Appreciating ourselves

For those who don’t know, outdoor drying of clothes is a luxury in this country, of equal or higher ranking with 30 degrees Celcius days and well-seasoned fish. Few of us artful lodgers boast backyards and those of us that do would rarely chance putting clothing out to dry, what with this bipolar English weather that starts sunny and turns beastly faster than it takes you to shove your feet in a pair of shoes and race downstairs.

So drying clothes involves spreading them to dry on the radiator, the tops of doors, the backs of chairs, the rod of the shower curtain and sometimes, the sill of windows. I’m not that brave though. I’m desperately afraid of my varicoloured underwear floating happily down Springbank Road and landing in front the Bengal Brasserie (or Brassiere as I like to call it, quite appropriately).

So I’m back in civilian clothing but still a soca warrior. Having written them off before after countless disappointments I’m proving the rule that converted detractors often turn out to be the staunchest supporters. The flag still flies, well, hangs flaccidly, from my desk at work and co-workers now tell me of accidental meetings of fellow Trinidadians at curry shops and supermarkets, easily deciphered as Trinbagonians because somebody ahead of them in the line mentions Peter Crouch and they respond with a resounding steups and a loudly muttered, “That ole tief?!”

So, I’m completing my tripartite football columns unclad in the informal national costume of the last few weeks i.e. anything combining the three colours of the flag. Saturday a group of us went down to Stonehenge for a little bit of sightseeing and a big bit of sunshine. It was a gorgeous day;

just warm enough to make the wearing of a black T-shirt questionable and oversized sunglasses necessary. A stopover in Surrey for a cold beer any Stag? No? Alright, a Heineken then exposed us to a snippet of English middle class suburban life. Children and adults were kayaking down a

somewhat murky river. Excitement at being near to any body of water was quickly contained by someone explaining to us that the water, though not as bad as the Thames, was still quite polluted and any contact with it required an enthusiastic and prolonged washing.

Those that chose to not risk their epidermis sat on benches on the river bank eating baked beans and pig meat varyingly processed and prepared. The English are a race fascinated with pork sausages and barely fried bacon. For someone like me who doesn’t eat meat and loathes anything porcine eating out often becomes an exquisite torture. The crowd displayed none of the anxiety that’s almost always present in the city. Whether working or relaxing the average inhabitant of Greater London displays a terrible intensity in everything being done. The folks that lolled around the tables that afternoon were the happiest, most unharrassed looking group of locals I’ve ever seen.

So to bring this back to football, it was while we were contemplating this rare group that one of the girls in our lime, a Trinidadian up here on vacation who’s been nicknamed Doubles oh seven, said, “Oh God! What I would give to be in the airport when our boys come home.” And suddenly we remembered the grand fete that had been planned to welcome our boys. The girl that had reminded us had been home the first time they got home after qualifying. As we sat on the grassy bank of an unknown river in a strange county in England, Doubles told us her own first experience of that day that we up here know only from reading the newspapers online and pictures emailed and forwarded to each other like a cyber-relay held on the Information Highway.

She told us of big trucks taking a break from their after Carnival sabbaticals and turning the whole of the East/West Corridor and the Promenade into one, big flag party. She told of friends who made their way up from South, even though Central had been flooded. And she made the point that that day had been bigger than Christmas, bigger than Divali, bigger than Carnival because it was not a Muslim thing or a Christian thing or a Catholic thing or a wine and jam thing. It had been a Trinbagonian thing, it was everything. It was WE thing.

So I end this column with a thank you to everyone who was involved positively in this — from Jack to Leo and finally The Boys who gave us something that transcended all the excuses we find to divide ourselves and brought us together in a tremendous expression and appreciation of self.

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suszanna@hotmail.com