Toco December 24
When the natives attacked and killed the Capuchin monks in 1699, they also managed to kill the Spanish Governor, but they did not shoot all of his deputies. Historians call it the Arena Massacre, and it prompted an all-out war on the Amerindians, driving them all the way to the very northeastern tip of the island, here at Point Galera, near the village of Toco, where many chose to leap from the cliffs rather than face Catholic justice. They had already experienced enough of it, that is, a century of sanctimonious sadism. The hundreds that surrendered were given last rites, then summarily dismembered for parade. Legend holds that this place is haunted by moans and wails at night, but crashing surf, like God, can play tricks on you.
Persecution chased not only the Amerindians to this far corner of the earth. Spiritual Baptists occupy the area, despite a British ban on the religious practice until 1957. Anglicans tended to look down upon the so-called “Shouters“, who mix Jesus and African traditions, somewhat like the Rastafari of Jamaica. Trinidad Baptists descend from the Founders, called Mericans, former American slaves recruited by the British to fight against the States in 1812. After the war, the Mericans were settled on the island (and in Canada) but did not integrate into English protestantism, and increasingly became politically active. So the Empire reflexively made them illegal. Not anymore. In March, the Spiritual Baptists have their own national holiday, where the Shouters can shout to their hearts’ content.
Due to West African cross-fertilization, mainstream Baptists do not recognize the Shouters as Christians. They certainly do not appear as garden-variety Baptists, often dressed in colorful cassocks and tribal gowns, with lots of drums. The Baptism may be traced to missionaries, but the African element springs from Gullah, a swampy creole backwater of Georgia, where slaves kept alive the African language and traditions, away from prying eyes.
The religious amalgams in Trinidad boggle the mind, and many parishioners often belong to more than one church, as if to play the odds on what might most please the Lord, or the Lords. Even the churches themselves belong to more than one denomination. One wild offshoot sect of the Spiritual Baptists is Trinidad Orisha, also called Shango, which incorporates Yoruba practices from Nigeria, as well as bits of Catholicism, Hindu, and Sufi Islam. Given the unlimited diversity of devotions, these people must surely end up in someone’s version of paradise.
Paradise is an apt description of Toco, barely the largest of a string of puny villages along the northeast coast of the big island. A narrow winding road makes the turn here for Matelot and the end of the line. It is two-lane until suddenly it is not, as jungle creep and storm damage reclaim the earth from the black pitch. Below steep wooded hillsides roars the rocky surf that wrecked so many ships—until, that is, the construction of Point Galera Lighthouse in 1897, to commemorate Victoria’s Jubilee and the centenary of British Trinidad.
The nexus of activity in the immediate area is the perilous 3-way junction of Galera Road and the Main Toco Road, where a half-dozen folks lime outside the rum shop. Christmas Reggae blares inside for no one in particular. Oddly, goods and cash in the small shops are kept in cages—you receive your items through bars—a reminder that these remote rural hamlets are indeed in Trinidad, not Tobago.
Point Galera is the easternmost point of Trinidad and starts the shortest straight line to Tobago, some 13 miles away. With binoculars at night, the towns of Crown Point and Scarborough dot the horizon. The currents are treacherous around the point, but this allows for greater water clarity than anywhere else on the island. Coral can grow here as a result, amid the gargoyle rocks and shoals. Reef breakers draw surfers, but this is dangerous terrain for beginners. Marine life is robust. Nearby is where the giant leatherback turtles will return, but not until May.
Near the lighthouse is an old US Navy landing field, cleared during WWII and kept inexplicably clear today, perhaps in case Trinidad ever becomes the next Pearl Harbor, or something more nefarious. This marks where the Atlantic to the east meets the Caribbean to the north. The arrow of land points to Europe. So critical a spot, yet so wild and unconquered, locals still refer to the sea here as the “Graveyard.“
Caterpillars the size of my middle finger—black, with yellow circular stripes, head and tail of rounded chestnut—search for a buffet beneath a soft-needle pine, along one of the many curves of this serpentine road. I see no signs of the law. If only I were beyond the reach of a livid Attorney General. Securely out of internet range, where even the radio signals fail, we feast on roadside Chow, sliced Pommecythere (introduced from Tahiti by Captain Bligh in the 1700’s) in green pickling goop, and Red Pawpaw, sliced papaya in red pickling goop. Mabel’s Green Seasoning Sauce, another tart, spicy goop, is a provided condiment, with a label featuring a matronly creole chef. No one can say what is in any of these goops, except deliciousness.
Santa Claus stops by the Baptist Church, to the blare of Christmas Soca and Parang. He must be sweltering in the suit. Reaching from the back of a pickup truck, he hands out gifts to the kids assembled along the Main Toco Road, then he moves along to the next stop, receiving well wishes from friends in the village, all of whom know Santa well. When he runs out of stops, Mr. Claus jumps in the back of the pickup-sleigh and leans against the thumping speaker, as the truck with soundtrack roars up the road to the next village, at the Roman Catholic Mission, which shows no life. The largest crowd in Sans Souci is at the Little Flock Spiritual Baptist Church, on the Saturday before the birth of the Lord’s only son. Top-buttoned men with shades and shined shoes leer slightly at me outside, in the event I consider attending the sacred service uninvited.
The road from Toco west to Matelot is badly damaged from storms, reduced to barely one lane in places, crossing river ravines on board bridges, and clinging to eroding road cuts around sheer dripping headwalls. A pile of rounded stones indicates the work remaining for a seawall that will hopefully withstand the surge better than the last one.
Oli contends with furious surf on a short board, along a brown beach littered with bleached coral pieces and exquisite mahogany-shelled gastropods. He is alone in the sea. This is the last beach on the last piece of land in the Caribbean. Everything on the east side of Trinidad, just around the point, beyond the Graveyard, and facing Africa, belongs to the open Atlantic.
The only other man on the sand is an aging toothless drunkard, dressed in a dingy sleeveless undershirt and orange medical scrubs, as if he escaped from captivity and now is marooned. He mumbles to himself, confronting another hangover, under the bright daylight. In this small rural community of sober church-goers, his is a most serious fall from grace. He sits near enough to me on the sand for me to smell the stench. Nearby a blind blue-eyed mutt begs for my bbq chicken bones, while miniature frogs the size of my pinky nail make a hopping dash for the safety of the lagoon. The sad fellow investigates the trash can for meager scraps left by his neighbors, including Santa.
Waves as white as avalanche powder explode against mossy outcrops and through jagged blowholes. The small beach at Sans Souci, pronounced Sue-See, has a steep drop, riptide, undertow, and a current strong enough for a man on the street to holler words of caution at Oli, who nods graciously to the gesticulating gentleman but cannot understand a thing he is saying. I think we just heard a Shouter.