This is a true story of a side-trip Karin and I took while living aboard our cruising sailboat in Trinidad. A version was originally published in the Caribbean Compass magazine.
Standing on a sidewalk in Port of Spain, Trinidad, we feasted on doubles, the local breakfast of fried flat bread, split and filled with curried chickpeas and spices. Our sailing home, Nalani, was safely tucked in at Chaguaramas harbor, and we were headed with three cruiser friends to the rarely visited southeast coast, where there are no tourist hotels and only Trinidadians and oil riggers roam the beaches.
Our van driver took the Eastern Main Road, which runs along the forest-covered northern mountains, through Arima and Valencia. The terrain varied from hills, to flat farms, to thick jungle. After Sangre Grande, we climbed up into mountains, rounding curves on steep cliffs, lush with the vibrant greens of tropical vegetation.
Cresting the last hill, we caught our first view of the Atlantic Ocean and descended to Manzanilla beach. A river of coconut trees follows the shore for over twenty miles. These gentle trees bend softly to the sun, in places stretching out over the waves. We came upon a mound of discarded shells, ten feet high and more than 30 feet long. A hawk landed nearby. The sea rolled in soft waves, muddy with river run-off. This brown water is mostly responsible for the lack of tourists, but it has a beauty of its own.
We continued south through fishing villages and small towns to Radix Point, a high hill peninsula that juts out into the ocean. The road to the point quickly narrows to a dirt path. As it gains altitude, it winds like a snake, and degrades into ruts and rocks, challenging a driver’s skills and testing the bottom structure of your vehicle. The road ends at the top of the hill next to a large vacation house.
After gaining permission, we climbed down a path that descended through a forest to the sea. The trail drops off a cliff, where a rope, tied to a tree, dangles. One at a time, we grabbed the rope and slid down the face of the cliff to the deserted, rocky shoreline. We took off our shoes and wandered, sitting on the rocks and staring out to sea.
That night, we took rooms in our rented house in Mayora. We then dined on Callaloo soup, made from the leaves of the dasheen plant, marinated chicken, and a macaroni and cheese pie. Lucky for us, our house manager, Kimberly, was an excellent cook.
The next morning, we reluctantly rolled out of bed and drove to a nearby beach for dawn, since one purpose of the trip was photography. The angular early light revealed appealing forms and contrasts, especially where a creek clashed with the incoming ocean currents. The sky filled with billowing clouds, back lit by the rising sun. A magnificent squall built to the northeast. The stark beauty of nature surrounded us.
We returned to a brunch of salt fish, avocado, and coconut bread, and then drove south to Galeota Point. This is an off-limits, private reserve of the petroleum companies. We stopped at a Coast Guard station to ask permission to walk the beach. We were not so politely gestured away by a sub-machine gun.
Continuing south, we found beaches intermixed with industry. The road ended at a building labeled the “Fiscalizing Facility” where we turned back and headed home. Dinner that night was stewed kingfish, served with a vegetable rice and coleslaw.
The alarm chirped cheerfully at 03:50 a.m., the morning of our third and final day. We dragged ourselves up and packed. We had arranged to meet a guide who would take us into Nariva Swamp. When we arrived at the guide’s home, it was still pitch black; the only sound was the rustling of land crabs trapped in barrels along the side of the house.
We climbed into the guide’s boat and motored out a channel to “Bush-bush” Island. A flock of ducks flapped over the water, and hawks soared overhead. A heron stood in the shallows. Ashore, the twisted trees were layered with vines and bromeliads; there were flowering bushes, huge sculpted leaves, and intricate spider webs. Above our heads, sunlight filtered through the canopy, glistening like stars. We spotted three groups of red howler monkeys lounging high in the trees. A Toucan cocked his head and eyed us suspiciously, before flying off for the cover of the forest. We almost tripped over a green parrot snake, interrupting it mid-meal, with a frog in its mouth.
Reluctantly, we left the swamp for the return trip to Chaguaramas, and our boats. We passed a bison grazing among the coconut trees, and stands of local hot sauce and watermelons. These scenes created an immediate nostalgia for the interesting towns, the friendly people, and scenic wonders that had richly rewarded our effort to visit the unusual Coconut coast of Trinidad.
James K. Richardson