Denniblog

I popped a Xanax and two of my remaining antidepressants at seven, with the sealion barking outside. I had started to pack as soon as it got light, taking my time with the countless items in my backpack. The task felt almost insurmountable, but I got it done and when I finished, all was quiet. I said a quick good-bye to Shern and hurried away from there.

The bus drove by just as I passed the shop that sold tickets. The bastard was twelve minutes early and even had the nerve to hoot at me. I got the ticket and sat down to roast in the sun for an hour and twelve minutes when the next one pulled up, making me haul my bags up the street where it had stopped at no visible sign.

The bus had stopped just before the pharmacy drive-in, opposite Kilgwyn Road, and bugger me if there wasn’t Jacob’s Plaza Guest House right down there [EDIT: it wasn’t a guesthouse, it’s a seafood supplier!].

By then I felt better. I went to the bank, then got a taxi up to the Hope Cottage which the LP writers describe as an ‘arduous, half-hour walk uphill’ (which means at least an hour’s trudge up the steepest slope I have seen). The rates they quote are pure fantasy. Even without bath and AC, the rooms are 100TT.

I’m rethinking of using Scarborough as my base.

It seems that I’ve hopped from the frying pan straight into the fire. The traffic here is hellish at any time, not just during the rushhour. And there is a strange vibe, which serves as a reminder that there is crime on Tobago, and I’ll probably act as a magnet for all the town’s petty criminals. I’ve left my moneybelt with reception and take good care of my bag.

At eleven twenty I could feel the Xanax wearing off, which was a little fast for my liking. A man stopped me. He’d recognised me from Crown Point (but I could tell that he thought I was lying when I said I remembered him). He pointed the way to what turned out to be the town’s cheapest and fastest internet café (run by Rhand Credit Union, believe it or not!), and now I’m calm. I’ll be ready to hop on a bus tomorrow and explore the island.

• Don’t forget your moo cards to give to people when taking their picture. You can always order more.

• Paypal is your friend.

• A USB stick is essential. But watch for your personal files, passwords etc!

• Track down and link your local sound! (I can’t play it in the internet café and there may be better stations. The music currently on the streets here is incredible, but I don’t know any of the artists/song titles.)

• E-cigs come with USB chargers. If they’d lasted longer they would be the solution to the anti-smoking fascism. And yes, I have vaped on the plane.

There was nothing much to do, so I spent the next day at Pigeon Point as well. But it was harder to get out of bed each morning. The thought of passing Bago’s Bar, with its set of ageing swingers, filled me with dread. And the long road to Pigeon Point is lined with men, all of whom are filled with a sense of entitlement. After three days of this, I was all chatted out. I didn’t want to see or talk to anybody.

But there is nowhere else to go in Crown Point. Store Bay beach is beset by a pack of rabid glassbottom boat wallahs, and I didn’t feel like going on a ride with any of them.

It could be worse. It could be Indonesia. Especially Lombok, where I nearly had to beat up a bunch of touts. I still carry the scars of that trip.

With a sigh, I packed my bag. I could get a sunchair and nobody would bother me. But the beach was a long way away,and it would cost me 34TT to go there and get that chair. On the other hand, nobody was forcing me to do anything. I could just stay here and dream of my backpacker paradise, and go in search for it tomorrow.

Half-way through packing my bag I paused, considering my options, and realised that I was feeling shaky and peculiar. Great, I’m now officially the only person on Tobago with panic disorder.

I took half a Xanax. I didn’t trust myself to get as far as the next corner, but if I’d holed myself away, I’d still be a house-bound agoraphobic. Time to go to the beach.

I made it as far as the Penny Saver’s supermarket on the corner, and only by pressing the key hard into my palm. Half a Xanax is not quite enough, and I was shaking again while waiting in the long Sunday queue with two litres of chilled orange juice. For some reason, chilled orange juice is a lifesaver, so I don’t care what it costs (which is a lot). With that I got a pack of Marlborough Lights, foregoing my usual Broadway. Today I would need all the creature comforts I could get.

But no rum.

Then I went home, pressing hard on that key, to ride it out.

The Tai Chi commencement exercise helped for a while, then I wimpered and went to bed. I didn’t fully detach and was OK about fifteen minutes later. Perhaps that little half-pill was enough. Or there is something about Tai Chi. However, I think it was the Xanax, which means that I must take it a full hour before going out and not twenty minutes beforehand.

Oh man, this could have gone badly. It’s just as well that the Hope Guesthouse is right next to the hospital. If this is still going on in three days’ time I’ll have to pay the emergency room another visit. Upright this time, I hope.

I felt calm and sleepy about one and a half hours after taking the pill. But it was artificial. I almost prefer to thrash around: get it over with. The goddamn chemicals were preventing things from running their course. It wasn’t a good feeling and I don’t know what is worse: no tranqs at all or too little of them.

I lay on the bed as quiet as a mouse while all around me chaos reigned. The scaffolding on the veranda collapsed, setting a bucket of paint flying. There was shouting and, minutes later, there was a knock on the door. No, I didn’t have a bucket but Shern did. Of course she asked whether I was alright and since I was plainly not on the beach where I belonged, I told her a half-lie that I had overindulged on the rum yesterday. (I had, somewhat. There was barely a table that hadn’t been converted into a bar. I even saw bottles of Johnny Walker, that sure sign that I’m on the road again).

I went back inside and the shuffling and banging continued. The landlord walked by shouting into his phone, barking like a sealion. The painter kept calling out “hello” and I thought he meant me until I realised that he was probably talking into his phone.

It was just as well that the tranqs were holding. It didn’t seem to be too serious, otherwise I could have popped them like Smarties and it would barely have made a difference.

The tranqs held until four thirty and by that time the place had calmed down, and so had I.

The road to Pigeon Point is idyllic, but the heritage park itself is a disappointment. They have turned the only access to the reef into a marina and watersports spot.

I left the dreary tourist facilities behind and sneaked around to Bon Accord Lagoon. Abandoned fishing boats were bobbing on the water, secured to coconut palms with long strings which tightened in the frequent gusts, so I had to watch my step. Today’s conditions made this a paradise for kitesurfers, one of whom was zipping along the horizon.

Snorkelling here would be hazardous.

This is the first time that I have come to a coral reef that is practically fenced off from visitors. Swimming is only allowed within the buoys that line the beach a mere ten metres from shore. I understand that the glass bottom boats have to stay close to the beach to preserve the coral, but they could have spared us a small spot.

Tobago isn’t geared towards the budget traveller, and Crown Point least of all.

I headed back to the main beach and ordered a salad, contemplating my next move. Before long, one of the sleek, short-haired local cats approached the table. It was a scrawny looking thing, begging for food in the way of cats everywhere. It blinked at me.

“I’m sorry I just have salad,” I said, “you won’t like it…” and reached for my camera.

It wasn’t there.

I must have left it in the internet café, half an hour’s walk back to town (I timed it; there are no route taxis here. The locals aren’t interested in a ten thousand-year old coral reef and it looks like the beach bums aren’t either).

I wasn’t worried yet, but this was annoying.

Could I have left it in my room? I remembered digging around in my daypack when I was looking for my pills this morning. (I wasn’t having a good time in that ridiculous honeymoon suite on my own and just wanted to be somewhere to chill and write. Sensing a depression coming on, I put the goddamn pills were I could see them.) The camera must still be on the bed.

I had a feeling that my afternoon was over, but there was nothing I could do about that, so I headed back—and out again when it transpired that I’d left the camera in the internet café when I took out my Asus. They’d kept it safe for me.

Phew.

All that gear is shackling me down, but I wouldn’t want to be without the camera. Today I should be able to get some nice shots.

On my first night at Crown Point I caught a routetaxi back to town. We rounded a corner and there—in a field—stood a huge plane, the diffuse light from the terminal highlighting the British flag on its tailfin.

Tobago’s tiny airport is only minutes from the town and is probably the world’s most relaxed. It is almost unfathomable that you can board a plane in dark, rain-sodden Gatwick and be in a tropical island paradise just a few hours later. And here that old cliché holds true. Only fifty-four thousand people live here between rainforest and coral reefs—as if in a dream—and while few are rich, most are happy.

The contrast to London couldn’t be greater, but thanks to London’s extensive Caribbean community there is also much that is familiar. It is as if the paradise they’re always on about is actually real. Although to a visitor perhaps it will never feel real.

—Hang on, I just shot a picture of a bee-eater from my barstool. The Bago Bar is practically on the beach, on the corner of Pigeon Point Road, but the trees grow right to the water’s edge and some of the branches are overhanging the roof. The bird was sitting on one of them, so intent on eating its fruit that I had plenty of time to get out the camera. (Sadly the picture turned out to be blurred, but there will be others. I saw my first hummingbird yesterday).

This is the place to come to watch the sunset, so people keep telling me.

Apparently half the men of Crown Point want to watch it with me. Perhaps I should leave my dress at home tomorrow and wear my stained T-shirt and swimming shorts instead.

However I’m learning to be patient. There is nothing wrong with a friendly chat. The problem is that about half the men of Crown Point—and a smaller percentage of the women—know me by name now, but I won’t be able to recognise them.

That night, as I sat outside for a smoke, I saw a plane go past, flying low above the palm trees as it ascended into the satin-black sky. It had the British flag on its tailfin. Those poor people were rushing back to London, their heads full of colour and sunshine and the soca rhythm still playing in their ears.

So near and yet so far.

[Long entry]

Tobago feels like a different country. Not since Tanzania have I encountered people who are so helpful and friendly. I don’t think there is a single stressed-out person on the whole island, except perhaps for a few sysadmins.

The woman who sat next to me on the bus had her twelve or thirteen year old daughter leaning against her lap and her bag was pressing against her thigh. This couldn’t be comfortable but she had immediately offered me her daughter’s seat as we crowded onto the bus. The driver had changed it for a bigger one—which was what had cost us our seats in the first place—but there was still not enough room. It had looked as if we would be left standing on the baking courtyard for another hour until the next bus was due, but an ample woman had pushed back the gaggle of schoolchildren clamouring to get on and a man used his bag—which looked as if it contained gardening tools or a crow bar—to lever us past the throng like a nightclub bouncer claring the way for VIPs.

“We’ll treat you well here,” he said.
[read on]

This is a quick head up for the place where I’m currently staying, although it is well out of my usual price range. The host is seeking more publicity from travellers and has offered me a very good deal in return 🙂

This hidden gem has a swimming pool, spacious veranda and rooms with king-sized beds and gilded curtains—as befits the name of the owner: Mr. Alastair King.

It is located in Canaan, in a peaceful setting away from the bustle of Crown Point. A route taxi will take you to or from town for only 3TT.

Email: paradisehome_1@yahoo.com
Phone: 6398569

It’s nice to know that I still got it. It’s been a while…

• Allways bring a pocket knife never put your pocket knife in the hand luggage 😉
• Pear’s Transparent Soap for hair, skin and clothes. Wash your T-shirt in the shower, smalls in the sink every day (if possible).
• (Ruthless division) Talk to strangers. Once people know your name, you’re less likely to come to grief on their patch.
• Don’t forget your sunscreen. Vaseline is the best moisturiser and doesn’t leak.
• You may be late for dinner. Dried noodles are cheap and nourishing. Ditto crackers.
• Wear a moneybelt. Your hosts may be honest people, but the other travellers staying at the guesthouse arent. You may be mugged, but it will take some doing. Muggers prefer to grab stuff fast, unless they are desperate in which case surrender. See point 3 above and make sure you’re not on your own in the dark.
• Always carry a water bottle. Best are the 1 litre ones that come with a sports cap. A chlorine tablet will purify clear water in twenty minutes. Thankfully I don’t need chlorine tablets in Trini.
• Coconuts are nature’s own energy drink, although Caribbean coconuts are no patch on the king coconuts of Sri Lanka.
• You need salt when you sweat a lot. It’s OK to eat the occasional packet of crisps. But see above.
• Imodium is useful when travelling, but don’t use it otherwise. The runs are a natural defense.
• Carry vitamin pills. Even in the tropics.

There. This should assure hubby that I’ll be fine 😉

[Delayed entry]

My biggest problem at the moment is that I opted for dark rum instead of white, but only have coconut water to mix it with. It’s a hard life, eh?

But I did have a problem this morning, when my water bottle ran out.

In Port of Spain you can work for miles without coming to a supermarket, and when you do they sell no fresh fruit. It was only my second day here and already I was developing a vitamin deficiency. Convenience shops are practically unheard of, which is odd because there are no fewer that two in Barbados airport. I thought that the Caribbean was pretty much Convenience Shop Central

Anyway,I was on my way to the Magnificent Seven—seven grand eccentric buildings facing Queen’s Park Savannah—when I got side-tracked.

I seem to do this at least once on every trip: I spend hours trudging through the tropical heat searching for treasures that promise to be just around the corner—and they are, if I hadn’t turned around the wrong corner.

In this case I was mixing up the Prime Minister’s residence (miles up some hill), with the Prime Minister’s Office which is indeed one of the Magnificent Seven. I then thought that I could take a shortcut by crossing the endless sun-beaten plane that is Queen’s Park Savannah (a former plantation) before stomping into a puddle—more of a swamp—and emerging at entirely the wrong street corner.I didn’t consult my map until I got to a sign several hundred metres in the wrong direction. And that’s when I felt that I was getting into trouble with my water.

What kept me going on regardless was the promise of coconut vendors ‘lining the street’. Lonely Planet writers are full of shit (but they are not to blame: they’re underpaid and overstretched). I had yet to see a coconut vendor in the whole city, and there were no vendors of any kind anywhere along what the locals call the world’s biggest roundabout.

So when I saw the umbrellas, I didn’t quicken my step. I had to conserve water. But there were indeed coconuts piled high in cages. And people selling snow cones and cold drinks. And there, all together in a row, were the Magnificent Seven, including—of all things—a dilapidated Scottish castle.

[Delayed Entry]

It’s nice to have a guide: you can just close your eyes and saunter along. Everything is served to you on a platter.

I don’t have a guide (relax John!) but so far everybody has been keen about explaining things to me. Even the taxi guys at the airport knew about Pearl’s Guesthouse. And this was just as well, because the place isn’t advertised. On the contrary: there is no sign at the door, the iron gates are kept shut and the grounds are patrolled by a pack of guard dogs to keep out the vagrants that have set up camp in Victoria Square opposite.

But there was a man sweeping the courtyard and when the taxi pulled up he beckoned me inside. He showed me a bright, clean room and a nice balcony that runs right around the upper storey of the colonial building, with a handy kitchen/lounge in the corner. It’s twenty dollars a night.

I didn’t hesitate, booking for three nights which would give me time to look at my options. But apparently the ‘no advertising’ rule also applies to the tourist information office which I may have walked past repeatedly in the noon heat because its place on the LP map is instead occupied by the Ministry of Finance (Tax Division). A scribbled note on my downloaded pages gives a different address, so it might have moved, but that street does not seem to exist.

It seems that the way of getting around Trinidad and Tobago solo and on a budget involves listening to the grapewine. At least I knew where the ferry terminal is, along with the breakfast shed (no longer a tin shed but an airy, pale yellow building with arching roofs that will go by the fancy name of Les Femmes du Chalet when it reopens after my departure), the lighthouse, Independence Square and various other sights that the taxi driver, who introduced himself as Mr. Douglas, pointed out to me.

I’ve never been more glad that I’ve sprung for the airport taxi. Normally, I would turn a blind eye to the signs (let alone the touts, of which there aren’t any) and march out of the terminal building in the general direction of the maxi/bemo/bus stop because I know that I can get to town for 1/10th the cost, no matter what it takes. But yesterday my flight was late and I was exasperated after the circus that is Barbados transit when it involves VA (as I said: long story), and so had decided to blow the budget. Wise move. Mr. Douglas noted in passing that there are no maxis at that time of night.

This morning I checked out the ferry terminal and found that I would be well-advised to book ahead, so I decided there and then to go to Tobago on Wednesday. It’s the best place to find my bearings and get used to island life, and to how things are done here.

Not that I’m done with Trinidad! There is a spectacular bird reserve on the west coast but the associated eco lodge costs hundreds of dollars a night (I’m not talking TT dollars). A little way up a hill— according to LP—there is a guesthouse that charges just twenty or thirty dollars. But I’ll have to find out where it is (it could be any in a row of houses, none of which are numbered) and if it has any vacancies. And I’ll have to find out similar things about other such places.

Normally I would disembark in the general area of a guest house or hostel and—if its full—walk around until I find somewhere else, usually nearby. Even in Palu, guest houses have signs.

But not here. And there are no others nearby. So I’ll have to go to Tobago.

But it’s a steal at less than ten dollars each way.