Guns and Machetes
January 10th 2009
About half-way between Dougie’s and the beach, there is a left turn leading away from the village. The road is encouragingly named ‘Nariva Road’, but after ninety minutes sweaty walk in the hot afternon sun I’d run out of asphalt—nowhere near a river. The muddy path was impassable with flip-flops, so I vouched to come back the next day.
Catching up on my reading that evening, I couldn’t help but wonder whether I was on the wrong track altogether.
‘Around the Manatee Pond on Manzanilla Road, a few houses can be identified (approximately ten).’ (Mahi, M. (1997): 84-85.)
Manzanilla Road? Manatee Pond?
Still, this morning I donned my waterproof boots and long trousers and turned down the Pierre Road which forked off about twenty minutes away from the spot where I had given up on yesterday’s walk. It led in approximately the direction where I thought the Nariva river might be, before turning north and uphill once more.
I walked on until I came to a man with a gun. He had a machete as well.
I made eye-contact and, somehow, wasn’t worried. He didn’t smile at me, like the old man wearing wellies and pushing a bicycle had done as he passed (he was a friend of Mr. Douglas), but nor did he look as sullen—if not downright hostile—as the duo that I had encountered not long afterwards. I’d had the element of surprise on my side and walked briskly on. Those two were not chatting material.
No, S looked at me slightly bemused, eyebrows raised, keeping the nozzle of his gun pointed at the ground.
“What are you doing walking here? Are you alone?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for the river.” But I seemed to have come to a dead-end. His jeep was parked in a clearing with a small dwelling, and ahead there seemed to be only bush.
“It’s dangerous out here, you know? Do you have a gun?”
“A gun?” I could feel my eyes widen. I doubt I’d even know how to operate one. “No. I have this.” I sheepishly held out the stick which I used to wave at stray dogs and move aside prickly vegetation.
S burst out laughing.
We chatted for a while. He was a police officer from Port of Spain, away on a weekend’s hunting.
“You’re after howler monkeys?” I asked. I’d heard some in the distance, but they were wary of people.
“Not so many howlers now,” he said. “Besides, I don’t like them. I’m hunting ducks, and iguana. Seen any iguana?”
“Only in a pot,” I answered truthfully. There had been a cook-out in one of the apartments in the main building at Dougie’s, to which the friendly crowd of weekenders spontaneously invited me when they’d spotted me returning from the bar. I’d thought the chicken’d had unusually scaly skin. It hadn’t tasted of chicken either. More like lean pork.
I promised that I would turn back and be careful and S insisted that I slather at least half a tube of his anti-mosquito cream over my arms and face (it was admittedly better that my vaseline-citronella mix) and refill my water bottle from his coolbox.
In a way I was relieved to turn back. It was hot, and if the manatees were indeed found right next to Manzanilla Road…
I rounded a bend and spotted the sullen duo ahead.
Tightening the grip around my ridiculous stick, I widened my stride. Don’t hesitate, don’t slow down.
The older of the two said something to his friend—who hung back—and stepped forward. To my surprise, he smiled.
He asked much the same questions as S had done. Yes, I was on my own; I was staying at Dougie’s—at which he nodded. Another friend of Mr. Douglas. I was safe.
I continued past his companion who was hacking at the grass with a knife, staring straight ahead even as his friend called out to him.
Charming.
I quickened my step.
Despite the refill, my water was running short before I reached asphalt again. Today was one of the hottest days I had experienced so far. The air was pregnant with humidity and hundreds of mosquitoes descended every time I took a break to have a swig of water or light a smoke. They bit through the thin material of my T-shirt and trousers without difficulty.
When two men offered me a lift back to town in their car, I accepted gratefully. They seemed nice enough. However, I must confess that I was nervous when we went on a little detour. As it was, the chemistry between them was relaxed. Two friends—both from Manzanilla—making their weekend-rounds.
The tiny private road which we drove along was known as a ‘Trace’. I can’t remember its full name, but it’s the first on the left past the outskirts of Manzanilla. It leads straight to the swamp. There was no open water, only a wide expanse of grasses and sedges that stretched to a fringe of palm trees and mangroves in the distance.
The grass floats on water where the coveted cascadura catfish (Hoplosternum littorale) dwell. It’s their territory, not ours.
Tags: Americas, Manzanilla, Nariva, Nariva Swamp, Travel, Trinidad, Tag Index
Denni