Scariest Night of My Life -Hands Down!

The national soccer team of Trinidad and Tobago is called the "Soca Warriors" (Soca is a variation of Calypso music, not a slang word for 'Soccer' as I so incorrectly thought). Tonight Trinidad was playing Panama, so after school Laura, Tim and I made the rash decision to make our way to Port of Spain to see the game. It is rumored that the Soca Warriors are going on strike after today and that this would be the only time we could see a game. We left campus in the middle of an outrageous rain storm, bundled in our most water resistant (and consequently unbreathable clothes). We felt relief once me managed to flag down a mini bus that appeared to be heading in the general direction in which we wanted to travel; our bodies veritably sweating as if we were mummy wrapped in saran wrap. So maybe we felt a little too comfortable once we got on board...

HERE IS ANOTHER IMPORTANT TIP ABOUT RIDING MINI BUSES!!!

If you ever see a person with num chuks sticking out of their backpack DONT ASK THEM ABOUT IT! EVER! NOT AT ALL!!!

So there is this really big guy sitting in front of us, a little intimidating sure, but since we were instructed to be friends with EVERYBODY, Tim goes and sits next to the guy and asks if those are real num chucks. This massive man of about 30 years old, takes them out of his bag, and I immediately imagine my skull as pulp. Yes, he assures us indignantly...they are indeed real num chuks. At this point Laura and I are kind of laughing anxiously as the man who was supposedly accompanying us for protection hangs us out to dry. We keep barrreling down the road, weaving in and out of rush hour traffic, changing sides the road as if the painted lines are merely suggestions. I try to forget about the scary man until I glance cautiously in his direction and see him crack the knuckles of his giant hands that look like they could crush bone into flour, then lean over to his bag and pull out a 10 inch knife and strap it to his calf like an asassin. He pulls out a black shirt and puts it on, rolling up the sleeves like he means business. In his bag I can see the bronze glint of what I am sure is brass knuckles, and another handle of some type. I nudge Laura and gesture with my eyes at what I was seeing. We both feel terrified. Our bumbling gentleman company sits by obliviously. The giant man starts breathing rapidly like he is psyching himself up for some physical exertion.

I pee my pants a little. Im not going to lie.

There is literally nothing I could do, we were sitting at the back of the mini bus and the driver was busy avoiding goats and small troupes of banditos on the side of the road. A gun goes off outside the mini bus and nobody cares. I try my best not to pee more.

Then, the most miraculous thing happens: The freaky asassin man pushes the stop request button, hops off the bus, bounds across the road in two well-timed leaps and scales a brick wall topped with razor wire and broken glass so deftly and seamlessly that I am not even sure if I saw him do it. The man was a professional. I have no idea where he went, but from the contents of his bag and the lethal paraphernalia strapped to his body, I know he was going to do conduct some business.

After we get off the bus in the heart of darkness (or Port of Spain, the two could really be used interchangably without much exaggeration), we dash across the road to to the next mini bus exchange to get on the 'priority' line that will take us to the Stadium. One would generally assume that the priority line would mean that the road is for high occupancy vehicles only, but in Trinidad, it just means that there are wire fences on either side of the road to prevent too many livestock from wandering carelessly into traffic.

At this point we went from the frying pan and into the fire. Once we walk toward the stadium I spy a half dozen military men standing in a Crow's Nest at the top of the stadium. They are staring down at the three white people, waving UZI's around like they are putting on a conversational puppet show. One officer in particular catches our eyes, and yells something at us. We can't understand the man because he speaks Patois incredibly fast. We undestand by the gestures he is making with his assault rifle that we must wait for him at the side of the entrance gate. We meet him and another officer, they lead us to the admin section of the stadium and we proceed to get the full shake down, which is apparently a customary tradition for white visitors who appear to be Americans. None of us have passports with us. Between us, Laura and I have $700 TTs stashed in various locations on our bodies, since we were warned against money belts around the waist and necklace pouches.

For some reason that I could not understand, but seemed very important to the officer, my watch had to be 'confinscated'. I comply. That was the worst of it. We were free to go watch the game from then on. We find some excellent seats and sit tight. The game is off the hook intense. There are people blowing conch shell horns, goals are scored, people jump to their feet, beer flies freely through the hot warm air. An Indian group is drumming so loudly and with such deep drums that every cell in your body pulses rhythmically. You cannot be sure that the sound is outside of you since it engulfs your entire being from the inside out.

The stadium feels very secure. Dozens of police officers in full riot gear with shields, tear gas, clubs, and assault rifles surround the field at all times.

Stadium vendors walk up and down the aisles selling cashews and beer. If you want something, simply raise your fist and holler "eeh eeh eeh" emphatically. They will literally throw the item at you, and you then crumple your money into a little ball and throw it back at him. People are suprisingly honest about redirecting misthrown money wads. We are the only white faces in the crowd. But, incidentally there is one white player on the team. Everyone in the stands thinks that we are his family and they swarm us with questions about him. We don't even know his name. The Trinis are disappointed and the game continues on.

Given the circumstances of the evening, Laura and I felt like we should leave the game early to avoid the massive rush to leave at the end. Thankfully, there are 3 ladies sitting behind us that ask us who we are and where we are coming from. They turn out to be teachers from one of the schools that our SFU students teachers will be working at. They offer us a ride home since they did not want us to take the mini bus home. Evidently they are not safe, as we had found out earlier that evening. They kept saying "We don't want to read about you in the papers tomorrow..." So, once again, the crazy danger situation was pleasantly averted by seemingly divine forces.

The teachers dropped us off back at Milner Hall and we timidly recount the evening's transgressions to the rest of our group. Nobody wants to take a mini bus ever again.

I change my drawers and go lie down.

Pardon my French, but I have realized that when I am in Trinidad my #$&* is on the line at all times. Scariest day of my life -hands down!