Vaneisa: Taitree’s Avocat legacy; everything was mud

The column I had originally written for today was bleak and dark and the person whose story I was including was understandably reluctant for it to be aired because she feared repercussions—although no one was identified.

She needed some time, she said, before she could deal with it. I respect that; it was why I had shown it to her beforehand. Instead, I decided to write about an unexpected visit to the Avocat Mud House Museum in Siparia.

I was just tagging along with my daughter, Amy, who wanted to look at structures made with clay and gobar, the dried cow dung also used in tapia houses, for an article she is writing.

She deci­ded to enlist her father, Kim Johnson, as chauffeur, and the three of us set off fairly early on Wednesday morning.

For me, it was a rare outing. Such excursions had not been a regular part of my life. Motion sickness had always made long drives on winding roads a nightmare—plus, my father was not one for family activities.

So, armed with a precautionary Gravol tablet for Amy and me, we set off.

Typically, I was up early, frying bakes to stuff with fish and zaboca (Kim is one of the few people I know who do not like zabocas, but Amy and I adore them) and an insulated bag with water and fruit juice.

It made it seem more like an adventure, and I needed that to motivate me to get out of the house so early.

We made good time, munching, listening to music and singing along, while Kim dug into his natural role as a tour guide.

When we arrived at the site, we were met by Rajwantee Bullock, who is an incredibly agile 77-year-old with the demeanour of a stern schoolteacher (which she was).

She is the great-granddaughter of Taitree, who’d come to Siparia in the late 19th century to work on a cocoa estate. Taitree’s story is an exceptional one for Indian women of the time. She was able to build the structure in 1885 using money she saved through thrift, hard work and business acumen.

This was the family home, which has been converted into a museum by the Ramcoomair Chatoor Memorial Trust (named for Taitree’s grandson).

Rajwantee directed us to a covered shed with tables and benches where posters telling stories about her ancestors, and photographs of Trinidad and Tobago’s presidents and prime ministers were among the various educational instruments lining the walls.

One of the tables, covered with a white cloth, held a tray with luscious-looking dragon fruit, grown right there on the estate.

It was like a schoolroom, and true to her calling, Rajwantee sat in front, ready to respond to Amy’s questions. Not wanting to intrude, I contented myself with reading the material before settling down on a bench to pay attention.

Kim, meanwhile, had made a beeline for a bench on the farthest end and reclined himself on it, disappearing from view.

By now I was listening intently, and had even whipped out my notebook, when suddenly, a soft droning sound wafted into the air. Kim had fallen asleep, and his snores grew louder and louder so it was all I could do not to burst into laughter.

I looked across as Amy and Rajwantee continued their conversation, seemingly oblivious to the ruckus behind them.

Although it was just about 10.30, the day was already making hot, and given that Kim had left his home around seven, it was not surprising that he’d nodded off.

I suggested that we go across to see the museum itself so we could have the visuals to accompany her descriptions. Rajwantee had not finished her narrative and shot that down. But as we were leaving to walk across, she asked me if I wanted to wake him.

No, I said. Let him rest.

Inside the mud house, the tempe­rature was distinctly cooler, and as Rajwantee guided us past the various artefacts, and explained their uses, I was taken back in time.

I recognised many things and recalled their uses—memory taking me straight to my late aunt’s house, where she used a sil and lorha to grind her herbs, and all the various implements that were part of their household as an agricultural family.

There were tools for harvesting and processing cocoa, chulhas and cooking implements, flambeaux and pitch-oil lamps; a comprehensive representation of the lifestyle of the Indian immigrant in the 19th century.

After 50 years as a teacher, Raj­wantee now spends her time trying to maintain the historic structure. She says that they hardly have volunteers now, and it is hard to keep it going without any State support.

Her pension and NIS are what she uses to manage costs. The dragon fruits were for sale, and I bought two—half the price they’re sold for in the North—and twice as succulent.

Her book on the founders of the museum, From the Mud House to the University: The Life of Dr Ramcoomair Chatoor, was published by Heinemann in 2020.

Her son, Adrian, and her daughter, Andrea, help. They host tours, and the site is a venue for various events. But altogether, it is not enough to keep this part of our history alive.

Visiting was a welcome lift to the spirits, but it was sad to see the neglect. We must do better.