The country of my birth, Trinidad and Tobago, is being transformed. Everything is becoming a carbon copy of the US.
America, you see, is only a couple of hours away. A sea of humanity darts through the ports and the airport, bringing this and carrying that. Even the weather has changed. The dry season should have begun weeks ago. It is time to reap the sugar cane. Instead showers pelt down daily, flooding the south of the island. Villages have been isolated. Children swim in the streets. And the sucrose content of the sugar cane dips considerably, reducing this year's production by tonnes.
No problem, says a hack from the ruling party. "We will make up the shortfall by importing sugar from Brazil. We have liquid." He means cash.
The Hilton hotel, where I'm staying, is populated with hustlers. Speaking in myriad tongues, from every major industrial nation, cutting deals. All this is fuelled by high prices paid for energy on world markets. Trinidad, as I have said before on these pages, is an oil emirate. The nation's treasury is overflowing. Mercedes are the order of the day.
People are judged by how much "liquid" they can accumulate. Those who can't keep up are spat upon. Coarseness and brutality are commonplace. The ruling caste hides behind high walls in gated communities, while the black urban youth slash and burn with spite and venom. The murder rate has risen 1,000 per cent in the past six years.
I am here to revisit for BBC Radio C L R James's tome on cricket, Beyond a Boundary. I sense I may be recording the obituary of West Indian cricket. This is because the politesse and sense of fair play that have defined the game have ceased to exist beyond the boundary.
As I write, three government ministers of the previous regime are before the courts accused of bribery and corruption. Guns have replaced cricket bats even in the remotest communities. There are those who are trying to stem the tide; I wish them well, but I have no great expectations.
