Recently, on our way back to Crown Point from Charlotteville, a friend and I decided to take the route through L’Anse Fourmi.
No more than four or five cars passed us as we sailed along winding roads through verdant forest which was left moist and moody after a short but significant shower of rain.
With the calls of birds and insects being the only sounds, other than the soft hum of the vehicle, it was as though the rest of the world had disappeared and only Mother Nature was present.
We cruised past roadside verges studded with orange, white or red wildflowers, pastoral scenes with cows grazing on velvety grass or standing mid-road, small waterfalls tumbling down dark rocks in recesses of lush vegetation, giant silk cotton trees towering above thick bamboo groves. We found ourselves gasping in awe and stopping to take photographs and videos almost around every bend.
The ancient, somewhat untouched energy that emanated from the surroundings was a rare pleasure. One could say it honoured Tobago’s former "clean, green, serene" tourism slogan, whose meaning disappears as large concrete or glass buildings take over in some areas.
It is a surreal feeling to be on the road for over half an hour and, with the exception of drivers of the few vehicles that passed us, see no other human beings. A few signs, such as the odd road sign and one or two promoting printing services in Canaan, were the only evidence of human influence.
With the exception of one grossly pregnant black-and-white female pothound that ran to hide in the bushes when I got out to give her some dog chow, I was surprised and relieved not to see any abandoned or neglected-looking dogs – a common feature on drives through rural forested areas in which people are known to dump unwanted canines.
As we approached a small residential area in L’Anse Fourmi, I felt a pang of something akin to disappointment: concrete houses, vehicles and people – signs of modern day, man-made existence – became visible. It was as though a natural reverie or pleasant dream had come to a rude awakening.
An interesting-looking wooden structure named the Tree House Art Gallery, with a tree growing out of one window and dirt oven on ground level, caught our attention. We stopped, hoping to have a look at whatever creations were displayed within.
I called out to a woman nearby, asking if anyone could let us into the gallery. She shouted a name – someone whom we assumed would come to our aid – but after about 15 minutes (during which time my friend admired the oceanic view, and I played with and fed a friendly brown dog) we realised no one was coming to attend to us. We left and continued along our journey.
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An old shop covered in hand-painted signs – white lettering on black board – caught my attention and we stopped to investigate. Nowadays it is rare to find one of these simple, ancient wooden shops – owned by very old shopkeepers who seem to sell any and everything.
“Don’t peep in. Com
