04/26/2026
Who know the story?
🌿 Mahal and His Invisible Car - The Walking Legend. .....................................
The madness that has gripped this island over the last decade has led many to boldly declare on social media that “Trinidad is not a real place.”
But from what I’ve noticed, the bizarre episodes and colourful characters we marvel at today are tame, almost polite, when compared to the unbelievable happenings of the past.
Truth be told… Trinidad may never have been a real place to begin with......................................
🌿 Mahal in Town...
“Mahal, like yuh sell de bus an' get ah car?” 'Spit in the Sea' shouted, already eyeing a free drop to Cocorite. It was his daily pilgrimage, where he would do exactly what his name promised.
Mahal paid him no mind.
Instead, he focused on polishing his imaginary car to an impossible shine, stepping back to admire his reflection.
That day, he had no time for Spit In De Sea's nonsense. He knew the man too well.
"You only want tuh pose off in meh backseat!" Mahal shouted, as he got into his vehicle.
“Watch de door!” Mahal snapped, as a coconut vendor backed his donkey cart too close outside Vasco da Gama Bar.
With careful hand signals and a confident shift into first gear... off he went.
He never noticed Spit In De Sea had slipped quietly into the backseat.
They passed through Marine Square with little attention. To onlookers, it was just an elderly, weather-beaten cocoa panyol gesturing with wild determination in his eyes… and a red-skinned vagabond trotting suspiciously close behind.
And Spit In De Sea, now comfortably “seated,” had one thought...
“Ah wonder if he really goin’ Cocorite…”
Approaching Abercromby Street, Mahal slowed and courteously signalled to allow Commissioner of Police, Colonel Mavrogordato, to cross toward the Union Club.
That was when disaster almost struck.
Spit In De Sea, not minding the road, lurched forward, straight into Mahal, nearly causing a collision with the Commissioner. Mahal jumped out, flung open the back door, and dragged Spit In De Sea into the street.
“Wuh nonsense is dis?! Yuh is ah rell runt!”
The Commissioner paused, took in the spectacle of two vagrants fighting on the roadway, before shaking his head and continuing on his way.
Meanwhile, Mahal had already reclaimed control of his vehicle and sped off north into Abercromby Street... only to nearly "bunks d**g" Mary Jackass.
Mary was an old French Creole woman who was always in a hurry and forever under siege by schoolboys. She lashed out at Mahal with her lone surviving tooth, scratching his upholstery.
Outraged, Mahal tried to run her over, but she fled into the square. Mahal steadied himself and continued on, where he eventually pulled up outside the Hotel de Paris.
“Taxi? Sir, Miss? Take ah tour rong de tong!” he called, bowing with exaggerated politeness to a stiff English gentleman and a lady in a green and white polka-dot dress.
They ignored him completely.
"These ungrateful tourists only care 'bout deh self." Mahal thought.
Just as he was about to drive off, he spotted Gombot Lili, the man tasked with bathing the dead in Port of Spain. Of course, he was the son of the infamous Gombot Glisé, who once got jailed for charging four cents to peek into a box that, allegedly, contained something far too indecent for public viewing.
“Gombot! Yuh finish wuck? Yuh need ah drop? Circular Road fuh six cents!” Mahal begged.
But Gombot was occupied. The dead don’t bathe themselves.
Mahal played his gear and drove on to Frederick Street, and past Greyfriars’ Kirk. There he spotted Councillor Albert Gomes.
“Mawnin' Mistah Gomes!” Mahal called brightly.
“Morning Mahal." Mr. Gomes replied, tipping his hat, "Ah hope yuh didn't get any flat today.”
Mahal grinned and signalled his turn.
At the corner of Prince and Henry Streets, as luck would have it, he spotted Spit In De Sea again, still trying to reach Cocorite.
Fortunately for him, a light drizzle began. Mahal, ever prepared, flicked on his wipers and slipped past unnoticed.
Turning onto Park Street, he was suddenly overtaken by a jeep filled with American sailors, who most likely were scouting for women. Mahal trudged on, ignoring their laughter and whistles.
“Mawnin' Mr. Singh!” Mahal called, slowing near Pembroke Street.
Boysie Singh, already building his reputation and short-lived empire, lifted a hand.
“Alright Mahal... yuh takin' good care ah da Ford boy. Keep it up!” Boysie exclaimed, as Mahal fought with his gear and carried on.
Green Corner was packed. No parking. Too many sailors. So Mahal made his way to Victoria Square, carefully parking along Duke Street. There he exited his vehicle and hurried to admire the zandolees, taking a quiet moment to himself.
But when he returned…
His car was gone.
And somewhere, not too far away... Spit in De Sea was finally on his way to Cocorite........................................
đź“ś How Mahal came to be -
They say he was born Jose Gonzales, of Mary Street, Siparia. From early, the boy loved vehicles. Back then, being a driver wasn’t just a job, it was a position of importance and authority.
Young Jose would “drive” routes through George Street, engine sounds rumbling from his lips, carrying passengers only he could see.
He spent hours near Syne's Bus service garage, studying the buses. One in particular fascinated him. Its name was painted boldly across its body... “Taj Mahal.”
That name stayed with him.
Some say his mind changed after he and his sister witnessed something no child should see... a murder. It is said that the perpetrators of the crime belted out a "spirit-lash" so as to destroy the memory of the young witnesses. His sister, would later be seen along Siparia roadsides, endlessly sewing on an invisible Singer machine.
As for Jose, now known as Mahal, he never stopped driving.
From Siparia to Erin.
Port of Spain to Sangre Grande.
Manzanilla to Guayaguayare.
If there was a road, Mahal had "driven" it.
At some point, he upgraded from bus to car. Easier to maintain, he claimed.
And mile after mile, engine humming from his own breath… Mahal covered distances that even my faithful Toyota could only fathom.
And unlike most drivers…
He never once ran out of gas.......................................
Have you ever heard of Mahal? Share your thoughts in the comments below 👇🏽
