Matterhorn Express

Currently on a last minute ski holiday with Tim at Club Med in Cervinia. As a ski destination at the end of March it has several advantages:

1. it is very high – the resort sits at over 2000m and the slopes reach 3000m

2. unlike most of the Alps, it is still snowing here, with over a metre of snow 10 days ago, and a few more centimetres since we arrived

3. the resort links with Zermatt giving two country skiing and a wide range of pistes

Today was day 2 of skiing – and after a a sunless day on the Cervinia side yesterday, with half the afternoon spent in the clouds trying to feel the snow with our feet as we couldn’t see it – today the sun shone spectacularly and we headed up three long lifts to take us over the border to Switzerland. We were rewarded not just with a great day’s skiing, but also a number of ski firsts, for me at least.

• Skiing – or rather walking carrying skis – over a border.

• Coffee at the Iglu bar – sculptured entirely of ice

• Taking the Matterhorn Express, a ski train to the top of the mountain

• A spectacular view of the Matterhorn panorama

• And last but not least, my first ever sighting of a St Bernard complete with brandy barrel around its neck

Carnival Trini-style

 

Carnival is big in Trinidad.  The biggest in the world, apparently.  And everyone is encouraged to join in the fun.  The actual carnival parade is the culmination of 10 days of hard partying and competitions to find the best steel band, best calypso performer, best soca performer and, of course, to select the Carnival King and Queen.  But throughout this time, there is a semblance of normality in the country.  Shops, banks, offices and markets open, mail is delivered and goods are trucked around the country.  But on the final two days, nothing happens – except Carnival itself.  But then nothing else can happen.  Every truck in the country has been commandeered to support the revellers as each band has its own support trucks hauling drink, food, boom boxes, steel bands and, most important, lavatories.

We went to watch in Port of Spain and, as spectators, were very much in the minority.  Carnival is all about participation.  The largest bands attract over 4000 participants, and there are tens if not hundreds of different bands parading the streets. Every band has its own theme and costumes, though feathered headdresses and sparkly beachwear are a common feature.

The full glory of the costumes only becomes apparent at the final parade – which starts at 9am on Shrove Tuesday.  But the parade itself is deemed to be so much fun that most people walk the route the day before too, in a semi-dress rehearsal for the final showdown.  And that’s after they have spent most of the previous night wandering the streets inexplicably throwing mud and paint at each other in a celebration known as J’Overt. 

Luckily we missed getting pelted and joined the fun at the dress rehearsal and immediately felt at home with the arrival of the first band – theme: Merry Olde England, led by Good Queen Bess – a dead ringer for Vivienne Westwood – and a fag-smoking Henry VIII, and directed by David Cameron!   

But as we found at the following day, this is nothing in comparison with the “proper” carnival parade.  Thousands upon thousands of people took part – young and old alike, and, unlike England, where everyone is hung up on how thin  and beautiful they are – size and shape are no bar here.  Everyone is comfortable in their own skin and raring to go – walking, dancing and wining through the streets until midnight.  We didn’t quite stay that long, as we had a ferry to catch back to Tobago, but I’m told that everything stops bang on 12, and by morning there is no sign that Carnival took place.  Every grandstand is taken down, every bottle and piece of litter cleared away ready for a working day – not that anyone who took part will be working…. 

 

A little R&R

People’s ideas of holiday heaven are as varied as their ideas of holiday hell. Those seeking a return to the simple life go camping, others book a 5 star spa break for a taste of luxurious living they don’t get at home. Some explore different cultures in museums, galleries and city cafes, and can’t understand the adrenalin junkies who crave adventure. And while a new destination is an annual treat for some, just as many return to their favoured destination year after year. And then there are the people who buy a holiday home.

After 11 years, I’ve finally realised that I am not a natural holiday home owner. Mine is essentially a rental property that I visit every year or so to make sure everything is in order for incoming guests – and to try and have little R&R of my own. But my ideal of Rest and Relaxation, quickly turns into a round of Repairs and Rewnewals. Inevitably, I find myself my stressed than I am at home.

The first day of is spent making lists of things to be fixed, things to be replaced and things to be painted. With an extra column for things that I’d arranged to have fixed or painted the last time I came, and which haven’t been done. Manana can stretch several years on a Caribbean island.

The second day is spent shopping. At home I am an expert shopper. I know which stores will have exactly what I am looking for. If I don’t, I can look it up on the internet, and within a few minutes have the answer. I can even order online and get the item delivered to my door. But this is Tobago, where even buying a kettle involves five different staff in the transaction. And that’s after you’ve found a shop that actually sells kettles.

The third day is also spent shopping, and probably the fourth and the fifth, as there is always at least one item you can’t find anywhere. This year it was patio chairs. I finally returned triumphant on day ten!

By day three, I am multi-tasking, and trying to get quotes for the paintwork that should have been done last year. I compare my peeling balustrades with my neighbour’s pristine woodwork and wonder if I can pinch his painter. I ask him, and discover that he does the painting himself! He’s not the only one. All my neighbours arrive at their villas equipped not only with sandpaper and paintbrushes, but with a DIY toolbox and gardening set.

Whereas I want to get all the property maintenance stuff out of the way so I can relax, read a book and go the beach, they jump out of bed in the morning ready to start a full day’s work. Unlike me, they have what it takes to own a holiday home. Not just a toolbox, but the luxury of time to use it. While I visit for two or three weeks, everyone around me is here for two, three or even four months of the year. If I was here for that long, maybe I’d get a tool box too – though I suspect I’d develop a little black book of local painters, plumbers, carpenters and gardeners, just like the one I have back in England!

Panning for gold

It’s carnival time, and in Trinidad and Tobago that’s a big, big deal. Many locals spend hundreds, if not thousands of US dollars to “Play Mas” and take part in one of the carnival parades.  For others, it’s an opportunity to win big money. So much money, in fact, that when the nine-times national winners of the steel band competition failed to make this year’s finals and the chance to win the top prize of £200,000, they mounted a legal challenge.

In such competitions, Tobago is very much the junior partner.  Not only is Trinidad larger, more populous and sophisticated, it is oil-rich, commercially-minded.  The majority of Tobago’s steel bands are enthusiastic amateurs in comparison.  Imagine the gulf between a National Theatre performance and Linda Snell’s Christmas production in Ambridge and you’ll get the picture.

But, joy of joys, we have discovered a steel band that can challenge very the best in Trinidad’s premier league right on our doorstep.  After several nights listening to the sound of their practice rising over the hill and drifting down to our terrace, we hopped in the car and followed the sound of the pan.  We didn’t have far to go.  Under the floodlights of a basketball court in the next village our local band Katzenjammers – the Pride of  Black Rock, is being put through its paces in preparation for the All Tobago Pan-orama and, of course the National finals in Trinidad.

With around 40 people on steel pans, oil drums, conventional drums, and percussion, most of the villagers under the age of 25 are probably in the band.  And what a great sound they make.  Swooping from orchestral volume to pianissmo quietness in a heartbeat.  Not that this satisfies their conductor.  Keeping beat with a stick on hollowed wood, he prowls the court listening out for the slightest flaw, frequently stopping the drums to start again.  If you are going to win big in Trinidad, only perfection will do.

Two days later, excited by our band’s chances, we head over to Scarborough to see how they get on in the Tobago Panorama.  It’s going to be a long evening, so we check out a local restaurant first, arriving at the Panorama at 10.30pm to the sound of soca blaring out of the massed banks of speakers, and wondering if we’ve missed the action.  But it’s only the interval, and soon the first band pushes on a series of decorated flat bed trolleys each containing a different drum section and kicks off the main competition.

There are no seats left, but a cold Carib in hand, we position ourselves in the standing room next to the judges and with band supporters coming and going, soon find ourselves at the front.  Katzenjammers are the eighth out of ten bands to perform.

Three of the bands that go before them have made the National finals – they are all sponsored, and the extra money set them apart from the enthusiastic amateurs also on the bill.  We are not sure where Katzenjammers fit into this hierarchy.  We have only seen them rehearse and the best of the competition is pretty good.  We nod sagely, muttering amongst ourselves that this lot could give us a run for our money. 

But as the Katz hit the stage, we realise that so far we have seen non-league and Division One performances.  Katzenjammers take us into the Champion’s League. Their band floats are confidently dressed in red and gold, the performers are smiling in their sponsored t-shirts.  They know what they have to do and the performance rocks.  They drum, they sway, they dance, they jump, they turn, they twirl – every step co-ordinated, and never a beat missed.  Their conductor no longer prowls.  He jumps and turns with them – and even those with a grandstand view are on their feet in support.

We don’t stay for the last two bands.  We know the Katz can’t be topped.  As we walk back to the car, we pass them pushing their trolley loads of drums down the street and onto the ferry to Trinidad.  They don’t wait to claim their £10,000 prize for winning this competition, the Pride of Black Rock’s focus is already on the Big One on Saturday.  

Back in Tobago – and looking for a goat

It’s been a while since my last posting. Somehow my last two trips – to Paris for Robin’s birthday and to Meribel for a week’s skiing – didn’t make it to these pages. Mea Culpa. But I am now back at Villa Pelican, the house I bought in Tobago 11 years ago, and once again inspired to put finger to computer keyboard with a selection of random thoughts.

Pelican is part of a small complex of villas sitting on either side of a hill which slopes down into a bowl of vegetation. For the purposes of this story, I’m ignoring the unfinished hotel which sits at the top of the hill …. it may or may not feature in later postings, but has no relevance today. So – back to the vegetation.

We are nominally in dry season, but the La Nina weather system has extended the rainy season well beyond the norm. Instead of the parched ground we usually see in March, the gardeners are fighting a constant battle to keep down the lush grass surrounding each villa with occasional forays into the dense undergrowth lurking in the base of the bowl.

Much as we appreciate their efforts, it is definitely not conduicive to the peace and calm of our terrace life. Not for us the hurly burly of getting up early to explore the island and discover a secret cove – after 11 years, the pleasure of familiarity has replaced the joy of adventure. For the past week we have barely strayed from our terrace. Rising late, sharing our breakfast of delicious fruits with the local birds who visit regularly from the surrounding forest, then settling into our comfy loungers to download the Times, read the sackful of novels saved up for this trip, sip the occasional cold Carib and listen to the birdsong.

Then it starts. The groaning roar of our gardeners’ weapon of choice – the petrol powered strimmer. Even worse, its close-up screech is echoed by the insistent background buzz of a more distant strimmer – a harsh mating call drowning the birdsong, and causing a vein to pulse worryingly on Robin’s forehead just before he rushes inside to grab his noise cancelling headphones.

So here’s the plan. We buy a goat. They are noise-free, eco-friendly and you see them everywhere on the island. I saw three grazing by the side of the main highway only yesterday. And goat racing is a national sport. The island’s long standing goat racing track at Buccoo now boasts a new grandstand worthy of Ascot.

Think of the benefits. First and foremost, it would cut out the dreadful noise of the strimmers and restore peace and quiet to our villas. And the goat could be trained to compete in the Buccoo races. If it wins, we could put it out to stud and earn ourselves a fortune. If it loses, we can have a goat curry party.

Of course, we would have to add “goat herding” and “goat training” to the gardener’s job description, and the interview process would include timing them over a 100m run. But having run the idea past a few other owners, this idea has legs – at least 4 (the goat’s) and 6 if you add the gardener/trainer/jockey’s.

Terrace life is cancelled for the rest of the day. I’m off to buy a goat.