All Decent Animals

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FROM THE TIME ATA CAME TO VISIT this place as a shy child she told herself — this is a place for adults. From the time them lovely Maracas waves first chewed her up, when she saw teenagers dressed like big people, rich homes flashing TV style — everybody rushing, buying food, driving and eating and drinking, picong talk flying — she promised herself she would come back to this prancy, peacock island. But she never trusted the perfumed strutting. And Trinidad never promised her anything. Never once invited her. No matter how many times Ata came from her island home. Because Trinidad is a metropolis, she thought. A complicated process and a place busy keeping up with itself, carrying on at a rate. Horrendous rates. Every time, in the taxi from Piarco Airport to Port of Spain, she could see the mess of it right there. All along the road, without shame or design. Ignoring her arrival.

Today the customs man doesn’t bother with her bags, he glances at Ata’s mixed-race complexion. “Yuh come back home?” he asks, just after Immigration finished giving her hell for visiting the Home of the Greatest Show on Earth, yet again.

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