Bamboo Cathedral August 20
Today is the day that I hope to commune with the monkeys. Both Red Howlers and White-Faced Capuchins call this part of the island home—the latter achieving popular fame as the organ-grinder’s mischievous companion, the former renowned for its low-pitch bellow, which sounds like a droning buddhist monk with dyspepsia. One likely spot for my primate communion is the old Tucker estate on the northwest corner of the island, near Macqueripe Bay at a place called the Bamboo Cathedral.
The monkeys are reported to be diurnal, when it is light enough to see and cool enough to move, so I get an early morning start. Approaching my leased car, I think at first that my steering wheel has been stolen, only to find it secure on the driver’s side—that is, the right side. I would have been more comfortable with this arrangement if I had been a postman in the States, but I make the best of this predicament of mirrors, sticking to the left side of the Western Main Road, keeping the wheel to the imaginary center line. I signal to turn inland onto the Tucker Valley Road at Chaguaramas, but this only causes my windshield wipers to flail. My hands, it seems, are on the wrong arms.
Fortunately, it is a straight 5-mile line from the south to north shores of this peninsula, which ends at a cove with a popular beach for city dwellers. A mile short of this is the pullout for the Bamboo Cathedral hike, and it appears that my communal idea is not an original one—more than a dozen cars line the road—as, I suppose, should be fitting for a cathedral on a Sunday morning.
Sunshine is giving way to clouds. The air is still and moist beneath the canopy of arched bamboo, which reaches the heights of Saint Mary’s edifice. The filtered light through fine mist carries a heavenly glow. This place is aptly named. I genuflect to tie my shoe.
Along the wide trail, I spy a skittish Zandolie, or Ameiva, a lizard as long as my forearm, camouflaged in dark green, spotted sides, and a trigonally-tapered face shaped like a Phillips-head screwdriver. This is not the first specimen I have seen along the footpath, suggesting that humans may contribute to the lizard’s diet, by leaving crumbs attracting rodent prey. The messy kids dismantling granola bars nearby support my hypothesis. Island lore has it that striking a Zandolie with a stick will cause the reptile to shriek, summoning other Zandolies for help; however, I suspect that a blow from one of these gigantic bamboo deadfalls lying about would eliminate shrieking altogether.
After a mile of climbing, the jungle clears at a ridge overlooking Macqueripe Bay, some 500-feet below, and an endless blue horizon beyond. An abandoned concrete sentry house perches in the scrub as a reminder that this location was once a watchtower for enemy ships during the War, although the spray-painted graffiti speaks to a more recent history involving young love affairs.
On my descent, there is nary a breeze to be felt, yet I can clearly hear a brisk gust in the distance, blowing audibly. I expect a mighty wind to reach me at any moment and cause the bamboo theater above to creak like a man-of-war, but this ain’t no wind—the monkeys are howling. There is no telling how far away they are, such is the carrying power of their sonorous calls under this dense foliage, but they seem to be getting closer. I want to wait for their arrival to receive an up-close-and-personal earful. But the rain is starting to fall, and so I retreat to my car and flick on the wipers, to no useful effect. My turn signal merely blinks.