Day 4 trip report: Scarborough, Dec. 21 2017

Two things you learn very quickly in northern Tobago. First, no one accepts credit cards. If you're lucky, they'll have a PayPal account. Second, the ATMs are all First Citizens Bank and don't recognize American plastic. We knew neither of these things before we set out, and had something of a cash crisis upon arrival. So circumstances dictated we travel to the capital, Scarborough, to get some money.

This necessitated our learning about the Tobagan bus system. I looked up the schedule online, and discovered we could catch one at Andy's Bar, and it would take us to downtown Scarborough. I also found a schedule, but was immediately informed that the schedule is in the realm of fiction. So we hiked up to Andy's, bought some ticket from him, and ware allowed to sit out on his balcony and watch for the bus come down the hill into Parvatuvier; Andy assured us that would be in half-an-hour or so. And, miraculously, he was right. The bus turned up in about 35 minutes, and we got on board.

It was a small bus (big buses couldn't possibly negotiate the North Shore Road). And I immediately observed we were the only white people on it. Apparently tourists don't often use the bus system. But nobody paid us any mind, and the trip was quite pleasant, with occasional stunning views of the Caribbean to the right.

Scarborough is a metropolis one would usually describe as 'bustling'. Even though it's a small city (the total population of Tobago is only 60,000), the streets are crowded and busy, and there is an active market. The first ATM we found (First Citizen's, natch) wouldn't give us any money, but the second (Scotiabank) doled out $1,500 Trinidadian, which would likely get us thorugh the rest of our stay. My children, when you visit Trinidad, abjure First Citizens, and grapple Scotiabank to your souls with hoops of steel.

So, money worries taken care of, we went looking for lunch. Our Rough Guide's best recommendation was something called the Blue Crab, which was closed despite being advertized as 'open'. The second best was called Ciao, and was 'Italian' (duh). It was tiny, and after we ordered Panini a smoothie and a beer, we sat down to wait. Marjorie was convinced one of the other clients had been watching me carefully while I had my wallet open, and so I buried it deep in my front pocket, and made sure I could locate the beer bottle instantly in case it needed to become a weapon. Fortunately, nothing happened. Doubtless they were deterred by my manly physique. The food, though was pretty awful; a couple of pieces of prosciutto and cheese with a lettuce leaf, sandwiched between two slices of bread they made a cursory attempt to toast. Probably that was for the better; lettuce ain't good toasted. And yet it's 4.5 on Trip Advisor!

In any case, victualled and watered, if not quite satisfied, we started the ascent to Scarborough's main tourist attraction, Fort King George. It was pretty brutal; Scarborough is hotter than the north coast, the sun was beating down, and the path was steep. But we made it. Marjorie likes to joke no Harbison vacation can be called a vacation unless there's at least one trip to a crumbling set of military fortifications. This was now a vacation.

Up on top, the first thing you notice is you can see Trinidad, through the haze.

There were cannons, and some fortificiations, and an officer's mess that housed the Tobago museum, where the meanies wouldn't let me take photographs. It was neat, if not terribly well organized.

...but best of all was this uniquely decorated cell-phone tower.

We wandered around Scarborough a bit, until we convinced ourselves we had thoroughly absorbed its charms. The we set off for the bus stop, where we were told the bus had left 5 minutes ago, and the next wouldn't not be by for 2 hours (4 p.m.). So, natch, hot and tired, we went looking for a bar. The first we found, called Drifterz, was awful, with loud dub playing out front and not much in its grungy interior. We each had a Carib while I found the one bar the Rough Guide recommended. Notwithstanding their past failed recommendations and the distance (13 minutes in the hot sun) we started the long trek along the waterfront to Bar Code. Which was actually as nice as they described; decent decor, overlooking the beach and water, and with a clientèle of professional looking people, mostly women. Marjorie had another Carib while I ordered a frozen strawberry daiquiri. I needed some internal refrigeration. The (female) bartender told me with a smirk it was what two of the ladies at the bar were drinking. Looks very pretty, I said, and had two.

Far more refreshing than this.

As usual, women have been holding out on us. Or maybe my feminine side was getting a little dommy.

So we went back to the bus-stop. And the bus didn't come. We tried walking up the street to another stop, and it didn't come either, but we noticed a taped up piece of paper that the stop had been moved to a block and a half away. When we got there, we were told the bus was due at 4:30 p.m.. And it came. Not everyone got on, but we did. I can handle a bunch of pesky Tobagans in a bus queue. I even let a lady with a cane on ahead of me. And a man who was pretending to be her husband, and wasn't.

Only bad thing about the bus trip was a European with a huge bag, who was blocking the door, and had to get up and move it every time some one had to get on or off. Being the other Caucasians on the bus, we were embarassed, and hoped people didn't think we were all like that.

Dinner that night was nice frssh fish at Miss Verenice's in Parlatuvier, though we noticed again there was a certain sameness to Tobagan specialties.