OH, RIVERS FIVE!

Lasana Liburd -Axeman for hire.

2012-02-13T00:32:00.001-04:00

Just this weekend, while sticking close to home due to a persistent bout of food-poisoning, was in close collaboration with a colleague concerning an early Mighty Sparrow ditty whose punchline spun around his father's axe being sharpened to prevent hometown belongings being assailed. Didn't know it presaged my soon having to resurrect my Daddy's acumen to deal with people who are given to biting the hand that fed them...not surprising, since, down below, the eternal motto of Five Rivers, Arauca, Iere, is inscribed:

Love us! Hate us! But...NEVER betray us!

We Araucans doh make joke in our own defence...whether with brain or brawn, regardless what side of the line we normally tread, we circle wagons when any one wagon is attacked. If you think I joking, ask Milne-Home, Fooey, Teeluckdharry, Asgarali, Godzilla, Geoffrey, Natty Crichlow, Spiderman, Chinee Michael, Hugh, Mr. Alcantara, Alec, Junior, the Roach brothers, Cacambo, Busta, Spirit, Mr. Walker, Sutherland, Junie, Lallo, Bullet, Niles Jack, Toco, Ook, Sonnypet, Bizee, Ding, Kokaram, Odin, Bambie, Sudama, Soda Bake, Ching-Pling, Mr. Owen, Squeezer, Doon, Casa, Lance, Rhambis, Miss Mildred, Bazie, Boots, Spy, Cheryl, Gums, Mr. Primee, Foots, Bobby Khan, Omo, Burgess, Lahzee, Hollis, Acres, Shocker, Kingston, Atherton, Gemma, Beggs, Dookaran, Mister Nedd, Dominic, Mr. Agard, Learie Constantine, Boxer Boy, Gus, Mammy Irene, Death, Tommy Bleasdell, Archbishop Rivas, Leo and Ronald, Beggs, Biter Tom, Churchill, Charlie, F.G.T., Michael Johnson, Bullkak, Trinidad Irah, Martin T., Decca, Cumberbatch, Pharoah, Sonah, Hamil, Natty, Everest, Hatna, or Philmore!

Some living...some dead! May God be merciful on those of them who've already died! May He simultaneously quicken those yet alive, for one of Arauca's finest is again under threat and so, in his defence, our axes we must whet. I speak of Jack Austin Warner...His Excellency as most fondly call him.

Regardless of your opinion of the man, he is a Trini, thus, of us. By that single measure, it is unforgivable for any Trini to ally with a foreign mercenary bent on his humiliation. By the other yardstick -Five Rivers is his home for decades upon decades- who belittles him belittles all of Five Rivers! As Five Rivers first-favourite son -I'm the second-favourite, in case you didn't notice- it behooves interloping to scout out the motives which drive the likes of Lasana Liburd to enthuse over the warped handiwork of Englishman, James Corbett.

Corbett, you see, on Saturday Feb 11th, had tweeted a boast about the latest derogatory article he was paid to write about His Excellency:

The Sunday Times is UK newspaper. It is owned by News International. News International is owned by News Corporation. News Corporation is an American corporation owned by the Australian-American, Rupert Murdoch. Important to note that all of them have been exposed as skulduggers of the worst sort -why, just about the same time Corbett was crowing of his dirty deed to his 3,307 Twiter followers, another batch of Murdoch's UK media employees were being handcuffed and carted away by British Bobbies.

Following his first tweet, Corbett let loose a rapidfire slew, hoping to make his 3,037 followers salivate:

Thing is, it fell flat, for, up to the instant of this writing, only an indiscernible portion of his alleged "massive" got a hard-on over the great Corbett invitation:

"Retweeted by ISignedMyPants and 16 others" means: only 17 of Corbett's 3,307 Followers had bothered to spread the word. Wow? And this is the man over whom the likes of Trinbago's own Lasana Liburd is agog??? How do I know Liburd ecstasizes whenever Corbett farts? Hold your horses! Or, if you're one of those like Liburd who loves to take a lag in Warner behind, better I say: "Patience, Jackarse! Patience!"

Like Corbett, Lasana Liburd is on Twitter. Thing is, he opened his account less than a week after Patrick Manning announced he was putting his PNM forces on General-Election full alert -"PM: GET READY FOR ELECTIONS" T & T Newsday March 28, 2010. The date Liburd began to tweet is of great significance, for the man snapping at Manning's heels -Dr. Keith Rowley- would've by that time confirmed Manning was dead serious about the call-to-arms. Why do I say it's very noteworthy? Well, Liburd's Twitter Follower Account is this:

It's a motley crowd, most of whom appear to be sports journalists/aficionados/

organisations. However, two names are distinct! Yep, you guessed them..easy, me having already given the clues. One is James Corbett. The other is Dr. Keith Rowley. The latter is most significant, because of the 1,000,000-plus active politicians in the world -of which T&T has about 1,500, Rowley was the only one Liburd deemed worthy of interest to his Twitter purpose:

From his entry in Twittersphere, Liburd reconfirmed his longstanding focus on piling dirt on His Excellency, thereby to paint his own self as a a journalist of international and Calpurnian repute. Worse yet, he showed his disdain for the very crucible whence he was born:

So, really and truly, it's not shock-generating when, shortly after Corbett announced his Sunday Times hiJack attempt to unconcerned Followers, Trinbago's own Lasana Liburd would chomp firmly on the bait, for, you don't have to be a Sorzano Arietas (T&T's equivalent of Sherlock Holmes) to decipher that, off Twitter, exchanges concerning the article had passed between Corbett, Sunday Times and Liburd, since Liburd posted the story today -Feb 12, 2012- even expanded on it, in Wired868, while no T&T newspaper had even a whiff of it. (Click on the below screenshot and it'd take you straight to the Wired868 story:

The anti-Jack footprints leading to the blatant Corbett-Liburd collusion are as next below:

Did you notice the chumminess: "James"?

But, who exactly is this James of whom Liburd is so openly fond? Well, for one thing, he was real close to Hosni Mubarak for several years, being the UK-correspondent for Al-Ahram, which Wikipedia profiles as follows:

The Egyptian government owns a controlling stock in three major daily Egyptian newspapers: Al-Ahram, Al-Akhbar, and Al-Gumhuriya . The editors of these dailies are appointed by the president, and as appointees, they enjoy little censorship by the government. But because they are appointed and working in a state-owned newspaper, it is understood that their loyalties remain with the state. They are also given substantial leeway, given they avoid certain "taboos"—meaning government criticism is avoided since it selects and compensates them. The largest of these newspapers is the Al-Ahram , and it is the largest Arabic newspaper in the world...

In other words, Al-Ahram was the largest print propaganda machine for the now-deposed Mubarak. Al-Ahram's business was to make the bad look good by making the good look bad. And it was there that James Corbett cut his journalistic teeth:

http://www.blogger.com/profile/14252157594197832368

And James Corbett is Lasana Liburd's first-name-basis chum.

He must be fluent in Arabic, else he'd never have gotten the Al-Ahram post. But, then, maybe in gunning after our homeboy, he figures he'd purge himself of any acquired-Mubarak taint. Which is why Liburd is so facile when clamouring for the longevity of "investigative journalism" -I am no journalist, yet, within one hour I was able to find online the facts herein adumbrated! If a non-journalist can do that, imagine what a true investigative journalist can do! So, let me henceforth turn my Howitzers fully on the betrayer, Liburd.

He is a betrayer because he delights in damning/slighting the bridges over which he passed -notice next what this profile of his says of the T&T Guardian, the journal that cradled him:

http://www.playthegame.org/knowledge-bank/author-profile/lasana-liburd.html

The organisation whose website displays the last above bit is named "Play The Game". Liburd writes for Play The Game. It is not the run-of-the-mill Danish aggregation, for it is owned by the State, managed by a State-appointed Board and supported by funds provided out of the Danish Treasury to the tune of TT$6m-plus per annum! What you mean I talking crap? See below!

http://www.playthegame.org/about-play-the-game/objectives.html

http://idan.dk/about.aspx

Furthermore, every single article Liburd has written paints Trinidad and Tobago in a vicious light.

http://www.playthegame.org/knowledge-bank/author-profile/lasana-liburd.html

In other words, Lasana Liburd, apart from wining on his career mentors, has declared war on citizens of Trinidad and Tobago! His sole focus is to do a virtual globetrot and denigrate Jack Austin Warner, why? For thirty pieces of silver!

By being so one-tracked and his choice of association, the only conclusion to be drawn is Liburd is driven by malice aforethought so grave it has created an embarrassing situation for the diplomatic relations between Trinidad and Tobago and Denmark, for it clear Liburd is paid by the Danish government to write slanderous things about this country's citizenry.

Good thing I'm no investigative journalist like Lasana and James? Can I call you by your first name, guys? Heck, I know so much about you now, I think I deserve the "honour". If I were indeed an IJ, imagine how much more I'd write than this which represents one hour's online research.

I gone! Gotta dust off my court clothes...I feel Liburd and Corbett co-tweeting bout me already. Who knows, maybe Rowley would join their brew too? But, before I go, a parting couple of shots Haiti and Central America way.

I distinctly remember liaising with His Excellency and local support staff in the aftermath of the terrible haitian earthquake. My involvement arose following plaintive cries I'd sent forth through this same channel and in my blog:

http://kid5rivers.blogspot.com/2010/01/omg-manning-haiti-under-real-pressure.html and
http://kid5rivers.blogspot.com/2010/01/oh-god-mr-manning-do-something-na.html

I also distinctly recall conversations centred on Haitian officials demanding to be paid directly and in cash so that they would then "see after Haitian sufferers" since it was utter chaos where internal mobility and safety of foreigners were concerned. I'll dig up in my notes and revert to that in due course. Meantime, as it began, so shall it end -Araucans doh mince matters in defending their own...whether own is native or adopted! So, Love us! Hate us! But...NEVER betray us!

Coohoong!

2011-08-16T08:24:00.001-04:00

As little boys growing up in Five Rivers, Arouca, one of our regular pastimes was venturing into the Northern Range beyond Laurel Hill to enjoy the refreshing waters of the many clear pools of Miss Gutter River. Invariably, those jaunts would embrace the chance to dine on luscious sun-ripened fruit along the way abundantly available by Nature's providence. Yet, delectable and profuse as they were, we had to be wary, for they could not be plucked except without enraging their vigilant protectors, namely: jeps, marabuntas, tac-tac, the odd cascabel or tigray, or, worst of all, coohoong.

Now that we are grown, when we reminisce we refer to the coohoong as "the original Killer bee"!

Unrelated to the Africanized Bee, other than by being an insect, the Coohoong was a wasp which, once they felt threatened, came at you with full force -their viciousness knew no vicissitude and their radar was unerring in detecting the unwelcome intruder, to the extent that only by headlong flight into a pool of appropriate depth for purposes of submerged lingering could their fever-inducing barbs be avoided.

The thing is, once the Coohoong realized we'd escaped their clutches, they would call off the hunt and return to base. By which time, the fruit-picking team we'd left lying in wait would've done out cleaned the treasure trove said Coohoongs were defending and would be on way to rendezvous with us by some other route.

Looking back, we now realize those puerile escapades did symbiotically serve a purpose, for the Coohoongs got the opportunity further to flex themselves, while the object of their ire got the thrill of making a cunumunu out of them.

Perhaps there's a lesson for us all in this? Of course there is! And you don't need to spend valuable time resting and reflecting to get it!

Oh, Rivers Five! How sweet life was back in the days!

Famous Green Giants

2011-02-07T11:21:00.000-04:00

The Bohbeen Tractor.

2009-05-01T04:52:00.005-04:00

We used to make our own toys --tops, kites, boxcarts, slingshots what have you. But the Bohbeen Tractor held a league of its own. Follow the above design to make one yourself. Bless!

The Seond Rape at Five Rivers Crossing.

2009-04-02T11:45:00.000-04:00

For years and years the drains, footpaths and roads in Five Rivers, Arouca, have been deteriorating for lack of attention by the elected local government representatives and the relevant public authorities whose job it is to see after them. Yet, the only thing these individuals and agencies can see fit to do is to go onto lands over which they have no whatsoever control and which, from the 1920's, have been reserved for and used by the Five Rivers, Arouca residents and visitors as the point of embarkation/disembarkation on their journeys to and from their homes. For that is what The Crossing is --that triangular piece of land where, when travelling to Arima from Port of Spain, the former railway line (now-converted to the Priority Bus Route) first intersects with the Eastern Main Road.

As a youth, The Crossing was entirely-shaded by a majestic Samaan tree. the Big Tree --as, fondly, we called her-- was in feet as high as in years she was old --over a hundred-- and home to many arboreal or winged denizens. Within holes high up in her massive trunk lived woodpeckers, parrots, owls and squirrels, whose antics constantly bemused our eager eyes. In nests wedged in the crocks of, or hanging from, her outstretched boughs, keskidees, picoplats, sikeeyea, flycatchers and cornbirds attached their nests. And beneath --except in dead of night when jumbies prowled-- on her sprawling buttress-like roots, many a weary traveller would sit, either in hope of catching their second wind from the long walk down from the foothills of the lofty Northern Range, or of catching the next train or bus to their east-or-west-of-Five-Rivers destination.

Three hundred feet west of the Big Tree was the Five Rivers Dry River, which, at least triannually --when in flood-- would spill his precipitous banks to spew his waters like a murky blanket over the entire Crossing and, in the process, encircle the Mighty Samaan's up to her waist. But the Big Tree always stood her ground, keeping watch over The Crossing, using her luxuriant foliage to keep the Crossing safe for us, the good citizens of Five Rivers, Arouca. Thus, in short order, on every occasion, the Dry River would petulantly throw in the towel --a dry towel-- and shrink back to his natural course.

Aye! For more than a hundred years, the Big Tree sentrylike stood, as if watching, the comings and goings of Five Rivers, Arouca and guarding all who 'neath her passed against every treacherous twist and turn of Mother Nature. Aye! Yes! The Big Tree by The Crossing was, indeed, a proud bulwark; and a beauteous sight.. a most beauteous sight.

In his poem --The Last Buccaneer-- Charles Kingsley reminded that "an ending to all fine things must be". Kingsleylike, no good citizen of Five Rivers expected the Mighty Samaan to live forever. But none, too, expected that her end would come when and in the manner it did. For, sometime close to the 1981 General Elections, The Big Tree by the Forestry Division of the Ministry of Agriculture was unceremoniously felled and her precious timber hauled away to parts unknown.

The pretext for the Ministry's dastardly deed was that a different, but unwelcome, denizen had deep within her taken up residence --termites-- though, on inspection of her dismembered remains, neither life- nor limb-threatening evidence of the pesky insect was found. To this day, though suspicions are rife as to who did, none in authority has ever said who benefitted from the Forestry Division's callous act. To this day, too, the good citizens of Five Rivers, Arouca spit nothing but curses at the powers-that-be for that inconsiderate act. Some even derisively now refer to The Crossing as The Bareheaded Crossing.

Since the destruction of the Big Tree, the good citizens of Five Rivers have continued to use The Bareheaded Crossing as the hub for their inwards/outwards journeys and, over time, that hub has naturally evolved into a taxi stand --the jump-off point for ALL taxis plying north of the Eastern Main Road, between Crown Street, Tacarigua, in the west and, Lopinot Road, in the east. And, why not? For it's the ideal spot for such a purpose and, in any event, that's what it always was.

But, as is well-known to the good citizens --not only of Five Rivers-- the powers-that-be are not driven by what's best for the people when the people's money is to be spent.

So, now, in 2009, twenty-eight years after butchering the Big Tree and raping her prostrate corpse, yet, again the powers-that-be have returned to perpetrate another inconsiderate act on the good citizens of Five Rivers, Arouca --and in the same locale. For, in their mad haste to spend and spend and spend --no doubt, because the "safest" time to filch and filch and filch from the public purse would be when it's contents are released as if in flood-- the powers-that-be, through their agent, Tunapuna Piarco Regional Corporation (TPRC), abruptly moved into The Crossing and, with heavily-armed police officers ever-menacingly watching, shooed every Five Rivers resident from off their ancestral and commonly-held land to begin the task of "beautifying" The Crossing. How? By constructing a circular, concrete monstrosity. Why? Under the pretext that the spot needed to be sanitized for when Obama and them passing!

Sanitized?

For Obama?

What utter rubbish!

What utter contempt for the wishes of the good citizens of Five Rivers, Arouca!

President Obama is not on that! President Obama is about honest and open governance, about throwing open the doors and windows that, for way too long, have been kept shut, solely and firmly to cloister the corridors of power and deny the citizenry the real say in how and to what extent they must be governed!

The powers-that-be need to understand that the good citizens of Five Rivers, Arouca are on to them and, so, are demanding not only that they restore the Five Rivers Bareheaded Crossing taxi stand, but also that if they really want to sanitize things to impress President Obama, then what they need to do is to clean up their own act. That they can start doing, by coming clean in front of Chairman Uff and his Commission and by making a clean breast of it about Finance Minister Karen Nunez-Tesheira's double-dealing in the CL Financial Holdings affair plus the oh-so-many other underhand dealings the good citizens of Trinbago have been trying their damnedest, for the longest while, to have brought out in the open.

The wise is always sated with just a word.

Wen Joovay morning come.

2009-02-23T12:29:00.002-04:00

Right! Joovay reach! So, continuing from wey ah leff off yestuhday, lemme give you a synopsis of what uses to achuaally go on long time wen ah was ah lil boy growin up in Five Rivers, Arouca, Trinidad, wen Joovay morning come.

Me an me two brothers de ones who was rong my age, uses to get up all excited an' as we done clean up and say we prayers we hussle outside to get ready to roll, wen Joovay morning come.

Now! We had ah shed in de bakyard dem days. It used to be ah pigpen one time. It had anodda shed too but dat was full ah stuff leff over from wen Daddy did bil over de house an' addhon de back bedroom an' kitchen. We didn' used to go dere at all it was too daynjahruss. So is de fuss shed ah talkin' 'bout eh? Is dey we had all we mas' stuff puhdong fuh wen Joovay morning come.

Fuss we would put on de dress. Not a good dress eh but ah ol' one. Dat was we basic costume fuh wen Joovay morning come.

Den we put on we pitchoil pan drum rong we neck to hang dong in front for we to beat wen we hit de road wen Joovay morning come.

Den we duttmask dem. Who own is devil or dog or wotever everybody did know which duttmask is who own so it never had no squibbling. We couldna afford to waste time cohrillin' not dis morning wen at last Joovay morning come.

De las' ting would be de hat. Ah straw hat or felt hat once it cover yuh head it go wok. In fal it had to wok cause like ah done tell yuh arredy dat Joovay morning come.

Oh shucks ah nearly fuhget! De las' item was de wissle! No ol' mas getup was complete lessin yuh had ah wissle in yuh mout' wen Joovay morning com.

An' wit some quikfyah fweet fweet fweet blass from we wissles an' rattattattattats on we drums we would leave de yard to go meet we pardnas oppazit so all ah we could hit de streets ah Five Rivers, Arouca as one. Wen Joovay morning come.

De fuss house we would hit Karamsingh own wen Joovay morning come.

Mr Karamsingh an' Mrs Karamsing an' he chirren would come by de gate to tolerate we a lil bit den share out a haypnee o ah full penny to each ah we so we could leave from in front dey gate fass wen Joovay moring come.

Mr Karamsingh las' son Sarvan wuz we real pardna but he fadda didn' use to allow him to play no mas' cause he was a strict Hindu, doh mine he shop use to sell rum an' pigtail an' ting. So we would send Sarvan ah signal wit ah nod ah de head as if to say Gosh boy! we know how yuh feel but we go blo we wissle a few blass extra an' pong we pitchoil pan drum some more too jus fuh you. Den take he fadda offerings an' leave wen Joovay moring come.

So we would continue along touchin' every gate an' not movin' till somebody come out to run someting to compensate we fuh de time an' trouble we took to make we duttmask an' beat we drum while singin' "one pong to see de queen" fuh dem. Harper, Doyle, Curryman, Rohit Mooma, Mr Nogeira. Den Samdaye, Miss Lizzy, Chase, Sahai, Fraser, Pansee, Miss Enid, Miss Uree, Payne, Sadu. Not ah house uses to escape. Dahiz how it use to go dong longtime in Five Rivers, Arouca wen Joovay morning come.

Some ah de people was cheap ah wouldn call no name. Dey would tell we dat odda mas' done pass arredy an' wen we turn to leave dey would say wappen yall not showin' we de queen? An' doh dey didn' pass change because dey big we had respeck fuh dem so we still had to show dem cause dahiz how life was does days in Five Rivers, Arouca wen Joovay morning come.

But is lie dey did lie wen dey say odda mas' did done pass 'cause it had different groups ah boys playin' ol' mas dem days an' we had ah understandin' fuh each group to roam it own terryterry. So who from 1st and 2nd Street used to wok dat area. Who from 3rd and 4th and 5th wok to suit wey dey from. An' so on. So yuh never used to bonks up pardnas from de odda parts ah Five Rivers, Arouca in your terryterry wen Joovay morning come.

Excep' if yuh was a bigger boy o ah real man who playin' mas' like jabjab, blue devil o mad bull wen Joovay morning come.

Talkin' 'bout mad bull mas' it had a mister name Ned who used to play mad bull every time wen Joovay morning come.

If yuh see he mas"! One big big big bull head wit' flare nose an' ring in it an' two big big curve horn on top. Plus ah long rope tie rong de neck dat burst like if is a real mad bull dat was tie to graze in de savannah on 5th street dat did get way an' roamin' de place wild wild wen Joovay morning come.

Mr Ned use to make it he bizniss to pass by we every year wen Joovay morning come.

But he used to make sure we home wen he passin' cause he real plan wuzzen to sho off no dam mas' but to frighten we ass good an' proper with he big bull head mas' wen Joovay morning come.

An' he well used to frighten we fuh troot wen Joovay morning come.

An' fuss he did wikkid afta he frighten we an' make we scream he would pull off he big big bullhead mas' an' laff an' say wappen to allyuh is me Mr Ned! An' give we some small change to split up 'mongst weeself. Shimps man! Dahiz wot Mr Ned used to do to we evry time wen joovay morning come.

Yes ah tell yuh. it was nice dem days. Wen I was a lil boy growin' up in Five Riers, Arouca, Trinidad. Especially wen Joovay morning come.

We used to paly we mas' not so much fuh de money but to show dat we didn' need much to make each odda happy and glad especially the one day ah de year wen Joovay morning come.

Hope you too could have as good ah time as I did wen your Joovay morning come.

Dimanche Gras long time in Five Rivers.

2009-02-22T13:14:00.009-04:00

Read all about it in this >>www.mangochatnee.com<< post!

Why can't we revert?

2008-07-29T08:27:00.003-04:00

There were ten of us, children, in the Thomas clan; gender-wise, evenly distributed. Daddy worked. Mammy did not. He was a police officer, at the time of my birth, a Sergeant. She, a mother, a housewife.

In our household, there were always guests, one, two or three, relatives, from St. Vincent or Grenada, the Caribbean countries from which my parents came. Those guests would stay, sometimes months on end. They did no work, except around the house, helping wash, cook, iron, tend to the kitchen garden and, to us, the younger ones.

Yet, though by the time of his retirement, in 1966, an Assistant Superintendant, Daddy never earned more than four hundred and fifty-nine dollars a month, I do not recall a time when there was not enough food to eat, nourishing, filling food. Yes! The meals, at times, being children, we found repugnant, but, eat them we did: we had no option, other than to remain hungry. As to clothes? The situation was no different, for, in a family of ten children, hand-me-down was the rule. As then, even in much smaller family units, the same pratice obtained.

Ah! Yes! The Thomas clan was a contented lot! We shared, we laughed, we cried; together. And, we fretted not over deteriorating economic conditions, for there were none over which to fret.

Until, "Boom!", somebody pronounced, "Money is no problem!"

Pigeon would dovetail nicely to reduce the cost of dinner.

2008-07-19T04:03:00.008-04:00

From my boyhood days I've been eating pigeon.

Back then, it was Spirikee's kit which furnished the winged critters for us boys to sautée in curry or roast over open fire, on the banks of Blue Stone or Flood Gate, two of the popular bathing spots in Five Rivers, back in those days. Spirikee was an older boy, a tall chap, and one of the several who kept pigeons; his passel was, by far, the largest. We would set traps baited with corn grains or take them out by slingshot or, before the government ban, pellet gun. In later years, my supply of the delicious meat came from the rooftop of the feedmill in the Fernandes' compound near Morvant Junction, where pigeons thrive in their "millions".

The birds are hardy and also very prolific breeders and, to most people, are of nuisance value, as anyone who's been "blessed" by one would most eagerly agree. Yet, none can deny that they are an almost inexhaustable supply of protein-on-the-wing, which, even when not as imaginatively-prepared as below, none can resist.

PIGEON! In liquorice-flavoured sauce and cherries

Given the insatiable craving we have for poultry and the frustration we bear at having to fork out upwards of $60.00 for a chicken and $200.00 for a duck, perhaps now is the time for us, instead, to flock to tables where pigeon takes pride of roost? Such a change of fare would, as well, fare well for our wallets, as dovetailing the petite fowl into our routine cuisine would nicely nosedive the cost of dinner.

Oh! By the way! To this day, Spirikee hasn't a clue as to why the numbers in his flock so erratically fluttered. I trust that nary a word shall be whispered to him, since, as H. P. Lovecraft says, in "At The Mountain of Madness":

"...It is absolutely necessary, for the peace and safety of mankind, that some of earth's dark, dead corners and unplumbed depths be let alone, lest sleeping abnormalities wake to resurgent life, and blasphemously surviving nightmares squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests."

Hatna!

2008-04-03T09:49:00.004-04:00

In a lengthy discussion with Hatna recently, we agreed that the comprehensive history of Five Rivers must be written.

So!

Stay tuned!

Smoky Joe.

2008-01-08T07:54:00.000-04:00

Smoky Joe's whistle's shrill blast would pierce the early morning air precisely at 6:25, every day, except Sunday or public holiday, as, slowly, she chugged and fretted her way out from the station at Railway Road (where else?), announcing to all, lower down, in Five Rivers, that, within five minutes, precisely, she would be there, straddled across the Crossing, across the Eastern Main Road, under the big Samaan Tree, waiting for us, all the while encased by the two red and white steel gates that the gateman would, at the whistle blast, spring from his little hut next to the drain and make swing to block rubber-wheeled traffic on the black tarmac road, for Smoky Joe, she had priority, the unquestioned right-of-way, whenever she passed, or for five minutes, paused, to disgorge or invite aboard, those who, of Five Rivers, Cane Farm, St Clair and Anguilla Villages, relied on her to get to and fro, on time, every time.

When Alma hit!

2007-12-12T09:13:00.000-04:00

I remember Alma: she dumped floods across the central plains and lifted some roofs and while she did, to Flood Gate and Blue Stone and Kilroy Pool and Bridge River, she bequeathed millions and millions of sparkling clear raindrops, in measured dose, so that, surprise! surprise! these pools, though, thus, swollen, never disgorged became, nor turbid, instead, even more inviting to us, the inquisitive few, who ventured forth, when the winds and rains subsided, to assess what damage Alma might have wrought to our beloved Five Rivers; oh! we enjoyed that extended dip in the biting cold waters the day that Alma passed through the middle of Trinidad, from east to west, that
Tuesday,
August thirteenth nineteen seventy-four.

The memories are all that remain of it.

2007-12-10T17:59:00.000-04:00

Five

Rivers,

how I

yearn,

once,

again,

to sneak through

the back, through

the hibiscus fence,
across the muddy, shallow

boundary drain
that separated us from

Mr. Young,
then skirt behind

Mr. Makhai Mahraj's

cow pen

and
around

the giant

tamarind tree,
tiptoe across

Leroy's yard onto

the next street, coming out

right in front, almost,
of Samdaye's shop, barefooted,
in short pants we went, skipping along, glad
to escape
the dreaded
weekend chores
of
uprooting

the weeds - sweet broom and nut grass - that

despite
our best efforts, stubbornly

held

their ground
in the seemingly, as it then

was, acre-wide
gravel driveway leading

from the front gate

to
the cedar-framed garage
where Daddy parked the Austin
Westminister,
the one with the Lucas horns that

all of

Five

Rivers
could,
would,
hear
whenever he announced his desire for us
to come open the gate
for him, ahh,
yes,
those were days
of bliss
they were, a time
when

Five

Rivers
was at
peace, was
one, when
everyone knew
every other's
Mammy, Ma, Pa and Daddy,
not only those, but
Tantee, Mamu, Ajee,
Khaki and Uncle, too
and niece, nephew,
Nennen, bhowji, sarubhai,
by first name, middle
name, surname and the few
whose names were not

readily

remebered, we called
Sir or Madam or

Miss or

Rohit Mooma and
so on,
a time when
there was cause for

celebration for

us children
as we plundered the delicious

offerings of
the neighbourhood fruit

trees that blessed the way
to the top of The Range, to
Bridge Road,

where
to dive

off the mahoe-planked
bridge
into the broad and crystal clear
pool

named Bridge River,

what else,

just at its southern edge or to wade
neath the bamboo arches of

Kilroy Pool, or

to
laze in manmade

Blue Stone from which many
cartloads
of blue limestone were
hewn by mighty swing of sinewy hands

during the time
of the Great War, blue

metal
that, today, lies
buried
under
the black
tarmac of Piarco Airport not far

away from
the

Five

Rivers
in which we were raised,
or,
depending upon our aquatic
skills, to shriek with delight or

with
fear in
Flood
Gate's rushing

yet embracing

waters,
whence

the watchman

would chase us if
he espied us
bathing above the intake to

Mr. Million-Home's
(shucks,

that's how we pronounced his name!),
Dam, the intake being a concrete canal that
went for "miles and miles", passing
beneath
the bamboo clumps and
tonca bean fields, nudging

past
the pin-straight mamee

seepoat
tree, conducting
gurgling, pristine,

mountain water to feed
The Dam
in the little valley
north of Mr. Million-Home's
Great
House,
that stood,
majestically,
atop
the hillock,
overlooking, like some
thoroughly-sated surveying

monarch, all
of

Five

Rivers,
the Range and
the plains

of the mighty

Caroni, the dam from
which all of

Five
Rivers
got an
uninterrupted
water supply, yes, that is
the

Five

Rivers

as
a child I knew
and

remember and
loved and that place shall
always, as long

as The
Master
permits,

ever,
cherised,
remain in my most

special
memories, know that

there be much

more

to tell,

like of the lake

past The

Canadian Mission and the

field,

acres and

acres of

coconut trees

below which we

rummaged in

the black

sage bush, searching

for bread and

walking along

the train

line to

Arouca

school

and the haunted

house on

Cemetery

Road right

opposite

the cemetery, where

else could

it be, but, the tale, for

now, pauses...