My name is Warren Dunham and I’m a Trini when I cook.
I’m American. I live in San Diego, California. But Trinidad is a part of me that I refuse to let go of. I’m a better—and a happier— person from having lived there.
From 1973, when I was 13, until 1978, I lived in Maraval, above Boissiere Village. My dad started up the LNG project, which I hope panned out good for Trinidad. It was a big project for him.
Last time I was in Trinidad was 1988. But what keeps me going is I still cook Trini, all the time.
My couple o’ years at [the Amoco] school in Mayaro was probably the most fantastic part of my stay in Trinidad. An old man named Boysie taught me how to make crab traps out of bamboo. I caught loads. I’d stand on the Mayaro Main Road selling crabs.
Indian cab drivers would pull over, laughing. “I don’t even like crab,” one said, “but I never see a white boy sell crab, so I have to buy.”
I got two nicknames in Trinidad. The first was, “Wotless”. I know Kes the Band came out with a song called, “Wotless” a couple o’ years ago. I said, “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah! They copying! I been Wotless since 1973.”
A friend took me to lime in St Ann’s and someone, “You bring that wotless Yankee again?” And people started calling me, “Wotless Warren”. I looked it up in the dictionary, spelling it, “Wattless” and it said, “Without wattage or power”. So I told the guys and they just cried laughing. “You,” they said, “are truly wotless!”
A lot of friends also called me, “Mango Head”. I asked, “You call me Mango Head because I like to eat mangoes?” They said, “No, because your head shaped funny, like a Julie mango”.
Once, waiting for a taxi in Maraval, a Land Rover full of police stopped and yelled at me across the road and I thought he said, “Oy, what they call you?” So I proudly said, “Oh, they call me, ‘Mango Head’”. It’s such a sight to see: six policemen falling out of a Land Rover, they laughing so hard.
When he finally regained his composure, he said, “No, Mango Head, I’m pleased to meet you, but what do they call this whole area we’re in?” And then I started laughing. “You mean,” I said to him, “you all is lost?” He didn’t appreciate my laughter as much as I did his.
We lived, in Mayaro, [near] Edwin Hing Wan, the famous Trinidadian artist. I’d walk down the beach and watch him paint. He lived in dirt-poor poverty. They had a one-room house with one electric bulb hanging from a cord from the ceiling.
Hing Wan was crippled and couldn’t use his fingers, but they’d strap a board to his arm with a hole in it, and put a paintbrush through the hole. And he would paint these most fantastic watercolours. Hing Wan is a T&T national treasure but probably half his artwork is scattered across the US, from people who worked in the oil business who bought these beautiful paintings as gifts.
I miss Trinidad, the place, terribly. But I do find comfort in cooking its food. Trinidad just has a big place in my heart. And my stomach.
Trinidadian food truly ends up being one of the best cuisines. By sheer accident, you can sit down for Sunday lunch and eat the food of three or four continents!
I make a mess with the split peas whenever I make dhalpuri. I only make paratha by accident, when I try to pick up my dhalpuri and it all bus’ up.
A beautiful woman named Ruby George who worked for us showed me how to make sorrel and I always make for Christmas. But, on a Sunday, I love a browned stew chicken. I grow my own herbs and make my own green seasoning.
A Trini is socially or genetically programmed to always be late. But it’s not a bad thing: because the people you’re going to see expect you to be late. Except for Jouvert. You never hear, “Sorry, I slept in”.
T&T is like rum punch: a simple basic recipe, ingredients from all over the world, and they come together to make the most beautiful drink. Trinidad has taken all its people and tweaked them. And it becomes one of the best drinks and also one of the best countries.
Read a longer version of this feature at www.BCRaw.com