Reviewed by Muna

 March 3, 2002

The whole morning is a succession of rain and shine. It is Sunday and everything is closed, nothing seems to be moving. When I reach the airport, I buy many postcards and mail them to my friends. While reading the paper, a man sitting close by ask me if I am that “Pushkar Shah”, who had been featured in one of the local newspapers. I affirm and we talk for a while.

My plane to Grenada’s Point saline International Airport lands at 3 pm. A hotel owner I had talked to over the phone earlier, Lyden, sends a person to pick me up. He takes me and leaves me at Wavecrest Holiday, Lyden’s hotel. After resting, I wash up and go down to the reception and wait to meet Lyden. As evening falls, two German girls returning from the beach in bathing suits walk towards me. They look tipsy and admit that they have been drinking beer. They are looking for a fun place for the night and ask me if I want to join them. I tell them that I am also looking for a place like that and for some reason they crack up laughing. After a while, Lyden comes and meets me. I introduce them to Lyden and ask them if they want to go out and have fun with us, they giggle continuously. Their laughter rings loudly throughout the hotel as though attempting to bring it down.

March 4, 2002

Lyden’s hotel overlooks the sea. It is beautiful. In front of the hotel, there is a swimming pool, beside which there is a bar where he sits alone. He is not married and seems lonely, but I do not ask him about his loneliness. He doesn’t ask me about anything either. For someone in the hotel business, he talks very little. After breakfast, he leaves to sit at his office, while I head towards St. George.

After interviews with Voice Newspaper and GBN Television, at around two in the afternoon, I cycle towards the East Coast. While I make frequent stops in the village mini-provision stores for a drink, men with beer bottles, beer breath and beer bellies scorn and make fun of me. School children are the worst, they run after me and laugh as though I am a clown. I reach Greenville at 5:30. Three kilometers away from the city, Ramdhanny hajuraama lives in a small house. When I reach there at 6, I see that she has lit her house already, as though welcoming me.

March 5, 2002

I spend all morning till noon with the students of St. Joseph’s School. I pass Harford Village and stick to the path that runs westward. The road becomes steep. At Beauregar, I cross a river. The path then semi-merges with the jungle where the nutmeg trees shelter me from the tyrannical sun, making the ride pleasant. For an hour until I reach Lake Grand Etang, I push my cycle uphill because it is too steep to ride. I feel drained. As evening draws closer the road slopes downhill, it continues to surprise me with dangerous bends. From Mt. Gay, one can see the world’s most photogenic beach, the three-kilometer Grand Anse Beach. I then head towards the city to Lyden’s guesthouse. When I reach there, he tells me that he is going to France and that until 8 the next morning when someone else will come, I will have to take care of his guesthouse. For the next 12 hours, I am the proprietor of a big house overlooking the sea with a sapphire blue swimming pool.

March 6, 2002

Palmer, the person I would hand over Lyden’s property to and who would take me to the airport arrives 15 minutes late. We rush to the airport and then head towards the city to meet with the Tourism Board director and members who have been waiting for us. After a half an hour-long meeting, we rush to the airport. I shake Palmer’s hand in a hurry and run to catch my flight. I am the last passenger to get on board.

When we get off the plane, the immigration officers give me trouble. They issue me visa for Trinidad. I show them the paper which says that I will receive the visa at the arrival gate if I have a valid passport and a valid visa while leaving Grenada, and I do. But I am told that I will be sent back to Grenada in the next flight. They do not even want to look through my folder and papers. They asked me about my sponsor and I told him that it is Gregor, they find out that he lives in Venezuela. I had no idea about it. Somehow, I manage to call one of my other acquaintances, Elias. He talks to one of the officers and they give me the visa for 50 TTD (Trinidad and Tobago Dollar / 6.116 TTD = 1 US$). Tired, angry with the immigration officers but still hopeful, I sigh, “Trinidad, finally”.

source-wave magazine,nepal