THE UNEXPECTED

‘Row, row, row your boat,’ I tap the side of the small tourist flat boat as we glide down the Caroni River in Trinidad. Little black bugs annoy me, go down my shirt. Bengali must be immune to them. He stands, rows and watches. ‘Look, Sahib, see where the river flows into the ocean? See, see. Isn’t it beautiful? ‘ Deftly he swings the boat around. He, the bugs and I head back to civilization. Mangrove trees root along the river’s edge. ‘Keep your hands inside or you may lose a finger,’ says Bengali. 1000s of scarlet ibises stalk the shallow water feasting on whatever moves.

Bengali calls across the river to a friend. Shail is about to turn also and will follow us. ‘When is it?’ ‘It is at 2 today.’ I look at my watch and see it is already 11. ‘Bengali, what is at 2 o’clock? You aren’t going are you? I thought we were to have lunch and continue northward.’ ‘Sahib, we have time. I will take you to the big event, no extra charge. Hokay?’ ‘Hokay if you say so.’

Naked children laugh and follow our boat. They wave and call us ashore but Bengali ignores them. ‘They want to sell you trinkets they made in school. They’ll smile and let you see their big black eyes and maybe pick your pockets.’ We drift. Bengali rests, has a coke and offers one to me. I gladly take it and find it so warm I start to throw it in the water, but am stopped. My hand is grabbed and I am scolded. ‘You must not throw glass in the water. I will take it in when we go ashore.’ ‘Whoa, I wasn’t going to throw the bottle in. I was just going to empty the warm coke.’ ‘Hokay,’ and he drinks it all, letting me know he drank it because fish don’t like coke.

We pull into a small cove where we have a light lunch of spicy couscous with what I hope is chicken pieces . A delicious piece of papaya, warmed by the sun, is plenty for me. Bengali orders seconds. Before starting out again the toilets become a necessity. With much apprehension I go in and am pleasantly surprised to see flush toilets with Americanized tissue called Caroni Soft, plus a large roll of Bounty hand wipes on the wall.

Off we go! At 1:30 I notice large groups of white robed men walking along the shore. ‘Who are they, Benagali? Where are they going?’‘Like most tourists, Sahib, you did not read about us before your arrival. Books, travel guides say our history is that were settled by Indians, so travelers gather American Indians, Apache, Navajo, but no we are East Indians with a long history.. Today is Cremation Day. Today is special. Orija’s cremation is the one we will attend. I have known him since I was a small child. He was a holy man, a good man, who has left seven sons. His body will be blessed, put in a bier and covered with wood chips. Then we will watch as he is carried to the river where the wood will begin to burn and he will drift to the ocean and disappear. There will be a feast but we will not stay for that. When Orija leaves, we will go in the opposite direction.’ I do not want to stay to see the body burn but cannot insult Bengali, so stay and keep my eyes closed.I hear chimes and chanting as we set out towards the nearby wharf. Other flat boats are emptying, some filling again. There will be no more cremations tonight.

Bengali and I shake hands. He receives a substantial tip and I return to the tour bus that is only partially filled. The moon later hides behind the clouds and myriad blinking stars. Sleep is slow coming. I see the scarlet ibises that are now red, aflame. Ocean waves swell over them. They breathe smoke. I shake, wake early, have a satisfactory breakfast of eggs over light in the air conditioned dining room, skip the papaya and never intend going to another barbecue.