Denniblog

This blog is on hiatus for the time being. The internet café will be closed tomorrow and on Monday I’m off to Trinidad. not sure where yet. Port of Spain holds little appeal, but it may make sense to use it as a base.

I will be glad to be off this island. Tobago is not recommended for female solo travellers.

[No pics, I’m in a rush and the net is shaky. Forgive lousy editing]

My budget is looking good. In fourteen days I’ve spent exactly 3000TT, but I expect things to get more exensive this weekend and when I’m going to Trinidad.

The plan for the weekend is to go back to Crown Point, because I don’t think staying in Scarborough is a good idea. I want to check in straight to the Surfside Hotel (if they have room) or another place near the airport, but I’ll be lucky to get somewhere for 30US a night. Then on Sunday—my last day on Tobago—I’m going to take a bloody glass bottom tour. I want to see for myself that there is coral here, and that seems to be the only way. If it wasn’t a Sunday, I might have gone to Buccoo, which was the nicest place I’ve stayed. If you walk about two-thirds around the bay, you should come to the reef. But I didn’t want to do Sunday School again; it wouldn’t be the same.

Apparently, people have been coming to my place. A man I don’t remember meeting before said that he was there at two yesterday, asking me out for a Christmas drink. He seemed nice enough, but I was either walking around the town around then or hiding behind the balcony. I wish I could have done the same this morning when I ended up blowing off some bloke—nearly calling him a fucker—on the way to the internet shack. The place was open, but there was no connection.

“You keep open on Christmas?” I marvelled. “You should be celebrating with your families.”

“That’s why we try to keep open,” said the man who was fiddling with the computers. I hadn’t seen him before.

I tried again an hour later, but by then the only machine that was connected was hogged by a bloke trying to upload fifty photos. He assured me that he would be there for most of the day. He gave me space to send a message, but I couldn’t fit my USB drive over his, and I couldn’t connect the EeePC due to router problems. I said I’d come back later, but I was annoyed. Even on snap-happy days I rarely upload more than a dozen pictures, and uploading pictures doesn’t take precedence over other people’s internet business. If there’s a queue, I leave when my hour is up. What gives him the right?

Anyway, I still have the bank and my troubles with Virgin Airlines to deal with, both have to be taken care of ASAP. I also have multiple blog entries and drafts to upload.

I went up the beach for a cigarette. The water was churning, but with the bars closed the bums had left. One of the more civilised people I’d met there on Sunday passed by and asked me how my Christmas was. Most men here are perfectly OK, but it only takes a few bad nuts to spoil everything. The bad ones always dominate.

I’ll be glad to get away from here tomorrow.

[no pics, I’m in a rush and the net is shaky. Forgive lousy editing]

Here, Christmas is called ‘The Season of Joy’, without a hint of irony. People getting onto the bus wish each other a happy Christmas for a week beforehand, and they mean it. In TT, Christmas is first and foremost a religious festival.

True, the women work hard, preparing a feast for family and friends, and the Trini Express is heaving with people and their shopping. But yet…

This is not a patch on the sicko commercialism that drives me away at this time of year. Religious music is common, but Christmas jingles are rare. The same tired old carols aren’t played here, with the possible exception of ‘Silent Night’, and that only occasionally. This may be the first time since moving to the UK that I haven’t heard ‘A Fairytale of New York’ once. Bliss.

*

For all the noise during the night (a repeat of yesterday), today the town was quiet. Christmas songs played softly in the neighbouring house, for once not swamped by soca beat.

I waited until nine, then set out towards Pirate’s Bay. There is a solution to my petty woes: send home all my pretty skirts and dresses and get some man clothes. I pulled on my husband’s grey, stained swimming shorts and the piss-ugly but hard-wearing T-shirt I’d bought in Australia.

On the way to Pirate’s Bay, I saw the national bird of Tobago. You can tell that there are no significant predators on the island because it flew right in front of me before diverting into a treelet that was much too small to take its weight and disappearing among the leaves, wings flapping. There it sat cawing, startled by its own clumsiness. It was practically waiting for me to approach it, which I did, but not too close. The Cocrico is about one step up from a chicken, except that here the chickens are smarter and have more grace.

I got to the bottom of the steps but didn’t spot the rainforest trail. It must lead past Mathio’s fruit stall, which I saw to my disconcertment was open. Of course, he’d told me that he had no family. Maybe he had no mates either: the most dangerous specimens at Christmas time.

The beach was deserted, the water wild and whipped up after yesterday’s rain. I hesitated for another moment while frantic mosquitoes bore down on me, the citronella-laced vaseline long since dissolved away in sweat (I’m trying something new every time).

I would not provide his Christmas entertainment.

I backed away and ascended all 107 steep steps plus a more shallow 46 that led back to the top of the hill. At least the enforced purdha would be good for writing.

*

Judging from the sounds drifting up the street, the party started again at eleven. I waited until it was time for my lunchtime dose of Vitamin X. Part of me was reeling to put on a dress and go out again—to hell with the bums. But it would be wise to wait. The sound had deceived me before, coming from the green-and-pink beach bar on the corner, which was no place to hang out.

By now a steady trickle of tourists were making their way up the hill to the bay. It was still not particularly calm—the waves kept crashing onto the beach—and I wasn’t tempted to brave the sweat and mosquitoes again. One of the bastards got me on the eyelid.

At least Mathio would get some trade, and maybe some diversion.

At half past eleven, the music and mike sounds fell silent again. It was probably a warm-up for the party later on. I went and did some more writing, scratching at a mozzie bite every now and then.

The Grassroots piece was still not coming together. Back then I had been a different person. I no longer felt like a traveller.

As the clock crept towards noon, the street had a deserted feel. In front of the balcony—right in the middle of Charlotteville’s busiest junction—a dog stretched out to sleep in the sun. I envied it.

In the afternoon, I took a walk around town. It had clouded over and the water was stirred up even more. I found out that there is an ABM machine right next to Customs & Excise opposite the sports field, which might have saved me a trip to the bank (the LP claims there are no facilities). In the fishmarket some men were busy cutting up four large baracudas. Unlike meat, the fish was professionally butchered and I watched with interest.

“You want some?”

“I wish I had a kitchen. I can’t cook it.”

One of them glanced up from chopping up a baracuda head, presumably for stock or fish soup. The corners of his mouth drooped with disapproval. “Where you from that you can’t cook?”

“I can cook. I’ve cooked at Gleneagles in Scotland. The fish wasn’t as fresh there.” That wasn’t even a lie.

Charles’s place (‘Jen’s Kitchen’) was open as advertised, the remains of one solitary meal on the tables. Yesterday I bought the finest fishburger I’ve ever eaten there. Shame that I’d just had my lunch of chicken Viennas and crips. I might be back later.

All the bars were closed and the streets were peaceful. There were no bums.

Christmas came early to Charlotteville. Music was pumping outside and cars were driving up-and-down the street. The noise mingled with the crowing of the roosters at ten to three in the morning. I sighed and got up again to fumble for a new pair of earplugs.

I had woken at 01:39. The knock-out effect worked, but only for four or five hours, so I relented and took a second pill about an hour later. It should’ve been kicking in any minute now.

The ventilation was terrible and I reeked of sweat, despite wearing a freshly washed shirt. What a time to find out that the fan didn’t work. I opened a window but it helped little. Scratchy with restlessness, I went outside to take notes at the desk. I practically ran into Jimmy who’d commented at seeing me me read when he went out for his 9 p.m. glass of water. He couldn’t sleep either, but he took it in his usual jovial way.

“Ho, ho, ho! You’re still reading!”

“Fuck off.” But I don’t think he’d heard me.

*

There is too much run-off here for any coral to grow near to shore. If I had used my brains instead of trusting the guide book, I would have figured that snorkelling in the shallows around here wouldn’t amount to much. The approaches to Pigeon Point, Buccoo Bay and Englishman’s Bay are much more shallow than that to Pirate’s Bay.

A part of me was tempted to go all the way back to Englishman’s Bay, but I would have had to get up a lot earlier, more like when I finally got back to sleep at around four.

It was nine when I peeled myself out of bed and inspected the fan. It really didn’t work, and worse: there was a piece of life wiring that I must have narrowly avoided when groping around last night.

The best plan—seeing how I was feeling—would be to check out the upstairs at Sharon’s & Pheb’s and see whether I could track down a European-style breakfast. The Banana Boat was too far and frequented by drunks, being right on the beach. Jimmy hung out there sometimes and told me about the fishermen sitting there with their bottles of rum lined up in front of them. They were pleasant enough to him. Here the drunks own the beaches, and the men own the women.

Sharon’s & Pheb’s was closed, as I could see in passing. The Banana Boat was closed as well, but I could see people moving around in there—staff, divers, guests, all kept in a cage. At least that meant that the beach in front of it was empty.

This part of the bay was all sand and pebbles. There was nobody in sight, but the log I sat on to take notes would soon be claimed by ganja-smoking, beer-swilling limers, if the evidence scattered around it was anything to go by. Another couple of months here and I’ll turn into a born-again Seventh Day Adventist.

But for now it was quiet, so I settled down for a grapefruit and a smoke. The grapefruit originated here and I’d bought one in the town’s tiny greengrocer’s. The peel was warty and thick but easy to remove and the fluffy pith gave way to succulent, almost seedless flesh with just a hint of bitterness. Like all the citrusfruit I’d seen—with the exception of limes—the grapefruit was green. Limes are yellow.

I walked back to Green Cottage. Patsy was back, exhausted from a two-day shopping marathon in Trinidad and off to her mother’s to do some baking. In the meantime she’d done the washing and cleaning. I mentioned the fan mainly because I didn’t want her to electrecute herself. She sighed and apologised. “I forgot to tell you. I’ve already replaced it twice and now—”

“No worry,” I meant it. Patsy is a nice landlady and the tiny guesthouse only has two rooms. If it wasn’t for the men pests outside, this may have been the nicest place I’ve stayed in.

I’d left it too late for the morning’s transport opportunities. The pills made me sleep like a log and I woke up puffy-faced and feeling hung-over without the benefit of any booze. Incredible to think that they prescribe the same stuff, at the same dosage, to children to prevent bed-wetting. It must work by knocking them clean out.

I wondered if the pharmacist thought that I had a problem with bed-wetting.

Anyway, it was past nine by the time I emerged on a completely calm day. I really wanted to go to Pirate’s Bay. Mathio and Co. might be there, but I thought he’d be be perfectly civilised when sober. On the other hand I might as well leave it until tomorrow. And there’s always Christmas.

Buses and Maxis would run today and tomorrow, but Christmas Day and Boxing Day are universal holidays in TT.

Except for Charles who keeps open his restaurant all the time, all year round “for people like you”.

“But I could easily live on crackers and tinned fish for a few days,” I said. “I mean people can get supplies…”

“Yes, but you are only one person,” he said. “There are others who wouldn’t.”

So, let them go hungry, I thought, but I appreciate it. Charles said he wanted to talk to me and from what I could see, the man is not a drunk. I believed him when he said he cared about me. Although that might mean that he’s a fervent Christian.

That evening—two nights ago— the rain was whispering in the leaves all night long. When I eventually donned a rain jacket and went out, there was only one other person in the restaurant. Business was slow and Charles hadn’t started cooking yet. I didn’t want to stay out and wait so he whipped up a salad and some fried plantain and I promised to come back for more another day. I kept eyeing the fishmarket which does a brisk business whenever somebody brings in a catch. The fish are firm and bright-eyed and Charles agreed that they should only be fried for one minute each side.

There may be some fish during Christmas. People here tend to go out at odd times. What a way to escape the most tedious afternoon of the year, with its quarrels and charades!

A flock of yellow parrots fluttered overhead, disappearing into the lush canopy. Here the rainforest comes down straight to the beach. Although it isn’t primary forest, it teems with birdlife. Lizards scuttle through the leaf litter. There are no leeches, no poisonous snakes. This really could be paradise.

*

We arrived in Roxborough on the back of a truck. With the wind in my hair I felt the old romance of the road again, but it wasn’t me who had flagged down the driver. It was a bunch of Canadians who had not yet learned the way of patience.

“When will the next bus be along?”

“Any minute now!”

We passed two buses and a maxi on the way up.

The Argyle Falls are overpriced (40TT) and overrated, but I’m glad I went. There were moments, when there were no people in the viewfinder of my camera, when it was almost peaceful.

On the way back I hoped for a quiet bar or restaurant in Roxborough, but no such luck. I popped a Vitamin X, and a tour-guide actually took me under his wing, pointing out a chair under a shelter by the roadside some way from the bus stop. Before long we were joined by another bloke and two women: an oasis of sobriety away from the leering drunks.

The Canadians had split, with some of the group and their kids going in the hire car while the rest of the group waited for the bus. We had passed them on the way into town in a bar high up in the hills and now I could see why. You wouldn’t want to take your kids to Roxborough anywhere where beer is being served.

*

The weather remained nice and I went to the bay that afternoon. There were seven yachts in the water and the beach was practically crawling with people. Mathio was indeed working, selling coconuts and citrus fruit.

“Strange girl,” he said. “Are you alright?”

“I am now,” I said.

The viz was bad after the recent rains. Mathio advised me to come early in the morning, when it would be better.

He was perfectly civililised.

I wanted to do three things this morning. Well, I only wanted to do one, and that was to go to Roxborough and check out the Argyle Falls. But I also wanted to book passage to Trinidad.

What I needed to do was to go to the hospital.

It all started to get worse yesterday, when I headed the other way, after staying in my room until I was absolutely sure that Mathio and Co. had gone (I could hear someone asking for me). The Banana Boat sounded safe enough because lots of travellers hang out there, but the Banana Boat was closed. Instead I ended up at the Beach Facility, where I was immediately set upon by a nearly toothless Elder who first proclaimed me to be his fiancé, then his wife.

He reduced me to tears twice and when he propositioned that we’d go behind the shed for a kiss, I fumbled for my Xanax, scattering moo cards and business cards everywhere. The man tried to grab my arm but I shouted at him and stormed off to the Ladies. Ten minutes later, a uniformed female security guard knocked on the door, came in and asked if I was alright.

“Just waiting for the medication to work,” I said.

It took another five minutes. When I emerged there was no sign of the man, but his place was taken by another who introduced himself as Neville and promised to look out for me. He seemed friendly enough, but I was grateful that being out of cigarettes afforded me an excuse to leave. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the guesthouse and decided to check into the ER the next day.

I was having a swell time.

So why is this particular trip such a problem? The answer is simple—one-word simple: racism.

When I was talking to a German traveller who is otherwise nice but picked up on my nervousness he asked whether it was “because of all the blacks.” People like the toothless Elder got to me because he made several references to being mistreated when he was living in Canada. I’m getting what’s due to me. And the underlying tension is picked up and magnified by my nervous nature which resonates with it like a bow string or a glass about to shatter.

Charlotteville is a claustrophobic place.

*

They have zero experience with people of my ilk here. The doc prescribed me 10x10mg Amitriptyline, but I convinced him to up the dose to 30mg. Only for ten days though. At least I also got ten Xanax which should be enough to see me through.

“Come back if you still have problems.”

Cute. I almost wished I could, but before coming to the hospital I had booked my place on the ferry to Trinidad, leaving on the 29th.

I can’t wait.

Club Med had come to town overnight: a five-mast sail-cruiser floated serenely in the middle of the bay. A guy in the street told me that there were over 300 people aboard. This should have brought big business to the village, although apparently it’s not a patch on the usual. Charlotteville is a busy place.

I saw surprisingly few passengers on the street, despite the small flotilla of orange lifeboats that ferried them to-and-fro.

The sun peeked out half-way through the clouds and I went back to pick up the camera. There was no sign of Mathio or his friends. Even so I felt rushed and became careless with shooting. An old lady muttered about having her picture taken without permission. I tried to appease her by handing her my card, but she snorted and handed it back. It was the silly one with the lorikeet on my head. Damn, I usually make a point of asking permission.

By the time I had joined the queue behind some stupid Germans in the internet café, I was almost in tears. It’s my own fault; I should never have come here.

The heavens opened and it was well after lunch before the sun came out once again. Almost the entire morning had been wasted waiting to get online. What was worse was that there was a free LAN cable. I thought of getting the EeePC, but the thought of Mathio waiting for me kept me firmly away. However, he would hardly be sitting out in the rain, so I sneaked back with a tin of chicken Viennas, some crackers and a carton of Chocnut. Thus refreshed, I decided to head out to Pirate’s Bay before the liming crowd got back out of their shelters.

Jimmy had gotten up with the roosters too this morning, but not to write. He went for a four mile swim and told me that the viz was great and the water was calm. So it proved to be, but there was no sign of the mask. It must long since have been found by someone, probably one of the rich cruise ship passengers.

The family that I met on my first day was there again, and the man enquired politely about the mask—which took away my hope that they may have found it. Otherwise the beach was nearly deserted. A man was lying on a towel, reading a book and a couple had taken over the secluded spot near the cove. The ship’s passengers had disappeared without a trace, and I saw why when the cruiser glided silently past us and out of the bay, unfurling three of its great sails.

If it wasn’t for the passengers, I would have loved to be on board.

No panic attacks this morning. The local weed was helping, and I could tell that it was the weed and nothing else because I’d acquired my very own man-pest—my pet-fucker—yesterday night.

What I mistook for friendliness is no such thing. Instead of thinking to set sail for Trinidad next week, I was thinking to bring it forward to the following Tuesday. I’d committed to stay in Charlotteville for aweek—paid for it—but what the hell. It was Saturday. Buses would run. I could book passage. Maybe I could make the boat on Monday. Maybe I could make it tomorrow.

I was on Red Alert.
[read on]

As time dragged on, I left the cool sanctuary of the ticket hall for another cigarette. A flock of frigate birds was circling overhead like something out of a Hitchcock film. I had no idea what they were doing there. I’ve never seen them feed., but as far as I know frigate birds are parasites, robbing other birds of fish. The only fishing birds here were a couple of brown pelicans near the harbour. Maybe they had become scavengers.

Watching them circling below the clouds in the sticky heat had an almost hypnotic effect. Amidst all the people waiting for the bus, I suddenly felt like a castaway.
[read on]

[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.