I had an unpleasant encounter with Tomas

Nov 07, 2010 News

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By Nazima Raghubir
“Your flight has been cancelled”. It’s the announcement every traveler dreads and the announcement that greeted scores of passengers as we waited at the Grantley Adams International Airport, Barbados.
The flight was LIAT 521 destined for Georgetown, Guyana. I was on my way home after spending just about ten days in three countries; I was eager to get home to mom’s waiting cook-up.
Just as the LIAT agent made the announcement, a group of more than 40 people gathered around the LIAT counter. We had been told initially that the flight was delayed due to operational issues but the latter announcement revealed that it was delayed due to the impending storm, Tomas, which was in the Atlantic Ocean at the time.
Of the 40 gathered at the counter, about 11 of us were in transit; no one was happy since initially there was no word about what would happen to us.
Our names were called one by one. Each of the 11 gathered around the counter was in a state of panic. Uncertainty was painted on the faces of the others who didn’t hear their names.
I was certainly in panic mode, but I am sure my face hid it well. I was prepared to make a bed at the airport. Storm was the word that was buzzing in my head as a father and his young son, just about 14 months old, stood next to me pondering his next move, his fingers nervously trying to dial several numbers on a cell phone provided by LIAT.
At that time, little did I know that this father, who I found out is a Buxtonian now living in St Kitts, would eventually spend the next two days with me and 10 others bonding as Barbados faced the effects of Tropical Storm Tomas.
I didn’t know what to expect. I was not an islander and the heavy rains and winds that Guyana had experienced in recent times were nothing compared to the effects of a tropical storm, I was told.
It was raining when we walked out of Grantley Adams International Airport but that was nothing unusual as we made our way to await transportation to take to us to the hotel.
To get to the hotel was dramatic to say the least. It was the minibus that took us there that evoked laughter among the mainly Guyanese passengers.
To say that it was old would be an understatement. It was beyond old, rather dilapidated and reminded me of some minibuses owners. It was too worn out to carry people. The seats were old, one was broken, and the door needed a special mechanism to be closed and opened.
To add insult to injury, a set of papers had been piling up there, evidently for ages, which in effect would be more accurately classified as garbage. That rubbish had to be removed to create seating space for one of the passengers.
I thought, “No way. This isn’t Barbados!”
We got to the hotel, Casa Grande, incident free. I was optimistic up until then that I would have had a drama free day and by tomorrow, the Saturday, I would be on a flight back home to the cook-up now waiting in the fridge.
At that time, little did I know that Casa Grande or the Grand House would be a name I would remember for the rest of my life.
I barely noticed the outside of the hotel, I was eager to get in and find the nearest phone to update my family. I, along with the other passengers, was also hungry, a feeling that was put to rest when we were told we would be called for lunch by the hotel management.
I didn’t take time to check out the hotel at that time but little did I know that the 11 of us along with a mother and her two daughters from Martinique were the only people staying at a hotel built for more than 200 people.
It was still raining when I got to my room, the room was a pleasant surprise, seemed very warm, equipped with two beds, television, small fridge and every other modern amenity.
At that time I was quickly updating my sisters back home about my arrangements as they tried to comfort my mother with the words that I was safe. More than an hour passed before we were called to lunch. I was hungry and was among the first persons to get to what seemed like a small restaurant in the front of the hotel.
Our lunch of what was basically fried fish (what we were told to be flying fish) and bread should have been an indicator to us what we should have expected for the rest of the day.
At that time I didn’t yet know that I would have later eaten Flying Fish in all possible manner of preparation.
Now, if you were to ask me, I can authoritatively declare that I’ve had Flying Fish fried, dried, reheated, baked and even in what seemed to be stew. I’m now qualified to be a Flying Fish Chef.  Some other guests at one time even refused the food altogether, likening it to “jail food.”
The hotel fell way below the standards of what I expected of a hotel in Barbados.
Don’t get me wrong; we were all happy for the shelter and warmth it provided. We even found some of the staff to be quite gracious, including a young receptionist, who went out of her way to accommodate our needs.
This very large hotel complex was outfitted with a bar, restaurant, pool, games arcade and casino.
But even at departure time on Sunday morning, I was still convinced that Casa Grande had never seen as many passengers as the motley 11 person outfit of the cancelled LIAT flight 521 of Friday 29 October 2010.
What ended up being a two-day stay at Casa Grande in Barbados, no thanks to Mr. Tomas, left a bitter taste in my mouth, that actually has nothing to do with Barbados’ Flying Fish.
I had just finished one of two books I had with me that night, when I decided I was going to ‘take knock out.’
The heavy rain was beating against my hotel room door as well as tossing around several items around the pool close to my balcony.
At least, that’s what I assumed, since this was my first storm. I was quite sure that Tropical Storm Tomas had kicked in full gear. As I do most times when I am away from home, I left the room lights and television on.
I had placed a wake-up call for 5 a.m. but had set my own alarm for 4:30 a.m. since I was mentally preparing to return to Guyana the next day!
At about three that morning, Tomas was in full gear. My inquisitive, journalistic instincts dragged me from my bed to place my ears to the door; the howling of the winds was not pleasant; I swear fear had become one with me.
There was a loud banging close to the balcony; I had left on the lights out there too. I opened my door and peeped out, it was terrifyingly dark.
I secured the door and sat on the bed, the television was on to CNN news, the countdown to Jon Stewart’s rally in Washington was on.
The television started to flicker, but at that time I wasn’t worried. My feet then froze. It wasn’t too long after that the lights went out but the television set was still on.
I sprang up from the bed and was nervously checking each switch. If my shadow had tapped me on my shoulder I would have fallen through the floors; that was how scared I was.
My cell phones were fully charged. I remember texting my sister close to 4 a.m. I knew she wasn’t likely to be awake but no harm in me pretending that she was.
Still draped in the darkness, it seemed that the howling wind was now starting a conversation with me, a conversation I certainly didn’t wish to entertain.
With the little light from my phone I took a shower; it was cold. I dressed using the light from the television.
There was a knock on my door, I didn’t check the time but even before I got to the door, in my very brave voice I asked who it was. It turned out to be the night Security who had to do wake up calls on foot since the phone was out.
He then advised me that the electricity was out in some parts of the hotel and on the island! Even at that point I was still convinced that I’d be home the next day.
Daylight came just as I needed it most and afforded me an opportunity to investigate what was banging against my balcony in the dark.  Well I had surmised that it could have been one of many things. The pool furniture had taken residence in the pool. What seemed to be a solar panel had fallen several feet to the ground, a large black water tank was rolling about the yard and several wooden windows had deserted their hinges and were now communing with mother earth.
It was still raining heavily. The knock returned to my door, and this time my hopes for traveling home that day were dashed to the ground, as had the windows during the raging night.
The airport was closed and monitoring of the storm continued.
I pouted my mouth. I knew my mother would be worried. I texted my sister and retired to my bed.
At about ten that morning, there was a knock; it was one of the ladies in the same plight as me, who was just checking to see if I knew what was going on, since like mine, her electricity was also out. By then we planned to go seek out breakfast.
At that time we were told of the damage Tomas had already caused to the island, homes were without roofs as well as water and electricity, the roads in some parts were blocked off from moving debris, so we were hoping for no miracle at the hotel or its management.
We knew we were better off than some people who had no idea if they were going to eat that day, but to our surprise it seemed that we were going to spend the day with food, water and electricity.
From all indications the hotel management had prepared for the effects of the storm; almost everything was closed off to us, including drinking water.
We were initially told that breakfast, even coffee, was not possible. The receptionist, trying to be as helpful as possible, would only say that the owner of the hotel had the keys to everything so even if she wanted to prepare breakfast for us, she’d still have to await the arrival of the owner.
I had returned to my room when I was told that the gang was in the hotel kitchen.
It turned out that the keys were there all along but there was some skepticism as to if anyone of the staff should have access to help make us a meal.
By the time I got to the kitchen, the women were preparing a breakfast of fried eggs and bread, along with coffee for us. Some of the men were there too; it was dark and we used the lights from our phones to guide us.
We had to get warm milk to the baby that was with his father still in their room. That was done as we all bonded in the dark over the little we had as we came to the realisation that we were going to spend the day in that hell hole with Tomas still very much around.
The day didn’t go any different from then on, as the owner arrived with some water in some large plastic tub like jars, yes that was suppose to be our drinking water.
She gave no hope for any alternative electricity supply even as she said she had generators, nor did she give us on tinge of hope that our short stay would be little less stressful.
The plate of Flying Fish with rice returned at lunch with some of us refusing to eat it.
It was the first time in my life I experienced so much rain. We all had friends in Barbados but no one could get to us even if they wanted to.
I tried to quell my family’s distress back home as much as possible as I painted a picture of comfort for them, I lied.
Close to nightfall, silent prayers echoed the hall ways of Casa Grande, there were prayers for this to be over since we had just learnt that there was no water.
That Saturday night some of us hung out in our respective rooms, others like me, Dawn Yearwood-Stewart, Horace Fraser, Jermaine Smartt and Peter Lansiquot had bunked in Smartt’s room chit chatting, sharing stories about home, their travels and life.
We hoped that that time would pass without us knowing and we fiddled around some small touches lent to us by the Hotel’s owner.
Before we knew it, the wait for any hope was tiring us and it was off to bed for some.
I think everyone slept with the hope of getting a flight out next day!
The next morning, a few of us were off checking the airport for updates. LIAT had forgotten us at the hotel.
I was given a bucket of water from the pool to bathe; I was happy with that.
Good news came, flights were heading out.
I was satisfied that I was heading home when I sat in the Grantley Adams airport, those hopes were nearly dashed twice when the plane could not take off for two separate reasons, one a passenger on the wrong flight; and two a minor set back in the cabin.
We were air borne and bound for home 20 minutes late but I was more than happy.
I knew warm hugs awaited my arrival and even more so Mom’s cook up was still in the fridge.

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