January 2013
The dawn light was just starting to penetrate the surrounding trees and buildings. I nibbled my way through my breakfast sandwich, made by the hotel staff to accommodate my six o'clock start. Tobago had been a last minute decision. Somehow I couldn't face January in England. The thirty degree temperature was amazing, I couldn't quite believe it. I took a cardigan around with me for the first couple of days.
The hotel was a real find, it was actually called a village. The accommodation was in huts with straw roofs, inside was luxury and air-conditioning. I had been lazing around for a few days and I was ready to explore the island. John Wilson, a local guide, was picking me up for a trip to the Forest Reserve, and I was now quite excited about it. John emerged from the gloom of the car park and escorted me to his jeep. We were off !
We started at Crown Point and I studied the locality as we drove, most were still asleep. We passed Buccoo Bay and followed the coast road to Plymouth. I loved picking out place names on my little map. The capital, Scarborough, was rather a contrast to our Yorkshire town, others had my imagination racing with theories of how they were named. Washerwomen's Bay, Englishman's Bay, Bloody Bay ( John said this was the site of a terrible battle ), Pirates' Bay, Mesopotamia and Hope are a small sample.
Eventually we arrived at the ancient Gilpin Trail, named after a machete, presumably, without which the trail wouldn't exist. On cue, a man drove up with a trailer full of wellington boots. He and John studied my feet, stroking their chins and frowning. They rummaged around and produced a pair triumphantly. They looked too small, but strangely, they fitted like a glove...so to speak ! I was extremely glad I'd worn socks, I hate to think how many feet had inhabited those boots.
We moved along the trail and I noticed John examining a line of sticks, some voodoo ritual, I supposed. But no, they were walking aids, left by previous thoughtful trekkers. I chose two as it looked mighty muddy and slippery ahead. They don't have four seasons, I was told, just two, wet and dry. We were meant to be in the dry season, but there was some overlap. Occasionally, a deluge came from nowhere, soaking everything. Afterwards, the sun was so hot that everything dried in no time.
I was set to march at a fast pace, knowing that it was roughly two hours until the end of the trail, but John was creeping along. I curbed my impatience, after all he was meant to be leading, but it took me mental and physical effort to be guided by him. It dawned on me how bossy I must be and I made a mental note to change. He explained how many people rushed along, seeing nothing, and that was not his way. I frowned and nodded sanctimoniously. How glad I was I'd kept myself in check.
He made some slow whistles and there were many answers, he was clearly experienced, my confidence in him grew. He told me we would see the bird on a muddy patch of ground, and shortly, we did. He picked a blade of grass and moved it lightly over a wall of mud to the right of us. Suddenly a flap opened and I caught sight of something before it closed almost immediately. This was a trap-door spider. John explained that although they are nocturnal, he often takes tourists out at night, so he knows all their hiding places.
A bird whizzed by us, just missing his hat. It was a humming-bird, but not just any old one, but the one John prized the most. I must admit, I can't remember most of the names of the birds we saw, apart from the Mot-Mot, but I do remember part of this one was 'sabre-winged'. We saw it four times, much to John's delight, and mine. It was rare to see it.
The trip was memorable and thrilling, but tinged with sadness. As we drove back out of the forest, John whistled and two beautiful birds came into view as we stopped in the jeep to watch. A car came towards us and hovered, before driving off slowly. John explained that they were illegal bird trappers and they were using his expertise to pinpoint their location. Apparently, the few forest rangers that there were, never patrolled. He also said that hunters were so prolific in the forest that many species would soon be extinct.
So it was with mixed feelings that I returned to Crown Point, but I was very glad I hadn't stayed by the pool in ignorance of the fragile beauty of this island.