Buccoo: Dog’s Paradise
Just before six o’clock the chickens fluttered up into the trees to sleep (I told you they’re smart!) and the yard dog—which by now had returned—prised open the small gate to the porch and asked for a pat before lying down slap bang in the middle of the entrance.
When trespassers walked by, he was up in an instant, barking and snarling as if he wanted their throats out. But once you were inside, he turned into a puppy. I took care to only pat him gently, lest he would get excited and rip my dress off while jumping at me. He was practically dancing on his hind legs with rapture.
All the dogs I encountered were friendly—at least the free-running ones, of which there were many. Buccoo struck me as a a bit of a dog’s paradise.
It’s certainly a paradise with bite.
Just before the chickens had gone to sleep, the see-’em-nots came out. Tiny sandflies or whatever, which are the Tobagoan equivalent of midges. And like their Scottish counterparts, they pay no heed to citronella which I’d started to use neat. The guy who came in with an armfull of sofa cushions said they get blown in by the southernly wind from the lagoon. I’d had a quick look at the beach that afternoon, and there is an extensive marsh behind it, teeming with birdlife.
Tobago is a paradise for many: sun-seeers, music lovers, twitchers, divers, dogs, mosquitoes, and sandflies.
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It can be a paradise for photographers too. The next morning, I thought I’d take a stroll on the beach, maybe go for a swim. As advised, I left my valuables behind, including the camera. The idea is to take what you need, and leave everything on display when you go swimming. I’d doubt anybody’d nick my sunscreen, only Danish-speakers would get any joy from the book I was reading, and only an arsehole would steal somebody’s glasses case.
I walked along the tideline. After a few minutes I had left everybody behind and found myself on a desert island.
The light changed. Clouds had moved in and the sun broke through them, painting the beach with streaks of gold and dabbing the sea with turquoise. The great filter in the sky was up. This was magic hour.
I sat on an abandoned sunchair in the shade of large, round leaves, smoking my cigarette and contemplating the scenery. Then I stubbed it out—my mind made up—put the butt into the pack and rushed back the way I’d come from. I tasted salt on my lips and sweat was stinging in my eyes as I fumbled the key into the lock, groped around for the camera, and raced back to that magic spot.
The sun had gone.
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Denni