from Tobago: figuring things out

At the beach, the waves reach for my chair again. The leaves of the almond tree provide a partial shade and as the late afternoon sun moves slowly toward the ocean, I think about what I should read. I am enjoying the relative quiet (in Tobago, so often there is the sound of music, sometimes distant, sometimes not that distant). My morning was quiet too – I spent it working – but in the early afternoon I was in Scarborough (the nearest town). Scarborough always feels like you have to have your senses sharp and ready. The sidewalks are erratic and the traffic in the daytime is intense. I am on edge.

The town, in my mind, functions with the idea that you have to get by. You want aesthetic pleasure? Look beyond it. Here, you buy your necessities, take care of your business, pick up your roti and move on. It’s not awful, it’s not even hugely unpleasant. It just is.

I went there in the afternoon because Friday and Saturday are commerce days. The market stalls fill, people come out to do their buying. Watching people engage in the act of purchasing stuff for home, especially fresh produce, is always kind of fun.

It’s a little less fun if you choose to go as I did, in the heat of the day. It’s good to remind yourself that this weather, year-round, can be daunting (though maybe less daunting than what I read of Madison’s weather: the day after I return next week the high is to be 2 F). I watch women carrying their small children and the women are not smiling. Not until they put the kid down.

Perhaps not surprisingly, therefore, I see very few very young children. And no strollers. This little girl, looking at the pumpkin and okra, stood out.





At the market, I am cautious. Vendors are serious here. They need to sell. This isn’t the place for liming: people come, pick out something, leave.















I pause by a banana stand. Can I buy just two small, ripe bananas? I’m hungry for them. And may I take a photo? Yea, go ahead. The women carefully pick out two ripe ones. How much? Oh, just take them. They wave me on with a grin. I leave them with what I think may be the cost of two small bananas, but what do I know...





At another stand, a vendor watches me approach. I can tell he would rather I be a shopper. No one is buying at his end of the market. I move past him. There are only so many small bananas I can eat.

By 2 though, I am hungry for real food. Sure, I had scrambled eggs with pumpkin and onions for breakfast and I heaped my bowl with papaya, but that was then.

I go to Eddie’s because it is Friday and Friday is crab and dumplin’ day.

Eddie greets me the minute I crack the door.





Beardy said you’d stop by. Ah. Beardy gets around. To the server behind the counter -- Give the girl crab and dumplin’! To me – you want some Gatorade with it? (I say okay, but when I see the very green color of it, I decide to stay thirsty.)

I sit down among the many who have stopped by. Mostly men, mostly eating alone. But here’s the question – how do you tackle pieces of hardshell crab? Floating in a sea of thick, spicy curry sauce? On top of three fat, doughy dumplings?





We all eat quietly, to the sound of the TV playing reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. I do the best that I can with my hands and the little plastic spoon which, in reverse, serves as a good scooper for the hard to reach pockets of crab. At the end, I am a mess. Six hours later, my hands will still smell of crab and curry. I close the Styrofoam lid on the leftover dumplings (too much!), thank Eddie for his wonderfully spiced foods and leave.

The walk home is routine now. Past schools, houses, banana trees.










I’m used to being honked at all the time, even as I never will understand which honk I’m getting. Most cars that pass me do honk, many drivers will also wave, some will ask – “you good?” (the common greeting here). All these gestures have many interpretations. People honk greetings to each other all the time. I know this man! Honk! Yea, you good?!

It also means – careful, girl, move to the side. And it means – do you want a ride? Everyone’s used to grabbing rides from each other.

For me, it also sometimes means can I show you a good time? Indeed, those words are sometimes thrown about in one form or another. Of course, this too is subject to interpretation. Mostly, I am clueless as to what the honk or wave or words mean and so I wave and say “I’m good!” and walk on.

Past the colors of the Caribbean.





At the beach, I stuff my backpack when the sun starts to disappear behind this small hill.





On my way up, I pause at the pool, do a few laps, then retreat to do more work.

It is clear as anything to me that I love mornings and late afternoons here best. And that by late evening, my northern sensibilities set in. I lose the Tobago vibe. I get impatient. The Internet connection here is miserable (and it is a short hike from my quarters) and I spend listless minutes, indeed, hours for access to a line and then for it to actually link me to the world.

And there is still the matter of food that I haven’t come to terms with. Good, inexpensive food is hard to find. Scarborough is not a great place to go searching for it. Most Bacolet guests (who are British and God knows, therefore, not fussy about what they ingest) eat either here, at the Beach Club, or they take a cab to a more remote but interesting eating destination. I have avoided both, but I’m weakening. Cabdriver, take me to…

Tomorrow I’m determined to figure out the buses that sort of sometimes criss cross the island. If I champion public transportation back home, then I should learn to use it here. Even if it means I may spend the night at the roadside. I hear they cancel buses in much the same way we cancel flights out of Madison. Frequently and without explanation.

Tobago stories

Introduction:

Caribbean colors



Corrections:

1. The Bacolet Beach Club (my home for the week) is the brand new wing of an older, family inn – once called the Old Donkey Cart (morphed eventually into the Half Moon Blue; each name has a story, but that’s probably not what you want to read here. Of more general interest is the fact that you can get good rates because things are still so new. And they know that once you come, you’ll be addicted, like the humming bird that keeps coming to this place for the sugar water because it cannot find it anywhere else).





2. Tobago is not a cruise ship destination. Until the 60s, it wasn’t much of a tourist destination either. But, the hurricane came and destroyed much of the agricultural base. They rebuilt, but with an emphasis now on eco tourism and longer-stay guests. A cruise ship will dock about once a week and it is an event, heralded up and down the island: “the cruise boat is in today!” People brace for it.

3. Tobago, especially on the more populated end of things, is safe, even for solo women travelers. The angry man of last night appears to be a tolerated town crazy. Harmless, I am told. Knife in pocket notwithstanding. Just a little angry, that’s all.


How do I know all this? And so much more? I spent the morning hours in the company of Mr. Stafford “Beardy” Taylor.






Text:


If yesterday was the orientation, today was immersion. Reflecting back on my first day here, I decided I needed time with a local person who knew the island and was willing to answer my many, many questions about it. Mr. Beardy. You need Mr. Beardy – I am told.

I chatted with him late in the day and told him what I would like to see in the space of about five hours (I know he charges for his time and I know what I can afford). He listened and said – I’ll pick you up at 7:30 in the morning.


And so we loop the southern half of the island, Mr. Beardy and I. And, except for a few pauses for soca music and cell calls from a needy aunt plus a handful of friends (yea, Pundin, wha’ happenin’…), we talk. By early afternoon, when I am dropped back at Bacolet, I know a lot about him and quite a bit about Tobago, and he knows a lot about my views on God, ghosts, children, men who wear pants halfway down their rear ends, ecotourism, and food.


We are on our way to Fort King George (so many invaders!). Mr. Beardy talks about the way traffic moves here. An old man told me two things, he says. Always try to make people like you. We toss this around for a bit. What’s the second thing? Don’t get hungry.

He means hungry for a confrontation. On the road, Mr. Beardy drives with an attitude of benevolence. Yea, man! - he’ll shout with a wide grin out the window to the car he just let through on a tight stretch.

So, in the towns, why are there two parallel green (or red) lights on an intersection? I ask. In case one burns out! It may take a while to repair. In the meantime, you have the other one!

From the Fort, we get the views toward Scarborough and, on the other side, to the coastline beyond.





We’re back on the road now. We pass a hospital, schools, more schools. I get a lecture on each one. A clinic in every town. There, see that? A school for the average students. With average teachers. 90% of parents would not want their child to go there. In all of Tobago, free books, buses and lunches for students. And so on. Tobago isn’t hurting for services. At least, not for another several years, Mr. Beardy says. When the price of oil drops below $40 per barrel, we’re in trouble (Trinidad is the one island in the Caribbean that has a refinery).

Scenically, what stands out on this drive is the lushness of the hilly landscape. Outside the tiny towns and villages, the vegetation is over the top gorgeous. Forests and flowers.




And the fruits -- what's in season now? -- I ask. Now we are finishing with oranges and we have ripe watermelon, papaya and banana. You lucky people. I want to say we have hoop spinach in Wisconsin year round, but I think he wont be impressed. What’s the coldest it gets here? Oh, we can get down in the middle of winter nights. All the way to 26 C (that would be 73.5 F). I tell him our January high can be 26. In Fahrenheit.

Mr Beardy knows that I want to see the birds that are so much part of Tobago’s sound system (I don’t know which is louder – the local Cocrico…





… or the beat of soca music.)

We head to the Grafton Estate, where his friend Sampson gives nature walks for birdwatchers. We don’t hike on this day, but even a few minutes here are rewarding. The blue gray tenager makes a repeat appearance and I am tickled to see these yellow breasted sugar eaters, because they are my breakfast companions back at the Inn, even as my occasional traveling companion has chosen to sit this one out.





…and to their surprise, we get a real friendly visit from the gorgeous blue crown mot mot.





I could do a post on the birds of this place and nothing more (there are so many!)…





… but someone dear to me has rolled her eyes at my recent obsession with spotting birds and so I’ll move on to the next stop – Plymouth. From here, you can see the beaches where the huge leatherback turtles lay their eggs in spring.





…and Mr. Beardy, liking my legal training and incorrectly assuming that this makes one clever with puzzles (Mr. Beardy’s dad was a lawyer and Mr. Beardy has a high regard for the profession), throws a local legend at me as we stand by the grave of a young lass of 24. How can this be, he asks me, pointing to the inscription on the tombstone?

She was a mother without knowing it and a wife without letting her husband know it except by her kind indulgences to him.

Turns out she had spells of amnesia and died in childbirth and he had spells of drunkenness which messed with his memory and no, I did not guess instantly, only after I’d been given hints of such telling force that a lightbulb finally went off for me. [He was a sailor! What do sailors do?? – Mr. Beardy asks, surprised that a lawyer should not know all. Fish? Go away? Get sick? Have other women? Hoist sails and get beaned by the mast? Oh, right! Get drunk! Of course.]

Out of Plymouth now. We drive up to another place – a home of a man who loves the birds that migrate through this island. The (passing through) hummingbirds come in from the forest to feed in his yard. As we pull up, two large dogs lope toward us.

Dogs here do not like Black people, Mr. Beardy tells me.
You’re joking. Aren’t dogs colorblind?
No, they really do not like us. You watch.

We get out of the car. The dogs bark and growl at him. Me? They run over wagging and whining to get my attention. I give a quick rub behind their ears.

It’s because white people like you treat them so well – like they’re important. (He says this as I offer sweet words of friendliness to the pooches.) We just treat them like dogs.

You’d think I would feel all happy with the idea that dogs like me, the visitor, the interloper. But in the evening, as I stroll the streets of Scarborough looking for street food (more on that later), a stray mutt circles me and follows closely and I am cursing my whiteness. Strays, in my mind, are, in many countries, more dangerous to the passerby than street bums and muggers. And here I am, with the cruise ship gone and if you take Mr. Beardy’s word – the only possible dog pal out and about. A helpful group of (liming) girls make banging noises at the dog and eventually the bitch wanders off.



We look for the humming birds. They are here alright. And they are breathtakingly beautiful.

You come at a good time, Mr. Beardy says. They just appeared again this month.










And now we are on a winding road that cuts through the edge of the rainforest. We’re along the opposite shore, where the pace is even quieter, gentler.










Mr. Beardy is having a wonderful time being gracious to buses and cars that appear to face us head on as we spiral our way around the hills.

And here’s the thing – these hills, green as anything, are also alive with the splash of color of blooming trees. We have more blooming trees than any other Caribbean island! – Mr. Beardy says this confidently so that I actually believe him. And I’m seeing them – bright orange and gorgeous. That’s the Immortal tree. Parrots eat their flowers. And up at Plymouth? That was the Flamboyant. It just finished its blooming period.





We round the corner and I see a village by the sea. Castora.





Someone told me that Castora is especially pretty. Even more laid back. A wider stretch of sand, gentle Caribbean waves. A place where fishing brings in more money than tourism. At the fishing coop, the men wait for the boats to come in.





Smell that pot? I nod. Is it illegal? Yes, but police don’t arrest for smoking. And the smoker will show some respect when the police come by and put out the pot. And you know, we are not really a nation of smokers, he says. And it’s true. I rarely see anyone smoking cigarettes.

Mr. Beardy gives me time to stroll (and get my pants wet in the warm, gentle waves) and grab a coffee. Okay, I cannot resist. And papaya pineapple juice. And an egg sandwich.





I am smiling. And relaxed. I am also late for my meet up with Mr. Beardy. I have found the Tobago pace.



Up the mountain we go now, crossing the rainforest, through quiet villages…





...wait, why are we stopping? I always stop here if I pass by. It is Tobago’s best bakery. I pick up a coconut drop (they look like our scones, but they are more delicate).





Of course, one is not possible. We pick up several and I head back home (with a request for another meet-up Sunday evening: more on that later).


Having blown my day’s sums of TT dollars on the morning spin, I am left with street food for dinner. Doubles (fried bara breads with chickpea curry and spicy chutney) from one man's van, sugar juice from here:





...and finally, oddly enough, Italian ice cream from a tiny little café in town.

I’m not sure if this really constituted a meal, but if I want to try Tobago’s snack food, this is one way to do it. Cheap and tasty does not mean light and insignificant. It is curious to me that men here tend to be tall and gaunt and women tend to be large. Mr. Beardy noted this too as we passed yet another handful, liming by the side of the road. They have a baby and then they eat too much, he told me. I asked him if maybe the ideal type here was differently drawn than, say, in the States. He shook his head. It’s not good and our foods are good but heavy, he said, reaching into the bag for another bit of the coconut drop.

Tobago notes

This morning, in the internet café (which is actually part of the inn), I plug in my computer and half listen to the conversation of two British guests. One is trying to print a boarding pass (why? ...there is but one small plane that flies in and out…) and he can’t do it. Deciding that the island is full of stoned people who are clueless in the matter of printing his boarding pass, he walks out.

It is true that if you want a quick solution to your technology issues here, you are going to be frustrated. The pace is on one relaxed ride -- so vastly different than what most of us have back home! But it can hit you in the gut if you're on a schedule and hate detours.

The also British girlfriend is less flustered. She talks of her favorite spots on Tobago and ends in this delightfully upbeat way – really, it was all good.

The other guy, also waiting for the communal computer (I type away on my own), is interested in mountain biking and windsurfing. That is it. He is here to do both and he wants wind. So far, he is satisfied.

I'm thinking -- have no expectations and you will not be disappointed.

But, I do have expectations: I want warm weather and I want a chance to feel and to shift to the Tobago pace!


At the breakfast terrace, I see the nod to the British tourist: there is porridge. I like porridge. Especially with chunks of fresh mango.










I walk to Scarborough – the main island town. Some twenty minutes down the road. Past the colors of the Caribbean winter.










I ask a pair of liming dudes -- who in this town is the best roti maker (the favored street food here – an Indian type bread wrap with stuff inside)? They tell me it’s Rena’s. But a woman who pours forth laughter with the force of a tidal wave claims that I should go to Eddie’s. I can’t find Eddie’s. I ask another woman for directions. She takes my arm and leads me to it.

Eddie's is a take-out or sit down place, with a tight kitchen to the side. I watch the women roll, pull and cook. And serve.










After lots of miscommunication about what it is that I actually want to eat, I sit down with a roti wrap of spicy steamed vegetables. Cheap and delicious.





A local guy joins me at the table. A friend comes over. They exchange small comments. When local people talk to each other, they lapse into a speech that is almost completely incomprehensible to me. When they direct things to me, I get 80% of what they say.





Scarborough. What's it like? I pass a few food stalls (okra, pumpkin, bananas, pineapple), and clothing stalls, and combination clothing and food stalls.















This isn’t a big commerce day here. But, people shop. And chat.





Just down the road, a boat is tossing in the choppy waters. Not too many boats in this little port.





One cruise ship comes in today and leaves in the early afternoon. There is also a ferry that pulls in from Trinidad, but it docks further south. I am told that on these bouncy seas, the five hour ride is brutal.

On my walk back, I watch kids play outside during school recess. I have my big lens camera. They see me. They come toward me and we engage in a mutual waving session.






I Skype (computer phone) Ed and he tells me he hears birds in the background. Yes, everywhere there is the sound of birds.


In the late afternoon, I'm down by the water, stretching in the shade of the large trees that line the beach just below the Bacolet Beach Club. I drink a cold local beer (less frightening at this time of day than their rum beverages) and flick off the occasional spider that appears from nowhere. Earlier, I listened to the British guests complain about the mosquitoes and sand flies in New Zealand and on other Caribbean Islands. I have found neither here.

I plow through only a quarter of what I brought down to read. I'm too busy watching waves wash close to the edge of the chair.





And when I can't stand it anymore (the water is so warm!), I plunge in and pretend to body surf. Sort of. Not really.





The guy in charge of the inn tells me that it just opened two weeks ago. I’m one of the first guests? Fantastic! I hope I will be one of their regular guests. Up the coast of Tobago, there is a little island called Goat Island, where Ian Fleming hung out. Writers’ paradise!


But I am too distracted outside to write. And so I retreat for the evening up to my white room overlooking the water.


...Until it's time for dinner. I am going to a real ma and pa place (the Blue Crab), in that the pa cooks and the ma serves and they present you with whatever they've prepared. It's local and fresh and very very good. You have to let them know in advance if you want to come for dinner. On this night, only two tables are occupied. We eat okra soup, and Trinidad shrimp with pumpkin and please let me not neglect the rum punch, because we're in rum land here.

















Our cook is one of nine brothers -- all of them great cooks. His wife sits down with us and chats about the forthcoming Tobago elections, about Obama, her travels to America, Obama, her visit to England and her encounter with the queen, Obama's wife and family, Caroline Kennedy's ascent to the senate, Obama's trip to Kenya... and so the evening continues until it is time to kiss and go.





The walk home: this is not a good part of my day here. It's quite dark between the Beach Club and the town. Tonight I walked home along the empty road behind a guy who was markedly upset at the world. I could not tell if he would be upset at me as well if I passed him and so I lagged behind in much the same way I would lag behind any angry guy on a dark street back home. No more solo walks on dark roads.


It's midnight now. My sleeveless shirt and summer skirt feel perfect in the cooler night breeze. The summer sweater is still in my suitcase. May it stay there until next week.

why Tobago? and where is Tobago anyway?

I admit it: I do not like Wisconsin winters. Too cold, too long, too difficult to navigate. Yes, there are brilliant days of snow and sunshine. But you have to understand – very often, the landscape looks like this (on the approach to Detroit Tuesday morning; granted – not Wisconsin, but close enough):





So why Tobago? Well, it’s 87 F right now in Tobago.

Yes, but why Tobago? Why not, for instance, Miami, which on the approach, looks way better than Detroit, and it requires half the time on an airplane?





Okay, so here is how Tobago came to be my first major travel destination of 09:

We’re back in October, in Wisconsin. Stunning and colorful and then pffft! It’s gone. So there I am, reading the Sunday NYTimes and the author of a travel piece is trying to tell me that there are 37 reasons to travel to the Caribbean this year.

Eh. I’m not a Caribbean person. Something about sprawling resorts amidst an impoverished indigenous population that doesn’t make me happy. But, I glance at the Times list anyway, just to see if there is a convincing argument there.

And I toss it aside. I mean, their suggestions are expensive! If you’re going to offer reasons to go anywhere at the cusp of 2008, you better argue that it’s a bargain or else you’re speaking to a very small audience.

But one item stands out: at the end of their list, I read that someone took it upon herself to convert a small old place in Tobago into a new and funky cool beach hotel. We are talking about exotic, diverse, musical, lush, self-sustaining, delicious Tobago. And the weather? Trinidad and Tobago are just off the Venezuelan coast. You can actually see the South American continent if you stand still long enough on the southern tip of Trinidad. So it is damn warm. Year round. No sweater needed.

I make my case. Ed balks. It’s a long trip – as long as to Europe. But half the price! – I nudge him. We wont eat out! (He doesn’t believe me.) I’ll pay for everything! (He especially doesn’t believe me. Too many of my cappuccinos in Italy accidentally appeared on his credit card I guess.)

The trouble is, Ed would like our travels to spontaneously fall into place when both of us are feeling like thumbing our way to wherever. Me, I’m rigorously tied to a work schedule. I have a few days in January when I can be elsewhere. Let’s go.

I leaf through books on the island: coral reefs, tropical fish, exotic birds. The birthplace of calypso and the steel pan. A literate (99.9%) rather than impoverished island that grows its own food. Creole cooking, flat breads with curried mush, papaya, mango, crab and dumplin’. And a love of liming (hanging out).

Still, to lay out a chunk of travel funds so early in the year… Ed, who knows every path to frugality there is, suggests that I beg for a rate for the impoverished budget and the hotel answers back with a super discounted winter deal. And so I book a room at the old but new Bacolet Beach Club. I’m leaving Ed behind, but I have work, I have my computer, my camera and a ratty pair of rubber slippers, just like Obama’s.

I’m off.


It is a four flight (two very long, two very short) trip, the final one on a little turbo prop that hops over from Port of Spain in Trinidad to Tobago. The kind of plane where you can’t mess with the air vents because they’re all broken. (It’s a $24 flight, what do you want...)

I arrive late at night. The air is moist and very warm. My room looks out over the sea (I can’t see it yet, but I hear it) and there are bougainvillea petals all over the bed. The WiFi doesn’t work, but who can complain. The women at the desk call me darling and dear and everyone says good night even though they’re not going anywhere and neither are you. And their accent is crisp and uniquely their own.





I sit down in the lobby with the funky chairs and sip a Carib beer. I can do this for a week. I can get warmed up here. See you next week, cold town of mine.

P.S. In the morning, I confirm what I heard last night. My sweet white room looks out on this:

the fourth day of change and transition

In flight. All day long. Lots of time to read, work, and watch the weather change outside from freezing to, I hope, sunny and warm.