Castara and Englishman’s Bay
The bus deposited me by a muddy track that seemingly disappeared into the jungle. But after a short stroll the track opened up on a palm-fringed crescent of golden sand. The place was deserted aside from a single ramshackle shop-cum-restaurant and a handful of people. Brown pelicans dived into the clear water, darker streaks indicating where the reef began just twenty metres from shore. This was Englishman’s Bay.
The bay is not walkable from Castara, but camping should be possible here, although it’s frowned upon and I would have to hide. On the other hand I think it is just as possible to base yourself in Scarborough and get to Englishman’s Bay by bus, although the little hilltown of Castara has its charms.
I gazed regretfully at the sparkling clear water. There would be no snorkelling today because I was here on a reccie. None of the few tourists who had arrived in their hired cars were snorkelling either. Like me, they took a few pictures, then they rifled through the souveniers on display and drove off again. I on the other hand was sorely tempted to blow my last change on hiring a mask and fins and strip down to my underwear. It was just as well that I didn’t as a couple of teenage boys showed up later.
But for a while I had the bay to myself. I strolled along its length, accompanied by a mangy dog that was pathetically grateful for the attention I gave it. I would have to come back, that much was certain.
For now, I’d seen enough. I started the long walk back, stopping to take some pictures from a vantage point, then waved at every driver going in the opposite direction in the hope that one would give me a ride when they turned back. One did.
Or perhaps not precisely. There wasn’t much traffic. I had taken care to fill my waterbottle but I was thinking about economising when I passed the dead dog I’d seen from the bus. Its hindlegs were twisted 180°, the spine clean snapped. It must have happened recently. There was no blood. If it wasn’t for that grotesque distortion, the dog could have been sleeping. One for the Darwin Awards.
The dog had been quite away from Castara, so when I heard engine noise, I stepped onto the kerb, turned towards the road, and smiled.
The car stopped.
It was one of the big silver 4WD jobs which we know as Chelsea Tractors and it was driven by a local woman. She went out of her way not only to deposit me by the Castara beach facility, but to fix me up with accommodiation. A beachside grocery owner going by Lous Walker promised to put me up for 100TT a night if I stayeda week. I toldhim I’d give him a call. I was undecided: as pretty as Castarahad looked from the bus, it had its share of tourists including a gaggle of drunken Englishmen who brought back memories of the ageing swingers. I took care to avoid them as I stood in the bus shelter for over two hours in the pouring rain before finally getting back to Scarborough.
Tags: Americas, Tag Index
Denni