Dear Trinidad

AMANDA SMYTH

I’VE WRITTEN three novels with you as my backdrop. I tell people there isn’t a landscape that moves me like Trinidad. The Northern Range hills, early morning light on the Savannah; driving over the Lady Young Road while looking out at the glittery coast; an evening walk up Chancellor Hill in your gold, soft light. I could go on. All this creates in me a longing and the longing makes me want to write. We’ve had a 52-year-old love affair of sorts.

But I’ve been told all my life that England is the place I must live – a First World country, a safe place, a civilised place, with better schools and universities, more opportunities, superior healthcare, more jobs, possibilities, etc.

So England is home for now, and I am grateful for many things.

When covid19 started to seep into our lives, we saw images on TV of hospitals, in China, springing up to cope with the sick and dying. I said to my husband, God, this looks serious. Let’s hope it doesn’t come here.

A few weeks later, we watched in horror, with hands over our mouths, as bodies were tended in vast make-shift hospitals in Italy. People were weeping in the street, death tolls were rocketing, bells rang and rang; there were mass graves. Still, our government assured us – this virus was no more than flu; and like, with any winter flu, some of us might lose older, loved ones.

Boris Johnson bragged about shaking hands with covid19 patients, joked of squashing the sombrero. We carried on meeting friends, going to big sports events, attending gatherings, public transport was as rammed as ever. Two weeks later our leader was seriously ill. Schools closed. We were told: Stay at home, protect the NHS, save lives.

Meanwhile covid19 was crawling quickly all over the world. It soon arrived in Trinidad with a 51-year-old man who had returned from Switzerland. Self-isolation and contact tracing began.

I was frightened for my mother, my precious relatives and dear friends. The virus could wipe them all off the island. My mother told me you might have to come and clear the house with all of us dead. I shuddered, imagining the worst. If England was struggling – a First World country, a civilised country – then what would happen to you?

Seven weeks on and I needn’t have worried.

I’ve been amazed by the decisive, clear action from Prime Minister Rowley. Your schools closed before ours, strict lockdown was quickly imposed, restaurants/bars/beaches were off limits, Piarco Airport shut its gates; people were quarantined at home, forbidden to exercise outdoors. Trinidad friends on Facebook wore masks. Masks! We didn’t have to wear masks because our UK government wasn’t sure how effective they were. I quickly ordered a box online.

You had more covid19 cases, of course, but few deaths, and most have recovered. Your low stats have remained the same. I check them daily.

In contrast, at the time of writing this, there have been almost 32,000 deaths in England. The highest in Europe. Testing was promised – 100,000 tests a day – but not delivered. Doctors and nurses are still without sufficient PPE. Care homes are in crisis. Flights are still coming into Heathrow with no checks, no screening or quarantining. People are restless.

There were picnics in Hackney Wick this sunny weekend; sunbathing in Brighton. Boris Johnson still looks sick. By the end of the year, there could be as many as 100,000 deaths. We are the sickest country in Europe! It’s an embarrassment, a shambles. Not what you’d expect from a First World country; or a civilised country. Not such a safe place after all.

You have started opening up again. Life will slowly return. I hope you can keep your borders closed for as long as possible. You’ve done brilliantly. Keep going, keep safe. I am so proud of you.