An Adventure In Trinidad

TRINIDAD

Evening, Tues 3-3

Gerard served a delicious local meal for the fifteen or so guests at Pax Guest House tonight. There was watercress soup, which had some nice peppery kick to it, and roast pork in a fruit glaze, rice, fried plantains, dashin (like taro-- we ate the root, but its leaves are where callaloo comes from), pigeon peas, salad, pudding and tea. You take your meals on the veranda with the other guests (dinner is served at 7:30), overlooking a canopy of trees where birds of every kind dive and flit and call, indigo blue and yellow shapes dive in and out of the jungle cover.



Trinidad is known as a birder's paradise. Ducknik had a hummingbird attempt to fly into her glass of water this afternoon and in the dark people sipping tea or beer on the veranda could hear the glorious night jar, known in America for its call: 'whip-poor-will.' Vultures and hawks sail overhead, tiny bright yellow banana quits dive bomb the hummingbird feeder,

Not that Pax Guest House is fancy -- The Great Plotnik and the Great Ducknik are staying in what is basically an old Benedictine monastery's guest house -- apparently all Benedictine monasteries have guest houses because one of the callings of Saint Benedict was to be kind to strangers. The rooms are simple at best, with bathrooms down the hall, but after being on the boat for two weeks it's nice to have even the hardest of stationary, non-rocking beds.

Brother, was it ever a nightmare this afternoon trying to find Pax Guest House, which is in the hills overlooking -- well, we're not sure what we're overlooking. It turned out that the Hertz car rental is not at the airport itself, and the telephone that connects the airport with the Hertz office was out of order. Someone finally arrived in a private car and drove Plot and Duck out of the airport to the office, which would have been all right if all Plot's driving instructions didn't begin AT the airport.

So, when Plot finally had the courage to steer his rented Suzuki out into the left-side-of-the-road heavy traffic, with the Duck navigating, they of course turned right when they should have turned left, and since Hertz hadn't had any maps, were immediately and irrevocably lost. Plot couldn't figure out where there was a lane to use to turn the car around and, anyway, he wasn't sure he was going the wrong way or not.

They were also starving, having eaten nothing since a piece of toast on the boat in the early morning. It was now 3PM and Plot found himself on a long traffic-bulging connector road, not knowing which way he was traveling and unable to turn around because of ALL THOSE TRUCKS.

He will admit he and Duck did a little screaming at each other. But just a little, because it was clear they were both tiny dumplings swimming around in the same perilous soup. Plot closed his eyes and did a U-Turn right into a wall of traffic, but they stopped to let him complete his turn. Then he rolled down the Duck's window and asked a fellow driver how to get to Tunapuna. After the man realized Plot was another disoriented foreigner, he said "You're going the opposite way. But I'm going to Tunapuna to pick up my daughter. Follow me."

It's the kind of Angel-thing that seems to wait for travelers in their most desperate moments. Twenty minutes later, Plot had his foot on the correct pedal.

But it was still very difficult to find the guest house because it's on a windy mountain road, which is just about two lanes wide, but one of those lanes always has a disabled car in it and everybody drives pretty fast the other way and right down the middle of the road. There is also a drainage ditch on the left side of the road, so Plot did not feel comfortable staying too close to the left hand edge, but on the other hand all these cars are very close on the right side, especially if you're used to driving the car from the left side.

And everything on the dashboard is backwards. Plot turned on his windshield wipers the first hundred times he tried to use his turn signal.

Did he mention they only give you an eighth of a tank of gas when you rent the car? So in addition to being lost in space, he also had to try to find a gas station, but before that he would need a cash machine to get Trinidad Dollars to pay for the gas and for that great bbq chicken in the place on the corner next to the bank he finally found, next to the gas station, down the road from the Pax Guest House.

In America, Plotnik probably would never walk into a bar that looked like the chicken bar/cafe, filled with young, drunk black men with thug clothes and pissed-off looks on their faces, but he's pretty sure that hard look is just part of the dress code, like all the numbered football jerseys and NY baseball caps. He and Duck paid for the chicken and fries in the bar, plus a beer to go, picked it up at the counter and ate it back at the Guest House.

Here at Pax you find the best thing about traveling -- everyone eats together, so everyone talks together. Plot and Duck spoke with Matt and Lauren, from England, two younger people with life lists -- what birders keep to keep track of all the birds they have seen in their lives. And they spoke with Grant, the petroleum geology professor from Halifax who brings students down every year for six weeks of research. It doesn't matter how much you pay for the fanciest resort, you'll never get this kind of camaraderie in any other situation except a hostel or guest house. Or aboard a boat.

Talking about the sail on the boat down from St, Lucia made both Plot and Duck realize just how exotic an experience this has been. The Muslim moon in the Tobago keys, the Round House on Carriacou, buying fish from the rastas in the motorboats, hiking down to Friendship Bay -- this has been one for the books.

And now we're in a real country again, populous, funky, loud, crowded, fabulous. Or at least I think that's what I see and hear down there, out the window and down the canyon from our little birdie retreat in the old monastery where breakfast is at 8, tea is at 4 and rum punches are at 6.

Thu 3-5



Sometimes you read about the revolution and sometimes the revolution comes to you. What a topsy-turvy 24 hours Plot and Duck just had.

It started with a very long drive out to the Northeast coast, to the area called Toco, followed by a 16K swerve West along the Caribbean top of the country to Grand Riviere. The concept was to be on the beach last night to watch the giant leatherback turtles waddle onto the beach to lay their eggs in the sand. The fledgling baby turtles hatch out and then have to make it back into the surf in order to survive, with every predator on Earth trying to eat them before or after they get there.

But the roads -- first off, the one Trinidadian Freeway, called the Churchill and Roosevelt Highway, has just two lanes in each direction, separated by a median sometimes, and with traffic lights every two miles or so. You don't go very fast on it, but it's a ton faster than the totally jammed Eastern Main Road.

Plot found his way down to the Churchill Roosevelt, but it stopped a third of the way to Toco. It was followed by a narrow road with barely enough room for two cars, and the further it went along, the worse the condition of the road surface got. The stretch to Toco was washed out in spots with giant potholes everywhere, especially right around hairpin curves where if a car was coming in the other direction Plotnik had to flinch and slow down to avoid hitting both the pothole and the other car.

But that was like the 101 compared to the road from Toco to Grand Riviere. Added to the equation of terrible potholes and blind, windy roads were several old wooden slat bridges, with slats missing and room for only one car at one time, and very slowly at that. At this point, driving on the left or right side of the road didn't really matter, because everybody, Plottie included, was driving in the middle, swerving over only to avoid the infrequent vehicle coming in the other direction.



(The worst places on the road for a driver used to right hand drive are long 270 degree curves to the left around a blind curve where you can't see anybody who might be coming. You want to do this from the right side, not the left, and when that bus appears coming right at you in the center of the road you have to fight the urge to steer hard to the right and be squashed.)

Plus - Plot had read a lot about Trinidad and the questionable amount of public safety in isolated places. You couldn't get much more isolated than the stretch of road from San Souci and Monte Video to Grand Riviere, a distance of perhaps 7 miles that took close to an hour to negotiate.

This afternoon it only took fifteen minutes, but Plotnik was in a convoy of cars that the Army had let pass and they were all flying, led by an ambulance, and Plot wasn't going to allow himself to fall behind. He hit a bunch of potholes really hard, but -- hey. It's a rental and he bought the insurance. Best $20/day extra he every spent.

Back to yesterday. When Plot and Duck thumped across the last wooden bridge, which was in the very worst unsafe condition of all, they arrived in Grand Riviere to find it not very grand at all -- a few weather-beaten wooden buildings, one of them a store and one of them a bar, and a sign pointing up a hill to McHaven's, the guest house Plotnik had picked out on the internet.

McHaven's looks like one of those old motels you've never stayed in, on the old road behind the main road below the bypass, with roosters and goats on the blacktop leading in and a really seedy old dog with nine teats and one purple foot blocking the entrance to the car park.

"How long did you say we're we staying here?" Ducknik asked before the car ever stopped, but then they met Ingrid White, who runs the place. The rooms are -- well, it's a dump. But the outside dining area smells like paradise because Ingrid is the best cook in town.



Dinner last night was kingfish in a a light curry, scalloped baked potatoes, a huge pile of mixed sauteed vegetables and a salad of cucumbers and chiles. And breakfast this morning was the Trinidadian creole specialty Shark and Bake. The 'shark' in Shark and Bake is filets of fresh shark, fried hard, and the 'bake' is a fried popover. You cut the bake in half, layer in the shark and cover it up with a hot green chile sauce before you cover it all up with the other half of the bake and eat it like a sandwich. It was pretty damned greasy but really delicious. Plot loved it. Duck called it a fish donut.




Back to the turtles. The government closely regulates the egg-laying of these hugendously large leatherback tutrtes, for the animals' protection and also because they provide a nice source of tourist cash for the permits required to watch them.

But, you know. They're turtles. They don't do anything fast, and last night they never came in at all, at least while Duck and Plot and a few other folks were waiting on the beach for them. Watching out for the turtles were a couple of old rastamen, who once had been turtle hunters in the unprotected Bad Old Days. These guys were not exactly brimming with energy and excitement. They huddled under a little tent and all you could see was the red pinpoints of light from their cigarettes and spliffs. They seldom rose to look for the turtles and so they never spotted any. After waiting on the beach from 7:30 until 11pm, Plot and Duck gave up and walked back up the hill to McHaven's.

But one interesting thing did happen: around 9pm, the town's power went out. There hadn't really been much light in the first place, but when the power went down it got REALLY rark. It made the whole experience a little bit scary, because the beach was now pitch black and the few rasta shapes moving around did so in blurs.

This morning the interesting part started. After the Shark and Bake, Ingrid said:

"When you're planning to leave today?"

"Right away, we have to be back in Tunapuna by dinner time."

"Oh. Well, you see, there's a little problem."

It turns out that the people of Grand Riviere have been trying for years to get the government to fix their terrible road, the only way in and out of their region. The government has done nothing. So in the middle of the night last night, it all came to a head. A group of people decided to protest by burning down that last awful bridge. One thing led to another and soon they were cutting down trees to block the road. The blackout that Plot and Duck had seen from the beach was the result of a huge tree falling across a power line. They blocked more and more parts of the only road in and out, and then they set that last, worst bridge on fire.

"If they burned the bridge on the only road, how are we going to get out?" said Plotnik.

"Well, I know, but now government may have to listen. For you, though, this may be a problem. When is your plane home?"

"Saturday morning. But our suitcases are still back at Pax Guest House. How long will it take to fix the road?"

"Well, maybe by today or tomorrow but also maybe not. It depends if the government brings in the army and if the people let them repair that bridge. They really want to make their point so the government hears them. TV crews are already on their way. The Minister says he'll come too."

"Well, well," Plotnik said. They walked down to the beautiful beachfront hotel La Plaisir de Grand Riviere, which looks like a lowslung South Seas movie set, where the friends they had met the night before were staying. Pierrot, the operator of the hotel laid it out for them: they were stuck. There was no other way in or out, and if things got worse it could take a week or more to fix the problem. Plotnik remembered what is still going on on the islands of Martinique and Guadeloupe -- a small, localized taxi dispute has turned into a nation crippling national strike.

(You can't get a baguette or a croissant anywhere in the southern Caribbean right now because the bakers in Guadeloupe are on strike. This is what really matters in island politics.)

"On ze other hand, if you're gonna be a prizoner: look where you are," said Pierrot. He had a point, plus one room left for the night, right on the beach, Plot had a credit card and Pierrot had plenty of food and candles and wine. Plot and Duck had seen no beach more beautiful than Grand Riviere in their three weeks of travel. They could take another crack at the turtles tonight. it sounded like destiny,

For around two hours that is. They had no books, no computer. They had nothing to read, nothing to do. It is nothing short of astonishing how quickly The Great Plotnik and The Great Ducknik got bored in Paradise.





"Tell you what," Plottie said, around 12:30, after walking to the end of the bay and back. "Let's get in the car and drive up to where the first roadblock is, and see what's going on. Maybe they'll fix things faster than anyone thinks and let a few people out."

So they drove out of Grand Riviere and back towards Sans Souci. They hadn't gotten too far when they saw an enormous tree limb dangling across the road, twenty five feet long, suspended from a downed phone line.



"This is a message," Plot said. "It's not an accident. Let's get out of the car and start walking and see what's going on around the bend." Plot thought he could hear voices.

The old hippie protestor in Plot had gotten the best of his reason. A protest is just a bunch of college kids holding signs, right?

So Plot headed up the narrow road, past the first roadblock. He spotted four or five teenagers cutting down more brush to pile it across the road. As he approached them, one of them called to the others: "It's two white guys." That seemed to frighten them, and they turned and ran the other way.

Now Plot was starting to get nervous. Then he heard another car back where Duck was, waiting with the Suzuki stalled at the first roadblock. So he ran back to see half a dozen people walking towards him with machetes.

His brain said: badass looking black people with machetes. Aging, white ex-hippie and his ex-banker wife. Trinidad: dangerous place. What happens next?

The leader of the group of men walked right past Plotnik and started wielding that machete against the huge tree limb blocking the road. His friends came up and began to haul trimmings away and throw them to the side of the road. There were a few women in ankle length skirts and an old man with a red cap and kind face. Everyone had a machete. Plot began helping the men and women clear that roadblock.

The tree had sharp, spiny bark and carried armies of large, biting black ants. Every time Plot moved a branch the ants landed on his bare legs. The old man made a motion with his hand to try and brush them away.'

"Dem a bite you, dem a sting," he said.

Everyone was speaking Trinidadian English, most of which Plot absolutely could not understand. He just hoped he was on the right side of the argument over the road.

When the limb had been cut up and shoved to the side, everyone got back in their cars and pushed forward down the road. Plot ran back to the car, told Duck "Get in. We're following these people. Whatever happens happens."

The convoy went another 100 yards and found another roadblock and then another. Everybody got out and started chopping and pushing greenery to the side of the road.

It became obvious to Plotnik that there were people all over the area pissed off enough to keep chopping down trees and blocking the road. If he and Duck didn't make their way out this very afternoon, by evening things could very easily get nasty. Every kid in the area would be excited to play revolutionary, and who knows how many bridges would be blown away and how many roadblocks laid across the road on Night Two?

"This is our shot, Duck. Either we get out right now or we miss seeing the kids."

Eventually, the little band of Suzukis, Toyota trucks and old Hondas ran into a patrol of Trinidadian Army soldiers. A dozen or so men in green fatigues, most of them reflecting the island's Indian population, only very black like Gurkha soldiers in the Punjab, were assisting another soldier as he operated a large backhoe, trying to move an entire tree that had been pushed across that last, terrible bridge, after it had been burned. The soldiers carried AK-47s. This was not play.

The terrain was difficult but everyone poured out of their cars, laughing and joking with the soldiers who joked right back. Plotnik couldn't understand any of it, but occasionally he could get enough to realize the soldiers had been working their way all day from the other side, clearing everything in their path. "You get out today, no problem," said a young woman after offering Plot a little ball of chocolate she carried in a white paper bag. (He turned it down out of habit, kicking himself when he realized it was chocolate.) "But tonight, after it gets dark, who knows?"

There was an ambulance in the line of cars in back of Plotnik, carrying a sick person who needed to get to the hospital. An hour later, when the soldiers finally pushed aside the last limb, they motioned to the ambulance and it roared through the detritus and across the repaired bridge. The soldiers next motioned to Plotnik and Ducknik.

"Is he telling us to come now? Why us?"

"We're the two white guys. Maybe that matters to Trinidadian soldiers?"

Plot and Duck got through and took off after the ambulance. They didn't slow down at Toco or Sylybia or Mission, not until they reached Valencia, an hour and a half from home. Then they parked and tried to buy a roti from one of the Indian stores along a shopping street bustling with kids in school uniforms and women in African blouses, long skirts and running shoes. As everywhere else in the Caribbean, there were no American cars. Not even a Ford pickup. There were also no roti.

"Too late," said one Trinidadian/Indian shopkeeper.

"You wanted a roti?" asked his wife. "That's nice."

It was even nicer to pull in back at the Pax, just in time for tea and cake.