DDI Means Down D Islands September 13
The northwest point of Trinidad is full of watery mouths, called Bocas, running in confused currents between a handful of small jigsaw-piece islands stretching over halfway to Venezuela. From east to west they are a real mouthful: Boca de Monos, Boca de Huevos, Boca de Navios, Boca de Dragon, and Boca Grande—the idiomatic remains of a Spanish history, with an utterly unpronounceable accent. Today D inner islands feature a growing number of vacation homes but are mostly uninhabited, as the jungle reclaims crumbling colonial outposts, WWII naval bunkers, and, on outermost Chacachacare Island, the remnants of a convent and leper colony.
As Dr. Louis de Verteuil the mayor of Port of Spain noted in 1857:“Leprosy is, unfortunately, very prevalent, and, of late years, appears to be even on the increase. It is much to be apprehended that the malady will continue to spread, and thereby entail an increasing amount of misery. An asylum was established under the government of Sir Henry G McLeod, and is still maintained at the public expense, for the reception of lepers who are not in a position to support themselves. But as it is generally left to their option to enter the asylum or not, those only who make application are admitted, and, of course, lepers, who prefer a mendicant life, are seen going their rounds and begging, not only on the highways, but in the very streets of Port-of- Spain. Surely this ought not to be tolerated.”
Surely it was not, and so was established a leper colony of indentured servants—“bound coolies“ they were called—on the remote island of Chacachacare, nine miles offshore of Trinidad and only seven from Venezuela, half-way toward national exile in both directions. Dominican nuns administered to the ailing lot, which exceeded 300 men, women, and children by the 1900’s. The sisters of mercy suffered mightily—ninety percent of them contracted yellow fever and, naturally, leprosy—but they persevered in Christ-like fashion. During the Great War, allied troops walled themselves off from the suffering, but they did at least provide electricity and effective medicine for the first time. Finally, after a century, the biblical scourge was eradicated. Locals my age can recall the last leper on the island, who, missing his nose and his fingers and perhaps hope itself, refused to leave. They say the island has ghosts. I feel no inclination to find out for myself.
Only a half-hour out of Port Chaguaramas, we set anchor in Boca de Monos, the Mouth of Monkeys, a narrow strait separating Monos from the main island. The shallows of tiny Scotland Bay are placid yellow, bordered by steep vegetative banks of ferric-red clay and weathered shale. We are not alone on this sunny weekend. Modest fiberglass cabin cruisers and other pleasure boats, along with jet skis and plastic kayaks, dot the Boca, each surrounded by a conspiracy of happy bathers, cans of beer and rum cocktails in hand, kicking beneath the opaque surface to booming island soundtracks.
The water is warm and very salty, though dark and murky, as the Orinoco River delta of Venezuela dumps some serious sediment during the rainy season. This is the reason for the apple-cider turbidity—the particulate load surrounding Trinidad Island is exceeded in South America only by the awesome Amazon. And whereas Tobago’s aquamarine clarity and coral beaches, as white as a hygienicist’s bicuspids, make it postcard-perfect Caribbean, the abyssal Bocas could pass for Loch Ness on a cloudy day.
Our boat, the Four-Thirty, is a thirty-four-footer, hence the name. However, I mistake it for the time of day. Pointing at the letters, I ask first-mate Franz, “Is this a clock?“ It is, in fact, almost exactly 4:30 at the moment.
“Twice a day, it is.“ He grins and raises a plastic cup of scotch on ice, perhaps in honor of Scotland Bay, although I hazard a guess from his puffy red cheeks that this toast works for him anywhere anytime. I only hope he is not at the wheel when we return to port.
Overhead are dozens of carrion vultures, called Corbeau in these parts, harnessing the last thermal currents of a golden afternoon with outstretched wings. Meanwhile, some kind of brown chicken-hawk has to flap way too hard to reach some bulbous trees on the shoreline with its hefty dinner catch. In the distance, a salmon-hued coast guard vessel crosses Boca de Monos in the vague direction of a towering oil derrick and the haunted leper colony of Chacachacare—toward the Mouth of the Dragon.