People erroneously assume that upon expiration of their five year indentureship contracts, coolie labourers from India (1845-1917) were automatically handed five acres of land in lieu of a return passage to India as an incentive to stay in the colony. This is not true. The incentive only existed from 1860 and applied only to those who served a full term of the contract. All incentives ceased in 1880 when it was determined that enough had settled in Trinidad to provide a permanent labour force.

The Indian who saved from his pittance and bought out his contract received nothing. He and those before 1860, were left to survive on what little they had saved from their wages ($2.50/month for an adult male, $1.75/month for a female, $0.75 for children up to 12). Neither did the incentive consist of land. It was simply five pounds in cash with which the majority purchased crown lands, which after 1870 were available for one pound per acre.

Naturally, there were those who for reasons of profligacy or ill-luck ended up as vagrants on the streets of Port-of-Spain. In 1904, it was estimated that as many 140 Indian vagrants slept in Port-of-Spain, most near Columbus Square.

From 1849, an official known as the Protector of the Immigrants was appointed to oversee the general welfare of the immigrants, ensuring that they were treated fairly. Often enough, these bureaucrats were corrupt slackers, who took massive bribes from estate owners to not “rock the boat”.

The only one who seems to have been a man of energy and conscience was Charles Melville whose father, Henry Melville (and ironically enough, Protector of the Slaves before emancipation) had been a medical doctor and a man of great reputation in the colony.

Charles took a dangerous stance in taking his job seriously and arguing with the all-powerful sugar plantocracy for better rights for the Indians. Since the manager of Usine Ste Madeleine was more powerful than the Governor in those days, Melville soon suffered the fate of the conscientious civil servant and was axed.

Melville’s successor was Major Comins (1895-1910), an honest soldier and owner of Glenside Estate in Tunapuna. Comins had been an officer in India and was thought to have been the best fit for the job since he understood “the Indian Problem.” Major Comins travelled extensively across the estates, inspecting barracks, and the dreadful living conditions of the Indians on the plantations. His scathing report published in 1902, and revised in 1908 is an indictment on a labour system that was little better than slavery.

He was particularly aggrieved over what he saw at Woodford Lodge Estate where Indians were worked longer than stipulated hours, kept on the estate by armed guards, left untreated at a filthy estate hospital and fed on scanty provisions.

It was, however, generally understood that as a planter himself, he sought the colonial interests and moderated his views to such an extent as to be a tool of the establishment and not in favour of those he was supposed to protect.

The last Protector of the Immigrants was Arnauld De Boissiere in 1927, a playboy and dandy who only held the office for the 400 pounds a year it paid. In Port-of-Spain, Indian vagrants were a lost people, they could not return to India, and even if they could, they would not have been better off.

In Trinidad, they were alien, many spoke little or no English, and were considered less than human, both by the middle and upper class of society, the barrackyard dwellers, and the colonial authorities.

Most Indian vagrants survived as porters at sixpence a load. The main employers were marchandes (female vendors of edibles), and laundresses who would engaged porters to carry the bundles of soiled clothing collected from the better homes in Woodbrook and St Clair, returning the freshly ironed and starched pieces, neatly folded on a wooden tray, carried by an itinerant porter.

Some fortunate displaced Indians found accommodation at the Ariapita Asylum (known as the Poor House) until that facility was closed in 1929. Largely, most begged charity on the streets until death claimed them, their bodies being consigned to the earth of the Pauper’s cemetery in St James, opened in 1900.

In Port-of-Spain, Indian vagrants were a lost people, they could not return to India, and even if they could, they would not have been better off.

In Trinidad, they were alien, many spoke little or no English, and were considered less than human, both by the middle and upper class of society, the barrackyard dwellers, and the colonial authorities.

In this season of drought, when every newscast is embellished with at least two fiery protests for the crystal element of life (a necessity your humble correspondent is now straitened for), it may be appropriate to recall an event precipitated by a volatile combination of disenfranchised masses, water restrictions and an oppressive colonial government. Though the memory of the 1903 Water Riots is now relegated to a few custodians of the past, it had far-reaching implications, socially and politically.

The genesis of the riots began long before 1903, when shortly after the devastating cholera epidemic of 1854, the installation of pipe-borne water was viewed as a top priority for Port-of-Spain. It had been in limited availability at the Governor’s House in St Ann’s since the tenure of Governor Lord Harris in 1851, of his predecessor, Sir Ralph James Woodford in 1821. With the usual snail’s pace of implementation that has remained our legacy of colonial administration, it was not until the 1880s that something concrete was done about this situation. In that decade, the Director of Public Works, Edward Tanner, settled on the upper reaches of the Maraval River as a likely place for the site of a reservoir. After much wrangling with the De Boissieres and other landowners along the river for permission to route pipes through their properties, the project was completed in the early 1890s by Tanner’s successor, Walsh Wrightson, who was partially responsible for the construction of the roadway which bears his name.

Thus, the burgesses of the municipality of Port-of-Spain not only had access to public fountains and pumps spewing an endless supply of cold, sweet water, but many also had the luxury of precious liquid running from pipes in their homes. In the noisome barrack-yards of the city, the denizens of the town’s ‘Jamette’ society, revelled in the new utility and frolicked under open taps in their yards and wash-houses all day and night. This, however, was to lead to one of the causes of the riots.

To diverge slightly, on January 18, 1899, Governor Sir Hubert Jerningham, under advice from the British Secretary of State, abolished the Borough of Port-of-Spain and its Council, which was deemed to be petty and inefficient in the management of its own affairs. Henceforth, the affairs of the burgesses were to be managed by Central Government. This move was received with much bitterness and resentment by the masses, as the Municipal Ordinance was seen as a concession to self-governance by the colonial masters. The revocation of the Ordinance was seen as a humiliating slight to the rising tide of Black Nationalism which was sweeping the colony.

Part of this sense of transgression fostered by the people was due to the influence of Emmanuel ‘Mzumbo’ Lazare (1864-1929). Mzumbo, as he called himself in tribute to his African heritage, was a hero to the downtrodden coloureds of the town. A dignified black man, and a prominent solicitor and a Lieutenant in the Trinidad Field Artillery Volunteers (who represented the colony at the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria in 1897), Mzumbo was a founder of the Ratepayers Association with Henry Alcazar and Edgar Maresse-Smith, also outstanding coloured citizens of the period. The Association also included white sympathisers like the disenfranchised Mayor of Port of Spain, John Cox Newbold. The organisation was formed in response to the impending Water Ordinance of Public Works Director, Walsh Wrightson which proposed that water meters be installed in the town to make burgesses pay for their water. It was based on reports of drafted Water Inspectors, who reported freely running taps in the seedier districts. The Association viewed water as a right of existence, and not a scarce commodity to be bought and sold.

The Ratepayers’ Association also took issue with the shoddy state of water delivery and with the disbanding of the Borough of Port-of-Spain by the British Secretary of State and Governor Sir Alfred Maloney, who had succeeded Governor Jerningham. On the morning of March 23, 1903, the Water Ordinance was carded for debate in the Red House, which was the seat of the Colonial Government and the Legislative Council. Thousands of people, incited by the Ratepayers’ Association, assembled in Brunswick Square (now Woodford Square) and created an uneasy tension while the Legislative Council sat in caucus. The debate over the ordinance had originally been carded for March 16, but had been postponed to the 23rd because of the interruption of the rowdies assembled in the Public Gallery.

Governor Maloney, perhaps expecting public unrest, ordered the Commandant of the Trinidad and Tobago Constabulary, Hubert Brake, to have 35 armed policemen sequestered within the Red House in addition to several dozen outside. In an attempt to limit access to the Public Gallery it was proclaimed that access would only be granted by a system of allotted tickets. The Ratepayers deemed this action to be illegal and attempted to storm the Gallery at 10.30 am but were repelled by Brake and his officers.

Alcazar and William Gordon Gordon, a wealthy Scottish merchant, were in the Council Chamber at the time of the barring of the Ratepayers, and they in turn, left the room as a sign of protest. Meanwhile, the tense crowd outside erupted into heated aggression. The violence was incited when a constable outside the Red House attempted to arrest a woman and immediately came under a hail of stones, forcing him to liberate his captive.

A shower of missiles began to assail the building and the windows of the Council Chamber (where the debate was in session) were shattered. The deliberation over the Water Ordinance ended abruptly as Governor Maloney was spirited to the Education Office for his safety, while a group of rioters broke into the Registrar’s Office and set fire to the stacks of files and papers stored therein. Walsh Wrightson, had in local parlance ‘taken front before front took him’ and slipped out of the Red House disguised as a policeman, in full view of the protesters who were calling for his blood.

As the flames spread, the security of the Governor became critical and Commandant Brake took the decision to have him moved to the nearby Police Headquarters on St Vincent St (the same building that was burnt in the 1990 attempted coup). In order to gain a passage through the mob, the ominous Riot Act was read to the crowd, and then the policemen were given the order to fire on the protesters. When the smoke from the rifles of the police cleared, 18 people lay dead and 51 were wounded. Two of the more touching fatalities involved Eva Carvalho, a young woman who was shot at point-blank range by a policeman who was alleged to be her estranged lover, while 12-year-old Eliza Bunting was bayoneted through the chest. Several others were arrested, including the Executive of the Ratepayers’ Association, Lazare, Alcazar and Maresse-Smith, who had fled when the shooting began.

Among the more bizarre incidents of the riot, was the fact that though the Fire Station (now part of the Nalis complex) was a few meters away from the Red House, it did not turn out to combat the flames in the Red House until it was almost completely gutted. The Captain of the Fire Brigade, Walter S Darwent, was accused by Colonial Secretary Courtenay Knollys of being sympathetic with the cause of the insurgents, an accusation which may not have been too far from the truth.

A Commission of Inquiry was hastily assembled and chaired by Colonial Secretary Knollys. Lazare, Alcazar and Maresse-Smith, the leaders of the Ratepayers’ Association were acquitted of all charges surrounding their arrest over the riot. The Commission also made another compromise in recognition of the need for self-governance, by recommending that water management affairs fall under the jurisdiction of a municipality, rather than central government. This was a major victory for those who had raised their voices in protest. As a trophy of the triumph, Lazare seized upon the ornate fountain which had stood in the covered foyer of the now-gutted Red House, and had it installed at his country estate in Diego Martin, called Lazdale. This relic was later given to the National Museum and can now be seen in the courtyard of that institution.

A year later, the Port-of-Spain Water Authority and Port-of-Spain Sewerage Board were incorporated. Both these entities were later merged with the Municipal Water Works in San Fernando to form the Water and Sewerage Authority (WASA). It was not until June 26, 1914, that the Borough Council and Municipal Ordinance of Port-of-Spain were reinstated. The Red House was completely rebuilt by 1907, its most notable addition being the imposing rotunda or dome which is its most recognizable feature today. Though it is long forgotten, the Water Riots of 1903 and the events sparked by this momentous chapter in our history, have doubtless impacted on T&T in the years following, and will certainly do so for many years to come.

It is interesting to see history is occurring in cycles. Even computer models can predict drought, famine, food shortages, political turmoil. Is there a replay of the water riots in all these communities? Civil unrest for water? Should we be planning urgently for global warming? Angelo presents the Water Riots and its political consequences. —Rudolph Bissessarsingh

Angelo generated a lot f of public awareness of ‘saving’ or preservation of what he considered historically important architectural indigenous buildings, structures, distinctly unique to our country. The pace of demolition has been accelerating. Why do we feel enraged at their loss? Simply because they were part of our everyday landscape so that we had an emotional attachment to them. The gingerbread houses appealed to our childhood fantasies and memories so that we feel devastated when they are no more. Could the present day architects and draughtsmen inculcate elements of these designs in our new buildings being constructed? Imagine the beauty it would bring once again and the impact on tourism.

—Rudolph Bissessarsingh

Photography captures a moment in time. These buildings in your communities capture a moment of history. One neither has to be an architect or historian to appreciate the beauty of these colonial structures or their historic importance, and while some may view these as reminders of an imperial age that should be done away with, to me these structures, for good or bad, are the backbone of our historic and social development, each telling its own story.

Trinidad’s signature architectural style is that of the gingerbread house—delicate wooden filigree, jalousie windows, peaked roofs, dormers, and a welcoming gallery. There was no corner of the island where gingerbread style could not be found, since it adapted equally well to the stately mansions of the planters and merchants as it did to the humble cottages of labourers and tradesmen. George Brown, a Scottish architect who came to Trinidad in 1880 was the genius behind this movement.

Brown pioneered a system of mass manufacturing the elements of the gingerbread architecture, and he drew on inspirations from French and English schools of thought. These gems he created are synonymous with our national identity, yet they are rapidly disappearing from the landscape. They remind us of a simpler and more idyllic time when family, community and dignity were ideals to be cherished.

WOODBROOK

Originally a sugar estate founded in 1786, Woodbrook was laid out in cheap housing lots around 1899 and became a respectable suburb for a new middle class that was emerging. Those who belonged to this group strove to emulate the finer graces of the ruling elite, and this reflected in the quaint houses, which though small in size, often exhibited the neat elegance of the gingerbread style to full effect. Woodbrook is now the premiere liming spot for Trinis, but it remains a living museum of architecture as well.

BELMONT

Like Woodbrook but from an earlier era, Belmont grew out of a district of colonial plantations to become a middle-class bedroom settlement of Port-of-Spain in the mid to late 1800s. It was distinguished by a strong sense of community spirit and its own unique identity where the need for colonial respectability was mixed with powerful West African traditions that persevered in the upper reaches of the valley.

Many of Belmont’s beautiful old homes have survived in remarkably good condition, which is a state of being that will endure since the residents of the area are keen on preservation of their heritage.

WRIGHTSON ROAD

This busy thoroughfare which became a dual carriageway to Cocorite in the 1930s under a young engineer named Ranjit Kumar, once ended just past the Capital Plaza Hotel’s current location. There was a beach here with a small, unique village called Corbeaux Town, because of the presence of black vultures that congregated when the fishing boats came in. By the 1920s the former fishing community had become a middle-class neighbourhood, exhibiting some very fine examples of colonial architecture, some of which still survive.

The picturesque Corbeaux Town of old, however, was a source of inspiration for many great artists including Michel Jean Cazabon (1813-88) and Jackie Hinkson, who grew up here in one of those old houses.

BOOS HOUSE

In 1873 Karl Boos arrived from Germany to take up a clerkship in a firm owned by his countrymen in Port-of-Spain. Just a dozen years later, through hard work and sacrifice, he acquired ownership of J N Harriman and Co, where he had moved as a manager and which still survives as one of the oldest businesses in the island.

Cipriani Boulevard was just a broad gravelled road laid out on Tranquillity Land when Karl erected his spacious and dignified residence, which was to remain in his family for four generations until it was sold and became the famous liming and dining spot, Jenny’s on the Boulevard. Karl’s granddaughter, Olga Mavrogordato was a historian and was instrumental in preserving much of our heritage which might have been lost.

February 27, 2011

The actual name of this river is the South Oropouche River. It is called the Godineau because in the 1840s, the French owner of St John’s Estate along its banks opened up a navigable canal to the sea (the lower extremity of which is seen here), thus making the river navigable.

Prior to this, the dense mangroves of the Oropouche Lagoon had made sailing on the lower part of this river almost impossible. His name was Jean Pierre Godineau. The old man was described as a lovable eccentric with a white beard. When he died, he willed his body to the swamp, being buried on a hilly promontory of his estate which jutted into the lagoon. The tombstone is no longer there, but the spot may be seen to this day. The river was an important highway to the sea for inland sugar estates such as Woodland, and later for cocoa plantations in Avocat (the old St John’s Estate).

At the mouth of the river was a landing place (seen here on the left bank) where boats ferrying passengers and goods from the island steamer called. The steamer itself was compelled to anchor almost a mile offshore due to the mudflat which runs along this part of the coast. This landing place and one higher up near the old St John’s Estate, was where oilfield equipment was first landed for the nascent Apex oilfield in Fyzabad in 1914. Bulls would be used to drag the machinery up the banks from whence trucks would take the apparatus and pipelines to Fyzabad.

Across the sandbar between the sea and the Oropouche Lagoon, a corduroy road was laid in 1851. This was done under then tenure of the intrepid Lord Harris, who was then governor of the Colony. It consisted of laying tree trunks as a floating foundation on the muddy soil, and then covering them with a layer of gravel and clay.

Across the broad mouth of the Godineau River, Lord Harris erected a fine iron bridge which was replaced by a more modern bailey bridge in the 1930s. The ballast-brick foundations and posts of the original 1851 structure, however, may still be seen today. This road considerably increased trade between the districts of La Brea, Oropouche and San Fernando, the latter town being heavily dependent on these country districts for supplies of plantains, red rice and ground provisions. Mosquito Creek is most famous as being a cremation site.

When Hindu cremations were legalized in 1952, the original site was on the right bank, being on a spit of land just off the bridge. Erosion and higher tides forced the moving of the site to a cliff on the left bank of the river mouth where the site still is in use today. The Godineau River is fed by several large tributaries that flow through the Woodland area that are also part of the extensive Oropouche lagoons. Several flood gates were installed to prevent the incursion of salt water into the lagoons, some of which are still functional up to today.

Some have deteriorated and much of the landscape has reverted to salty marshes. One little known fact is that many of the cut channels that flow into the Godineau are still navigable by boats up to today. A well-kept secret is the thousands of Scarlet Ibis that nest in the mangrove areas of the Godineau.

However, hundreds of people who lived for generations on crabs, shell fish, fishing and hunting have become unemployed because of oil pollution, silting, destruction and the removal of the mangrove for road expansion. Our coastal areas need to be preserved. The tsunamis of Banda Aceh brought home the point to the world of the importance of our mangrove belts along the coastline. Could these areas be deemed as national parks for future generations to come?

Rape, mutilation, sexploitation of women of African descent were skeletons in the closet of civilised European historians of the day.

So too was the new horror of East Indian women who were either kidnapped, enslaved, lured and duped into taking the arduous voyage to the West Indies.

Between 1845-1917—143, 939 East Indian immigrants were shuttled to Trinidad.

In the case of women, the villages that they were either recruited from or captured were hidden or altered on the documents.

In the first phase, some came from the Chota Nagpur of Bengal, some from the ghettos of Calcutta and Madras.

By 1870 the major recruiting areas were Orissa, the Punjab, Bihar and Oudh. The ratio of women to men very rarely rose above 40:100 and the perception of the recruiters in the beginning was that women were not as valuable to the estate labour force as men, especially when they had children.

Older women rarely stood a chance of being recruited and it is documented that black hair dye was used by the recruiters to make them more valuable.

Many women especially of dark-skinned complexions were also viewed as promiscuous and prostitutes. On board the ship, the caste system separated them from each other as many women of a high caste were also recruited, forced to accept the promise of a better life because of famine in some parts of India.

Some were forced into what is described as depot marriages to make them more valuable. Muslims were kept separate from Hindus on the voyage.

Many female recruits found themselves on ships they had not opted for or certain destinations. It was not until the early turn of the 20th century that female doctors were hired to examine the East Indian women.

Prior to this, these devout Hindus and Muslims suffered the indignation of being ‘medically’ examined by questionable male figures.

The women were given a sari, two flannel jackets, a woollen petticoat, a pair of stockings and a pair of shoes.

Usually these were so deteriorated as to render them unwearable. Each immigrant also had a ‘tin’ or identification disk hung around his or her neck.

Rape, suicide, beatings, forced prostitution, marriages and in some extreme cases, murder were all a blot on the new disguised slavery known as indentureship.

Many actually jumped overboard to their deaths before reaching their destinations. The rations given to them were as meagre as the clothes on the voyage.

They had to huddle together even when they had to use the toilet for fear of rape, sometimes gang rape. It is recorded that some just walked away from their depot husbands upon reaching Trinidad.

This was the darkness of the voyage from India to Trinidad and the untold shame and scars that these women had to bear. It was human trafficking at its worst and definitely not a cause for celebration.

What we should celebrate is the tenacity, courage, toil and contribution of those who endured the kala pani in creating our present landscape.

This year, 2017, marks the 100 years celebration of the abolition of East Indian indentureship. It is through the research of Prof Bridget Brereton, Prof Brinsley Samaroo, Prof VA Shepherd that we learn of the atrocities of that cleverly disguised system of slavery known as indentureship. Angelo had noted that even the faded photos of East Indians were always doctored to depict them in a dehumanised and denigrated form, little more than animals so that the British Capitalist system could be validated in their cruelty to the East Indian immigrant. It was the rejection starting with the Sepoy Mutiny of the Indian people on the continent and their expressed dissatisfaction that brought an end to this blot on our history.

—Rudolph Bissessarsingh

Published May 27, 2012

This Wednesday, the nation celebrates the 167th anniversary of Indian Arrival. While it is a time for much grandiose exhibition and soliloquy, it would be well to look back on the largely neglected role of the Indian woman in the trials of arrival. During the era of immigration (1845-1917) women were far fewer than men.

Thus the Indian woman became a possession to be aggressively defended which sadly enough, resulted in frequent episodes of wife-murder wherein husbands who suspected their wives of infidelity punished the hapless spouses with the swipe of a sharpened cutlass.

The frail beauty of the Indian woman fascinated men (including photographers who considered them to be of rare exotic appeal) in general, exposing them to unwanted attention, especially from white planters and overseers. More than just a few became mistresses of the planters, often against their wills. One such enchanted master of the 1890s wrote:

“Strolling along the shady side of a wide and busy street, I overtook a young girl. I should have passed her had I not slackened my gait when I came within a few steps of her, and, walking softly, measuring my paces with hers, followed behind the unknown wayfarer respectfully and at a proper distance to study and admire her costume, which was so neatly fitted to her slight and charming figure, so tastefully disposed, draped in such dainty folds and graceful gatherings, that the wearer of it made a most attractive picture.

“Her little feet were bare; nevertheless, she trod firmly, stepping lightly, with graceful poise. In time, I made a mental catalogue of her appearance from which an ingenious artist could paint a full-length picture of her. “I noticed that her teeth were regular and white, mouth small and regular, lips full and pouting; head gracefully poised, face oval, Grecian in type; nose delicate, straight, finely chiselled; ears small, well shaped, and well put on; hair glossy, raven-black, straight and long, braided carefully with dexterous fingers, and tied at the ends with orange ribbons; hands small and covered with rings.”

The delicate Indian belle was sacrificed in Trinidad to a lifetime of toil in the canefields where burdens were heavy only to be followed by domestic tasks. Many were child-brides, wed in an ancient tradition to men who were often old enough to be their fathers.

Those who married men of wealth dispensed with the simple, chaste garb of white cotton which they had worn for generations for heavy silver bangles and gold coin haikal—these being the public status symbol. Educational opportunities were few until the coming of the Presbyterian Church’s Canadian Mission to the Indians.

There was no voice which spoke for the Indo-Trinidadian woman. Nevertheless, the indomitable spirit of womanhood persevered and these were the mothers who raised generations of children who suckled on the milk of self-denial to rise beyond the canefields and form a people which is now both economically secure and socially uplifted.

Angelo had noted the exotic beauty of the East Indian woman and even the splendour of her jewelry and her sari. Post-indentureship defined a new way of looking at ourselves outside of the shackles of the caste system. Unfortunately, in the last ten years or so we have seen an explosion of skin lightening creams and wannabe blondes. The beauty of our coloured women is something to be cherished and beauty must never be defined by the colour of our skin or the texture of our hair. Penny Commissiong, Giselle La Ronde-West and Wendy Fitzwilliam have carried this chant, ‘I am black and beautiful’ worldwide. Let us not stigmatise ourselves with beauty shows labelled ‘Miss Fair and Lovely’. Finally, are we still dealing with the spectre of sexual harassment of our young women in the landscape of 2017, 172 years after indentureship.

—Rudolph Bissessarsingh

In many First World nations, institutions, in order to foster closer ties with the wider community and especially schools, set aside spaces within their structures that contain the history of the institution and uniforms, firearms, swords, methods of transport and very often juicy tidbits of major events. The Police Headquarters and its personnel have a wonderful opportunity to preserve its long and glorious history in a space devoted to the construction of dioramas of the past to the present day. How many of us remember the British cork hats and the lengthy woollen socks. What about a pictorial display of the 1990 coup. What about it, Mr Commissioner? —Rudolph Bissessarsingh

Angelo Bissessarsingh First published on June 5, 2016 The headquarters of the T&T Police Service is one of the most imposing buildings in the capital. Located on St Vincent Street, it became a permanent home for the Trinidad Constabulary (forerunner of the TTPS).

The original constabulary was in a rented building on Frederick Street, but during the tenure of Sir Henry Turner Irving, funds were allocated for a grand new edifice. Constructed in 1876, it originally accommodated a police court, residence of the inspector general of the Trinidad Constabulary (precursor to the Commissioner of Police), the Volunteer Fire Brigade (until that body moved to its own headquarters in 1895), and a parade ground.

A detailed description of the facility in 1888 is as follows:

“A lofty, substantial edifice, built in the Italian-Gothic style, of limestone, obtained from the Piccadilly (Laventille) quarries. It cost the immense sum of nearly £90,000, but it is one of the few really fine buildings in the town, and the massive clock-tower, with the large arched galleries above and below, serve to give it an imposing appearance.

“There is a residence attached for the head of the force, besides quarters for non-commissioned officers. The spacious, well-ventilated dormitories present a smart and orderly appearance, as do also the storerooms and kitchen, etc, clearly indicating a military supervision.

“The lofty recreation-room is furnished with newspapers, draughts, dominoes, etc, for the use of the men. The buildings form a hollow square, with an arched entrance-passage, leading to a large open quadrangle within, which is used as a parade-ground. When the Volunteer Corps was first started this was for a long time its headquarters, and it is only quite recently that it has migrated to the new Drill Hall in Tranquillity. The police vote for 1886 was £28,134.

“The armoury contains Snider rifles, revolvers, swords, all brightly burnished, and ready for immediate use, if need be. Here are also the headquarters of the Volunteer Fire Brigade, a voluntary institution, with a few paid firemen, who, of course, have to give the whole of their time. The engines, hose, and other appliances are well kept, always ready at a moment’s notice night or day, and have on more than one occasion proved of the greatest practical utility.

“Curiously enough, in 1882 this fine building, in spite of its being the fountain-head of the police and fire brigade systems, and although it was even then comparatively new, was completely gutted by a disastrous fire which broke out in the lamp-room. It was restored two years later at a cost of £15,452, with concrete floors for the upper galleries and court house, iron staircases, and fire-proof roof, rendering it much more substantial and less liable to destruction by fire than with the pitch-pine floors and staircases which the former building had.

“Mention has already been made of the well-trained band of the police. It is under the direction of Mr Rudolphsen (late Bandmaster of the Royal Military College, Sandhurst), and plays regularly on certain days at fixed places of public resort in the town. The courtesy of the authorities will doubtless allow you a peep at the photographic album of criminals, by which you will get a glimpse of a few of the rascals of Trinidad, though doubtless there are a good number whose physiognomies do not adorn this art collection.

“The view from the top of the tower opens out a delightful panorama; the ball on the flag-post is regulated to fall precisely at mid-day (Greenwich time). In this building the Stipendiary Magistrate of Port-of-Spain holds his daily court ; and here, until quite recently, was held the weekly Petty Civil Court. All these courts are obliged to have a good staff of interpreters. This is a natural consequence where the races of people are of such a mixed character. And, with regard to the oath, a Christian must be sworn upon the Testament; a Mahometan, upon a part of the Koran; a Hindu, over a vessel of clear water to remind him of his own precious Ganges.”

Perhaps the most recent memory of Police Headquarters is the gutting of the building by fire during the 1990 attempted coup. For years afterwards, the shell remained derelict until it was restored and once again has attained its former glory. Aside from its primary function as a police station, it also houses a museum of the Police Service which is well worth a visit.

After more than 100 years of crude oil removal by international and national agencies, Fyzabad and surrounding areas remain largely underdeveloped and main street Fyzabad seems to be frozen in time. Many of the youths have no jobs and there are no economic ventures taking place. Are these the same issues of 1937 where citizens have not benefited from the exploitation of their community’s natural resources and continue not to benefit even up to today? —Rudolph Bissessarsingh ANGELO BISSESSARSINGH Published: July 3, 2016

He came to Fyzabad in 1921 along with hundreds of his countrymen from Grenada to work in the expanding oilfields, and the name of Tubal Uriah ‘Buzz’ Butler will always be associated with that town. In brief, growing discontent with the pay and working conditions at Apex Oilfields and the lack of a unionised workforce saw Butler being thrust to the head of an assembly which, on June 2, 1937, delivered terms to Col Horace Hickling, manager, which were summarily rejected. Butler was charged with sedition and went into hiding.

The standoff between labour, the oilfields, and then the police became very tense indeed since Butler could not be apprehended due to the many people who risked their own freedom to keep him out of the hands of the colonial authorities. On June 19, the now-wanted Butler addressed a meeting at the Emporium Hall which was interrupted by several policemen under the charge of Inspectors Power and Liddlelow.

One of the officers, Constable Belfon, was delegated to read the arrest warrant which led Butler to ask the crowd “Are you going to let them take me?” The response was an attack of bottles and stones aimed at the police who retreated. Power was struck on the head and later died.

Corporal Carl “Charlie” King, who had attempted to lay hands on Butler, was separated from his comrades. He ran to a nearby shop and leaped out the back window, breaking his legs. Kerosene was poured on him by the mob and he was set ablaze. The place where this happened is still known as Charlie King Junction.

In the days that followed, Fyzabad became a warzone. The rioters barricaded the main roads into the downtown section and it was a full three days before the charred remains of Corporal King were recovered. An English policeman, W S Bradburn was shot dead while on patrol and in retaliation, the police killed an innocent bystander, La Brea Charles.

These tumultuous events made Fyzabad the spiritual birthplace of the modern Trinidadian labour movement and the Labour Day celebrations held here annually include a march which culminates at Butler’s grave site (he died in 1977) in the ironically named Apex Cemetery.

A brick Roman Catholic chapel dedicated to St Thomas More was constructed in 1940 and a year later, a new school was founded in an old bungalow donated by Apex Oilfields. This institution was established by a well-known educator and poet of Tobagonian origin named Harold Telemaque.

Called the Fyzabad Intermediate Anglican School, this place has risen to become one of the best-regarded secondary schools in the south of the island.

A government primary school was constructed at Pepper Village to the north of Fyzabad at a later date. During the 1950s, Fyzabad remained a flourishing town. A new police station was built nearer the settlement since the old Constabulary (still to be seen) occupied an Apex structure and the interests of the oil barons in those days took precedence over the needs of the general populace.

In 1960 Apex became part of British Petroleum. The oil boom years of the 1970s saw a spike in the economy of the district with the opening of a large Hi-Lo supermarket, a strip mall, and even a new secondary school. A branch of Barclays (now Republic) Bank was opened there as well.

The good times were not to last forever, for with the plummeting of global oil prices, the 1980s brought recession. The old Apex holdings were once again to change hands as they became part of the new national oil company, Trintopec.

The straitened times showed itself in the gradual deterioration of the once-posh housing camps, with their swimming pools and tennis courts as well as the closure of Hi-Lo and one of the two cinemas in the town (although the Universal Cinema managed to soldier on until 2004). A new complex inaugurated by the government for the facilitation of cottage industries did little to stimulate self-employment. For many years, Fyzabad remained in a slump, even after a new state oil company, Petrotrin, was incorporated in 1993. It is only within very recent years that there has been some growth of the town and new modern buildings in place of the old ones.

A large private park and recreation facility on the old Trinidad Leaseholds Ltd lands is a major attraction. Nevertheless, there is still enough of the old Fyzabad to remind visitors of what was in the roaring heyday of this oil boom town.

The contribution of our Muslim brothers and sisters in the field of art, music, education, medicine, business and politics cannot be overstated. Their contribution to the ever changing landscape of T&T is immeasurable. From the 1800s to the present day, they co-exist in peace with other religions and their economic impact continues to strengthen the foundations they have built since they first came. We salute them for their valuable contributions and thank them for it.

_Rudolph Bissessarsingh There is considerable controversy over the name Fath Al Razack and Fatel Rozack but wherever the debris of this controversy will eventually settle and its interpretation of its links to Islam, whether by name or by ownership, points to the role of Islam and the very first East Indian Muslims that landed here in 1845.

Some historical scholars and researchers are quick to point that some of the enslaved Africans brought to the West Indies were also Muslims, having been exposed to the great Islamic incursions many years earlier in North and coastal regions of Africa. Their religious practice was, however, frowned upon by the colonisers. History records that the second group arrived in 1816 as a small proportion of the Colonial Marine Corps of African Descent. They had been recruited in 1815 in Georgia. Most of them settled in Fifth and Sixth Company within the company villages near Princes Town. These were followed by African Muslims from the disbanded West India Regiments and settled between 1817 and 1825 in Manzanilla on the east coast. Many African Muslims were also brought to Trinidad by the interception of the British Royal Navy of slave ships that were in violation of the Slave Trade Acts of 1824. The British, however, were a bit more tolerant and respected the cultural and religious differences between Hindus and Muslims. They were kept in separate compartments on board the ships and allowed to cook their meals separately.

The majority of the East Indian muslims who came were Hanafi Muslims. However, there were some Shi’ites also. They did not identify with their new homeland and their religion and culture gave them a sense of security. It was this sense that they developed very close bonds. They also had the bitter experience of more men than women, especially Muslim women, so there was a greater urgency to return to India. There was an absence of any real family life.

There was no great connection to any champion of the Muslims from mother India. Islam, however, has no scarcity of intellectual minds among its believers and it was men like Syed Abdul Aziz, a religious scholar and educator who became a lion for the cause of Muslims, challenging the colonial authorities for a space within the Caribbean space not only for the Moslems but for East Indians on the whole. It was in this landscape that the first mosque was built in Iere Village, Princes Town. All over the country a series of mosques and their jamaats were established, most noteworthy, one at Queen Street, Port-of-Spain. In 1926, the TIA was incorporated by an Act of Parliament.

Trinidad’s landscape has been enriched by the fine example of Islamic architecture in mosques scattered throughout the land. While there are many facets of this architecture that were extracted from the far Eastern Islamic countries, most notably, the Domes and Minarets, the modifications make them truly an expression of the Trinidadian Muslims. Islamic calligraphy is another fascinating expression and we salute the Muslim community in preserving and sharing these expressions, truly enriching the lives of the citizens. We share two of the magnificent structures in San Fernando for our readers.

—Rudolph Bissessarsingh Trinidad has many fine examples of Islamic architecture which have reflected the status, dignity and size of the Muslim community in the island. Nevertheless, the first masjids were humble structures of wood, tapia and thatch that served the various jamaats in the communities where there were numbers of the 20,000 or so Muslims who came to the island under indentureship.

By the 1920s, however, some adherents of the faith had prospered exceedingly and were able to erect masjids in keeping with their elevated economic status. Foremost among these men was Haji Gokool Meah, who had come to the island in the mid-1800s and was left orphaned when his mother died. From labouring on an estate near San Fernando, he saved and bought a mule cart and later expanded into shopkeeping.

Gokool became a millionaire before his death at age 92 and was best known as the owner of the Globe chain of cinemas. The Globe Cinema he founded in Port-of-Spain still stands as an outstanding example of Art Deco architecture. At the time of its construction, it was the largest movie house in the region as well as one of the first air-conditioned buildings in the land.

He also owned extensive holdings in Diego Martin, where every morning he observed the dictum of Islam on the giving of alms by standing at his gate with a large basket of hops bread to be distributed to hungry children. A very devout man, he was one of the few who early on had made the holy pilgrimage or Hajj to Mecca. After 1922 he became known as Haji Gokool Meah.

On lands of the old Peru Estate in Coolie Town (now St James), a ramshackled tapia building had served as a masjid on the Western Main Road. In 1927 Gokool had this levelled and construction of a new building in classic Islamic style started. Using a combination of local labour and directed by foreign craftsmen, the new mosque was made with reinforced concrete which was used to good effect in the imposing dome and the four minarets. There was also a Mihrab, or prayer niche, aligned in the direction of Mecca. A handsome iron and concrete fence separated the compound from the busy main thoroughfare.

The enormous cost of the edifice was borne by Gokool, who left a stunning $1 million in his will to start the Haji Gokool Meah Trust. His eldest son, Noor, was the primary trustee.

The proceeds were used to pay for the upkeep of the building and the salary of a resident imam. It was also used for charity, which was something that Gokool was famous for throughout his entire life. Haji Ruknaddeen arrived in Trinidad in 1893 and after a short period of indentureship, supported himself as a tailor in Tunapuna.

A scholar and literate in several Eastern languages, he was soon recognised as a cleric of standing and became to his brethrens a guide, adviser and leader. He was a Sufi or ascetic of his faith and rose to become the Quazi or leader of the Muslims of Trinidad. In conjunction with another prominent Muslim, Al Haj Maulana Shah Mohammed Hassan, he formed in 1933 the Anjuman Sunnat-ul-Jamaat Association (Asja) which remains today the largest and best known Islamic organisation in the nation, with several primary and secondary schools in various communities which provide a high standard of education to children of all denominational backgrounds.

Starting in 1935 with a gift of land from a prominent Muslim on Queen Street in Port-of-Spain, Asja planned to erect a grand masjid in the best Islamic tradition. One of the benefactors, bakery owner Mohammed Ibrahim, was the main driving force. Part of the donated property adjoined a piece of land owned by the patriarch of the Lebanese community, Abdou Sabga. Ibrahim tried to buy this parcel of land several times without success, eventually offering Sabga a blank cheque to make his own price.

The businessman promptly tore up this cheque, declaring that if the land was to be used in service of God he would gladly give it for free, which is what he did.

Ibrahim supervised the construction process, which was done in reinforced concrete like the Gokool Meah masjid. A garden of tranquility inside the grounds was included in the design, which boasted airy and magnificent chambers, including the obligatory Mihrab. Both the Queen Street and Gokool Meah masjids stand as examples of how indelibly part of the national spectrum the Islamic community has established itself.

History teaches us not only the resilience of our ancestors but their economic vision and their economic symbiosis with our countries’ natural resources. The early San Fernandians saw the potential of their port and its possibilities as a marina and an attractive resource for wealthy yachties. This was de-ministered in two world wars but once more appears as a facet for diversification.

—Rudolph Bissessarsingh Published: December 29, 2013 

For nearly a century, the premiere event on San Fernando’s social calendar was the New Year’s Day Regatta at King’s Wharf. The elites and the hoi polloi mingled freely, enjoying watersports, athletics and music in a spirit of genial bonhomie and with none of the class segregation characteristic of the colonial period and the present in Port-of-Spain.

The regatta was instituted on January 1, 1870, by Gustave Dieffenthaller, who owned the largest pharmacy in the town, the Naparima Dispensary. Gustave was an enthusiastic sailor and at his call, boats of all descriptions, from as far away as La Brea and Oropouche, competed in the lists—which involved a speedy tack under oar and sail from the steamship jetty on the wharf to Farallon Rock, which stood out in the Gulf of Paria, almost two miles away. The rock was the turning point for the competitors to return and be judged. Not surprisingly, Dieffenthaller and his sleek barque, Enterprise, won the day and the team did so for another two years.

The races were not the only feature of the regatta. Patrons were regaled with the sonorous talents of the Naparima Harmonic Society, which was founded by the Vilain family—a prominent coloured clan whose musical talents were known throughout the colony. The following year, the meet was expanded to include athletic competitions on the strip of land now occupied by the PTSC terminus. In 1872 Gustave Dieffenthaller died suddenly at 36 years of age, but the regatta persevered under the management of a group of merchants and planters called the Stewards of the San Fernando Regatta. In 1878 a purse was offered as a prize in addition to the signature silver cup. By the 1880s, the regatta had become something of a national phenomenon and even attracted the attention of crowds from Port-of-Spain. The Gulf Steamer which plied between the two towns even operated a special sailing to accommodate the northern spectators. The steamer also carried dignitaries such as Sir C C Knollys, the colonial administrator, who became a steward in 1887. Knollys was an avid sportsman and was a fixture of the regatta for several years. Another governor who participated fully in the happenings of the day was Sir Alfred Maloney, who even rolled up his sleeves in 1902 and competed as an honorary sailor.

A decade before this, however, the regatta lost some of its character with the death of Elvira Glassen. She was a Grenadian by birth and a woman of means who had fallen on hard times. She ran a boarding house and dining room at No 1 High Street called the Royal Hotel (no relation to the present-day San Fernando establishment of that name). Elvira would turn out at every regatta, including the inaugural meet in 1870, with a stall that sold the most delicious beef pies, mauby and lemonade to patrons and spectators alike. The more upper-crust folks would repair to her hotel’s restaurant at the close of the day for a lavish dinner, dancing and cocktails and this had become very much a fixture of the day. In 1904 tragedy struck the regatta in a sudden and gruesome way. As was customary, a cannon on shore was fired to signal the start of the races. On January 1, 1904, the hapless Charles M Pasea (a steward of the regatta) was standing in the firing line. His head was blown off his shoulders and far out to sea. As a result, no regattas were held until 1907. His grave-marker at Paradise Cemetery was paid for by his fellow stewards, which is commemorated on the back of the headstone thus: “Erected by the Stewards of the San Fernando Regatta and other friends. A man greatly beloved.”

The regatta was suspended temporarily from 1914-17 during World War I but resumed in the last war year (1918). In 1920 Mayor Clarence Hamilton Gopaul was named the first Indo-Trinidadian Honorary Steward. A year later, well known San Fernando shipwright George Martin bested the competition in a steam-powered launch belonging to Thomas Geddes Grant, the first powered vessel to enter the races. The year 1932 was a year of tragedy, since two competing boats collided and one of the competitors drowned before help arrived. World War II proved to be another interruption in the festivity; the resumption of the regatta in 1946 under Mayor Victor C Ramsaran seemed to have lost some of the spirit of years gone by. Regattas were held sporadically throughout the 1950s and 1960s, but less than 100 years after its foundation, the historic event was no more.

It becomes vitally important for outlying rural areas to create their own brand of tourism. This encourages the flow of traffic into these areas and the investment in trade and development. Paramin and the THA have recorded successes in this direction. Cedros, decades ago, was on the right track. This sadly has been neglected. —Rudolph Bissessarsingh

One of the most splendid beaches on the island is Columbus Bay. Named in honour of the great discoverer Christopher Columbus, its broad sands are set against a backdrop of endless coconut trees. It is differentiated from other beaches by the unusual eroded stacks known as the “Three Sisters” which are all that remain of an ancient peninsula. On the far end of the wide sweep of the Bay is Constance Estate.

Jean Majani (1881-1951) came to Trinidad from Corsica in 1900 to work as manager of the coconut plantation in Icacos, south Trinidad, which was owned by his rich grand-uncle Francois Agostini.

About 40 years before his arrival, Francois had acquired the land through foreclosure of a mortgage. Initially a sugar plantation, it was converted to a coconut monoculture with thousands of swaying palms eventually enhancing the already breathtaking landscape. Like his grand-uncle and employer, Jean was enchanted by the sea-girt beauty of the place and remained its manager from 1908 to 1951.

He was also a lover of horses. Cedros, one of the most isolated areas in Trinidad, had little on the social calendar. The many coconut and few sugar plantations which comprised the bulk of the land boasted several horses which was a good thing since the young Corsican was an excellent rider. Years before, in 1884, some of the colonial officials and larger planters of the area joined to hold a series of races at Columbus Bay. The sands were firm enough for the purpose.

The event, which came off on September 18, was held under the patronage of the Governor, Sir F B Barlee. He came down for the occasion along with many guests aboard the island steamer, which plied between the remote districts of the island from 1818 to 1928. It was then an annual affair, being held on New Year’s Day, thereafter. Race meets like the Cedros one were common in the era of horses and mules.

They were a major interruption to the monotony in far-flung country districts. Moruga, Manzanilla and Toco were among the coastal communities where such entertainments could be seen. The runnings were often well-organised with separate classes for mules and horses. These races served an important function as a sphere on interactive integration for whites and coloureds.

The annual prize was a silver cup and a purse of $40 which itself was quite a tidy sum. Majani threw himself into the horse racing with full force, owning some fine steeds which he kept stabled separately from the other mules and horses of Constance estate, near to the manager’s residence which has since been eroded into the sea. Jean’s horses won the Cedros Cup nine consecutive times.

From the 1920s onwards, the races were held every two to three years and not at all from 1934 to 1940 as the area was recovering from a devastating hurricane which struck in 1933. The last races were held in 1950, and a year later, Jean died. Today, wild descendants of his horses still roam the area and may be seen at Columbus Bay.