Denniblog

…but just for one day. There will be little or no further blogging or picture uploads until I get home. The internet is getting in the way of actual travel 😉

I’ll be unpading this blog and post-dating the entries to get together a proper travelogue, but I’ll need more time right now.

I’m off manatee-hunting in Nariva Swamp tomorrow. I have a hunch there might be an expedition in there somewhere.

If it’s a dud, you’ll next hear from me from Tobago by the weekend, otherwise it may take longer. I don’t expect to find internet between Sangre Grande and Mayaro.

Today the situation at the maxi terminal was reversed: the platform was crawling with people, but there were no maxis. However we didn’t have to wait for long. One of the things I love about the maxis here are the little spare seats that prop up in the most unlikely places—disguised as arm-rests—when you think that they could really not fit in any more people.

Another thing I love about T&T are the epiphytes that grow on the powerlines (at least in the rainy season). The jungle is encroaching on the towns and cities. Even in Port of Spain, you can see brightly coloured tropical birds.

Once we’d arrived in Arima, I walked away from the maxi stand and headed north. There were no signs and nothing what looked like a main road to Blanchisseuse, but a man told me to “just walk up the hill”, and what a hill it was! (I have a picture, but I can currently not upload any files. There will be limited blogging and photos in the coming two weeks unless I decide to go back to Tobago).

Arima is bigger than Sangre Grande. It is one of those places that you think you never get out of, and it took me a good half-hour to do so. By then I had resigned myself to walking all the way, if necessary. I’d had enough of cities; I wanted rainforest.

A guy stopped to shake hands. “Where to?”

“Asa Wright.”

His expression turned serious. “Take care of yourself. Yong Shan has robbers.”

I have no idea whether he said ‘Yong Shan’ or ‘San Juan’ but the way he said it, it sounded vaguely Chinese. And why not? They have tribal names here, French names, Spanish ones, English—not to mention Scottish—why not also Chinese?

All I cared about was the mention of robbers. I stuffed the pillbox with my Xanax down my trouser pocket, put 20TT in my chest pocket and another five in my other trouser pocket, so that I would have enough for a maxi home. I only carried what I thought I would need for the day: about 90TT which was enough to cover the entry fee to the Asa Wright Nature reserve.

If I ever got there.

About a mile on there was still no sign of virgin jungle, or of a robber village. A red-banded maxi drew to a halt ahead of me.

“You’re going to Asa Wright?”

I nodded.

“I’m not going that far, but I can take you to the entrance of the forest.” The driver slid open the door. He was an Indian guy in his fifties. “You’ve got to be careful around here, you know.”

“I’ve heard. A man just told me about robbers.”

He appraised me. “If there’s some guys, meeting a single girl like you, it’s not robbers you got to worry about.”

Go on, say it.

“It’s—you know—rape.”
[read on]

I didn’t get an early start, since it was necessary to go back onto the Vitamin X. This time, I waited for a full hour before leaving the house, and I took a booster dose two hours in. This regime seems to work, although it took over three and a half hours before I was fully relaxed.

I wanted an easy trip, so I decided to head to Mananzilla Bay.

The maxi to Sangre Grande was an express service. The driver collected the fare in advance (8TT) and then put his foot down, not stopping on the way. The trip took barely an hour.

This time, I took my time before anyone could usher me into a waiting maxi or route taxi that was headed back to where I had just come from. Sangre Grande has more charm than San Fernando (for one, it’s the fruit & veg capital of the region), but there isn’t much to see besides fruit stalls and fast food joints, so I didn’t linger.

The road to Mananzilla (there is a sign) runs past the big blue police station a short way into town from the bus terminal. A bunch of people were already waiting by the shops next to it. On a Sunday, the wait can be long. Most drivers gave the international hitchhiker signal for ‘I’m staying (in the area)’. Taxis and maxis passing us were on private hire. The couple next to me kept shouting “Manan!” and eventually a driver signalled by circling his arm (there is a whole secret language here) and pulled in.

Places to stay in Mananzilla are limited, but the young man pointed out Dougie’s Guesthouse at the entrance to the village (120TT/20US for a nice apartment w/o aircon. 1(565)668-1504/cell 340-0123. See, I can do that Lonely Planet stuff!), a 15-20 minutes walk from the beach.

The beach itself is beautiful and wild, but I wouln’t want to go snorkelling there even if there was coral in Trinidad. The sea was whipped up and flecks of rust-coloured foam blew onto the sand from where I expected a pipe outlet to be. A dead catfish lay at my feet. As I bent down to examine it, something caught my eye.

Twenty metres above my head, a palm was swaying in the breeze. One of the brownish-yellow nuts had detached itself and was hurtling down, ripped sideways by the wind, until it struck the sand with a wet thud within spitting distance of where I stood. Yep, it can really happen.

There are no route taxis from the beach facility, so I trudged back into town. I passed two fishermen with their catch. Bake & Shark is really made with shark: one of the men carried two baby sharks—which I didn’t recognise—and a hammerhead no longer than his forearm.

The maxis offload in front of the bus terminal, but that appeared not to be where they pick up as most disappeared onwards into town. The people waiting to go elsewhere sent me into the other direction, down what appeared to be an deserted road. I passed another, smaller, blue Municipal Police station and came to a red-and-white building at the top of a desolate parking lot where a lone maxi was waiting. This was part of the Sangre Grande transport hub, and we left quite soon, with people appearing seemingly from out of nowhere or being dropped off by car.

A menacing cloud appeared overhead and let rip. I picked up my coconut and sought shelter under the roof of a public convenience, next to a couple of stone benches and tables where a group of dodgy looking men hung out whom I’d taken care to avoid. They smiled and moved over to make room.

The rain had not yet built up to full monsoon strength, so I nipped over to the coconut seller across from us and he opened the nut for me. As I scooped out the jelly-like flesh, the rain picked up. We were joined by two women, also munching on coconuts and chicken. When we had finished our respective meals, the seller came to collect the empty shells before joining us under the increasingly crowded roof.

“Are you enjoying Trinidad?” one of the dodgy looking men asked.

“Yes.”

He smiled again. “Just be careful, you know…”

I waited—entirely unmolested—until the rain slowed to a dusty drizzle and then slithered down Charlotte Street. It’s impossible to keep your feet dry during the rainy season and my flip-flops turned to soap-shoes on the glistening pavement. The damn things are the most comfortable flip-flops I’ve ever owned, but I got them in Australia where it rains less.

There was no sign of any maxis at the corner of Charlotte Street and Duke Street, but there was a line of people waiting. One of the women smiled at me.

“You’re waiting for a maxi?” I said, grabbing the opportunity.

“Maxi? No. Where do you want to go?”

“Blanchisseuse.”

“Oh, not here! You have to go to the City Gate, way back there,” she pointed south.

“I know, I’ve just come from there. They sent me here.” That wasn’t true, but I wasn’t going to pull out my faded LP printout again to show her the map where the alleged maxi stand was indicated.

“Don’t get into no maxi over here,” the woman said. “You can go from City Gate to anywhere in Trinidad, but don’t just get into any maxi. It’s not save.”

“OK.”

“It’s not safe,” she implored.

“OK, I’ll go to City Gate.”

“God bless. Be careful.”

“You too.”

*

“Be careful,” that is what people keep saying to me. The guy who sold me a pack of cigarettes this morning had said it. The woman I spoke to in the maxi from San Fernando to La Brea had said it. The bloke who sold me a second hand Ann MacCaffrey novel from a street stall had said it too.

Be careful.

And it’s true, you have to be careful here. Across from me in the internet café sat a Dutchman who had been mugged a few days ago. He’d lost his camera, money, driver’s license, passport—everything. It made the papers, which are full of stories about stabbings and shootings. His was the only feature about a tourist being robbed. By my reckoning there are at least fifty tourists in Trinidad right now, so I figure I stand a chance of escaping unscathed.

Today I’ve made it to Manzanilla and back without being robbed, but I was nearly slain by a coconut which dropped from a great height onto the wet sand next to me.

Staying at the Asa Wright Nature Centre is forbiddingly expensive, and not just for backpackers. I might have to do the bird reserve as a day visit, which sucks because the best birdwatching is early in the morning. Alternatively it is possible to stay at the nearby Alta Vista Rainforest Resort (the text is black on a black background so you have to highlight it to see it. Maybe they’ll let me stay for free if I offer my services as a web designer.), but the cabins are 200TT a night. While that is reasonable, it is also my entire daily budget. The pound has reached parity with the euro.

I thought I’d have a look anyway and hopped on a maxi to Arima. There wasn’t much to see; the rainforest starts just north of the town. The drive from Arima to Blanchisseuse is said to be legendary.

I had hardly touched foot on the pavement when I was approached by another maxi driver.

“Where you going? Arouca?”

“Blanchisseuse.”

“Where?”

I showed him on the map. He squinted, but the rain had obscured the print. He ought to know it though; you can’t miss it since it’s right on the beach.

“Never worry yourself,” he said. “Get in.”

Arima holds the record for my all-time shortest stop-over.

By Gods, I thought, contemplating the scenery through the open window, travelling around Trinidad is so easy, a seven year old child could do it.

I was wondering where the forest would begin and if there would be enough light to snap some pictures. Fifty metre high trees are said to grow right next to—and over—the road. But we were still in conurbia.

We passed a building I recognized. The Faith Assembly. Maybe all their churches have a uniform look. Odd though that I hadn’t seen any on my way south.

The names of the pastors were the same.

If I had paid attention to the Lonely Planet, I might have remembered that maxis to Blanchisseuse leave from the corner of Charlotte Street and Duke Street, and not from the City Gate terminal, or—apparently—from Arima.

I’ll try it the other way round tomorrow.

The Germans were blissfully away last night, but this morning they returned with a vengeance. I hated to hear their voices outside in the corridor; I hate the sound of that language. I hated how they clattered about the place, claiming both the porch and the kitchen. It was like being back at boarding school.

Their irritating presence and the bleak outlook the French guy had given me depressed my mood. Suddenly I wanted to go home. I missed company at the same time as I craved privacy. Nineteen more days of this did not appeal.

There was only one place to go when I was feeling like that: Chaguaramas. Trinidad’s very own Crown Point.

Except that Chaguaramas is nothing like Crown Point.

I couldn’t tell where the town began, although the military museum (closed today) should have been a giveaway. The place was once a US base—there are still several military establishments on the site—and the whole thing has a barracks feel to it, even though it wasn’t barracks that I saw behind the barbed wire fences as the maxi passed them, but dozens of dockyards. And boats—hundreds, if not thousands, of boats.

But no sailors. I had my answer as to why they didn’t make for Tobago instead of coming here: they had left their boats behind and headed off.

I did likewise, jumping on a passing bus to race against the ominous grey clouds that were balling up over Port of Spain.

I failed to beat the monsoon by about five minutes and got as drenched as if I’d just emerged from a Miss Wet T-Shirt competition.

“When does the dry season start?” I panted as I crossed the hall.

“Around June,” said the landlord.

“Can’t be. In my guidebook it says December.”

“Patterns are changing,” he said.

Patterns are changing everywhere. Sometimes it feels like a slow-motion apocalypse.

On the way to San Fernando I had seen firework stalls everywhere. Long before dark, bangers exploded in the distance, sending the pack of guard dogs at Pearl’s into a frenzy.

New Year’s Eve would be a lively affair.

I sat down to write, but jumped when a cracker went off like a gun shot down in the street. Then another. The boys from the house were setting them off to get the dogs used to it. The dogs were cooped up in the back, and they kept largely quiet. I was still quite sensitive to noise, but the habituation effect worked on me too.

For a while all was quiet, as if the city was holding its breath for the New Year. At nine thirty three French guests arrived. I cleared some space in the fridge and was pleased to note that the sink and table were clean after I’d mentioned it yesterday. The German Medical Convention was oozing out over the place like a fungal growth. But they had learned to replenish the ice and I set out a bowl, although I ended up being the only one using it to top up my rum while the French sucked on some beers.

The French—two guys and a woman— were tired after an arduous journey from French Guiana and mainly wanted to relax, but we talked briefly about our respective adventures. It was great to meet some real travellers again.

“Do you knowwhy there are no women around in the north of Trinidad?” the older guy asked.

“What do you mean?” But I could guess.

“You don’t see them in the street. Just the men.”

“You mean in the bars and restaurants there are only men as well?”

“Exactly.” He pulled a face. “It’s not nice. It’s—”

Sordid.

I nodded and told him about Charlotteville and Roxborough.

“And Parlatuvier?” He pronounced it properly.

“Don’t know; I haven’t been there. After Charlotteville, I had enough.”

So the north of Trinidad is the same. A paradise for drunks. A no-go zone for women.

“You should have no trouble,” I said, looking at the Frenchwoman. “They’re mostly harmless, and you’re with a group.”

She didn’t look too happy and the older guy—who spoke the best English as well as some German—grimaced on her behalf. His sentiments echoed those of the German traveller I had talked to on the way from Charlotteville to Scarborough. It seems that even guys don’t enjoy the company of bums.

To think that I had carried the tent all this way, planning to stay at Marianne’s Beach Resort at Cumana Bay…

Charlotteville is one of the most beautiful places I have seen, and worth millions for the community in terms of small-scale tourism businesses, but it seems that they’re pissing it all away. There and here.

The French made their excuses at a scant twenty minutes to midnight.

“But you’ll miss the New Year! You’ll wake up!”

They grinned tiredly.

“Trust me,” said the guy. “We’ll be out like a light.”

So they went to their rooms and I went back out onto the porch. The time was ten to midnight. The streets were eerily quiet. A sparkler went of somewhere behind the trees, too far to see.

And then it happened. I shouted down the last seconds countdown while the boys got ready with their bangers and a torch. It was basically a repeat of the their earlier hosing around. The sky remained dark.

I’d seen more action on Guy Fawkes Night.

Then, suddenly, all the car alarms started sounding at once and the dogs were howling as crackers were let off all over the city. The sky may have failed to light up, but that was because people prefer to hold on to their fireworks here: