Where did we leave off?
Still on Tobago. Explosives. Cyclists. Beer. Everything else is secondary. The only phrase that comes to mind when launching bottlerockets by hand, slightly inebriated by too many Stags (which, as you may not know, is a MAN’S BEER), and right next to the terrified German girls who refused to dance with any of us is “childlike joy”. Our Brit compatriots discovered the possibilities of shrapnel high in potassium by embedding firecrackers in bananas (and each other’s kits). Our continually amusing motorcycle club escort found itself at the same bar, ensconced in a temporary female limelight entranced by the dazzling allure of motley machines. The aforementioned “New Millenium Knights MC” quiver was eclectic, ranging from the developing world’s omnipresent 250cc Whatever, to lightning-fast liter sportbikes, and pretend-Harley Davidson cruisers. Regardless, I found great amusement in watching a rather stout fellow of east Indian heritage draped in an offensively bedazzled Affliction manblouse grind on a way-too-hot-for-him local lady.
Par for the course, I got bored. And tired. Leaving the Euros to the explosives, I wandered down the street towards our beachfront lodging, but not before being distracted by that GreekyMiddleEasternyLamby delicacy, the gyro. I think I’ve mentioned it before, but the Gyro seems to be the drunk food of choice for T&T. Gyro stands line the streets near any bar district I’ve seen here, and for good reason. They’re damned good, damned cheap, and give up that truckload-of-sodium craving that only alcohol can induce. The cocktail is simple - pita, gyro meat (go lamb or go home), tzatziki sauce, and veggies of the maker’s choosing. Grill it, wrap it up, grill it again on the flattop. Another carb/protein/carb blissbomb.
The next morning was relatively translucent, given the previous night’s shenanigans. I’m going to thank the altitude. Greeted with another rest day (and a boat ride back to Trinidad in the evening), it was a day reserved for more accomplishing nothing. While everyone else took the morning to snorkel (the Germans were REALLY excited about snorkeling), I jumped on the opportunity to explore the local town. Some honesty here…I wasn’t enamored. The local vendors all seemed to be selling the same junk manufactured by the same sweatshop in the Far East. The lack of local “artisinal” knick-knacks deflated my inner Ugly American. I did, however, find a cafe run by expat Germans (theme here?), and managed to get coffee from a French press - a treat!
Another ferry cruise awaited us that evening, but lady luck would smile on me. Roger had procured motion sickness tablets, and I would be lulled to sleep in awkward positions by the fine purveyors of Dimenhydrinate. The isle of Trinidad, and hopefully, more racing, loomed.