Friday 9 March - Trinidad
Woken by a combination of sunshine and my body still being on UK time, so up in time to see the sun rise over the lagoon. This is the crack of dawn and there are already a couple of guys on the lagoon fishing. Hummmn, food! It’s the ‘jungle trek’ today and so it’s probably a good idea to have a hearty breakfast, but not too hearty as if we get lost I’m going to suggest eating the fattest people first. In the restaurant it’s like the United Nations - the buffet caters for all tastes, from fruit juice to those pies and cakes that the Germans love to eat for breakfast. Ugh, what sort of person has a cake for breakfast? Bacon, sausage, egg, beans and chips please!
(I was right about the tea by the way. Not a decent cuppa in days now. I was doing my best with coffee and alcohol but frankly it’s not the same).
The coach cannot handle the road to the start of the trek so we transfer to a ‘Russian limo’. This is an ex-Military soviet-era lorry. It looks as though it rolled off the production line during the defence of Stalingrad and made its way to Cuba via a dozen cold-war hot spots before being used to carry nuclear warheads and, now, tourists.
Travelling it in was very jolly and jolly terrifying. Seat belts? Forget it! Open top, rattling, engine grinding - the last time I saw one of these things was on the news, it was in Afghanistan and the rebels were firing at it. Bump bump bump along and then turn off the concrete road onto a track and BUMP BUMP BUMP. The trip was exciting to say the least but the troop carrier was still in one piece even though the USSR isn’t, so it must have been built well.
On the road to the start of the jungle trail we pass other tourists who have opted for the four-legged approach, sitting astride lean looking horses. Those horses don’t know how lucky they are, ferrying wiry French and Italian tourists along the roads - I remember the donkeys at Santorini who, on seeing the American tourists lumbering off the cruise ships, would stark shaking in terror.
We rattled and shook to the start of the jungle trail - a restaurant where, at 9:30 in the morning, we were served a fortifying rum cocktail. Some concession was given to the time of day because it tasted strongly of mint and so could be mistaken for mouthwash…maybe.
The start of the trek was a short boardwalk and a rope-bridge. Ahhhh, I thought, ‘jungle trek’ indeed. Rather, I thought this was going to be a boardwalked stroll along a carefully laid path that would gently rise and fall and have plenty of places to hold on to handles if the walk became at all challenging.
Then I stepped onto the bridge. The last time I had seen a rope-bridge sway like that, Indiana Jones was chopping through the supports. Then there were the missing boards. This was jungle adventure alright. Over I bounced, and hit the trail. This involved steep climbs, rocks, leaf litter, scrambling and my breath becoming so ragged that it occasionally masked the ‘plip’ sound that my sweat was making as it fell to the jungle floor.
The climb was fun though. The guide pointed out exotic plants (effect slightly spoiled by somebody in the group saying ‘oooh, we’ve got those in our bathroom’) and informing us that certain plants were very special.
‘Are they used to make medicine?’
‘No…rum.’
We also had birds pointed out to us. Well, I assume they were there, what I actually saw was a clump of vegetation within which, I was assured, was some sort of bird. To be fair though, those with binoculars did get excited.
Half way up the trail and wondering where the next rum is coming from, we stopped at a replica of a traditional farmhouse. At least I think it was a replica. It looked like one of those houses you see in living museums, but it had an inhabitant, who was cooking his lunch on his wooden cooker! He also had a little corner of the kitchen converted into a shrine, with the requisite plaster saints. He also had a lot of livestock. Thinking about it, this guy could well have been some bemused farmer who just has to put up with a lot of tourists tramping through his home every so often.
Back on the trail, limbo-ing under rocky overhangs and admiring the palm trees. I also admired the riverbeds very much. You could see it was dry season because the riverbeds had chuckling streams meandering through them, rather than being filled with whatever raging torrent had deposited all the boulders and branches dotted around. They were calm, peaceful and so cool I almost stopped sweating.
The end of the trek and the source of the streams was a waterfall. Everyone with a cozzie did their ‘getting changed under a towel’ routine, and headed off for a swim in the waterfall plunge pool. The water was cold, but I managed to effect entry by slipping on some rocks and going in arse-first all at once with a splash. I was so pleased not to have broken anything that I didn’t mind the shockingly cold water or the indignant screams of those whom I had splashed. Struck out over shallows, dodging submerged rocks and then into basin of waterfall. It was amazing, it was like swimming into some sort of movie scene. At any moment I expected a gorgeous young woman to appear and either eat chocolate, shampoo her hair under the waterfall, or both.
Took the ‘easy’ way back to the restaurant, though this was still treacherous underfoot (I had used up my luck for the day not getting myself killed at the waterfall and so stepped daintily). The restaurant speciality was catfish! These were swimming around in their tanks, looking like evil, inedible sods but actually they were quite tasty. Beer and music with lunch. Resisted temptation to purchase CD.
The only way to get over a morning like that is to go back to the hotel and lie on the beach looking at the Caribbean. Good god it’s blue - and warm! A warm sea! This is a revelation, that you can have a warm sea. Okay, so you still do that thing when you’re wandering out and a wave comes and hits your nethers and you flinch, but it’s not like Norfolk where you actually think your testicles have actually retracted into the top of your head. This is water to dive into and splash around in.
By now I was learning the ways of the all-inclusive. Turning up for dinner early means that the buffet is far less mauled than the later diners find it. Also, it gives you time to drink lots of cocktails afterwards and means - and this is the important part - that you have an appetite for an order of chips from the snack bar later on in the evening. The cocktails were consumed while watching the hotel entertainment staff organise salsa lessons for assorted tourists. The tourists salsa-ing were obviously not English, as they danced well and without inhibition.
Was able to make final award of the day - to the scowlingest German in the hotel. Good god could that man scowl. Maybe it was just the cast of his brown and lips, but he had the expression on his face, permanently, of a bad-tempered teacher who realises that somebody has hidden a turd in his desk and the entire class are just waiting for him to discover it. Who knows, maybe limitless booze and food, dancing, singing, young women in feathers and being on a beach in the Caribbean were just not his thing.
They bloody are mine.
(I was right about the tea by the way. Not a decent cuppa in days now. I was doing my best with coffee and alcohol but frankly it’s not the same).
The coach cannot handle the road to the start of the trek so we transfer to a ‘Russian limo’. This is an ex-Military soviet-era lorry. It looks as though it rolled off the production line during the defence of Stalingrad and made its way to Cuba via a dozen cold-war hot spots before being used to carry nuclear warheads and, now, tourists.
Travelling it in was very jolly and jolly terrifying. Seat belts? Forget it! Open top, rattling, engine grinding - the last time I saw one of these things was on the news, it was in Afghanistan and the rebels were firing at it. Bump bump bump along and then turn off the concrete road onto a track and BUMP BUMP BUMP. The trip was exciting to say the least but the troop carrier was still in one piece even though the USSR isn’t, so it must have been built well.
On the road to the start of the jungle trail we pass other tourists who have opted for the four-legged approach, sitting astride lean looking horses. Those horses don’t know how lucky they are, ferrying wiry French and Italian tourists along the roads - I remember the donkeys at Santorini who, on seeing the American tourists lumbering off the cruise ships, would stark shaking in terror.
We rattled and shook to the start of the jungle trail - a restaurant where, at 9:30 in the morning, we were served a fortifying rum cocktail. Some concession was given to the time of day because it tasted strongly of mint and so could be mistaken for mouthwash…maybe.
The start of the trek was a short boardwalk and a rope-bridge. Ahhhh, I thought, ‘jungle trek’ indeed. Rather, I thought this was going to be a boardwalked stroll along a carefully laid path that would gently rise and fall and have plenty of places to hold on to handles if the walk became at all challenging.Then I stepped onto the bridge. The last time I had seen a rope-bridge sway like that, Indiana Jones was chopping through the supports. Then there were the missing boards. This was jungle adventure alright. Over I bounced, and hit the trail. This involved steep climbs, rocks, leaf litter, scrambling and my breath becoming so ragged that it occasionally masked the ‘plip’ sound that my sweat was making as it fell to the jungle floor.
The climb was fun though. The guide pointed out exotic plants (effect slightly spoiled by somebody in the group saying ‘oooh, we’ve got those in our bathroom’) and informing us that certain plants were very special.
‘Are they used to make medicine?’
‘No…rum.’
We also had birds pointed out to us. Well, I assume they were there, what I actually saw was a clump of vegetation within which, I was assured, was some sort of bird. To be fair though, those with binoculars did get excited.
Half way up the trail and wondering where the next rum is coming from, we stopped at a replica of a traditional farmhouse. At least I think it was a replica. It looked like one of those houses you see in living museums, but it had an inhabitant, who was cooking his lunch on his wooden cooker! He also had a little corner of the kitchen converted into a shrine, with the requisite plaster saints. He also had a lot of livestock. Thinking about it, this guy could well have been some bemused farmer who just has to put up with a lot of tourists tramping through his home every so often.
Back on the trail, limbo-ing under rocky overhangs and admiring the palm trees. I also admired the riverbeds very much. You could see it was dry season because the riverbeds had chuckling streams meandering through them, rather than being filled with whatever raging torrent had deposited all the boulders and branches dotted around. They were calm, peaceful and so cool I almost stopped sweating.The end of the trek and the source of the streams was a waterfall. Everyone with a cozzie did their ‘getting changed under a towel’ routine, and headed off for a swim in the waterfall plunge pool. The water was cold, but I managed to effect entry by slipping on some rocks and going in arse-first all at once with a splash. I was so pleased not to have broken anything that I didn’t mind the shockingly cold water or the indignant screams of those whom I had splashed. Struck out over shallows, dodging submerged rocks and then into basin of waterfall. It was amazing, it was like swimming into some sort of movie scene. At any moment I expected a gorgeous young woman to appear and either eat chocolate, shampoo her hair under the waterfall, or both.
Took the ‘easy’ way back to the restaurant, though this was still treacherous underfoot (I had used up my luck for the day not getting myself killed at the waterfall and so stepped daintily). The restaurant speciality was catfish! These were swimming around in their tanks, looking like evil, inedible sods but actually they were quite tasty. Beer and music with lunch. Resisted temptation to purchase CD.
The only way to get over a morning like that is to go back to the hotel and lie on the beach looking at the Caribbean. Good god it’s blue - and warm! A warm sea! This is a revelation, that you can have a warm sea. Okay, so you still do that thing when you’re wandering out and a wave comes and hits your nethers and you flinch, but it’s not like Norfolk where you actually think your testicles have actually retracted into the top of your head. This is water to dive into and splash around in.By now I was learning the ways of the all-inclusive. Turning up for dinner early means that the buffet is far less mauled than the later diners find it. Also, it gives you time to drink lots of cocktails afterwards and means - and this is the important part - that you have an appetite for an order of chips from the snack bar later on in the evening. The cocktails were consumed while watching the hotel entertainment staff organise salsa lessons for assorted tourists. The tourists salsa-ing were obviously not English, as they danced well and without inhibition.
Was able to make final award of the day - to the scowlingest German in the hotel. Good god could that man scowl. Maybe it was just the cast of his brown and lips, but he had the expression on his face, permanently, of a bad-tempered teacher who realises that somebody has hidden a turd in his desk and the entire class are just waiting for him to discover it. Who knows, maybe limitless booze and food, dancing, singing, young women in feathers and being on a beach in the Caribbean were just not his thing.
They bloody are mine.
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