Staff Photographer
We stood at the edge of the lookout and gazed at the land where it reached into the sea like an animal’s paw. There were no clouds and the air crackled with heat. We were on our way to Maracas Bay, but had stopped at a hut where tall jars were filled with tamarind balls, salt and sweet prunes, pickled plums, dinner mints, sugar cakes and bubblegum. We bought a plastic bag of pineapple soaked in pepper, vinegar and chadon beni — a coriander-like herb to eat in the car.
Maracas Bay is glorious: long and wide with off-white sand, lined with coconut trees and set against a backdrop of dark green mountains. We parked and headed over to Richard’s Bake and Shark. The fish was fried in a dough-like bake, served in a basket and topped with all the trimmings: tamarind, lettuce, pepper, onions, garlic, mayo, chadon beni, tomatoes, pineapple. “Make a tower,” I said, piling up my plate. We found a shady spot to eat, ordered two ice-cold Carib beers and spread out our beach towels.
I had five days to show my guest that Trinidad, although not an obvious holiday destination, is just as worthy of a visit as her smaller sister island, Tobago. My family has lived in Trinidad for many generations. Vibrant, colourful, humming with creative energy and famed for its carnival, calypso and steel pans, it is a country, in which I feel at home. I go back on a family visit at least once a year, so the role of tour guide is an unfamiliar one.
Maracas seemed a good place to start. The water was somehow more refreshing and invigorating than the sea in Tobago, where it feels like stepping into a warm and soothing bath. Here, the waves were bigger, the current stronger, and it was easy to get tossed about.
After Maracas we drove on towards Yarra, over the rough little plank bridges and through a teak plantation. For a moment I remembered the douens I was told about as a child: the little Trinidadian folklore creatures with no faces and feet that face backwards. If they find out your name they will call you away forever. I imagined the forest must be full of them.
Marianne Bay is the longest beach in Blanchisseuse. In the late afternoon light the sand was dark gold, and the big rock jutting out ahead made it seem wild and uninhabited. Racing to the point where the river met the bay, we found two or three people bathing in the clear, olive green water. The sky was splashed with pink and orange.
Straight after lunch the following day we set off. It was going to be a long drive — three hours or more. We followed signs for Valencia, and took the road that led to Matura. Citrus and cocoa trees grew on either side, and in between there were wide, green spaces.
Suddenly we could see the Atlantic on our right, and the road began to climb and twist. The ocean looked like a ream of sequined cloth under the bright sky as we drove close to the cliff edge. Patches of beach showed between the craggy rocks below, and waves sprayed as we came into Sans Souci, well known to surfers.
We stopped to buy coconut water. A boy quickly chopped at one end of the coconut to make a peak, then sliced off the tip. The water was delicious, the white jelly sweet and delicate. “Don’t get it on your clothes,” the boy said, grinning. “Those stains never come out.” I bought a bag of chopped sugar cane to suck. I’d forgotten how much I love sugar cane, biting on the chunks of fibrous fruit and letting the sweet juice fill my mouth.
We passed little houses, well kept, with painted fronts and tidy yards. Now the light seemed to be changing, softening; soon it was full of gold.
We pulled into the village of Grande Riviere, and followed the signs to Le Grande Almandier. Our room was clean and cool. When I threw open the doors to the tiny balcony, I was surprised by the nearness of the beach, the coconut trees, the sea shifting beyond. Hand in hand, we wandered on to the yellow sand.
That night, the moon was high, throwing a soft silvery light on the bay. A small group of us gathered 20 feet or so from the water’s edge and watched as an enormous leatherback turtle hauled herself across the sand. She lumbered and heaved herself, until she found a place where something — the sand, the temperature — seemed right. Using her front flippers, she pushed back the sand, flicking it high in the air, scraping it away, over and over, until she had made a hole; then she laid up to 100 eggs.
The next day we got up early and took the long, windy road north to the Asa Wright nature centre. We ate lunch — creole stew with cassava, rice and buttery pumpkin — in the large colonial dining room, then sat on the verandah watching hundreds of birds: toucans, hummingbirds, hawks, motmots and jacamars feeding just a few feet away.
At Mount St Benedict the next morning we visited the oldest monastery in the Caribbean. From the grounds of the red and cream building, through the hazy light, we looked down on the vast patchwork country below. We could see the thin line of the highway, Tunapuna, the flat lands of central Trinidad, and west to Port of Spain. We could even see the city of San Fernando.
At home, my mother asked if we’d made it to Mayaro or Manzanilla. Chaguaramas? What about Fort George? “Did you see the black virgin at the church in Tortuga?”
My guest shook his head. He looked at me. “We’ll save that for next time.” —