Crown Point: The King’s Residence
[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.
Incredibly, the tiny town of Scarborough has a rushhour. We got stuck in gridlock for about half an hour before the bus deposited us at Crown Point. The upper part of the town is given over to the airport and expensive resort hotels, but I had made notes about a guesthouse in Canaan. However, we’d passed Canaan and kept on rolling for a long time. On the map it looked to be walking distance, but it wasn’t.
We went to the apartment block where the two Germans whom I’d met at the ferry terminal had arranged to stay. Rooms there were 150 TT a night, but if this was for a plush place with aircon I could probably do better.
Or so I thought.
$150 TT is $25 US. It isn’t much, but I had paid twenty in Port of Spain and thought that I could match that, if I found somewhere with no aircon or ensuite bathrooms. Oddly, the cheapest option listed in the LP was known as the ‘Pancake House’. There was such a place, but it was literally a pancake house and not big enough to have rooms. It was also closed, with nobody in sight.
I walked back to the street and asked two women who were leaning against the railing of a bar. They told me that the original Pancake House was further up the road but had closed down. I asked about the Plaza guesthouse in Canaan, not relishing the long trek up the scorching road, but they waved dismissively and lifted their phones to their ears. Before long they were both chatting to different people, inquiring about places on my behalf, like seasoned travel agents.
They didn’t get lucky at first but they kept trying, waving away my attempts to thank them and wander off (those 150 TT might be OK for a night or two and I could enquire about a cheaper place in the morning). Finally the one on the left, Kathy, put down her phone.
“It doesn’t need to have a swimming pool, does it?”
“A swim— Heavens no! No pool, no aircon, just a ceiling fan will do. Somewhere really basic.”
“Ah, OK.”
She continued to talk, but she looked a little doubtful. Finally she scribbled an address into my notebook.
“It’s the second house opposite the community centre, behind the first house. You’ve got to go around the back. If you stand across the street, a taxi will come. Tell the driver that you want to go to Centre Street, to the community centre. Tell him to take you there because you won’t know where it is. It should be three dollars, but five max. Don’t give him more than five.”
“Thanks!” (Five dollars? Five dollars US? The guys in Scarborough had wanted 20TT to drive from the terry terminal to just before the hospital, so it fit. This could turn out to be expensive.)
She interrupted my thoughts. “You got all that?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Wait.” She took back my notebook and scribbled down her number. “The man’s name is King. Alistair King. If he doesn’t offer you a price you can agree on, give me a call. I’ll finish work here in fifteen minutes.”
I smiled, touched by the length to which she and her friend were going to help a stranded traveller. But there was now no chance of disappearing quietly up the road.
So I took up position across from it. A car drew up and we drove for a long time. I thought about how much I might really end up saving if I stayed in a hovel but had to shell out for taxi fares.
“Three dollars,” the driver said when she finally pulled over.
I was about to ask her to go on to the community centre but thought better of it. I gave her 3TT and she smiled and drove off. 3TT! I would save some money after all.
The community centre was supposed to be just up the road, but when I reached a dirt track I stopped to ask, and was promptly pointed back. I think I would still not have found it if It hadn’t been the only building on the left side of the road which had two houses opposite it.
I walked past the first, recalling what the two men had told me. “Look for the crowns,” one had said. “Da man has got crowns on the wall because of his name. Kiiing.” He drew out the last word and held his fingers over his head, wriggling them to indicate a crown before the simpleton tourist would ask him to repeat himself yet again. The local patois is hard to understand. On the other hand the locals complain that I’m talking too fast.
The first of the two houses was the biggest private residence I have seen on the island, spanking new and with very expensive plasterwork, not to mention the razor wire on the wall. The one behind it was not much smaller, nor older. A luxurious veranda with large wooden chairs said ‘guesthouse’ and I entered with trepidation. This didn’t look like the dinky little upstairs room I thought I had heard mentioned on the phone. But I had to go in. Kathy was watching my every step.
I had barely opened the gate when a woman stepped out onto the veranda. “Ah, you’re the lady Kathy sent. Wait, I call my husband.”
We sat down and made smalltalk while I pondered these two magnificent villas in what was a basic neighbourhood. “Nice place you got here.”
She nodded.”Yeah—” but before she could say anything more, her husband entered the scene. I stood up, we shook hands. “This isn’t really for me,” I said. “I was looking for something cheap.”
“Let me show you.” He was already half way to the back of the house, where—oh deary me—there was a swimming pool, laid out turquoise and velvety across the courtyard.
Under a bunch of low banana plants, a small dog was raising a racket.
“Don’t worry, he’s tied up,” the man said.
And so was I. In all my travels it has always been straightforward to look at a guesthouse and move on, but I wouldn’t get away so easily here. Mr. King insisted that I saw the room first, waving away my protestations.
The room had aircon, two king-sized beds, gilded curtains and a kitchen larger than the one at home, with a catering-sized fridge.
“The charge is 500TT,” Mr. King said.
“This is very nice,” I said. “But there has been a misunderstanding. I can’t afford it.”
“No, no. Tell me what you can pay.”
“That would hardly be fair. I found a place for 150TT and moved on. I think I’ll go back there.”
“No, no. How long do you want to stay here? Tell me how long you’ll stay. Kathy is a friend of mine. I’ll have to phone her and tell her that you’re alright.”
Now I was squirming. “I don’t want to underpay you. But I really can’t—”
So it went on for a while. I was almost in tears, cursing having met those German travellers and being persuaded to go straight on to Crown Point, cursing the tourist information which seems to specialise in quick-sell (doubtlessly with commission) and has never heard of the fabled host-homes where guests can stay tax-free, wishing I was on the next bus back to Scarborough.
“OK,” he finally said. “Five nights, 150TT each.”
I have no idea how he came to settle on that particular number, but I could hardly refuse.
So I’m in this gilded cage for five nights. I like it, really, and I love the fact that people here take such a personal interest in travellers, but it will teach me to be less tight-fisted next time. I’ll agree at once to 150TT, without argument.
It’s dark outside and the little dog is whining on his string.
Time to crawl into my king-sized bed.
Tags: Americas, Apartments, Crown Point, Tobago, Tag Index
Denni