Charlotteville and Pirate’s Bay
[Internet access is tight right now, so bear in mind that these posts are not properly edited. I’m trying to do my best ;)]
The Charlotteville bus was on time. This was newsworthy.
It was full of foreigners. Today my travels would have a different flavour; no solo adventures.
It was just as well. My mood was subdued. Depression kept gnawing at the edges and I had only slept for four of five hours. This year I may have left it too late to travel.
When we arrived I turned my back on the crowd and soon discovered another muddy path (I seem to have a knack for that). A big white-and-blue sign said ‘Pirate’s Bay’, making it look invitingly close. I set off up the hill.
I had been feeling peculiar on the bus, but now it felt as if something was squeezing my heart. I was restless: I shouldn’t be going this way. I should find an internet café and write my Christmas cards. As I walked, quickening my pace, the back of my hand flashed accusingly at me with every step: I had scrawled POSTCODES on it in waterproof ink. Christmas was only seven days away.
But I decided to press on before the others would discover this path. I wanted—needed—to be alone. The vegetation had distinct bluish tinge to it, although that could just have been the light, which was lousy that day.
Pirate’s Bay was not as secluded as I had hoped. There is an eco-village above it and there was the obligatory shop, although in this case it was an abandoned shed with two hole-in-the-plank loos beside it, both with their doors off their hinges and lying askew. A white woman and her two pale children were working their way up the brook that trickled in front of it. A black guy with a tiny ginger baby next to him was sitting on a tree stump, taking photos. They were a family and they were alright: it felt like they belonged here, with the man patiently pointing his camera at crabs and wading birds and the woman and kids exploring the brook.
As I sat and made notes, a tiny hummingbird landed on a branch just too far away to see it clearly. Of course I had left my binoculars behind. The bird must have been smaller than my little finger: I’ve seen butterflies bigger than that.
Something bit me on the foot and drew blood. I lashed on the citronella and it stung my face.
I noticed that the panic had gone.
The light was lousy today, and the waves were fierce. They didn’t look it, but I was glad that I’d thought better of snorkelling near a rocky cove and retreated back to the main beach when I experienced a wash-out at 70cm depth. Twice, one after the other. I surfaced without my mask.
Maybe one day a forty quid silicone dive mask will be washed ashore on Pirate’s Bay. It’s been around a bit: it has seen Scotland, the Red Sea, the Togean Islands, Bali and Australia. Come to think of it, I may have bought it in Taiwan.
Next time I’ll be less cocky when body-surfing.
On the way back I met a man who introduced himself as Mathio. He promised to keep an eye out for my mask.
“If you find it, it’s your luck,” I said.
“No, I believe it should be returned to its owner. Do you smoke?”
We talked for a while about the virtues of the local grass. Mathio didn’t have any on him, but I have his word that it is mild and mellow. Who knows, perhaps it will help.
He said that I should go up the hill behind the town and ask for a Doctor P. who might have room in his guesthouse. I did not find Doctor P. but decided to come back the next day. I felt that the loss of my mask tied me to the place, as if I’d left a part of myself behind. I wasn’t done with Charlotteville yet.
With that I rushed home before the post office closed at four. The bus was only slightly late and I got back with time to spare to check the postcodes. Back at the guesthouse, Diana informed me that the cards would take at least two weeks to arrive.
“But they’ll have the Tobago stamp,” she beamed.
Tags: Americas, Charlotteville, Pirate's Bay, Tobago, Tag Index
Denni