Denniblog

There is a system of route taxis here after all, as I discovered—much to my relief—when I was faced with the near-vertical slope of Main Street. These sort of slopes are what the Portugal LP writers refer to as ‘outrageous inclines’. Add tropical heat to that notion and you soon dissolve in your own sweat, even if you’re crawling up it at the speed of an ant. It’s about half an hour to go up and around half that amount of time to come back down.

And all for a bottle of rum (a small one), because the damn cornershop—fittingly called ‘Hill Top Supermarket’—isn’t licenced.

This island may be a tiny speck in the Caribbean, but I still feel in touch with the world at large, and not just because of the internet. The place names here can be disconcerting: there is a Runnymede and a Culloden, and of course the famous Argyle Waterfalls. Charmingly, there are science news on the radio as well. On the bus I heard that a team at Manchester Uni has discovered that HSV1 (the virus that gives you cold sores) is linked to Alzheimer’s. Cheers. They even said which journal the paper is published in (J. of Pathology, so I take it that Cell has turned it down).

Scarborough is generally a charming place, once you get used to the traffic. Earlier today I was sitting at a bar at the busy Main Street, together with the other tourists (the locals stayed in the aircon inside) and bugger me if a chicken didn’t hop up onto one of the tables. London has pigeons, Scarborough has chickens—probably the only street-smart chickens in the world.

I was making plans, thinking about the diving. It may be better to go on some tours to look around the island instead. Tobago isn’t the sort of place where you can just set off on solo hikes into the rainforest. Besides it’s not the same on my own. But I miss the good times we’ve had with the other divers.

Well, it can wait. There is still time—plenty of it. Even on holiday, people have busy itineraries. It’s always rush, rush, rush, ticking off boxes on a list. Which is ironic, given that this is how people learn to cope with bipolar disorder. That sort of thing doesn’t belong on Tobago.

So I didn’t hop on a bus. There wasn’t much to write about today. But just as I thought that, a story presented itself.

1) Baygone mosquito coils. I’ve still got some at home that survived the trip from Bali (in John’s luggage), but you can get them in the shops here.

2) The Brontok worm which weaseled itself onto my pendrive (which, sadly, can’t be locked). I have no idea what else might be on there and how to get rid of it since I can’t connect my EeePC anywhere.

Today hasn’t been my day (not that yesterday was either):

• missing files
• residual shakes (now gone)
• empty bank account
• no bus (more about that later)
• and the Brontok Worm.

What next? Well, there’s always Carlos. But he has left me alone so far.

[EDIT: I forgot to add that my stories have been rejected. Both of them. And in record time.]

Since I’m still stuck in Scarborough (and monitoring my bank account), here is a reminder of what the place actually looks like.

It’s almost achingly idyllic, isn’t it?

The computers are playing up today. All of them! I don’t seem to have saved over today’s blog entry (there is a bug in Kate which confuses the file manager as soon as you stick in your USB stick) and the internet machine keeps popping up windows saying that it wants to restart. Either that or it wants to install simplified Chinese characters. It seems to be cross-talking with the Eeepc via some sort of IT-ESP. My guess is that there is a virus on the lose.

This place seems to be the only one in Scarborough that is still in business, and it’s only open Mo-Fri from ten to six—this isn’t Thailand with its 24-hour internet cafés—so getting online can be a bit of a song and dance. Don’t expect daily blog entries, particularly if I’m on the move. The buses only run every two to three hours. If I’m at the opposite end of the island, I may only make it back to Scarborough during business hours every three days or so, although there are some local places (follow the dive-shops 😉 ).

I’m feeling better. Tobago is good to me. But for today I may stay put and take things slowly.

Carlos appears to be half deaf, which is not surprising, because the TV and the radio are always on at full blast. He is also a selective listener. He will hear you talk about food and liming, but not about hospitals and panic attacks.

“Did you have a good day?” For some reason, the man doesn’t have to raise his voice to make himself understood.

“I had a panic attack,” I yelled over the radio as he beckoned me across to his side of the kitchen. I’d decided to cut out the niceties and just get right to the point.

“Oh. So did you go to the beach?”

“No. I went to the ER. The hospital.”

“Oh, did you see somebody?”

For a giddy moment I thought he had understood, then I reasoned he meant as in had I seen a friend. The notion of panic attacks wouldn’t make any sense to him because I’m probably the first person on this island to have had one. I’ve made Tobago history. Not that anybody noticed. By the time I’d made it to the ER, the bad stuff was over. I sat there and shook slightly for a while, then it was OK and I was good to go home.

I hadn’t seen anybody.

“No—” I said, then levelled off. This wasn’t going to work. “Carlos, I need to be alone for a while.”

“Oh, OK. You come see me when you want to talk. OK?” He smiled, perhaps a little sadly.

It was that easy. Except that I’m sure this wasn’t the end of it.

We encountered each other again in the kitchen when, after a quick shower, I tried my best to cook some ramen noodles while keeping the mosquito coil close. Tobagoan mozzies are something else and I’d bought some Baygone coils, imported from Indonesia. They were better than the local Flamingo, but not by much. Nowhere on my travels have I seen mosquitoes weaving through the smoke of a lit coil to get to their victim. And they work fast; you can’t see them coming.

There were no preambles this time. “Do you like the wine?” Carlos was holding up a frosted bottle of local ‘Hard Wine’, no part of which is made from grapes.

I poured a very tiny sip. “Hm, not sure. It’s as with the Mauby drink—perhaps I’ll get used to it, then I won’t be able to get it anywhere in London.” I was trying to humour him, but I was still talking a little fast, even by my standards. My hands were shaking, and suddenly I wished I could talk to him, explain everything.

He didn’t appear to notice. “What drink?”

“Mauby,Maub—as in the bark.” Dammit, why can’t I get the pronounciation right? Mauby bark is used as a local spice but it tastes slightly medicinal. I’m not sure what it is supposed to be good for, or indeed whether or not it is good.

“Yeah, yeah.” He raised his hand, waving in the vague direction of the lounge-cum-entrance hall where the TV was on at full blast. “I’m going to watch the news now. I will chat with you later.” He seemed cheerful enough.

“I—erm—yeah, sure, OK…”

And with that he was gone, leaving me speechless. Carlos had brushed me off.

Maybe I’m getting him wrong. Maybe he isn’t the male version of a spider spinning a web, entangling its victim further with every move it makes to escape.

Maybe.

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.