For a Trinidadian I am soft when it comes to drinking rum. I usually chase it with coke and a slice of lime. However, if I know it is an expensive rum, I will drink it with coconut water. I have never tasted babash before, but I once had a sip of a strong rum in Guadeloupe called eau de vie, water of life. I remember it set my tongue, throat and stomach on fire and I thought that this must be why we call puncheon rum firewater in Trinidad.
Whether or not you drink, rum is part of being Trinidadian. We use the rum shop round the corner as a landmark when giving directions, we belt out the lyrics to popular soca chutney songs about rum in fetes, and we understand that you better have your court clothes ready if the rum start talking after you fire one shot too many. We grow up knowing rum, for better or for worst.
Rum is both the cause and the soothing balm for a lot of heartache in Trinidad. My granny’s family became rich by driving taxis when she was a little girl. However, by the time she grew up, her uncles had drunk out all the money. Their favourite refrain was “rum, sweet rum, when yuh call me, I bound to come.”
My brother Brett was in an advertisement for Angostura rum before he passed away four years ago. He was buried in the same suit he wore in the ads. The night before his funeral my two other brothers and I were discussing that Brett could never have known that he would be buried in that suit when he wore it for those ads. As a tribute, we decided that at his funeral we would each take a sip from a bottle of rum at the cemetery, and pour some on his grave for him to have a sip. Mum was not pleased when she saw us doing this, but in the grief of the day she let it pass. We have since labelled that bottle “the bottle of life” and we take a sip from it at momentous family occasions.
When I used to work in an advertising agency here in London, I would bring back a bottle of Angostura Single Barrel Rum from my trips home to Trinidad. It was always a hit amongst
my co-workers. The rich caramel taste, beautiful golden red colour, and oaky scent was like nothing they had ever had before. It was extra special since Single Barrel is impossible to find in London as the more expensive Angostura rums are more popular. I would also serve it while proclaiming that no one could ever say that they drank a real rum and coke unless they tasted one from the land of rum and coca cola.
As I sit inside my London flat and watch the eternal drizzle and grey clouds outside the window, I long for a hot afternoon on my parents’ back terrace. I close my eyes and imagine the sound of the kiskadees singing and the noisy parakeets flying overhead. I can hear a pothound barking in the distance at some stray dog or cat. My family is talking and laughing around me. I am holding a glass in my hand, and I feel the coldness as I shake it gently and listen to the ice blocks jingling. I inhale the rich scent of rum and it reminds me of love, grief, family, and home all at once. I imagine taking my first sip and its sweetness hits the tip of my tongue, the cold liquid quenches my thirst, and its fiery warmth fills my heart. Trinidad, I miss you.
