Oropouche

Aaron’s been itching to bird. So he scheduled us to take a kayak tour of the Oropouche River with Sham and his company, EcoSense. Tom, Aaron and I left the house at 5 AM to meet our friends John and Annika for a quick batch of road-side breakfast doubles before following Sham’s perfect instructions to The South. Directions in Trinidad are often things like: take a left at the Rasta Man on the 3rd corner or take the right the block before the last fruit stand. People say The South here like it’s a comparable distance to getting to the southeast of the US from the northwest. It’s actually about 70 km. Still, once we see it, we realize that the exaggeration seems about right; San Fernando is about as different from Port of Spain as Baton Rouge is from Seattle. There’s one road to get there from Port of Spain. Life is slow; people are kind. The Indian culture is stronger here—we see multiple colorful temples. Thick green dominates my view instead of the polluted grey of POS. Even the vegetation is different. Sham points out two fruit trees and tells us to ask our Northern friends if they’ve ever had them. “They won’t even know what they are!” He says, confirming the distinctions between Trinidad’s north and south.

We met up with Sham right by an Indian crematorium. You could see the stripes of dry grey ash climbing down the yellow cliffs to the sea. Fishermen ambled past the prayer flags into the opaque water with long white nets and bags, collecting sardines and crabs. We carried the kayaks down a muddy decline, tricky, and jumped in them (the less graceful ones of us got a bit more soaked than the others). We kayaked underneath a bridge and then entered a small river bookended on both sides by black mangroves, their long limbs reaching toward us, Tim Burton style. When we reached a fork in the waterway, Sham asked us if we wanted to go interesting and risky or normal. Annika was outnumbered and we headed toward a much narrower passageway—kilometers of close-knit slimy branches, brown water, and the anticipation of new birds. Sometimes as we glided through, we got stuck on dead logs invisible underneath the water and sometimes we got stuck on the arched branches on top of the water; both were equally offensive because the only solution was to grab onto the muddy branches and pull your way out.

Sham promised birds and boas; Aaron had his binoculars ready. We saw two yellow-chin spinetails building a nest together and one turkey-looking wattled jicana let us get really close.

There were also some stunning yellow hooded blackbirds (Aaron’s thinking about a tattoo) that played hide-and-seek from our cameras in the high grass. After passing through a sluice gate, we were forced to turn around when we reached a hyacinth plant roadblock taking up the entire waterway. Going back under the sluice gate some brown butterfly like things flapped around our heads. On further inspection we realized our passageway had awakened some sleepy looking bats.

On our way back, the rain started to pour and the lightning started to crackle. We hesitated, holding our metal paddles, but then Sham cruised past us and so we followed. Pulling the kayaks out of the water and up the even muddier incline was harder in the hammering rain. The car alarm on our keys had gotten wet and now refused to disable our locks or car alarm. So, soaking wet, we tried to pull the right fuses to stop the incessant noise. After only one Nope, not that one, Aaron got it and we could think again.

Sham took us for lunch, goat roti and cokes, and told us about how he had started training to be a lawyer to try and make some changes in how Trinidad’s industries are allowed to affect the natural environment. Then he asked us if we wanted to try to see some macaws. We dropped off our car at his mother-in-law’s house and hopped in his 4x4 and drove to what seemed to be More South, to a honey-bee maker’s house and estate.

Sham told us that this land had been a European coffee and cocoa plantation 100 years ago. We walked through a trail thick with mosquitoes and greenery until we heard a toucan and saw Woody the Woodpecker.

On the way, we tried to convince Sham to do the kayaking part of our next adventure race, Coast to Coast (26 mile run, 60 mile bike, 20 mile kayak). When we told him the distances, he said, No way. We got back to his parent’s house and he disappeared for a second. When he returned, he handed me five perfect mangoes, and told us to drive up to the brand-new aluminum smelter and look professional so we could get inside and see the destruction it created. As we said good-bye, he told us to give him a call and he’d give us a deal to rent his kayaks so we could train for the race. And then he mumbled, And maybe I’ll go with you, just to see…which made us think he might actually consider kayaking if we left him alone for a bit.
On our way to the smelter, we stopped to see the world’s largest natural resource of unrefined pitch (asphalt once it’s refined). We’d heard what an ugly scene this was (an industrial pitch lake, so, a factory and a parking lot?!) and our expectations were low.

Pretty, it was not, but I was enthralled by its alien landscape. The pitch just grows, renewing itself by the minute. A thick, dry skin forms on top so you can walk on it. But every once in a while, my foot found a smooth, pillowy spot and sink in a little. Or, I’d step on a little mound that flattened under my weight. (It reminded me of when I used to rollerblade in the summer and I’d have to watch out for spots where road workers had plugged holes in the road because those fat, soft circles arrested my spinning wheels and sent me flying.) I’d never seen anything like it; I had no idea this was how asphalt originated.

Our guide, Cyril, showed us all the tricks of the lake: plants grow on the top soil (if you pull out a plant, you’ll see how dry the roots are underneath, so the only water comes from the rain, not the earth—crazy!), how to touch the pitch but not have it stick to you, the beautiful natural shapes and forms created by the constantly revolving pitch, the gasses bubbling from the deep bellows, and the iron-red, algae-green, and oil-colored pools, all with different medicinal purposes (the milky, silky sulfur is said to be an age-defyer).

The pitch eats whatever is in its path in its constant process of regeneration.

And of course Aaron was happy to see the Royal Terns and Large-billed Terns while I was mesmerized by oil-as-art.

Our next trip to St. Lucia will be the bomb

Southern St. Lucia boasts many fantastic things to see and do. But we goofed up a few times and our trip wasn’t quite the smoothest Caribbean excursion yet. We flew into St. Lucia’s southern airport, not knowing there were two, even though we’d booked a week-long hotel stay in the north. So our first mistake led to a 100US$ drive late at night to our hotel. We’d chosen Rodney Bay because we wanted to see St. Lucia’s version of Carnival in the nearby northern capital town of Castries, but soon we learned that the diving and hiking (all we wanted to do) are in the south, while the crowded beaches and expensive restaurants are in the north. And, even though Caribbean islands are small, travel from one end to another is usually tricky, expensive, and full of potholes.

Our second mistake was thinking that a country of 166,000 would host a party comparable to what a country of 1.3 million did; seeing St. Lucia’s Carnival led to a mild redefining of the celebration. There were some similarities: rum, dancing, tiny bikinis. But there were more differences: size (St. Lucians revel in groups of about 50, while Trinis parade together in the thousands) and music (St. Lucia’s soca asked you to tap your foot, while Trinidad’s soca inspires full-bodied wining). The last truck that we saw got us up and dancing, and as it drove by, the announcer said, “Let’s hear it for our visiting DJ from Trinidad!” Ah ha. We realized all Carnivals are not equal, and what we loved about Trinidad’s had a lot more to do with our love of Trinidad than Carnival. Our third mistake was visiting S. Lucia during their hurricane season. Most days, it poured rain (including during Carnival, which helped to cool everyone off, but decimated the aesthetics of the costumes, floats, and make-up).

Our fourth, and perhaps, largest mistake was misunderstanding how deeply a tourist economy can affect interactions with locals. I understand why it happens, but it takes some time to get used to relationships informed more by caricatures and stereotypes than anything else. One guy chatted us up for awhile and then offered to take us to Martinique, a smaller island 20 miles away. I expected there to be a price tag, of course, but I instinctively started walking away when he named his price: 1000 US$. We tried to explain that we didn’t have that kind of money, but he didn’t seem to hear us and only repeated and repeated the virtues of travelling on a private boat. Well, sure! Aaron’s favorite was when the trainer in the workout room at our resort turned off the soca and turned on Sting when Aaron walked on to the treadmill. “I’m an alien, I’m an illegal alien, I’m an Englishman in New York,” just doesn’t have the same kick as “Super Blue” by Faye-Ann Lyons. This only slightly trumped the beach vendor who took one look at Aaron before calling him a “F***ing German” before stomping off in the opposite direction. It’s given us a lot to think about in terms of travelling. And being white.

The days we got to the south were great. We went on a dive to a ship wreck in Soufriere—the amount of plant life and fish life that had developed in just 20 years was impressive. Some guys we met diving invited us out to the Fish Fry in Gros Islet; I was worn out, but Aaron went and got his fix of hanging out in crowded streets and listening to music.

We hiked to Pigeon Island, an important fort in the 1800s when France and England battled for St. Lucia.

We climbed up Gros Piton, the volcanic spire nearly 3,000 ft. above the Caribbean Sea. The shorter one, Petit Piton, is about 40 m shorter. Together, they create a stunning view accessible from all over the southern portion of the island. It was a gorgeous and quite vertical climb with denser vegetation than Trinidad. The town below Gros Piton, Fond Gens Libre, (“Valley of the Free People” in the French-based patois spoken on St. Lucia) puts the tourist fees toward maintaining the town and the trails. Goats and pigs roam around the mango, calabash, and papaya trees throughout the small village.

The botanical garden in Soufriere was also beautiful—lots of new plants and some familiar ones with fun Lucian twists, and beautiful humming birds.

We snuck into the fanciest resort I’ve ever seen early one morning as we drove down to hike the pitons. We sat down in the restaurant to have coffee, just to spend more time there, and walked around the spectacular grounds. As we went to pay, they told us that it was on the house—guess a couple cups of coffee didn’t warrant the effort of charging us (but those water guns on the table came in handy when the hungry tanagers tried to grab some sugar from our table).

So, next time we go, we’ll stay in the tiny, charming southern town of Canaries. We won’t go during the rainy season. And we’ll have to try to compare places to Trinidad less…

Hanuman Murti and the Temple-on-the-Sea

School's out so we get to play around Trinidad! We went to Carapichaima to visit Hanuman Murti, the tallest representation of the Hindu god Hanuman (85 ft.) outside of India. The Hanuman, elephant, temple and nearby yoga retreat (pink building) are so detailed and colorful--they give off a much different vibe than Catholic cathedrals.

Not too far from Hanuman Murti is Waterloo Temple. This was built by Sewdass Sadhu in 1947, but was torn down by the sugar cane farmers right after it was finished. To avoid this the second time, he decided to build it in the sea. It took him 25 years to complete by himself, and afterward, a small path was built to connect the temple to the shore.

Going “down de islands” is Trini slang for renting a beach house on one of the small islands off the coast of Trinidad. It’s a common weekend thing. My students talk about it all the time and when I asked Enrique how often he went down de islands, he said, “Not so often, just every Sunday.” We had tried to plan it a few times, but the islands have remained elusive for almost the whole year. Fortunately, some of our more savvy friends, Mark and Rebeka, hooked us up. We left Friday morning to take full advantage of our 3-day weekend with all necessary supplies and hopped in Spider’s boat to cross the ocean, past Centipede island (where they grow as big as my arm, apparently!), until we reached Gaspare. The house was blue, cozy, and full of sun decorations, bunk beds, and magazines from 2005: all we’d need. Mark and Rebeka’s friends, Natalie, Enrique, and Andrea joined us in relaxing for the weekend. We swam, snorkeled, laid out in the sun, read, napped in the hammocks, and went for a few hikes. The landscape of the island was a volcanic desert, completely different than Trinidad. We played cards until things got rowdy and the table broke; Spoons with rum is a different game entirely. The national ability to party and relax with equal skill and dedication is quite impressive.

These ants are huge. As big as my fingernails.

June 9th, 2009

For my birthday, Aaron and I took half-personal days. We went out for lunch, spent a few hours playing in the waves and laying in the sun at Maracas Beach, and then got a big group together for a 2 hour game of ultimate frisbee. (He also took me out to a fancy dinner and paid for me to get a thai yoga massage at our yoga studio sometime!) It was fantastic.

Hike-a-thon

Some parts of Trinidad don’t have any roads, so the only way to see them is to walk. A local group, Hiker’s World, planned a hike on the remote Northeastern coast, starting in Matelot and finishing in Blanchisessuse, 20 miles later. We signed up to go with them. Before permitting us to go on the hike, we had to prove ourselves in a “practice hike,” that was “much more difficult” than the actual hike (not that there was a practice hike for that one). The practice hike was about 4 hours of straight hills, which isn’t that big of deal, except that there was some miscommunication. When I hear the word “hike,” I think “medium walking pace,” “time to stop and look at the view” and “rest stops.” Interestingly enough, Hiker’s World, while a separate entity completely from the hashers we trail-run with every other weekend, do the same. People yelled at us to go faster, yelled at us to not tie our shoe laces, and one guy even trampled past me when I tripped and fell. Still, it’s cheaper than hiring guides to have taken us.
The hike-a-thon started at 7 AM Saturday, May 30th. To get there by that time, we met the group in downtown Port-of-Spain at 2 AM and rode a maxi to Matelot, soca blasting and lights blaring for most of the 4 hour drive. Dazed, we started the hike on the sandy beach of the small town. The day fluctuated between isolated, beautiful beaches and thick, sweaty jungle. I tried to make new friends, but after my first attempt, stopped (“Don’t be offended, but do you know what a turon is? Nope! What? A tourist moron. Oh.). Instead, I enjoyed the forests of heliconia, with a slashed passageway like a tropical Narnia, and swam in small, lonesome coves out of The Tempest. I felt grateful that we were able to witness such a different part of Trinidad—all beauty and no pollution. As we walked across the last bridge, six hours after we started, they handed us chicken pelau (similar to jambalaya) and T-shirts: The thrill of the victory and the agony of de feet!