TRINIDAD
I was drawn to the dying
embers of a funeral pyre. It
could have been the funeral
I’d created in the novel, except
I’d omitted the shredded
plastic bags, broken idols and
forgotten shrines washing up
on the muddy shore
D
ig and you’ll ind my navel string
buried deep beneath Trinidad’s
soil. The southernmost in a chain of
Caribbean islands stretching from Florida to
Venezuela, my birthplace seemed the natural
setting for my debut novel. But I’d let at 18.
Evoking an authentic sense of Trinidad surely
demanded more than the leeting visits I’d
managed over the decades. I wrote the irst
drat plagued by unease. What if the Trinidad
I was so tenderly recreating on the page had
vanished? Had it ever existed? Everything I’d
written might be the nostalgia of a self-exile.
I had to return. Readers were owed more than
memory, research and Google Earth.
While shiny new towers punctured the
skyline, the birthplace of steelpan and
calypso had retained its essential vibe.
Imagine my relief. I stopped for gas and the
pump attendant asked what I did, making
conversation the way Trinis do. When I
told him I was a writer, he was delighted,
introduced himself as a slam poet, and
invited me to his gig that weekend. I pulled
out and drove south from the capital, Port
of Spain, to my hometown, San Fernando,
grateful that economic progress hadn’t
dimmed the warmth of Trini people.
Soon it was clear I’d forgotten another
warmth — the stinging midday sun.
Thankfully, I spotted a street vendor
advertising ‘beastly cold drinks’. Horns
and car stereos blared as I crawled through
yet another traic jam. I passed several
makeshit roadside stalls overlowing with
fruit and veg. I bought Julie mangoes — the
fruit of the gods. And ater years of buying
herbs in tiny plastic packets I couldn’t resist
a ist full of coriander to cook with the deep
purple eggplants as long as my arm.
My novel is littered with villages, beaches,
shops and monuments, and I wanted to see
them all. First stop was San Fernando Hill,
searching for the bench where a character
picnics with his lover. I took in the view I’d
been imagining from his eyes; this city I’d
grown up in, on the banks of the Gulf of Paria.
While in San Fernando, I snacked on our
most popular fast food, doubles — two pieces
of light, spicy, fried dough sandwiched with
curry channa topped with tamarind sauce,
pickled cucumber and slight pepper.Returning to the Caribbean island she let at 18, the author inds the warmth
of the Trini people undimmed by the onward march of progressI shadowed my ictional characters north
west, crossing the rice and sugar cane ields
of the Caroni Plain. Clumps of bamboo poles
carrying coloured prayer lags called jhandis
fronted many of the houses. My ancestors
— indentured Indians from Uttar Pradesh and
Bihar replacing slave labour — had brought
these traditions with them. Between 1845 and
1917, 150,000 indentured workers dared cross
the ‘black water’ of the oceans for the promise
of a better life in Trinidad. Today, they make
up nearly half the country’s population.
I wanted to visit the Temple in the Sea. Built
by a lone Hindu devotee, it now forms part of
an elaborate complex, housing a grand temple
on land and the 85t-tall Hanuman Murti, a
statue to the monkey god. But I was drawn to
the dying embers of a funeral pyre. It could
have been the funeral I’d created in the novel,
except I’d omitted the shredded plastic bags,
broken idols and forgotten shrines washing
up on the muddy shore.
The last stop that day was an old favourite.
Caroni Bird Sanctuary is a protected,
mangrove wetland formed where the Caroni
River meets the Gulf of Paria. Once I got
into the tour boat, the world hushed and
slowed down. Trini people love an ol’ talk
and ‘liming’ with friends. Here was silence as
we navigated channels cut between tangled
mangrove roots. We glimpsed herons, egrets
and kingishers but our captain explained
there were 186 species of bird living here.
As the sun lowered to the horizon lock
ater lock of brilliant scarlet ibis (our
national bird) descended into the trees for
the night. I stared in awe as hundreds of
birds glowed like red Christmas baubles.
And then I noticed something new. In the
distance, pink lamingos were nesting.
They’d migrated from Venezuela. Perhaps
they’d followed the thousands of Venezuelan
refugees who are now part of Trinidadian
life. My island home continues to change but
it’s still mine, no matter where I live.Ingrid Persaud’s debut novel, Love After Love, will be
published in April by Faber & Faber. She won the 13th
BBC National Short Story Award for The Sweet Sop,
about a Trinidadian man reunited with his absent
father via the power of chocolate.
@IngridPersaudNOTES FROM AN AUTHOR // INGRID PERSAUD
SMART TRAVELLERILLUSTRATION: JACQUI OAKLEY
March 2020 39SMART TRAVELLER