Baby Daniel pointed at the water.
“Bird!”
There is something magical about seeing your country for the first time through the eyes of a child.
He may not remember all the details of our recent visit to the Caroni Swamp Bird Sanctuary. The winding waterways will probably fade from memory. The names of the birds will disappear. Even the spectacular sunset that transformed the western sky into a canvas of crimson may one day become nothing more than a photograph tucked away in a family album. These were reminders that Trinidad and Tobago remains one of the most naturally beautiful places on Earth.
Yet I suspect something far more important happened that afternoon.
Wonder quietly introduced itself.
Children possess a remarkable gift that adults slowly lose. They are fascinated by everything. A dragonfly deserves the same attention as an aeroplane. A crab crossing the mud is an event worthy of applause. The world has not yet become ordinary.
We often spend months planning holidays thousands of miles away while overlooking extraordinary places only an hour from home. We know the names of European cities better than our own wetlands. We photograph foreign sunsets while forgetting that one of the Caribbean’s greatest natural spectacles occurs every single evening in that 40 square miles of wetland in Caroni.
The sanctuary is one of those places we proudly recommend to visitors yet somehow postpone visiting ourselves. It waits patiently for us, never demanding attention, quietly performing the same miracle every sunset whether anyone is watching or not.
Lester Nanan is an interpreter of the landscape, someone who understands that people remember stories long after they forget facts. Every bend in the river carried an explanation. Every bird had a habit worth knowing. Every question was answered with the easy confidence of someone who belongs to the water.
His surname immediately brought back memories of his father and grandfather. For decades, the family has become almost inseparable from the Caroni Swamp Bird Sanctuary itself. Thousands of locals and visitors experienced the attraction for the first time through his knowledge, humour and obvious affection for this remarkable ecosystem. It was heartening to see that legacy continuing. The sanctuary is in good hands.
Within minutes the sounds of traffic disappeared. The mangroves gradually surrounded us like the walls of a vast green cathedral. Their roots rose from the water in tangled sculptures, holding the shoreline together while sheltering countless forms of life beneath the surface.
Every few hundred metres another surprise appeared.
A blue heron stood motionless with the patience of a monk.
The water itself seemed alive.
Then came the caiman.
Only its eyes and nostrils broke the surface. It drifted effortlessly along the bank with the calm confidence of a creature that has absolutely no interest in impressing tourists. It regarded the boat with what could only be described as mild indifference before disappearing beneath the water without so much as a ripple.
Moments later someone whispered the word guaranteed to capture everyone’s attention.
“Snake.”
Conversations stopped immediately.
Fortunately, our unexpected companion had no interest whatsoever in becoming the afternoon’s main attraction and remained motionless, leaving behind equal measures of relief and excitement.
Then something interesting happened.
The conversations gradually became quieter. People lowered their voices almost instinctively. Phones were put away.
Even baby Daniel became unusually still. Everyone sensed that the main event was approaching. We waited while munching on pineapple chow.
The western sky softened.
Within minutes the sky itself appeared to come alive. Wave after wave of brilliant crimson birds crossed the horizon before settling into the mangroves. The green trees slowly transformed into red. It was as though someone had painted the forest while we watched.
No photograph truly captures that moment. No television documentary conveys the silence that accompanies it. Some experiences insist upon being witnessed in person.
For a few minutes nobody spoke.
We simply watched.
In medicine I spend much of my life surrounded by monitors, investigations, blood tests and technology. Those things save lives and deserve our respect. Yet standing there watching hundreds of scarlet ibis return home reminded me that the human mind also requires beauty. The sanctuary nourishes something far less tangible than physical health. It restores perspective.
Back at the jetty, another scene quietly caught my attention.
Several stray cats wandered around the compound with the relaxed confidence of animals that knew they were welcome. Food had been placed nearby. Someone, or perhaps several people, had taken responsibility for creatures that would otherwise have been forgotten. Those volunteers deserve our gratitude.
Small museums rarely receive the attention they deserve. They preserve the stories of our landscapes, our wildlife and our people. Children leave with curiosity and adults leave with appreciation. Places like this quietly build national pride without ever raising their voices. They deserve greater support.
If we are serious about sustainable tourism, conservation and national pride, this wetland of international importance should become one of our flagship investments. We often search for economic opportunities overseas while overlooking world-class experiences already anchored in our own landscape.
One day we will return because some places deserve more than one visit. They deserve to become part of a family’s story.
Every evening, without advertising and without applause, one of the greatest natural performances in the Caribbean begins as our national bird comes home. The Scarlet Ibis has never forgotten the way.
My hope is that we never forget it either.
