Shortly after the ship berthed at Scarborough (that song is back) the huge German cruise ship, last
seen in Funchal, arrived, with the elegance of a nineteen sixties estate of tower blocks plonked onto an
overgrown barge. Its arrival had been noted by the Tiny Captain, a fellow standing five feet three in his
stockinged feet, with a broken nose, deep tan the colour of a stoat and a history of commanding a very
wide variety of merchant ships, some of which had been plying a legal trade.
"The bloody Bismark's back. Get ready to man the sun loungers."
As a result of the German assault ship delivering 3000 gaudily dressed Prussians to the port of Scarborough, the Botanic Gardens was alive with high stepping parties trying to find a German speaking guide.
"Vi do none of ze guides speak Deutsch?"
"We speak English, Spanish, Portuguese and Dutch because the islands were, at one time or other, ruled by people who spoke those languages. Germany never had an empire in the Caribbean."
It was touch and go whether an English wag would interject with some mention of the war.
Very little of Tobago is flat, including the Botanic Gardens so a visit of an hour involved many climbs and many descents but these were rewarded with butterflies in their chaotic flight, a trap-door spider and, of course the bees that stick hot like chilli in the eye. To escape the gardens without once more having to cross the road of death meant descending to the lowest level, near the town and into the maelstrom of noise. In addition to the sound systems many shops had looped tapes playing advertisements for their wares. Some of these tapes had been recorded by readers with classic BBC received pronunciation. The juxtaposition was like hearing the Queen selling fruit and veg from a barrow in the middle of the Glastonbury Festival. Also of significance was the altitude. Here it was not just hotter but it was further from the fort. Soldiers and sailors of old were not stupid they may have failed to invent the internal combustion engine in time to drive the necessary materials to the site of their fort but they knew that overlooking harbours from great heights is a good idea. Having descended to sea level it was going to be a climb of 800 feet or more to reach the fort. The road snaked its way up the hillside with savage hairpin bends where the inside gradient would have required ropes, pitons and a steady head for heights. In the case in point all three were missing to the extent that the third was in deficit. The road makers clearly became bored with this winding progress and so, after every three hairpins, there would be a section of road that rose all but vertically in a straight line towards its goal. A small car took a run at one such hill, made it nearly to the top an then tried to revers into a drive. Lacking momentum and traction, its wheels span helplessly, defeated by the slope. The driver rolled across the slope, struggling not to roll into the passenger seat and took a run at his drive, succeeding and then his passenger jumped out and chocked the wheels. It was clear that the Harrier jump jet would be the only vehicle suitable for this terrain.
Two tour buses from the ship struggled past, Lorna waved from her air-conditioned cocoon, the coach driver tooted his horn and then charged a hairpin, the vehicle slewed over, hiccupped in protest and just managed to disappear around the corner. The journey would have been terrifying.
A notice proclaimed that the fort had been reached but it lied. Once part of the fort the old hospital straddled the road, sad and worn, partly boarded up its paint peeled like a dermatologist's nightmare. A man and his mother sat together on a bench, silent, defeated and beginning to mourn. In their world there was no bright sunshine, no day. For them it was going to be four in the morning, the hopeless hour, for some time to come.
An open window next to the boarded up A&E entrance allowed a glimpse of a formally dressed nurse sitting at a desk making notes and stamping forms.
Further up the hill two young men washed an ambulance that had been parked with one wheel overhanging a terrace somewhere below. The vehicle rocked as they scrubbed at the front wheels. If it were to plummet and take them with it what would come to collect them? A hen strutted out of the open door followed by five half grown chicks. They busied themselves around the gas store that had long since lost its fence. Two more steep climbs and the summit and fort proper were reached. The coach parties were there with their guides explaining the history and function of the fort.
As a result of the German assault ship delivering 3000 gaudily dressed Prussians to the port of Scarborough, the Botanic Gardens was alive with high stepping parties trying to find a German speaking guide.
"Vi do none of ze guides speak Deutsch?"
"We speak English, Spanish, Portuguese and Dutch because the islands were, at one time or other, ruled by people who spoke those languages. Germany never had an empire in the Caribbean."
It was touch and go whether an English wag would interject with some mention of the war.
---OOO---
Very little of Tobago is flat, including the Botanic Gardens so a visit of an hour involved many climbs and many descents but these were rewarded with butterflies in their chaotic flight, a trap-door spider and, of course the bees that stick hot like chilli in the eye. To escape the gardens without once more having to cross the road of death meant descending to the lowest level, near the town and into the maelstrom of noise. In addition to the sound systems many shops had looped tapes playing advertisements for their wares. Some of these tapes had been recorded by readers with classic BBC received pronunciation. The juxtaposition was like hearing the Queen selling fruit and veg from a barrow in the middle of the Glastonbury Festival. Also of significance was the altitude. Here it was not just hotter but it was further from the fort. Soldiers and sailors of old were not stupid they may have failed to invent the internal combustion engine in time to drive the necessary materials to the site of their fort but they knew that overlooking harbours from great heights is a good idea. Having descended to sea level it was going to be a climb of 800 feet or more to reach the fort. The road snaked its way up the hillside with savage hairpin bends where the inside gradient would have required ropes, pitons and a steady head for heights. In the case in point all three were missing to the extent that the third was in deficit. The road makers clearly became bored with this winding progress and so, after every three hairpins, there would be a section of road that rose all but vertically in a straight line towards its goal. A small car took a run at one such hill, made it nearly to the top an then tried to revers into a drive. Lacking momentum and traction, its wheels span helplessly, defeated by the slope. The driver rolled across the slope, struggling not to roll into the passenger seat and took a run at his drive, succeeding and then his passenger jumped out and chocked the wheels. It was clear that the Harrier jump jet would be the only vehicle suitable for this terrain.
Two tour buses from the ship struggled past, Lorna waved from her air-conditioned cocoon, the coach driver tooted his horn and then charged a hairpin, the vehicle slewed over, hiccupped in protest and just managed to disappear around the corner. The journey would have been terrifying.
A notice proclaimed that the fort had been reached but it lied. Once part of the fort the old hospital straddled the road, sad and worn, partly boarded up its paint peeled like a dermatologist's nightmare. A man and his mother sat together on a bench, silent, defeated and beginning to mourn. In their world there was no bright sunshine, no day. For them it was going to be four in the morning, the hopeless hour, for some time to come.
An open window next to the boarded up A&E entrance allowed a glimpse of a formally dressed nurse sitting at a desk making notes and stamping forms.
Further up the hill two young men washed an ambulance that had been parked with one wheel overhanging a terrace somewhere below. The vehicle rocked as they scrubbed at the front wheels. If it were to plummet and take them with it what would come to collect them? A hen strutted out of the open door followed by five half grown chicks. They busied themselves around the gas store that had long since lost its fence. Two more steep climbs and the summit and fort proper were reached. The coach parties were there with their guides explaining the history and function of the fort.
Not having paid for the tour it would have been improper to listen too avidly but one fact drifted
across in the warm breeze.
"We have a new hospital that you can see over there on the hill behind the town and the old hospital," she swept her arm across to the right at the hospital below. "The old hospital has just a few patients left now who will not be moved."
The mother and son were still just in view. Head in hands she rocked slowly back and forth. The movement was barely perceptible but amplified slightly by his arm which rested across her shoulders: the comforting arm - symbiosis of sorrow.
On another terrace a small film crew were shooting a documentary about the fort. The director, all pig tail and three day beard sweated and fussed, chided and cajoled his star and the cameraman. The lighting man stood holding a large silver reflector taking little notice of what was going on. Sweet smelling smoke surrounded him and his response to any instruction from the director was to draw on a large cigarette of the home fashioned variety, hold his breath and then exhale luxuriously before saying, "Yes marn" and doing nothing.
Behind the camera its operator fiddled constantly with the tripod or the zoom, looking with condescending hatred at the director but it was the star who really was the centre of the show. Well- padded but by no means obese she had been sprayed with a bright orange dress that nearly covered all that it should and the whole edifice balanced, more or less, on a pair of patent leather high-heeled shoes. The director called for action, the girl with the clapperboard did her stuff and the star removed her chewing gum, handed it to the clapper-board girl and, with a smile as wide as it was white, she launched into a lengthy description of the stone built Officers Quarters.
"Cut." The star immediately kicked off her shoes, tugged the hem of her dress in an attempt at something approaching modesty and held out her hand for the return of her gum.
Douglas, who knew the Caribbean well, had mentioned that the return journey could be made along a series of back roads and that at a very welcome stage on the journey there was a bar that sold ice cold beers. It was, he said, little more than a shack owned by a Canadian who spent his winters on Tobago. Such a recommendation could not be ignored so, just below the hospital a left turn was made onto the steepest road in the world. At each footfall the angle of the foot was so exaggerated that it was just as the imagination suggested it would be like to walk in very high-heeled shoes. The slightest loss of traction and a new sport of sandal skiing would have been invented. Abseiling must be very similar. After a hundred yards in which the altitude must have been reduced by slightly more, the road levelled out. That is an exaggeration, the slope became recognisable as something that cars might manage, admittedly only well-maintained cars with a low ration gearbox, but cars nonetheless. Intuition led to the right at a junction and, now traversing the hill, the bar came into sight.
Even the wood revealed by the flaking paint was peeling. Holes in the walls, presumably where the wood had actually peeled into oblivion, allowed light into the one tiny room with a polystyrene trunk at the back, the proprietor's chair next to a shelf under which was a drawer liberated from an ornate piece of furniture, a reproduction dressing table maybe. Grey metal legs, some with castors indicated that the proprietor's chair might once have been found in an office but in those days the seat had probably had padding. Instead there was evidence of a series of cushions having been used to provide some comfort. As each cushion had expired another had been placed on top and so the seat had the appearance of a stack of rags with the current cushion, resplendent in scarlet, on the top. On top of the cushion was a thin man whose skin was white but with a hint of liver disease that also showed in is eyes.
"Beer."
"Yes please."
"Just as well, it's all I got. You got US dollars."
"Yes."
"Just as well that's all I take."
"We have a new hospital that you can see over there on the hill behind the town and the old hospital," she swept her arm across to the right at the hospital below. "The old hospital has just a few patients left now who will not be moved."
The mother and son were still just in view. Head in hands she rocked slowly back and forth. The movement was barely perceptible but amplified slightly by his arm which rested across her shoulders: the comforting arm - symbiosis of sorrow.
On another terrace a small film crew were shooting a documentary about the fort. The director, all pig tail and three day beard sweated and fussed, chided and cajoled his star and the cameraman. The lighting man stood holding a large silver reflector taking little notice of what was going on. Sweet smelling smoke surrounded him and his response to any instruction from the director was to draw on a large cigarette of the home fashioned variety, hold his breath and then exhale luxuriously before saying, "Yes marn" and doing nothing.
Behind the camera its operator fiddled constantly with the tripod or the zoom, looking with condescending hatred at the director but it was the star who really was the centre of the show. Well- padded but by no means obese she had been sprayed with a bright orange dress that nearly covered all that it should and the whole edifice balanced, more or less, on a pair of patent leather high-heeled shoes. The director called for action, the girl with the clapperboard did her stuff and the star removed her chewing gum, handed it to the clapper-board girl and, with a smile as wide as it was white, she launched into a lengthy description of the stone built Officers Quarters.
"Cut." The star immediately kicked off her shoes, tugged the hem of her dress in an attempt at something approaching modesty and held out her hand for the return of her gum.
---OOO---
Douglas, who knew the Caribbean well, had mentioned that the return journey could be made along a series of back roads and that at a very welcome stage on the journey there was a bar that sold ice cold beers. It was, he said, little more than a shack owned by a Canadian who spent his winters on Tobago. Such a recommendation could not be ignored so, just below the hospital a left turn was made onto the steepest road in the world. At each footfall the angle of the foot was so exaggerated that it was just as the imagination suggested it would be like to walk in very high-heeled shoes. The slightest loss of traction and a new sport of sandal skiing would have been invented. Abseiling must be very similar. After a hundred yards in which the altitude must have been reduced by slightly more, the road levelled out. That is an exaggeration, the slope became recognisable as something that cars might manage, admittedly only well-maintained cars with a low ration gearbox, but cars nonetheless. Intuition led to the right at a junction and, now traversing the hill, the bar came into sight.
Even the wood revealed by the flaking paint was peeling. Holes in the walls, presumably where the wood had actually peeled into oblivion, allowed light into the one tiny room with a polystyrene trunk at the back, the proprietor's chair next to a shelf under which was a drawer liberated from an ornate piece of furniture, a reproduction dressing table maybe. Grey metal legs, some with castors indicated that the proprietor's chair might once have been found in an office but in those days the seat had probably had padding. Instead there was evidence of a series of cushions having been used to provide some comfort. As each cushion had expired another had been placed on top and so the seat had the appearance of a stack of rags with the current cushion, resplendent in scarlet, on the top. On top of the cushion was a thin man whose skin was white but with a hint of liver disease that also showed in is eyes.
"Beer."
"Yes please."
"Just as well, it's all I got. You got US dollars."
"Yes."
"Just as well that's all I take."
He reached across to the polystyrene trunk, angular arms thin as meccano, dredged through the
melting ice and found a bottle of ice cold beer which he proffered. Wet, cold glass cooled wet hot
hands. He held out a hand for the dollar bills and pointed to a bottle opener screwed to the most solid
looking piece of wood in the shack.
"Careful how you open her, shack's none too strong now - me and it both."
Thin yellow beer at that moment was better than a premier cru Pouilly Fume and disappeared all too soon.
He held out a second bottle.
"Another?"
Taking the bottle and soaking up its wonderful iciness.
"Thank you."
"No one has a single beer. You been to the fort?"
"Yes, walked up from the port. Long drag up those hills, especially in this heat."
"Most of them take a taxi or a tour these days. There were more walkers in the past. Used to get busy in here." Looking around there were the two occupied chairs and one other and if it had been in use there would not have been room for the wafer thin Madame Chateau. to stand.
"Yeah, real busy." A cigarette appeared in his hand. "D'you mind? It's banned in bars, I think or is that back in Vancouver?"
"No, you carry on - it's your bar."
"Did yer see the hospital?"
"Yes. It's closing down isn't it? Just a few patients left. I saw a chap and his mother sitting outside, they'd obviously been visiting someone who wasn't going to get better."
"That's all that's left, the dying. They moved the others to the new hospital. The Docs tried to get me in there before they started to close it down but I knew I'd be one of those left behind and they ain't gonna get me that easily."
Sweat beaded on his brow and he wiped it away with his bottle and the unlit cigarette fell to the floor and it rolled to the wall and joined two others. Ignoring it he took a swig from his bottle which he then placed meticulously on the stained beer mat that was at the centre of his shelf.
"Well thank you for the beers - they were just the ticket."
"You're welcome, mind how you go. Bye now"
"See you."
From the shadow to the sunlight was dazzling and disorientating. Behind the hiss of an opening bottle and in a thin voice, "You won't."
"Careful how you open her, shack's none too strong now - me and it both."
Thin yellow beer at that moment was better than a premier cru Pouilly Fume and disappeared all too soon.
He held out a second bottle.
"Another?"
Taking the bottle and soaking up its wonderful iciness.
"Thank you."
"No one has a single beer. You been to the fort?"
"Yes, walked up from the port. Long drag up those hills, especially in this heat."
"Most of them take a taxi or a tour these days. There were more walkers in the past. Used to get busy in here." Looking around there were the two occupied chairs and one other and if it had been in use there would not have been room for the wafer thin Madame Chateau. to stand.
"Yeah, real busy." A cigarette appeared in his hand. "D'you mind? It's banned in bars, I think or is that back in Vancouver?"
"No, you carry on - it's your bar."
"Did yer see the hospital?"
"Yes. It's closing down isn't it? Just a few patients left. I saw a chap and his mother sitting outside, they'd obviously been visiting someone who wasn't going to get better."
"That's all that's left, the dying. They moved the others to the new hospital. The Docs tried to get me in there before they started to close it down but I knew I'd be one of those left behind and they ain't gonna get me that easily."
Sweat beaded on his brow and he wiped it away with his bottle and the unlit cigarette fell to the floor and it rolled to the wall and joined two others. Ignoring it he took a swig from his bottle which he then placed meticulously on the stained beer mat that was at the centre of his shelf.
"Well thank you for the beers - they were just the ticket."
"You're welcome, mind how you go. Bye now"
"See you."
From the shadow to the sunlight was dazzling and disorientating. Behind the hiss of an opening bottle and in a thin voice, "You won't."
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