Jasmine Wanders

The back of one of her legs had been bitten off, the shred of which slivered along after her. The guides mused that it was probably the aftermath of a shark attack.

You know the story – they were promised jobs and a free ride home in India, and then when they landed in the Caribbean, they were essentially enslaved, forced to work in subhuman conditions and paid measly wages and in some cases, paid in rum.

Clapping and hollering at a volume normally reserved for sporting events, yelling at the screen chastising the characters, or any other explosions of emotion won’t be met with the hushing prevalent in other movie theaters.

For the casual visitor trying to answer questions like how the interesting mix of people walking around the island came to call themselves Trinis and why towns carry Spanish (San Fernando, Sangre Grande) and French (Blanchisseuse) names, this is a good place to start.

Traveling is one of the closest ways I’ve found to be excluded from a society’s class ranking. Because no one knows my past, my future, my level of education, or my income bracket, I find myself in a fortunate state of class suspension where I am free to mix with whomever I feel like.

We chat about life in Colombia and the difference between there and here as we inch through immigration. I watch as my worlds collide, a seamless transition between the two countries thanks to my new friends.

It’s just some of the things that I’ve been fantasizing about since I left Trinidad & Tobago in late February 2010, after dancing around in sparkly bikinis for 48 hours straight with my sister in downtown Port of Spain.

I have heard so many negative things about Venezuela from other travelers and bits online that I’m fairly nervous to cross the entire country, from the Caribbean coast of Colombia to Guiria, the port town in Venezuela, by myself.