These tourists.

Them locals.

They gaze.

Stare.

But with a sense of distaste in their mouths.

These tourists.

With Canons dangling from their necks.

Strapped sandals and the baggiest clothes.

In Cuba we lycra.

But these tourists.

Some tight with their Euros, others loose.

But we know, it come easy. Easier than us.

These tourists never stop lifting their lenses.

As if the inhabitants of Trinidad were in a circus or caged at a zoo.

Their fascination never ends.

We pose for them.

Uninterested.

Only our children yet naive.

Bursting with smiles.

Yet to turn sour when they know it’s so fleeting.

The twist and the tangle.

Tourists and locals.

There is no harmony yet.

No give and take.

No love lost.

No love won.

So the status quo.

Zero. Remains.