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... & OTHER ODDBALL STORIES |
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In 1987 we played in Port-a-Prince, Trinidad. The concert hall where we were playing for three nights was at the bottom of a small mountain, half way between our hotel which was on top the mountain, and the presidential palace which was about two blocks away. On the third night our power was turned off because the president had complained about the loud volume, and the promoter had to go plead with him to turn it back on, which he did.
On the second night of our three day gig in Trinidad, the promoter had asked us to travel after the show to a bar called "Le Club" in the south of the island to "walk around"; his idea being to let people know that we were really there, as no rock acts ever came to the island. He said he would send a bus to the hotel to pick us up after the show and take us there.
It was the week before Christmas, and most of the guys had either their wives or their girlfriends with them on the trip, and everybody was feeling pretty "happy" by the time the bus arrived. The bus looked like an old Dodge from the 40's that had been recently hand-painted. Inside was our driver, rocking to
the beat of steel drum Christmas music blasting from his tape deck, a brightly lit Christmas tree (about 1' high) on the dash, and a full beer on the cowling |
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next to him! Now, in a situation like this, the normal train of thought is, "This guy does this everyday for a living. He must know what he's doing." WRONG! As we drove out of the city, we began to drive up the side of the mountain at an incredibly steep angle. It was only a single lane, and the bus was barely chugging along. Nobody seemed to notice, except myself, that we were now very high up and driving very close to the edge with no guardrails. I kept thinking to myself, "I wonder what would happen if this thing stalls?" When we reached the top, it was like we had no brakes. By now everyone was very quiet, and I was scared sh#%!less. For some crazy reason all I could think of was what my mother would do in a situation like this. At the last moment the driver veered off the road into a parking lot and hit the brakes. We literally slid sideways across the gravel. My heart was pounding and I made a beeline up to the driver (who was taking a sip of his beer) and said very politely, "I know you drive this route every day, but would you please do me a favour and SLOW THE F#%!K DOWN!"
Drivers in Trinidad generally were bad. Where else in the world would you ever see a sign sponsered by the Red Cross which implored drivers to drive safely because there wasn't enough blood for transfusions? By the time we finally reached "Le Club" I had made a solemn promise to myself to not ride in the bus on the trip back, and I didn't.
A few years later, the Trinidad radio station where we did an interview was taken over by rebels, with the government people taking refuge at the Hilton, where we stayed when we were there. |
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