adults that brought their five-year-olds to read the phone contracts before they signed.

So I’m not saying there AREN’T illiterate people.

There are.

But most of these errors don’t arise from ignorance, but from laziness.

Even if God forbid, someone makes an error (we’re human, we all tend to do that from time to time)… can you imagine the response when it is pointed out?

“Excuse me, sir… I just want to point out, that sign has an error on it.”

“Steups, oh gawsh aye, jus a lil typo, why you hadda get on so for? Like you never make a mistake? Hush yuh mouth nah…”

…More often than not. Ent?

It is certainly the response I’d expect (and one I’ve gotten, many a time!)

And across the pond…

Near to where I used to live in London, there was a shop owned by Pakistani immigrants, with a huge painted wall outside that read: “Stationary for sale”.

I endured it for several months.

Then one day, as I warmly greeted the owner, I said “You know… the sign on your wall, it always strikes me that the word is spelt wrong – it means something else. It means stationary like ‘not moving’, rather than stationery like paper and office supplies.”

“Eh-heh,” he muttered, and said nothing else.

I passed by some two weeks later. The sign was fixed.

Now, this wasn’t necessarily always the outcome of my Grammar-Nazism in a first-world country as opposed to in Trinidad.

Nor was it even necessarily a result of me mentioning it to him. (I doubt I was the first. Some other super-stickler grammar Nazi must have wandered by at some point…)

But… whatever the case, the sign was fixed. So I was happy.

Bad reflection of T&T?

Right now I’m employed with a government company, whose purpose is to attract foreign investors.

Now imagine, if I were a rich foreign investor, driving along the roads in Trinidad… within the space of an hour I would spot a dozen of those awful mis-spelt, distasteful signs…

…And I wouldn’t for a minute believe that this country has the well-educated workforce and high literacy level we always want to boast.

Hmmm… just a little something to think about.

combined photo, 1 from personal collection, 1 adapted from a stock photo

I know very little, and thus far I have wallowed in my ignorance.

I left the country when I was 18, fresh out of school, and barely cognisant of political issues, and returned at 23 not WANTING to be cognisant of political issues because I was more aware of the ridiculousness of corruption which is everywhere and permeates, endlessly.

As George Orwell once said, power corrupts but total power corrupts totally. Granted we’re not under a dictatorship, but realistically, politics is power and I don’t believe anyone has the ambition to go into politics for entirely selfless reasons.

Election mode

So, today begins the process of screening for elections in Trinidad & Tobago… we are officially in “election mode” according to the Trinidad Guardian.

This is as a result of Opposition Minister Kamla Persad Bissessar, who is expected to file a motion of no confidence against the PM Patrick Manning in 2 days.

Addressing the PNM special Convention at Chaguaramas Convention Centre last week, Manning explained that if the motion succeeds, he would have to resign in one week, or else the President will dissolve Parliament and call a general election — so logically, by filing the motion of no confidence, it says that the Opposition (and, I suppose, the country at large) wants an election.

Consitutionally we aren’t due for an election until 2012.

Realistically, the no-confidence motion won’t be passed because PNM has the majority of seats in Parliament (26 out of 41).

Morally, Kamla wants Manning to resign anyway — and has been calling for it for some time now.

So those are the bones of the situation. Here’s my chagrin:

At home and abroad

While following up the threads of the “will-there-be-an-elections” saga at home, I find myself inexpricably drawn to London – Westminster, to be specific.

Gordon Brown has called elections for May 6.

I spent all yesterday on the BBC website reading about the 3 platforms for the UK parties in the upcoming elections. Which was fascinating.

There’s so many issues, and so comprehensively compiled:

Issues of Economy, Race Relations & Immigration, Afghanistan & Defence, Crime, Health, Education, Family, Environment, Pensions, Housing, Europe & Foreign Affairs, Local Government, Transport, Rural Affairs, Civil Liberties, Constitutional Reform… and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

There’s even a breakdown for first-time voters:

And press coverage of the campaign, clearly synopsised: “At a glance” and “Press assessment“.

Now, back to Trinidad and the upcoming election…

Fragmented uncertainty

The election (if there is to be one, or whenever there is to be one) only enunciates the divisions in the political landscape of the country, and the fragmentation of political faith.

I am not PNM, UNC, COP, or anything else.

I have never been of age AND in the country to vote during an election and have thus never voted. And as it stands, I doubt I ever will. At least not in Trinidad — and this isn’t for lack of national pride or anything of that sort.

I’ll be happy to vote — once the issues are laid out, once it’s comprehensive.

UK political coverage may all be hogwash and spin, but at least it’s comprehensive hogwash.

Developed country elections

UNC Chairman Jack Warner recently argued that developed country status means recognising and aspiring to achieve higher standards of governance, and that Manning should have resigned as PNM leader and Prime Minister ages ago because he led the party and the country into such disrepute — like Tony Blair did, when faced with a volatile situation over his party’s sagging fortunes, public anger for supporting the Iraq war and disapproval over his leadership (a combination, some may argue, where there is even less damning evidence that Manning and the UdeCoTT fiasco)… Blair resigned and governance went to Gordon Brown.

I’m not going to pick that opinion apart — I do, however, agree to the “higher standards of governance” — which I consider to be comprehensive coverage.

I have little idea about the political views of each party that’s going up. Unlike left/right-wing politics like Labour/Conservative in the UK or Republican/Democratic in the US……. PNM/UNC have never, to my knowledge, had a steadfast rule for political views in that way.

According to Wikipedia (perhaps not the most credible source of information but realistically, it’s the basic go-to starting point source for the youth), PNM claims to be left-wing… but UNC doesn’t claim to be anything.

And when it comes to individual issues… well, pahpah. Even less clarity there.

What’s UNC’s standpoint on immigration and defence vs. PNM and COP? I’ll be hard pressed to find someone off the street who can tell me that.

No wonder they say we live in a two-by-four country.

I’m vaguely aware that PNM claims to have done loads since taking up office in 2001 — creating jobs, reducing taxes, providing free tertiary education, giving out medication and training programmes (outlined at the PM’s convention).

That’s all well and good… blow your trumpet Mr. Prime Minister… but what do I compare it to?

First vs. Third world politics

To the best of my recollection, politics in this small twin isle has always been about race. With a roughly half-half ethnic population of African and Indians with some mixed and other origins thrown in, politicians are generally voted for based on whether they’re Indian or Negro, with minimal crossover.

It’s a broad general sweeping statement — but it’s uncontested.

Furthermore, many people believe that politics in Trinidad is for big people, but I beg to disagree.

US President Obama’s victory was accredited to many young first-time voters that absorbed and put faith in his politics and his charisma.

We have charisma, oh yes… oodles and oodles of it.

There’s a lot one can say about Manning and Panday… but no one can dare to say they aren’t charismatic leaders.

But my memories of UNC/PNM politics include a generalised “we fighting for the poor man” (isn’t everyone), “The only pipe I know is Mr. Bissessar pipe” (Kamla’s rude joke) and “Put the X by the balisade” (an inebriated Basdeo Panday encouraging voters to vote for the opposing party).

So if and when this election happens… let’s make it about something real, not race.

Blank template

I will be a first-time voter.

I have no political affiliation, and have never had one. I have no idea who my parents voted for in past elections.

I am 24 years old.

I am what Trinis call “red” which in my case encompasses (in no particular order): Spanish, French, African, Indian, Chinese, German… and the rest, God alone knows.

I am a blank template.

UNC, PNM, COP whoever going up… I beg you…

Give me something to vote for — not just someone.

Impress me… comprehensively.

2 images combined - originals taken from http://www.freedigitalphotos.net

From one frenzied ex-lover attack to the other…

An illegal immigrant from India, Vikramgit Singh, was convicted of stabbing his ex-girlfriend Gemma Dorman to death outside Amazing Thai restaurant in London.

Singh, 25, claimed in court that he did stab her but couldn’t remember it — “diminished responsibility”, “provocation” and “lack of intent”.

This, after he had been stalking her for months and followed her to the restaurant where he stabbed her.

Again, you wonder if there’s just not enough women in the world, that men have to go crazy when the one they love doesn’t love them back.

(And vice versa too — let’s not get judgmental, there’s loads of crazy women who attack men too!… though they may not be quite as violent, like Lakhvir Singh who allegedly poisoned her ex-man’s curry, or they may kill themselves in the process as well, like Genene Harmeyer.)

Not to say there aren’t psychopathic women wielding guns and knives… or a handy stiletto heel…

But back to the point…

My last post about a frenzied ex-lover… at least he assumedly killed out of jealousy, at least the relationship had been something legitimate. Legitimate enough for him to hop on a plane to kill her.

But what struck me about this story with Singh/Dorman was buried way down in the story…

The price of love

“He had given her cash totalling £260,000 as well as gifts including jewellery and computers.”

That’s not to mention the £200 he spent to get a huge heart-shaped tattoo with her name on his back.

But let’s forget the tattoo for a minute.

£260,000????????????????????????????????????

That’s $2.525 million TT….. an enormous Lotto jackpot.

What kind of relationship is that when a man pays £260,000 to his girlfriend?

For WHAT?

What on earth would require her needing that much money?

She was apparently intending to start up a new life in Spain… was she using it to buy a house??? A car???

She was also apparently an escort girl according to that article.

Maybe I’m just really poor and it’s a huge sum to me but a normal amount to others???

Looking back on former relationships… where, oh where, is my $2.5 million???

Maybe I need to have higher standards.

(Thou shalt not enter unless thou pays at least a $500,000 downpayment, and then pay off the remaining $2mil sum over a period of 3-5 years…?)

Going for broke

But seriously.

IF his claim about giving her the money is true… and it’s part of his “defense” strategy to have us believe she provoked his rage… does that even help his case?

How desperate must you be to pay that much to a loved one, just to keep her around? Didn’t you wonder what would happen if, God forbid, you one day became broke?

Of course you became broke… you paid her a ridiculous amount of money, and ON TOP OF THAT threw in gifts of jewellery and not a computer but COMPUTERS.

…And if his claim is true, who accepts that kind of money from a loved one, without expecting it to come at a price?

Gemma paid the ultimate price — not only her life, but the fact that the money issue will forever be attached to her name, that ambiguity of the case, the truth of which only she and her killer are privy to.

My sincere condolences to her family. It’s a shame her life had to end so suddenly and so violently at the hand of a lovestruck stalker.

But one does wonder, many women (and even men) are in situations where they are given extravagant gifts. Gifts always mean something to the other person, even when it may not mean quite the same to you.

In most cases it may end tepidly enough with a fallout of some kind, but you never know what you may be getting yourself into when you are “spoilt” by a lover. It’s nice to be admired but admiration can lead to obsession.

So… next time you see the dollar signs… think first.

…Money can kill.

Facebook can kill… literally.

But then posting up private aspects of your life are always bound to lead to consequences.

Paul Bristol, 25, an IT technician at the Ministry of Public Administration in Trinidad & Tobago, saw a photo of his ex-lover Camille Mathurasingh with her new man on Facebook and flew all the way to London to kill her — read the article on BBC here, and on the Trinidad Express here.

Geesh.

Love, jealousy, ‘tabanca‘… insanity?

I don’t know.

Provocation?

The thing that gets to me about this case is his plea of “manslaughter through provocation”.

Now, he saw the photo, and two weeks later he flew there.

Whether he took a few days to decide to buy the ticket is irrelevant: there was a two week gap between seeing it, then flying there.

Then he didn’t go straight to her once he landed; he waited till the next day.

So there was some considerable forethought.

First of all, obviously he has to be fairly well-off if he can invest in a flight just to commit murder. (Maybe government jobs paying too much???)

Or maybe he really genuinely thought he would get her back, and murder just kinda of… happened.

After all, 20 stab wounds all over her neck, chest, back, hip and leg… they do, sometimes, just… happen.

But come on, man…

There’s love, and then there’s psychosis… (though of course some say that love is psychosis).

But come on, man… there HAVE to be more fish in the sea!

So many beautiful, intelligent, amazing women right here in Trinidad… you go jump on a plane to go kill the girl because she want to done with you?

Wayyyyyeee…

Facebook frenzies

Then again, Facebook has already done its fair share of relationship damage: a Briton got 18 years in prison after stabbing his wife for changing her status to “single”, and another Briton got life in prison for killing his wife for posting on her page that her marriage was over.

So does the obsession lie in the mind of the FB user, or in FB itself?

I love Facebook but I’ve also used it (as opposed to other programs) to stalk people, particular those from relationships… and some revelations have led me to bouts of anger or tears.

Thankfully though, I’ve not — YET — been propelled into the psychosis of hopping on a plane to go “get my man back”, or kill him, for that matter.

Sometimes… you. just. got. to. let. go.

But whether or not Facebook is the keeper and host of evil urges of “provocation”… this incident should make us all a little wary of how freely we use it…

You never know just who you might be ‘provoking’…

I was sent this link by a friend from Spain, who I attended university with in London.

I’ve been to Spain three times. I’ve also studied Spanish for 8 years of my life.

But what do I really know about the country? — a vague sense of its historical background, its music, its culture, its language.

And what do I really know about the classmate who sent it to me? We had mutual friends, and probably knew a lot ABOUT each other — both good and bad.

At least, in both cases, despite the lack of a comprehensive whole understanding or appreciation, there were different stories.

I did not judge the country by one place I visited or one thing I’d seen on TV; and though I never knew him personally, I did not judge my classmate by the country he came from, or by one thing I’d overheard from a friend.

Single stories

I find Chimamanda Adichie‘s piece riveting.

To my memory and knowledge, I have not yet read a single Nigerian text. Yes, perhaps, this flaunts my ignorance, but I did not grow up with Nigerian texts.

I have never seen a Nigerian film. I’ve seen glimpses or previews through friends and clips online, but I’ve never traipsed out to the cinema to see one. I can’t remember ever seeing one showing at a nearby cinema.

What I know of Nigeria comes from television, and from friends I met (which introduces a scary idea: what if I’d never met these friends? Would I, then, have a “single story” — Hollywood’s sad solitary portrayal?).

At university, we would laugh at how Africa was portrayed by the West, how Hollywood films like Mean Girls talked about Africa like it was wilderness, and — even worse — that Africa was one country… despite the fact that it was a continent contained of several different cultures and governed accordingly.

Trinidadian writing

I suppose I experienced a similar childhood to this prolific Nigerian writer.

My father loved literature and would give me books by Naipaul like “Miguel Street” and “A House For Mr Biswas”.

They seemed foreign to me.

The books I was borrowing from the library (on my sister’s card, since I was too young to join!) were from Enid Blyton and Judy Blume.

Parents hugged children and said “I love you”, things were always resolved. There was no abuse, no abject poverty, no cringing shame of one’s existence beyond tepid teenage angst.

It was a nicer world that what Trinidadian literature had to offer me.

A Caribbean tale

And so, when I wrote (and I wrote a LOT as a child), I wrote for a US or UK audience. I wrote things I liked to read.

Teachers were thrilled I wrote. They didn’t care what. Most children could not string a sentence together, and there I was, producing stories and naive novels at the age of eight.

Then, secondary/high school began.

“The Secret Garden” (UK) was the Form 1 book.

Form Two was “The Pearl” (US).

Only in Form 3, when students were able to choose whether or not they wanted to continue doing Literature as a subject, did a Caribbean book appear: “Annie John” (Antigua).

I did not like Annie John. It was too stark, too familiar, not foreign enough. It made me uncomfortable.

Reproducing the cycle

I suppose, that is the fate of the contrasting sides of the coin – a displacement of self.

I’ve discussed it with a couple of amazing Trinidadian writers, Roslyn Carrington and Lisa Allen-Agostini (which I wrote about in an article you can read here), and discovered that I’m not alone in that feeling.

If they identify with that internal war, what does the future hold for generations to come, with more and more foreign media influences?

I don’t write Trinidadian or Caribbean stories. And now that I am older, the world is no longer content just that I write but now it’s become an issue of what I write.

I have to represent Trinidad, I have to represent the Caribbean, I have to represent the developing world.

My writing has halted entirely.

I have no idea where to begin to write a “Trinidadian” novel.

Interestingly, I’ve found that my writings tend to leave out “place” entirely…

photo adapted from one found on www.freedigitalphotos.net

I have to commend the Guardian writer on this one. I can imagine her, sitting in an office, fingers poised on the keys, wondering “what to headline this article with, boi?”

She must have chosen the high road and left the public to assume the rest.

Brilliant writing. Kudos.

Woman robbed at guesthouse

Lemme paraphrase, and you connect the dots:

A 50-year-old woman was “liming” (hanging out) on Brian Lara promenade when she met a 34-year-old man.

They arranged to have a date.

The date was at a motel in Port-of-Spain.

He then robbed her of $3500TT of valuables.

The dots…

First of all, “dating” a younger man is nothing new. A quick glance at TV shows like Desperate Housewives and Cougar Town prove the contemporary societal trend.

So let’s not make it ALL about the cougar element of the story.

But let’s connect these dots.

DOT 1: older woman, younger man…

DOT 2: arranges “first date” with this young man…

DOT 3: arranges “first date” at a motel…

DOT 4: she went on this “date” with $3500 worth of valuables…

Valuable common sense

Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t go ANYWHERE with $3500 of valuables. Particularly in Trinidad, particularly in this day and age of nonstop crime.

Most times I don’t go anywhere with $200 worth of valuables. And that’s counting the price of my clothing.

So why would a reasonably wealthy older woman, go to this “first date” in a motel with a stranger, with so much valuables?

I hate to state the obvious… but if you going to a motel for a first date, it doesn’t seem like clothes going to stay on, or jewelry’s going to be needed.

So keep your expensive stuff locked up tight in your house if you’re going to get a lil action from a stranger.

Desperate cougar

I’m not disparaging the woman’s intentions… she could do what she want with her body. That’s her prerogative.

Men do it allllll the time and hardly, if ever at all, get the “whore” label.

Some of them fall victim to crime just like she did, like Andrew Scarbrough in the US who had a “date from hell” when a woman he met on MySpace stole his keys, laptop, cell phone, wallet and his car… and left him naked.

Notice the similarity between Andrew and her — both of them headed to have sex immediately.

Andrew’s defense was he was “looking for love in all the wrong places.”

Nope. That’s not love. That’s sex.

That should make us all a bit wary about hopping into bed too soon with strangers!

But to the unnamed Trini cougar, just a little common sense in the future…

You pick up a fella in the middle of the Promenade and decide to “date” him. Fine. No problem there.

But carrying your valuables… you looking to get robbed.

Story done.

Just when I was getting complacent with unemployment and marvelling at my free time, bam! Life picks up speed and time disappears from me. So not much headway on the web design front, yet. But watch this space… moving on.

Woman tried to swap kids for cockatoo

Onto something that sparked my interest today, a story from New Orleans: a woman pleads guilty to selling two children for a cockatoo and a bit of cash.

Of all the strangest and most bizarre stories…

Last year I posted a blog about a woman who rented her womb in exchange for lipo… that was bizarre, yes, but this is a whole other level.

Donna Greenwood saw an ad for a cockatoo for sale and offered to deliver the children in exchange for the cockatoo, which is worth $1500.

Supposedly an adoption deal gone very, very bad. And granted, the media does makes everything more scandalous than it probably really is (though I admit, this one is scandalous on its own merit).

Costly birdies

As a side note… I had no idea birds were so costly.

Perhaps I do have particular biases towards furry creatures rather than beaks and claws (I did write an entire essay of a blog on the symbolic history of cats), and I can see the purpose of paying thousands for a Doberman to guard your house, or for a rare breed of cat.

Somehow it’s easier for me to feel attached to something cuddly. (Though I should point out, I’m extremely attached to my laptop and he’s not cuddly, nor is he an animate object! But I digress…)

I also discovered that these birdies can live up to age 60!!!! And I’m not talking in bird years!

In any case, feeling more for any creature than you do for two little 4-year-old and 5-year old kids… disgraceful.

Bizarro questions

Was there nowhere else she could situate the kids where they’d be taken care of properly (and treated like human beings)?

What do the kids think about this whole thing?

Did they willingly hop into the car, were they aware they were going to change hands?

Whose kids are they anyway?

Who leaves their kids with a person daft enough to exchange them for a bird?

Another scary bit of information: she was in charge of a third child.

Another frightening tidbit: she was sentenced to only 15 months hard labour.

Is that the going punishment for child exploitation these days?

So many questions… so much strangeness.

On the upside of this bizarre story, I suppose it’s always better to sell kids for a cockatoo than to sell them to strangers for sex , or to exchange them for beer and meat!

P.S. As a final note, I do wonder if the cockatoo was like, just a run-of-the-mill birdie, or a special talented singing cockatoo… you know, like Snowball (rock on!)……………………………

Yeh this blog has been a lonnggg time in being updated, while I took a break from my Journalism self.

It began as a news blog for my MA… which conceptually was a bad thing, as the moment it was no longer needed for my degree, my interest in it faded.

I couldn’t be bothered, plus I was too busy driving myself mad with the degree.

An MA is not easy, people. Particularly when it requires the superhuman feat of web design… which brings me to my point.

Web Design world

It’s been almost a year since I lived in Web Design world, that hazy world in between dream and consciousness where people speak in code.

During my Master’s Degree in International Journalism I chose the optional module of Online Journalism, so I assembled a few months’ worth of muddled web design under my belt.

This may be much more than some people, but to me it’s terrifying.

So many people my age can easily build their own websites, and my website (the product of a lot of blood, sweat and tears) is nothing in comparison.

…Not to mention the sad fact that I’ve forgotten all I knew last year and a lot of it depended on the fearless expertise of my more web-savvy friends, like the talented chicas that built these sites: VintageLondoner and AfricanScreens.

Perfect sanity, crippling uncertainty

I had intended to do a website for my final project but, as I valued my sanity and my perfect academic track record much more than my own personal development… Final Project approached and I chickened out, all too familiar with the crippling uncertainty and fear of venturing out into the digital unknown.

I ended up doing a magazine instead. Which turned out great, since I always throw myself fully into whatever I’m doing… BUT it wasn’t a website.

Now, as I am currently unemployed and bored, and I toted these large web design books all the way from London, so I might as well put them to some use.

This blog will detail my progress at re-introducing myself to the world of web design, this time starting from the ground up.

Currently I am using “The Complete Reference: Web Design” by Thomas A. Powell. It’s a book published in 2000 but let’s assume that the past 10 years haven’t been entirely necessary in terms of web development (yeh right). I’m too poor to buy something newer, and a 2000 knowledge of web is better than none at all.

I’m going to aim at going through at least a chapter or two a day and summarise my learnings.

Hopefully this blog will guilt me into self-directed learning.

Time alone will tell…