The things we’ve noticed people like to say here: 

1. There are no tourists here. 

2. We like to lime. 

Oh yeah. No tourists and liming. Welcome to Trinidad. Without the strength of a service-based economy, 'Have a nice day' doesn’t figure very much. But people aren’t exactly rude either. Take out the niceties; you’re left with a brand of straightforwardness. The very first day we arrived last September, we’d gone into the marina office to pay for our berth and spied the local newspaper. On the front page was a photo of a beautiful woman. She’d been kidnapped as she'd walked to her car. The marina manager said with a shy smile, ‘Most likely for body parts. They don’t remove them here though. They’ll do that in South America.’ We'd gulped. Compared to Grenada, we were in another world. Also, Chaguaramas; the yachting corner of Trinidad seemed to be hosting the unofficial, ‘how long can a traffic jam be?’ competition. The weather wasn’t going to be left out of things either. It was working on its annual humidity test. Can you still breathe? No, not really. 

Things were different this time. This time we walked into Immigration on a fresh, breezy day and found it filled with Venezuelan fishermen. A heavily pregnant Trinidadian woman was at the booth, acting as their agent. As the fishermen bought her bottles of water, she fought their case and chugged on the bottles like her baby was running an indoor marathon. I’d walked in and finding there was no counter space to fill out the pile of immigration forms, asked the elderly security woman if I could use her completely empty desk. ‘No,’ she said. Oh. After a moment she sighed and pointed to a clipboard. I sat down on the hard plastic chair with clipboard and forms. I listened to the Trinidadian agent. She was asking for freedom of movement. The Immigration officer told her, ‘No. They can go to the supermarket round the corner but that’s it. They have no passport stamps leaving their own country. We have to protect our borders.’ With this, the fishermen filed out of the room. A line of Immigration officers were left standing up against the wall. I brought Quest’s papers gingerly to the booth. The senior officer moved forward to stamp them but it was clear he didn’t have his heart in it. ‘What can we do?’ he said to the line of officers behind him. ‘If the situation deteriorates in Venezuela, we could have an exodus.’ 

After we’d been stamped; fortunate enough to visit any supermarket, the next thing was to buy a SIM card. SIM cards being the tiny keys to Quest’s success. Lulu had already missed French class but hey, c’est la vie. She’d still get to Geography tomorrow. We went into the phone shop and discovered that our lady, the climate change predictor of doom we’d enjoyed speaking to last time (really!) no longer worked there. Instead was a man behind the counter with long silver dreadlocks. They were seriously nice. Like satin ropes pulled back into a chignon. His name was Dimitrius. He told us he sold phones and played the trumpet. He'd played his trumpet all over the Caribbean in a soca band. ‘Where’s your favourite island?’ Lulu asked him. Not shy that one. He smiled at her question. ‘I like Jamaica. It’s cool to see how reggae exploded world-wide there. The Bahamas are nice too. The clearest, most beautiful water. But more than anything and anywhere, I just love coming home to Trinidad.’ 

We decided to rent a car. A car might also be the key to success here, we thought. If not, we’d just have to join everyone else in the traffic jam. Jack called up EconoCar to enquire about prices. Now we’d heard from other cruisers that EconoCar’s cheapest deal was tempting if not a drama-free choice. ‘Our back wheels just fell off,’ one cruiser said. ‘And the door came off in my hand.’ ‘Buy coolant,’ another advised. Before the lady from EconoCar confirmed the price of a sandwich, Jack had to give her his verbal resume. I listened to his end of the conversation. ‘We are here for about three weeks,’ he said. ‘What do I do? I have my own company.’ Pause. ‘Property.’ ‘Yes, back in the UK.’ Another pause. He squinted into the phone. ‘We would like the car to drive around.’ ‘Yes, for leisure purposes.’ Finally he put the phone down. ‘She’s picking us up on Saturday to take us into the office.’ On Saturday morning, we were ready. We shook hands with Michelle who was wearing a blue EconoCar t-shirt and drinking a cup of coffee and got in the car. As we drove along the pleasantly surprising traffic-free road into town, Michelle made easy conversation. She told us her son played in football tournaments in Wales in the summers. Wow, small world, we observed. ‘My husband and I would join him but he’s a trumpet player so he’s always away with his band.’ Time stopped for a moment before Jack said, 'Trumpet player? ‘His name isn’t Dimitrius by any chance?’ ‘Yes, it is,’ Michelle said. Wow, very small world. Of the millions of people who live in Trinidad and the less than a dozen we actually know… 

We left with a good deal. A decent car. A link to friendship. The next day we went up to the North Coast. We met up with local surf instructor, Jonathan Tory who brought us boards to rent and showed us the best surf break on Las Cuevas beach. The water was green and warm. Empty turtle eggs lay like pieces of white leather on the sand. We met another family from Germany who’d been living here for four years. Their nine-year old daughter spoke with a Trinidadian lilt and rode a grafitti-daubed board. We said good-bye in the late afternoon. We walked back to the busier stretch of beach and bought bags of mango and pineapple in a spicy relish from a lady in the car park. She and her daughter smiled at us and tried to explain the recipe. To our dumb ears? No chance! Then we drove to Maracas beach, home of the island-famous shark and bake. It was like a sandwich, but like most things here, not a sandwich you’d ever experienced. As Michelle had said the day before, all of Trinidad would be in Maracas. Different communities, ethnicities. All enjoying themselves together. Not a tourist in sight. Well except for us. We ate our food (not the shark option :) in one of the cafes lining the beach, watching Sunday evening Trinidad live its happy life. No tourists and liming. It’s true. This part was working perfectly well. 

Love from Quest and her crew xx