A hundred shades of green

Sometimes White Man Walking needs to give his feet a rest, and grab a set of wheels. That’s what I did in Trinidad. From the airport I had a vague idea where my guesthouse was. The guy at the car rental desk put it like this.

“Take this road until you come to the first street, and then turn left. Continue through the first set of lights and then when you come to the second set of lights, turn left. Follow that road for a while, then turn left, then right, then left again, and right again…when you get there just ask around they will know…”

Right, (or was that left) I got it.

I carried on in the general direction, making it past the second set of lights. Now I needed to find Water Pipe Road, which for some reason the map on the guesthouse’s website made it seem like a major road…I found out later it isn’t.

After stopping people for directions, and driving through narrow roadways and alleys and going around in circles…literally…I decided to call the guesthouse.

“Where are you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you pass the supermarket? If you passed the supermarket, you’ve gone too far.”

Now, this wasn’t overly helpful, because I passed the supermarket several times, and didn’t really no if the guesthouse was on “this” side of the supermarket or “that” side.

“No problem,” I said, "I’ll find it." After some more asking, I stumbled, quite accidentally onto Water Pipe Road.

After dropping my bags, showering (yes, before driving I always shower...the car handles better with a clean driver), and taking an hour nap, I ventured out again, trying to figure out the directions, so I would know how to get back.

I drove through the capital, Port of Spain trying to find something interesting to see, but I couldn’t find anything, so instead I found the road that led to Maracas Beach, about 15 km north of the city. (have you ever wondered why the capital of a former British colony has the name, Port of Spain? Of course you haven’t). Maracas is Trinidad’s most popular beach, although this island is not endowed with many beaches. Those are all found on the island of Tobago.

Once I left the city, the road narrowed, and twisted like a serpent. The rain forest, with its hundred shades of green climbed down the mountainside. In some places heavy rains had deposited trees and mud and rocks onto the road. If dodging trees wasn’t enough, I passed oncoming vehicles around sharp bends with care. Driving on the left side of the road made it even more of a sport, as I tried to judge the distance between me and the passing car. Many times I caught myself cringing and sucking in my stomach so as not to hit, or get hit.

At times, the vegetation cleared and teased me with dramatic views. Down below, waves crashed against small rocky outcrops. It looked as if I could ride the lush, green carpet of hillside all the way down to the ocean.

I stopped at a roadside stand, where two Rastafarians were selling oranges, coconuts, sugar cane, and some hand-made crafts. One introduced himself as Edwin Hendricks.

“Like Jimmy,” he said with a laugh, emphasizing his last name. I got it, but I reckon Jimmy Hendricks probably had better teeth and played better guitar than this fellow.

He asked if I have ever tried sugar cane. I haven’t.

He pulled two stalks from the pile, shaved off the bark, and then instructed me on how to get the juice from the white, fibrous stick. I bit down with my back teeth, and freed the sweet liquid that had been trapped in the cane. His friend then offered me a small orange. It was tart, yet delicious and refreshing.

Edwin asked if I wanted to buy a maracas. Crafted from dried calabash, and filled with some seeds, he had a small collection of these simple instruments.

“Two for 100 TT Dollars,” he said.

“What if I only want one?”

“Then it’s 50 TT Dollars,” he exclaimed!

I should have guessed.

“My son will like this,” I told him as I handed over the money.

After choosing my new treasure, Edmond reached out to my hand with a closed fist. He then placed his hand on his heart. His friend did the same. And with that, I jumped back in my car, waved, and then headed down the hill to Maracas Beach.

At one end of the small bay rested a fleet of wooden fishing boats, coloured in varying hues. One man was mending a net, while his colleagues sought shelter under a palm tree close by.

I walked out on a narrow breakwater, where a man was fishing. I asked him if he catches much. He opened his small cooler and showed me his catch. “It’s pretty easy to catch fish, but it’s still fun,” he said, as he turned and cast his line. Less than a minute later, a rather unlucky fish was tossed into the cooler.

I found a little stall selling Bake and Shark, which I later learned was a culinary must. It started with a flat piece of dough that was dropped into a sizzling vat of oil. Then two pieces of fish, dipped in flour, were also placed in the oil. After a few minutes, and like magic, out came a fluffy round piece of bread, which was cut in half to slide the fish in. I finished it off by adding some spicy sauces, cabbage and diced cucumber. There was an explosion of tastes, as I bit into the sandwich.

The next day someone asked if I had the Bake and Shark at Maracas Beach.

Indeed, I did!