In Search of Swiss Family Robinson and Other Outsider Views of Tobago

This year I went to Tobago three times.  The first, my usual after-carnival cool down, included the standard Trini tourist itinerary.  Curry crab and dumplings at Store Bay, lounge at the beach bar on Pigeon Point, and an evening “cook” at the guest house.  I usually stay within 10 minutes of the airport/store bay/pigeon point hub. My other two trips opened my eyes to so much more of Tobago, and I fell in love with the sister isle.

When my American friends visited from Miami, a trip to Tobago was an obvious choice.  We headed directly to Store Bay and Pigeon Point and got the standard fare out of the way.  We then checked into the Blue Haven hotel, which overlooks a beautiful hidden gem Bacolet bay.  There is nothing like the sound of crashing waves to lull you into a restful sleep.

The next morning we headed out early in search of the Swiss Family Robinson tree.  One of my American friends named Elvis is very into botany.  He knew of Tobago as the location for the 1960 Disney movie Swiss Family Robinson, which featured a majestic Samanea Saman tree.  When we first met years ago, Elvis asked if I knew where to find the tree.  And I, in turn, asked many people from Tobago but no one ever had a clue.  Elvis learned through the internet that it was in Goldsborough.  That morning, we asked a hotel employee where is Goldsborough, to which she replied with disdain, “Country!”

Goldsborough is on the Southern coast of the island, along the scenic winding road to Speyside and Charlottesville, two popular destinations on the opposite side of the island from my usual hub.  We were told that if we blinked, we would miss the town, and sure enough we did.  As we turned around, we stopped to ask some public works employees liming at a parlor if they knew where to find the tree.  “A tree?  All yuh looking for a tree?” they asked incredulously.  “It must be up so.  But all yuh cah just go up so without talking to Manso.”  They directed us to Manso.  Elvis was very excited that we were so close.  I, on the other hand, felt a rising sense of anxiety.  I pictured Manso as some sort of stern village elder, or worse a ganga farmer, and was trying to figure out how I was going to do the cultural translation required to explain why I had brought these American tourists to look at a tree.

Thankfully, as soon as we turned off the main road, Elvis exclaimed, “there she is!”  She was not in Manso’s territory, but in the yard of Roberts’ mechanic shop, along with some old cars and appliances.  Mr. Roberts was very sweet and humored us as we took pictures and measurements of the tree.  Elvis later mailed him a DVD of Swiss Family Robinson.

We continued to Speyside through rural villages with their quaint parlors, pretty churches and Scottish names.  As we descended into Speyside, we had a postcard perfect view of Goat Island and Little Tobago just off the coast.  A short while later, we sped past the tiny islands in a glass bottom boat to go snorkeling in Angel Reef.  I am not a very strong swimmer and told our guide that I would stay close to the boat.  He wouldn’t have it.  He held my hand and gave me a personal tour around the vibrant reef.  It was like underwater art with fish of all shapes, sizes and brilliant colors, large turtles lazily feeding, and coral carved by nature.

The perfect end to the outing was a delicious leisurely lunch at Gemmas treetop restaurant.  I am very grateful that my foreign guests prompted me to see a side of Tobago I had never seen before.

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Long Walk to Paria aka Paradise

I have been missing in action from the blog for the past few months.  It feels like my year suddenly started moving in fast forward, and I was frantically trying to take it all in.  One of the highlights that I couldn’t get enough of is the beautiful hiking trails along the North Coast.

Paria was the most grueling and the most breathtaking.  My guidebook gave it rave reviews, so I could barely contain my excitement on the morning of the hike.  We met Island Hikers at Maracas at 7 am under slightly overcast skies, before traveling in a caravan further along the narrow winding road to the spring bridge in Blanchisseuse.

The gateway to our trail was a bridge with a plaque that says it was built in Glasgow Scotland in 1898.  As we walked towards the bridge, my heartbeat sped up as I noticed the large “Bridge Closed” sign and danger tape.  There must be another way.  But sure enough, our guides leisurely crossed the bridge without a second thought.  I held my breath as I tiptoed across the wooden planks, trying to avoid the gaping holes and mental image of that scene in action movies where the “next to die” dangles precariously from a rope before plunging 100 feet.  The fact that mine would have been maybe a 15 foot drop into the Marianne river did not make it any less scary.

With the bridge safely behind us, the first few miles seemed a breeze as a wide flat gravel road gave way to a picturesque trail along a coastal cliff.  Every bend revealed an amazing view of vast Atlantic ocean.  But then we turned a little inland and the trail became more challenging.  The landscape alternated between lush forest where we stepped over thick roots and rocks, and wide open red dirt trails.  We crossed several small streams and climbed Trinidad’s very own Kilimanjaro.

It had rained heavily the night before, and the trail was muddy and slippery.  Every time I got to a steep part, I had to calculate which side of the path to try or whether to simply slide on my butt.  Sometimes I didn’t have a choice as I would try to carefully stairmaster down an incline, only to go slipping and sliding.

Two hours in and all of my excitement and awe at nature was gone.  When was this torture going to end?  As we started following the coastline again, I couldn’t even fully appreciate as the guide pointed out Turtle Rock, a 50 foot peninsula shaped like a turtle head, and other unique rock formations.  I stopped believing the guide’s assurances that we were almost there about 30 minutes earlier.  And all I kept thinking is “oh my goodness, I have to walk back!”

Another bend, another slippery hill, more bush . . . and then all of a sudden we emerge on a pristine stretch of white sand beach.  I have been to several places that are so breathtakingly beautiful and are so still and pure that I get a feeling of “God is here.”  Paria Beach is one of those places.  Now I realize this is a subjective view.  My friend’s 13-year old son’s reaction to the same beach was “We left a perfectly good beach [Maracas] to walk three hours in mud for this beach!?!”  Thankfully, he was happier a few minutes later when he built a roman arena in the sand and made Bachaks do battle before killing them.  We lingered on the beach, ate lunch and breathed deeply.  We used the time to rest, rather than continue the alleged 15 minutes to Paria waterfalls.

The walk back was not quite as arduous because the sun had come out and dried most of the trail.  We got much-needed fuel for the final stretch from a man selling coconuts in front of his property.  When all was said and done, my memories of the scenery and sense of accomplishment are more vivid than the pain.  I cant wait to walk to paradise again, and next time I will even make it to the waterfalls.

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Leftover Turkey, Ham and a Small Piece of Pastel

The large family gatherings on Christmas and Boxing Day gave way to more intimate visits to friends and family in the week between Christmas and New Years.  The frenzied cleaning that leads up to Christmas was over, and Trinis could entertain in homes with fresh paint, new curtains and holiday table cloths.  Because Christmas fell on a Sunday, we had both Monday and Tuesday off to facilitate these visits.  Wednesday and Thursday were slow work days, and everyone I know “run away” from work on Friday, causing my favorite radio station to call the new Kerwin Du Bois/Bunji Garlin song of the same name the official Friday anthem.

I took the opportunity to visit childhood neighbors, high school friends and some of my mother’s friends that I grew up calling aunty.  At every home, the ritual was the same.  “Compliments of the season,” accompanied warm hugs and kisses.  “What you drinking?  Hard or Soft?  We have sorrel, ginger beer, punch-a-creme.”  Then out came the food that is in every Trini kitchen for Christmas:  black cake, pastels, ham with a little chow chow, and those sugar cookies from the round tin.  The delicious treats were complimented by conversations that floated easily between reminiscing about old times, catching up on life’s recent ups and downs and sage advice from the aunties.

The eating continued at home with lots of leftovers and the little goodie bags of cake that I brought home from my visits.  I had ham omelets for breakfast, turkey salad for lunch, and ham and turkey sandwiches as a snack.  I also have pastels in the freezer, but now that I know how they are made, I am rationing them like some rare delicacy.  Ironically, when I am in the United States, I place my pastel order by September each year.  This year, I am on the ground and clean forgot about pastels until it was too late.  The pastel lady was booked solid, so I decided to make pastels myself.  This was my first and last time.

It took my cousin and me almost five hours to make a batch of about 50.  First, we had to cook the ground meat, with my cousin adding olives and pimentos until she got the flavor just right.  Then, we had to make the corn meal shell but you have to stir it with special skill to get the right consistency.  I was relegated to adding the pimento flavored water, while my cousin folded it into the cornmeal.  I was also in charge of preparing the banana leaves; cleaning them, scorching them in boiling water and cutting them into little squares.  Then we rolled the corn meal into balls and flattened them using an iron press.  We added meat, folded the cornmeal into its rectangle shape, and wrapped it in banana leaves before steaming.  When it was my turn to press the pastels, somehow mine kept coming out like mini squares.  My cousin explained that, even after I used the press, I had flatten the edges some more with my fingers.  Every time I find one of those deformed pastels in the freezer, I eat it even more slowly because I know it probably has a little of my sweat and tears.

I have newfound respect for the women who make pastels every Christmas, and bake, and cook, and clean, and buy presents; all to make sure their families can enjoy the traditions we have come to know and love.  (I also understand why the pastel lady prices so hot).  Growing up, I would often get upset with my mother for tiring herself out with Christmas preparations.  As the Christmas season officially ends, I realize that the food and bustle do help to create a palpable sense of family, community and goodwill.  I could feel it as I waved Merry Christmas to neighbors I don’t know, chatted with people in the long lines at the supermarket, exchanged stories at my get-togethers with family and friends, and sang carols in overflowing churches in Santa Rosa on Christmas Eve and Petit Valley on Old Years night.

I could also feel it as I brought in the New Year at an intimate lime with friends underneath the explosion of fireworks that blanketed West Trinidad.  One friend recalled his grandmother saying that however you bring in the New Year is how you would spend the year.  I look forward to more of my year in Trinidad surrounded by the love and fellowship of friends and family.

Happy New Year.

Shak Shaks Ring in a Tropical Wonderland

The Christmas season came and went in a festive blur.  Although the new soca releases for 2012 dominate the airwaves, the unique sounds of Christmas in Trinidad were everywhere for the past month in outdoor spaces, concert and church halls, and office Christmas parties.

One of my favorite recent traditions, the Lydian Singers Christmas concert, did not disappoint this year.  Their presentation, Christmas in the Cocoa, opened with Lydians streaming through the aisles of Queens Hall in their red robes accompanied by tassa drummers to take their place on a stage setting under the stars on a cocoa plantation.  This year was nostalgic because their director, local arts icon Pat Bishop, passed away a few months ago, but only after she had already put her stamp on this year’s show.

The first half included Christmas classics like “O Holy Night” and “Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”  The second half opened with a lively parang band and a festive atmosphere as the choir swayed in flowing white outfits, reminiscent of Peter Minshall costumes.  Now, this is how you imagine paranderos who migrated from Venezuela to work on cocoa plantations must have celebrated Christmas.  The second half also featured the story of the Nativity through several carols by Argentine composer Ariel Ramirez.  The finale, an amazing rendition of “Hallellujah Chorus,” accompanied by both steel pan and tassa drums had the audience on its feet.  Talk about local interpretation in overdrive.

Amazingly, the Lydian concert was to be my only taste of live parang for the season.  I was so looking forward to singing along to traditional parang, even though I probably butcher the lyrics to classics like “sereno sereno.”  The paranderos in their  traditional costumes with their cuatros, shak shaks, toc-toc, box bass and other instruments perform everywhere throughout the season, but somehow none of my planned parang events worked out.  My office and french school Christmas parties both included parang bands, but I missed both.  And I didn’t make the trek up the steep hills to Paramin, an area known for parang that hosts a large outdoor concert each year.  I had to satisfy myself with parang on the radio.

Scrunter at Woodford Cafe

I did manage to take in some live soca parang, the wotless Trini child of parang made popular by calypsonians like Baron and Scrunter.  Unlike traditional parang’s tributes to the birth of Christ sung in  Spanish, soca parang mixes parang and soca, and its English lyrics’ most popular themes seem to be about food (“I want a piece of pork for my Christmas”, “I give him bread and ham, together with a pastel”) or women (“Anita”, “Gloria” and this year’s ever popular “I want a Spanish woman to marry me”).

Scrunter performed at the intimate Woodford cafe (along with Bunji Garlin; no, Bunji does not have a new parang out, he sang all of his soca hits).  The crowd did a latin two step while singing along to Scrunter’s large repetoire of parang hits, including Gloria, Homemade Wine, Leroy, De Parang Now Start and Eat Something Before You Go.  One very excited male patron even got on stage and sang all of the words to “That eh working here tonight,” pointing to audience members as he sang “that is your family,” the funny hook in which Scrunter’s uncle warns him against trying to talk to any women at the family gathering.  It was an entertaining evening, and partially satisfied my craving for parang.

As the sounds of the season fade, I hope you and your family had a joyful Christmas.

Driving Me Insane

In Trinidad and Tobago, you can drive on a foreign license for six months, but need a local license if you are here longer.  I recently learned that you probably need a license just to navigate the licensing process.

I showed up at the licensing office and was directed to an annex in the back where they handle foreign permits.  The representative said that, because I applied within 90 days of entering the country, I would only have to do the regulations exam and not the road test.  That was somewhat of a relief.  How embarrassing would it be to fail a driving test after 20 years behind the wheel?  I was told to have a seat, thinking I was waiting to take the test, but was called two hours later to be told that my forms were processed and I could return the next morning to take the test.

I was instructed to purchase the regulations guide from the cashier, but when I made it to the front of the winding line, was told that they were out of books.  “No maam, I do not know when we will be getting more.”  A kind person overheard and told me that I could buy a photocopy from Mohammed’s across the street. “You mean the snacket?,” I asked, a little puzzled.  I dodged the busy traffic to cross Wrightson road, barely missing drivers who must have bought their own licenses, and sure enough, Mohammed Restaurant and Bar sells copies of the regulations book for $15.

I showed up bright and early the next morning to take the test.  As I filed into the exam area, along with anxious teens in school uniforms and other new drivers, my heart filled with dread as the former drill sergeant proctoring the exam found a reason to yell at everyone.  “Miss, you see dem jeans?  I don’t want to see your underwear when you sit down.  Go and fix your clothes.”  To another young man who mumbled under his breath, “You is a trouble maker?  I could tell you is a trouble maker.  I ain’t fraid to send you home, you know.” I avoided eye contact, and was spared her wrath.

As I took the exam, I wished for a moment that I had spent a little more time reviewing the regulations book.  I got my first driver’s license in New York where I don’t remember having to learn hand signals.  But here, taxi drivers and others still use hand signals on the road, and there is an entire section devoted to hand signals on the test.  As I tried to recall the signal for “safe to overtake,” I absentmindedly stuck out my hand and started making mini motions.  I glanced up and saw the drill sergeant giving me a bad eye.

Thankfully, I made it through the exam without getting bouff and learned two hours later that I had passed.  Next, I returned to my friend at the cashier to pay the fee.  She then sent me to another room, where I was told that the person who types the permit had just left for lunch so I would have to wait.  After returning from my own lunch, I verified that my information was correct, and waited to take my picture.  When it was my turn, the woman operating the camera directed, “look, it have a mirror over there, go and wipe the moisture from your face.”  I humbly did as I was told, not sure if to be embarrassed or grateful that she was protecting me from a shiny picture.  After taking the picture, as if to justify her approach, she commented, “hmmm, your picture come out nice, man.”

It took me only 7 hours over 2 days, but I am now the proud holder of a Trinbago driving permit with a shine-free picture.

I am Still Here

Sometimes we come home to care for loved ones.   Since returning to Trinidad, I have been caring (with the help of wonderful professional caregivers) for my mother who has Alzheimer’s.  This weekend, I decided to check out the Alzheimer’s Association family support group that meets the first Saturday of every month at the Soroptimist club in St. James.

I went to the group, curious to see what they were all about, but not expecting to learn anything I didn’t already know.  Mummy was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s 7 years ago and I am a pro caregiver.  I have read books, watched videos and scoured the internet for the latest research, and I am long past the stages of denial, anger and grief that follow a traumatic diagnosis.  I am rarely emotional and, instead, find humor in many of my interactions with mummy.

With that attitude, I walked into the meeting just as everyone was sharing their reasons for attending.  Most of us had relatives with dementia, but 3 participants have dementia, and one was a professional caregiver.  As we went around the circle, several participants explained that they had only recently found out that their loved ones had the illness, and had come in search of information.  Aha, I thought, I can download all of my expert advice on these newbies.

Imagine my surprise as the meeting progressed and I found myself getting so much out of being there.  Two of the participants with the illness were charming older men who made me smile repeatedly because they have not lost their witty style of ole talk characteristic of Trini men.  One noted that he was 71, “but I know you wouldn’t believe it because I looking so good,” while the other shared that he could still play music by ear and reminisced about playing with icons in the local jazz music world.  When others shared frustrations that no one else had stepped up to care for parents, I sent them silent hugs, and was grateful that in my own family my aunts shared in caregiving.

Rather than jumping in to share my experiences, I relaxed and simply enjoyed the fellowship.  As one woman described the end stage of Alzheimer’s where her mother is completely bedridden, she reminded us of the slogan for an Alzheimer’s campaign called I’m still here.  I felt tears well up in my eyes because it resonated with my current relationship with mummy.

I spent my first week here trying to figure out if my mother knew who I was.  Sometimes she says, “AA girl, is you?” and her whole face lights up.  I got so excited, until I saw her asking several different people the same question.  Then I gave up trying to figure out how much she knows and just focused on enjoying every moment with her.  Although she doesn’t always know exactly who I am, and can’t always express herself clearly, I have no doubt that her spirit recognizes my spirit, and her capacity to feel fear or peace, loved or lonely, and sadness or joy remains.  So I do all I can to make her feel loved.

I left the group understanding what it means to be supported and with new appreciation for the comfort that comes from knowing you are not alone.  I recently found out that a third friend has a parent with dementia, as earlier onset means more people in their thirties and forties are having to care for parents with the illness.  It is reassuring to know that our parents and grandparents are still here, and we are not alone.

Shubh Divali

Today was Divali, the Hindu festival of lights, honoring Mother Lakshmi and the return of Lord Rama from exile.

The build up to Divali, a public holiday, was evident over the last two weeks.  From the traditional, outdoor theatrical reenactments of stories from Hindu spiritual texts and pujas (prayers) at Hindu homes, to the more secular Divali celebrations at schools, government ministries and parks, not to mention the Divali sales.  The center of activities was at the Divali Nagar expo in Chaguanas with its vendors and nightly cultural performances.  I wanted to experience it but, between the heavy rain and my schedule over the past few days, I didn’t make the trip to central Trinidad.

Lighting Deyas at Adam Smith Square

The climax on Divali is the lighting of deyas, little clay pots filled with oil and a floating wick, symbolizing the triumph of light over darkness.  As a child, I remember devouring my bag of Indian delicacies from our next door neighbor as we drove around my neighborhood in the East staring in awe at lights.  Houses are transformed into glittering palaces, and in open spaces, deyas are placed on bamboo bent into creative shapes and designs.

Tonight I went to Adam Smith square where people of every age and ethnicity gathered around wooden frames with lights.  Adults caught up with friends, while children ran around or lit deyas, enjoying the only time they could play with fire without an adult yelling at them to stop.  A shrine to Hindu deities was the centerpiece.  It was a less elaborate “town” version of Divali, but still evoked a wonderful and uniquely Trini sense of community.