Leeward Ho December 21
Buccoo is again our basecamp in Tobago, which is not too hectic during these two weeks, the high season, at leasts for the foreign tourists. The high season for locals is Carnival and especially the Goat Races, in March. Oliver surfed today at nearby Mount Irvine beach, a small cove which is loved by Europeans, from Norway to Hungary and the Spanish Canary Islands. Many are staying in one-room rentals for $100 TT, dirt cheap. They come back again and again, and Sir George knows them all. He and Oli paddle out to the reef-breakers under hit-and-miss sunshine, while I take care to avoid the dreaded Manchineel tree, which poisons its victims with some noxious oil, instead keeping low under almonds and skinny palms. Posted signs warn against falling coconuts and toxic vegetation, while board-and-pot venders play cards and smoke swollen joints in the shade. Nearby iron orbs of old US navy mines are planted like prized domes, only with dings.
Sir George nutures a gentle vibe, yet with a fierce intensity. He is willing to teach, but you may not learn your lesson. He says, “Ya went ta school in August,“ a pejorative, although I technically did as our school year starts early, but George is not interested in that. You come to him, treat him with deference, and he shares his strong opinions. When I fondly recall for him a visit to Bloody Bay many years ago, he tells me that Bloody Bay is not so good, and English Bay is much better. When I tell him about the battle between the slaves and British soldiers in 1777, which first made the bay bloody, he says I have my story wrong. When I offer him a banana, he sniffs at it and tells me that he hates my bananas—“Fo’ced ripened with cah-bides.“ He could have simply said, “No thanks,“ but then I would never learn from his teaching. George is resident master on this island, king of this beach, and he will not have anything different from me except a boney fist-bump of brotherhood, followed by “‘I’ght“ or “Ya Muhn.“ Lesson complete.
Oli and I agree that Castara is the best beach ever, but first we have to get there. Following the advice of Antony to get as far away from Crown Point and Scarborough as possible, we head up the leeward coast toward Plymouth. Our plan involves a big loop around the island, crossing the spine of the Tobago Highland Nature Reserve on uncertain roads to the windward coast, at Roxborough.
Taking the road less traveled by makes all the difference. Chiefly, the Amos Vale Road is closed due to flood damage, ending in tracked mud and an abandoned gutter project. The water must have raged here in October—there is mud on the trees and crumpled metal roofs in the muster gullies. The route to Moriah is blocked, so we turn around to find another way, this time to Mason Hall. We do eventually reach Moriah village on the main road, a compact mass of little board homes surrounded on either side by precipitous drops into the forest. This all once was a sugarcane plantation belonging to Amos Vale, but it has long since been reclaimed by wilderness. Today he cannot even keep his path clear.
The narrow road along the jungle ridge swerves for an old growth Silk Cotton tree, almost forcing us down someone’s driveway. I am glad Oli is driving, and I am glad we bought $100 TT car insurance, rather cheap. I have never heard of such a cash payment, but Nigel, the owner, insists. He also insists that renting a car with no petrol is normal business practice. We figure he owns no insurance but is merely betting $100 that we do not crash. I tentatively intend to circle the airport, if I have to, until the bloody tank is empty, which I also consider normal practice, such is my limited August education.
It is a relief to reach sea-level again at Castara. We park along the outlet river, which is low and muddy. Somewhere up there is a waterfall and swimming hole, but we are hungry and focus our attention on the food available near the beach—Shark and Bake, Corn Soup, Potato Pies, and the substantial depth charge which is a Roti—curried chicken and chickpeas wrapped in a deep-fried Nan. This small fishing town occupies a cove bracketed with steep, forested headlands. Gigantic seine nets are set on either end of the beach. It the daily catch is full, it may take the entire community to haul it ashore. But that ain’t now, thankfully so, because I forgot my Ibuprofin.
We gorge on navy-mine-sized Roti’s against The Pretty Girl, a colorful pirogue beached for repairs, surrounded by large rounded kilns of dark clay. On Wednesdays, they fire up the traditional “dirt ovens“ and slow-roast “wild“ meat and fish, but I have my hands full currently with curried mango, chickpea, and pumpkin—and more chickpeas. The sauce leaks are so messy that I disrobe before dining, then walk straight into the sea.
The next leg takes us to Parlatuvier, beyond which the remaining stretch to Charlotteville on Man o’ War Bay is quite rough but reportedly passable. We pass. Instead, we cross over to the Windward Road on the last tarmacadam possible, to Roxborough and the Atlantic Ocean. Traffic appears on the other side, the untaken roads left behind us, as we make our slow way back to Buccoo, but not without first trying to catch fish with our hands in the stepped-pools beneath Argyle Falls. Sir George would be the first to say we are doing it all wrong.