The Caribbean Sea collides with the shore. Each wave gives a last shout of surprised agony as it too comprehends that there is an finality to the sea's endlessness.I sit on a rock and scan the horizon. From side to side my sweeping gaze scans the impossible bright white foam of crashing waves. Unceasingly. Waiting to spot my quarry. It is a game of patience, sometimes a game of chance.
The human eye evolved to detect movement. Something moved. Or did it? I can't tell what. Peering into the dusky silvery shimmer of moonlight, eyes wide to catch the moonbeams. There, it moves again.
Out of the agonised dying waves emerges a ritual of life that has continued uninterrupted for 110 million years. The speck of movement is a 600-pound leatherback turtle, heaving her way, flipper stroke by flipper stroke, up on shore. Her species is the largest of all living reptiles. Moon-and starlight reflects from her wet leathery shell. She looks like a creature from another era, another dimension. Her species has seen the rise and fall of dinosaurs. This time and place with her is like piercing the fog of time. Humans are younglings compared to her kind.
Many Trinidadians think that leatherback turtles only nest at Matura Beach and Grande Riviere. The truth is that they nest at all North Coast and East Coast beaches. I have even seen leatherback turtle nests on Trinidad's South Coast.
This night I am at Grand Tacarib on Trinidad's virgin North Coast. It is here that Trinidad's Jurasic age northern mountains touch the Caribbean Sea. In this place there are no houses and no roads. To get here you walk. Otherwise take a pirogue from Blanchisseuse or Matelot and then brave the unpredictable surf.
Those dying, tortured waves can capsize a boat in the hands of an inexperienced sailor. Make sure your skipper has salt in the blood. My trusted Blanchisseuse boatman is Cleve de Verteuil. His is my pumpkin vine family. All Trinidad De Verteuils have one common ancestor.
I walked here from the Catholic Church in Blanchisseuse. Ship bells hang in the churchyard. One was cast in 1835 in Bristol and the other in 1878 in Lyon. They stand as sentries to the memory of the treacherousness of the sea. They are ancient by the standards of post Columbus Trinidadian history.
The jungle path on which I soon walk is much older. Originally this was an Amerindian footpath. Their feet smoothed a narrow highway from the forest ground. Later came the Europeans and their slaves. Slave labour widened the trail to a bridle path. Earth had to move to make this passable for mules. Whenever the trail becomes painful just think about the pain of the slaves who built it with nothing more than handheld tools. If your feet blister, think of the sores on their hands. Our island's history is beautiful but also tragic and vicious. Remember that in a place like this.
The first beach is breathtaking. They all are. Pointy rocks pierce the sea. One rock has a coconut tree on it. If you Google "coconut tree on a rock" its picture appears.Farther along Turtle Rock is a rocky finger of land that juts out from the coast. Its beauty is psychedelic. Seen from the side the rock looks like a turtle head poking out of its carapace.
After some more ups and downs there is Paria Bay. From here you can access Paria Waterfall. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder but this is easily my most beautiful waterfall. Swim behind the curtain of water–there is a hollow there.Cocorite is my friend. He lives at Paria Bay. He is the archetypical bush man. Dread hair surrounds his head like a halo or a mane. He lives off the land and sea. He always has some coconuts ready for me.
The path continues across the Paria River. Suddenly a man in boots appears. There is a shotgun slung from his shoulder. He strides towards me. We greet politely. Friendly even. He's just another traveller trekking through the jungle. There is a man with hunting hounds. It is always hunting season here.
Night falls. The jungle dj turns up the volume. Insects scream and hum and buzz and beat. Frogs chirp and whistle. I keep my eyes focused on the beam from my headlamp. It is always good to keep an eye out for the fer-de-lance. That is the ultimate pit viper. I see none tonight–like most nights.
I don't see any kind of game animals either. No deer, no agouti. Maybe they instinctively avoid the path. Humans have been walking here for thousands of years.Around 8 pm I step out in to a clearing. Moonlight falls on tin roofs in a dip in front of me. I have reached Lester's jungle lodge. Lester does not expect anybody so he is already asleep. There is no electricity here, no TV, no cell phone signal, nothing to keep him awake.
I call out. Always the perfect host he smiles and shows me to my cabin. It is just a simple shack with a foam bed. Life could not be better. This is Eden again. Let the turtle watching adventure begin!