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Photo by: Jon Whittle

I like to believe that, no matter where in the world I end up, I am a "Trini to de bone." I blast soca music, cook up a good curry chicken on weekends and cheer the Soca Warriors in the World Cup soccer finals. Yet, before I realized it, 14 years had passed since I had stepped foot on my native soil, and I was losing my pan vibe, my roots culture, my Trini-ness. It was time to reconnect with the little girl who scrambled down the riverbank next to her Petit Valley home in search of what the rushing waters left behind. "Trini treasure" I called it then. And I needed some fast.

I emerge from Trinidad's Piarco airport into what seems like the same world I left behind many years before: hot concrete, radio stations broadcasting soca and chutney music, Carib beer for sale in sidewalk coolers and – is that chana? Yes! I immediately shell out a dollar and score my first treasure, a bag of salty fried chickpeas. Perfect. And there is my father, waiting patiently.

"I'm home!"

I tell dad that I want to be pure Trini for the next few days. He nods and bustles me off to St. James, "de place" to see and be seen in Trinidad. I line up in front of a roti stand that has stood along the Western Main Road for more than 30 years. At once I am 8 years old again, in plaits and slippers, waiting for my roti.

I long to tell the tiny Indian woman expertly rolling balls of dough between her fingers that I haven't had a Trini roti in well over a decade. Instead I watch her son flatten my dough until it is stretched into an impossibly thin, almost transparent, silky round skin. He fires it on a tawa, the flat stone used for heating roti skins, and fills mine with curried pumpkin and goat. I open my brown paper bag, peel back the wax paper and take a bite. Ahhhh! It is simply the best fast food in the world. Machel Montano is blaring from giant speakers at the bar next door. Cricket fans pass by, waving flags and screaming victory after a match at the Oval.

"You feeling at home yet?" dad asks.

I nod, my mouth full, taking a napkin to the curry dripping down my chin. Afterward, it's time for Mama's Ice Cream. Tears fill my eyes when I recognize, standing behind a familiar pushcart, the same dignified man who has scooped homemade ice cream – soursop, barbadine, passion fruit, coconut, lime and rum-and-raisin – for 20 years. I want to ask if he remembers me, but instead I ask for every flavor heaped together in a large cup. I am embarrassed at my riches, but I savor each slurp. Sunday dawns cloudy and rainy, but that doesn't stop my quest for all things delicious and Trini. Dad and I head to Maracas Beach, where Sunday limin' is a Trinidadian ritual. Along the way we stop at Lookout Point and I discover Eden's Sweet & Sour Hot Spot, where jars stand side by side like colorful toy soldiers, filled with pepper mangoes, plums, coconut chips, tamarind balls and a sugar-glazed fried dough called kurma. Back on the twisting road to Maracas Beach, Dad and I munch through our treats, and I'm soon buried under a pile of wax paper.

At Maracas, it's quite clear that Trinis can't just sit under coconut trees and relax. Games are in progress up and down the stretch of golden sand: Teenagers bounce a soccer ball on their heads; cricketers slam a ball into wickets; flying discs whiz by; and boogie boarders ride magnificent green waves.   

I find Richard's Bake and Shark stand and buy two of his famous sandwiches: thick pieces of fried shark between piping hot bakes, or johnnycakes. An ice-cold Carib beer makes the perfect accompaniment. Steel-pan music tinkles from speakers as I sit on a bench and take in the people, the games and the sun, feeling lucky to be a Trini back home, limin' at the beach. I'm no longer the hopeful teenager who sat here dreaming of going to school in the States or the young woman who fell in love with handsome, green-eyed Sean, who had a smile like nobody's business. I am a Trini on vacation. But everything looks, feels and smells the same. The music, the food, the smiles, the games; this is the Trinidad I loved and missed, the reason I will always be "Trini to de bone."

It's time to go home, but I'm not leaving Maracas without a bag of pholourie. Olive's beach shack is up ahead, and I wait for her to make me "de best pholourie balls on de island." Made of ground split peas and corn flour rolled into small balls and then fried, pholourie is served with tamarind chutney. Its combination of spicy, sweet and musky flavors sears my taste buds. Sitting on the side of a sand-covered road opposite a magnificent beach, eating food that gourmands would gush over, I wonder: How come it took me so long to get back?

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