Contributor: Brandon Mc Ivor
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"People live in Port-of-Spain all their lives—maybe they go Maracas on weekends—and they think they know Trinidad," says my father.
The groundskeeper laughs as he puts the $20 bill my father slipped him into his back pocket.
"They don't know Trinidad," he says, "This is Trinidad."
We are standing on a mountaintop in Tortuga Village. Behind us, Our Lady of Montserrat is cradling her child and looking out into the distance. The sun is sinking into a sea of rolling elephant grass on the Gulf of Paria.
"Trinidad small," says the groundskeeper, "But some people feel it tiny—like it have nothing here at all."
"But it have this, though," I say.
The groundskeeper smiles, bows his head. He turns away from us and brushes a cobweb from his statue’s shawl.
"He leaving for America," says my father, gesturing towards...
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Author:
Brandon Mc Ivor
