Tobago: where are you goin’, girl?

Bacolet (my home for the week) is on the Atlantic coast of Tobago. The two fishing villages I visited – Castara (with Beardy) and Charlottesville (alone) – are on the Caribbean side.

I had this idea today that I should take the bus to the Caribbean side (Plymouth, for example) and then walk back across the island, using country backroads where possible.

As the crow flies, it’s nothing. Four miles maybe. But, the crow does not take backroads, nor does it slow down when there’s an incline. I’m not sure in the end how many miles I covered. But it took me well over three hours to walk home.

It was a magnificent walk. Let me post a photo from the tail end, as I neared Scarborough:





A few days back, I asked a well traveled British pair here, at Beach Club (we shared the computer room pushing on midnight many a time) – so what do you like best about Tobago? She thought for a minute and said – in the end, it’s all about the people, isn’t it?

She is so right. You can find a land beautiful and never want to go back because you sense hostility. And, you can forgive a lot in a country where the people naturally, instinctively, take your hand and lead you to where you want to be. Tobagonians want to help even when you think yourself to be managing well enough. This is not your bus. Wait for another.

People here are curious. Where are you goin’ girl? I’m taking a walk. Oh, okay. Sometimes, the quick conversations leave me no good line to throw back and so I just laugh.
Where is your companion?
At home. He decided not to travel this time.
Why?
He likes home.
Yea? Anyway, you have to have a Black one.
This was not come on, it was a tease, a friendly statement, tossed from the front yard, where the man was working along with two others.

I am the only hiker on these roads. People get rides. Where there is space in a car, people often pull over. You walkin,’ boy? (I’m in a sundress; the gender thing is sheer play.) Oh, okay.

Sometimes, I get lost. I know how to stop a car – I’ve seen it done: arm out at slight angle, hand flaps a few times. Good morning. Does this road lead to the Providence Road? Sure does. I learn also not to get the time of day wrong. Good morning until noon. Good day or good afternoon until five. Good night thereafter. If I’m wrong – good morning! (it’s just past noon), afternoon, they remind me. And then later, a car pulls over – G'day! You get to your place alright? Remember? You asked me directions back on the road.



But let me go back a little. Because first there was the bus ride. I want to get off near Plymouth. The idea is to hike from there to the Arnos Vale Beach. It’s by an old resort and I hear there are birds and gardens worth stopping for. And a nice, Caribbean side beach. With snorkeling. A half a dozen people on the bus tell me where to get off and how to proceed.

I walk past farming country. So different than Wisconsin. For one thing, they grow cucumbers in January.










After a few minutes I come to the secluded Arnos Vale Beach. It’s lovely!










But somehow, I’m not ready to plop down for the day. I bought some reading, but not enough to keep me here for hours. I don’t want to snorkel. Water seems rough. I may be the only person on the planet who actually gets seasick snorkeling in bouncy waters.

I take it in, dip a toe and turn around. But the plant life here is truly beautiful.










Really stunning.

I hit the road. At first, it’s rainforest. And very empty. Someone emerges from a riverbank and for a while walks behind me. I am aware of the two of us, walking through a forest, with birds screeching. But at some moment, he disappears and now I am very much alone. Except for the occasional car. Honk! Window down. Thank you, but it’s a beautiful day for a walk.

Eventually, the forest recedes. A cow grazes, a bird keeps her company. Makes me smile at the mismatch of sizes. And then, round a few more ends, another cow with a companion.





Coincidence. Or is it? Further still, another pair…





…and then another:





Some cows are without birds, but where there is a companion bird, it is always only one.

But I see far more goats than cows on the island.





One, maybe two at a time. I asked Beardy – what are they used for – milk? He said yes, that, but it is also tradition to have a goat. Every home needs a goat. And so there are goats.

The day is, as usual, beautifully warm, partly cloudy. The landscape is, in my mind, perfectly Caribbean.










Occasionally, a cloud will pass and sprinkle warm drops of rain. Seconds later, it will be gone.

In a small village, I pass a food hut. Bananas on the tree, bananas in the hut. And now bananas in my small day pack.










Village life. It always surprises me when places just a mile or two from the sea, lose their connection to the water. I remember this from Brittany: along the shore, everything focused on the ocean – the food, holiday homes, fisheries. A few steps in and you may as well be in the center of France. Here, too, the villages seem removed from shore life. It’s as if you must hear the sound of the ocean before you build your life with it in mind.





And now I'm in Scarborough. Busy, people filled (thank God) Scarborough. Where, I admit, I have been hanging out occasionally at a café that serves the best, indeed, the only espresso in town.





Very late in the afternoon, the beach is again overcome by waves. I hoist a chair up, (mostly) out of harm’s way and read.

Tobago explanations

Okay, it’s not a banana tree. It’s a something else. Bush maybe? Bananas do not grow on trees. (Thanks, Ed.)





Sunday. It is a day of work, a day of waiting for the computer go-to person who was to work on Internet issues at the Beach Club but decided, instead, to go to church (by his own account), and of spending an indulgent afternoon on the beach. Where I learned a bunch of things.

First, there is the matter of the waves. If it is low tide, that does not mean that the beach would not be flooded. Suddenly. A fellow beacher noted my pain as a my chair was put suddenly substantially underwater. It is the moon, she tells me. It draws the ocean to the land.





The waves, too, are significant today – or at least large enough to give bodysurfing a serious try. I really do not know anything about bodysurfing except that Obama does it well, but I have learned most things in life without lessons and so why not make a fool of myself right there on Bacolet Bay. In fact, it’s not that hard to catch for a fleeting moment the crest of a wave. (Admittedly, half the time I am submerged under it, but let’s focus on the positive.)

Some good soul offered to take this photo and I let her, thinking I may look majestic if I succeed, but of course the big wave did not come and what did come I managed to make little good use of.





It is very humbling to fail in front of a small audience.



In the late afternoon, feeling completely perked and rinsed out by the ocean waters, I decide to walk to town to the Botanical Gardens. Parks on a Sunday are, for me, a happy destination and ones that specialize in tropical plants should be a treat.

These Gardens, however, are rather a sad lot and I must suppose that with such lush flowers and trees growing without fuss everywhere across the island, it becomes less important to put resources into the town Gardens.

Indeed, at Bacolet, I am in full view of this each day:





And on my walk to Scarborough, I am enchanted with these colors:





At the Gardens, by contrast, nothing really catches the eye. All I can offer you is this tree, almost ending its season of bloom:





…and a very pretty plant with two toned leaves (no, there are no tags to help you identify the variety):





I pass on photographing the rest of the rather tame plant life, or the odd assortment of strung Christmas lights in random places.

It does not help to see Scarborough so completely deserted by the locals on Sunday and overrun by the boat people (referred to as such by Tobagonians) who are here for the afternoon. I realize (as I watch the slightly pink but basically white people in their pale white cruise shorts and shirts) that Scarborough never seemed so bland before because Tobagonians bring with them a wallop of color. Red shirts, yellow scarves, multicolored caps and headbands. Rich black and Indian brown skin tone (Trinidad is 40 % African heritage and 40% Indian, but Tobago is 90% African). Long black hair among men (dreads are extremely common here) and always intricately styled hair (sometimes with very red highlights, sometimes done in braids, dreads, curls, or carefully clipped) among women. Without its people, the town seems listless and parched. I must make do with photographing the ubiquitous rooster. Roosters and chickens don’t take Sundays off.






I walk back at sunset along the route that I have come to like so much, past the public cemetery…





… past the church and school, with no children today, just chickens, and the sounds of singing from the congregation. Oh Little Town of Bethlehem...

…past the bend in the road that offers the view of the water, with its ship, waiting for its pink people…





…past the fire station, a shop or two and various agencies providing services (for example, the Coterie of Social Workers of T&T Inc., with the slogan: “Let us lift as we climb and give the best or nothing”), and finally homes, small ones, but with lush vegetation and sounds of birds and barking dogs to greet you as you go by.



And now it is dark and time to head out with Beardy (we are on a first name basis by now) to Sunday School.

It’s an event, an island tradition, to head out to Buccoo Bay and party on Sunday night. I don’t want to stay long, but I want the street foods and the sounds of the steel band to pull me in.

I get one but not the other. With Carnival approaching, the musicians take a break from performing here. But, there is loud soca blaring and the food stalls have grills with chicken and sea foods and as I stroll and people-watch, I am thinking that this, not the Gardens is the great Sunday outing. Tobago does not do quiet time well. Tobago pulses with music and spicy food. A great backdrop for the ultimate limin'.

Roasted chicken and salads and a cold beer. A fine way to top off the weekend.

Tobago chat

wah g’wan?

You’re asking what’s going on? Well, it depends where you find yourself.

In Charlottesville, at the most northern tip of Tobago, man-o-wah (man of war) birds swoop down and take fish from the sea.





A man is gutting fish. He throws the remains into the water. You would think that the birds would swoop for these, but no. They continue to circle and dive for the live catch.





The local bus that brought me to this fishing village left Scarborough so on time – promptly at 9 – that I began to doubt all that talk about there being “island time.”

It’s not a large bus (indeed, the roads north could not accommodate a large bus), but it does fill, at least at the starting point. The men, women and children of Tobago and me.

In many countries (including my native Poland), tight rides on a hot day are bad news for the sensitive nose. Not here. As the woman next to me settles comfortably, so that we form one integral body mass across the expanse of the small seats, I can’t help but take in how cool and fresh she is. And indeed, the same could be said for all. A bus full of fresh and (likely) honest people.

If anyone is to sweat, that would be me. The road, twisting sharply around the mountainous coastline, would be been terrifying had I a chance to look out. But, the custom is to close the curtain if the sun is out. My stomach notes what my eyes cannot see.

Finally, at 10:15, we are at the last stop and I disembark. Right in front of the Charlottesville fish cooperative.





Some people mind the smell of fish markets, and the sight of freshly caught fish can be equally distressing. I can understand that. But, for some reason, I am drawn to watching and photographing people who fish (longtime Ocean readers will have noted my photos of ice-fishermen in Madison). The bravery, the patience, and here – the speed and physical strength required for a successful catch are fascinating to watch, perhaps because I am not especially adept at any of them.

And so I watch. And after plenty of chat with the fishermen about when, how often, at what point and whom I am allowed to photograph, I am given a tentative go-ahead to take some photos.




















The day’s catch? You’re seeing here mostly Wahoo fish. At other times, I am sure you would see more variety (Charlottesville fishermen supply 60% of the island’s fish). Today, what I see comes off of these small boats:





Every ten or fifteen minutes, a boat pulls up, men steady it and someone runs the fish up to the co-op. And so it continues.


leh wee lime

You’ll have noted the men sitting at the edge of the coop? They are responding to the national call: we should lime (hang out).

Men do this especially well, but women are fully engaged in it as well. Everywhere, there is liming.





I take the trail at the northern end of town toward Pirate’s Beach. I am told it is quite beautiful. Indeed. Secluded, with only a path leading to it, with the rainforest spilling down to the water's edge.










And, oddly enough (this being their high season and a week-end) – quite deserted.





There is one threesome at the edge of it – an older man, a local, and two women. Eventually the man comes over to chat. He quickly finds out where I am from and how cold it is back there right now (I revel in saying it, it always astonishes). He asks if I am a professional photographer and when I tell him no, just a serious amateur, he thinks a bit and then humbly admits to placing himself just under that. (Usually, at this point, people tell me about the perfect photo they missed taking because they failed to have their camera along. So, carry your cameras!)

Why so empty here? -- I ask him.
Oh, probably because of the elections. Meetings and rallies, that sort of thing. But you know this is one of the ten most beautiful beaches in the world?
Ah, rankings. What would we do without them! I do not inquire about the methodology, but admit that it is, indeed, stunning. According to me.

After idling away a few minutes, I ask where he likes to eat in the village. Jabba’s – he says. You know, like the basketball player.

I spend a little more times wooshing my feet in the water and then retreat in search of food. Jabba’s is not easy to find, especially since as I am no basketball whizz and so I have managed to forget the name.

Two women are limin’ by the gate and I go up and try out a few name choices. Do you know where the food shop Sabba’s is? Or maybe it's Rabba’s? After they ponder the possibilities they hit on the correct name and, laughing, they point me to it. And when Tobago women laugh, it is with full use of their lung capacity. Oh, to laugh like that back home! To explode at the hilarity of life! To bellow out mirth! I smile at the unlikeliness of it (cursed northern sensibilities) and walk to Jabba's.

The cook shop (the word used for a food place that is less than a restaurant but more than a food stall) actually has no name painted on the outside. Indeed, Jabba is only a nick name for Irwin Hercules. Peace maker, he tells me. I don’t know why they call me that! But he says it with a grin. One senses modesty here.





What should I eat? -- I ask. Vegetable soup. I am a vegetarian and so I have made vegetable soup.

Perfect. I am not a vegetarian, but to me, soups with unknown animal parts in them can be scary. I have grown conservative in that way as my travel orbit has extended beyond the predictable.

I watch him fill a bowl, the size of which, I should think, would hold enough to feed a family of four. Not too much! He smiles: I will put in more liquid. Thick liquid, where breadfruit, plantain, yellow chickpeas, yucca and potatoes have made the line between liquid and solids rather blurry.





I take my bowl to a table perched by the water. My eating companion (the rooster) watches as I manage to eat (almost) the whole thing. This, to me, is the perfect cheap food. The peace maker knows his vegetables and spices. I use thyme, garlic, and our favorite – what you call coriander. And basil. And salt. And I add celery and spinach. (Now wait a minute! You can’t have spinach too! That’s a cold weather vegetable!) Yea, I take what people around here grow in their back yards. So who taught you to cook? – I ask, but I know the answer. It’s always like that. Oh, my grandmother!


meh deh deh

It turns out that when I have been answering (the car greetings) with “I’m good, thanks for asking,” I have been revealing my utter ignorance of local custom. The proper way to say this in TT (a common way to speak of Trinidad & Tobago) chat is to toss out a “meh deh deh.”

I learn this from chatting to Keisha (not her real name, but she is from Tobago and this name is as typical here as you can get).

That I should have a long and bonding conversation with Keisha, is entirely thanks to the Tobago Department of Transport.

Naturally, I had asked back in Scarborough about the return bus.
You have to remember that there is a bus at 12:30.
From Charlottesville? (seems on the early side for me.)
No. From here. You must calculate from this the return. (Curious, since the road, though difficult, is not with much traffic and therefore, rather predictable.) Probably, it will then leave Charlottesville at 2:00, but just in case, you should be at the stop by 1:30.

I am at the stop at 1:25. Along with a German pair, waiting since 11 (they just missed the bus I came on), and Keisha, who had been on my bus. She recognized me. Of course.

The German pair is nervous. What if it will not come? Should we pay the locals (asking price $100) to take us back? We have a flight at 6.

I laugh my newly acquired hearty Tobago laugh. Like clockwork! Of course, living in Heidelberg as they do, they should take that metaphysically, but momentarily, they are reassured.

Keisha knows better. She was raised here and only after a choppy love life did she, at the age of 19, leave for New York. Only to return 12 years later to marry her childhood sweetheart from Trinidad – where she now lives. She is thus an amalgam of cultures. All in conflict with the other.

I could not live here anymore. See those people, limin' on the bench? They have been there since we came.

For reasons that are known only to the driver and possibly his friends, the bus arrives terribly late. And when it arrives, the driver gets off and walks away. The German pair is greatly distressed by this and they wonder if their premature exuberance at the sight of his arrival may have ticked him off (their joy was off the charts visible). Keisha reassures them that he would not have been disturbed. His mind was on the limin' just around the bend.

Keisha stretches in the sun. She missed this greatly back in New York. But she wishes the customer (of buses, in stores) was treated with greater respect here. Wassup. You good? Trinidad -- I can handle Trinidad. Tobago -- I come here to remember, and to see family. Man, this place is too slow for me!

Not for me. Not for the days I am here. (I say this because the bus did come after all, and I did not have to spend the night at the curbside.)

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.