Castara April 14
The birds of Castara astound the senses with cacophonous song and a full spectrum of plumage—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet—and those are just the hummingbirds. Blending with the lush vegetation are parrots, rufous-tailed jacamars, tanagers, and a specialized species of motmot that is green rather than the typical iridescent blue. Tropical mockingbirds and small Carib grackles would ordinarily compete with the yard fowl for limited resources, except no competition is necessary—food is so abundant. The trees are full of bananas and mangos and breadfruit, which the parrots knock down for the chickens waiting below. Cooperation here is such that a half-dozen different species share nectar from a single feeder, lined up side-by-side, buffet-style. A sedate heron stands still to actually allow a street dog to sniff its bamsy. As I crouch to investigate the scene, a falling red mango strikes my spine with the hard splat of a paintball gun. I am soon surrounded by hens and chicks to partake in pulpy ejecta.
This picturesque fishing hamlet is nestled in a steep leeward cove, far enough from the southern hustle to qualify as “dee country.“ Colorful guest houses dot a hillside cut in half by cobbled Castara Creek, which flows from a rainforest swimming hole. The town has a few rum shops and restaurants that open for part of the day, if the power does not fail. The few hundred residents know each other too well, many are related to a guy named Simon, and some share strong opinions about their neighbors and extended relations. Kurt, the host of Baywatch, a pink guesthouse behind bars, is the town cop, although apparently part-time—a homicide detective, his sister Ivy says, so I need not worry about my personal security, although in truth this is one of the few places where one does not need vigilance. Still, there might be a few people to be wary of, and Kurt intimates that Campay is one, at least according to Campay. Kurt is more circumspect on the matter, like a good part-time detective.
Campay speaks at length about the virtues of breadfruit, which ripen over the next couple of months. Now they are too green, although they are nonetheless huge, hanging from tall branches as perfect spheres with a cannon-ball radius. The man has more than fifty years but does not look a day over forty. Tonight he plans to play drums on the small beach, where a limbo champion stands to win a bottle of rum. Lowering his brow to conceal his missing teeth, Campay is otherwise straightforward—twenty dollars is his fee, should we need assistance during our stay—for anyt’ing at all. He nevertheless dispenses his ample wisdom for free:
“You can grill them with oil, with green seasoning. You can chop them for stock, with fish and onion and garlic. But doh freeze them without the skin. They keep good in salt.“ He describes how breadfruit are good for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and he can expand at length. Campay deserves his own cooking show, to forward his grandmother’s legacy. He would certainly earn honors from King George III, who once bequeathed the breadfruit to these islands as a benefit to all of his loyal subjects.
Today, with no money and only unripened breadfruit, Campay has settled on Mauby for sustenance. He claims it is famous all around the world, but all around the Caribbean is more accurate. Mauby is purchased from Mabel, the Chadon Bene sauce icon, in a jar. It is reduced from the bark of the Mavi Tree, with aniseed added to produce an intense licorice flavor, especially if over-aliquoted. The sweet syrup is applied sparingly to water, but never with coconut, and imbibed as a tonic or mild laxative. Coca Cola has capitalized on the islanders’ love of this bitter purge to brand Mauby Fizzz, which tastes like Coke, if Coke could go bad, which it cannot, because Coke contains nothing worth spoiling.
A few miles up the coast, Charlie lends a hand to the nets at Englishman’s Bay, another deep cove with impassable jungle headlands. They manage to haul hundreds of little blue-sliver fish, called cairn, which will make up the soup stock for Thursday bonfire, a weekly party that attracts many islanders who played at Sunday School. Lord George will find a ride up the coast for this lime. Breads are baked in earthen dome ovens. Intense card games fill three tables, whose rules are mysterious, and no bets are placed. Beachside Bus’upshuts taste like leftover curried-Thanksgiving. Parrots in pairs chug across a pink sky, singing like rusty tricycles, as the sun bows down to the sea.