Nariva: Potential Perils
“I don’t want to dampen your spirits,” said the man sitting next to me in the route taxi from Sangre Grande to Manzanilla. “But be careful. You know there are robbers in the area?”
Yes, I knew.
*
January 9th 2009
The sun rose at just after six, and already the traffic was heavy. With the dogs barking, roosters crowing and wildlife vocalising all around, nobody could have slept long past sunrise.
I contemplated my plans. I could do better than start each day with a reminder that I could be killed; it’s bad for my disposition.
“They’ll kill you for a hundred dollars,” R had warned me yesterday in the bar. “A hundred dollars TT.”
Ah yes, R.
I had gone for a beer at around five, thinking that it might become a pre-dinner tradition at Dougie’s. I’d timed it so that it wouldn’t yet be too busy and I planned to be gone before dark. But as usual none of the men bothered me, and when R and his friend sat down at my table I was glad about the diversion. At first. But then his friend left to sit by the bar on his own, following an unspoken male signal that I had come across before in Tobago.
There are always some bad nuts.
The difference this time was that R stayed sober.
“Do you think I can save you?” he now implored. “Do you think I will?”
“Do you think I can safe myself?” I countered.
I didn’t know.
There are a lot of poor people living here, and they don’t have a stake in tourism. R pointed out that they are used just enough to visitors not to be timid (“They don’t adore white people!”), and they don’t care if they cause an international incident.
It was just that—right then—I considered R to be the greater menace. He had started out friendly enough, talking about his work and supposed scientific background, but he gave me no credence when I talked about mine. When I mentioned my interest in fieldwork on manatees he started to rant, telling me he would stop any exploitation of the area by foreigners, that he could stop ‘my expedition’, as if he was from the Forestry Division or the Manatee Conservation Trust (which he was not).
When he was done with that, he started to humiliate me as a person until he got no more rise out of me. I simply ignored him, staring straight past him. I’d seen that coming for a while.
Eventually he left and I went to return the bottles to the bar.
“That man—” I said and pulled a face.
“I thought he was getting on your nerves!” A said.
“They have no respect for women here—” I began.
“No respect!” Suddenly there was fire in her eyes. “And they think they still got it, even the old ones!”
She looked like she could spit. Was this the same demure woman with whom I had discussed recipes earlier?
*
Recalling the talk from that evening, I felt apprehensive as I walked down the Mananzilla-Mayaro Road, leaving the beach facility and most signs of habitation behind. Soon the rustle of coconut palms was the predominant sound, occasionally cut through by the Doppler whine of a passing car.
Most of the drivers here think that they are competing in the T&T Grand Prix. None of them looked likely to stop; they were going too fast. It was more likely that they would raze me to the ground if I didn’t jump out of the way quickly enough.
I made sure that I did.
I was hoping for a maxi to come along, or even one of the elusive PTSC buses although I had no idea where to buy the even more elusive tickets. I still had a 3TT ticket left, which might be enough to get me to Mayaro.
Finally, a black-banded maxi approached and I held out my arm. It slowed, but continued on. It was probably full, the driver having slowed in surprise at seeing me walking alone down the long road. But then, a few yards further on, the maxi hicupped and came to a stuttering halt.
I ran.
The driver gestured at a single empty seat in front and regarded me as I clambered in.
“You realise that this is a school service?” he said.
There I was, feeling twelve years old—safe and looked-after.
Tags: Americas, Nariva Swamp, Travel, Tag Index
Denni