Lost in Tamana

WE HAD been driving for what felt like half a day, in search of a little known but highly recommended natural attraction deep in the forests of Tamana. We had tried our best to follow the directions of a poorly drawn map and a few ambiguous verbal landmarks — such as “big mango tree” or “old basketball hoop” — but we eventually admitted we were lost in Tamana, and decided to ask for help. We came across three young teens in school uniform on the side of the road, one of whom giggled when we asked for directions — which was certainly a bad sign — and we were told to “head over so” down a road to our left. So we did. Their bogus directions lead us down a very bumpy and narrow dirt track and we kept going and going and going until, abruptly, the track turned into a small dirt footpath heading into the forest.

This was the end of the line. Sitting there in the car surrounded by window-high razor grass, with nothing but the sound of a purring engine and the music of the jungle, we realised that we were, in fact, smack dab in The Middle of Nowhere. Getting out of The Middle of Nowhere took some time and a lot of skilful “reverse-back” manoeuvering by our driver, but finally we found our way back to the road. We then came across a man walking with his little girl, and deciding he would be more honest than the mischievous teens who led us astray, we again asked for directions. This time he sent us on the right path, and soon we came across the small WASA post we had been looking for. After parking the car, lacing up our running shoes and putting on our backpacks, we headed into the dense forest.

The forest was hot and muggy, and sweat dripped down our faces as we walked. The sounds of the forest were deafening — cicadas, crickets, birds and other unseen animals all talking at the same time. We began to hear in the distance a cacophony of rough, deep throated barks, which we assumed was a pack of hunting dogs, but as we got nearer we stopped dead in our tracks — those were no hunting dogs we were hearing, those were howler monkeys, perched somewhere high above us in the trees. We tried to tip-toe quietly, hopeful to catch a glimpse of them, but the second they heard a single twig snap underfoot, they disappeared, and we were left in silence. After a 20-minute or so trek up a small hill, we came across what we were looking for — a large cave that sat like a wide gaping mouth, plummeting deep into the earth. We peered into the cave and didn’t see much in the pitch black below, but we heard the twittering of bats inside.

We took our seats at the edge of the cave, perching our bottoms gingerly on some large rocks. Checking a watch, we saw it was almost time for the main attraction — the nightly exodus of a massive colony of bats going into the forest in search of food. As we sat, keeping perfectly still and quiet, we began to feel a gentle breeze rising from the cave from the beating of a million tiny wings flying around and around deep in the cave, just waiting to spill over the side. We watched quietly, not quite sure what to expect. Then, quick as a bullet, one lone bat shot out towards us and darted between the trees, disappearing into the forest. Another flew out over our heads; this one took a different direction, and a few seconds later more sped out. The tornado deep inside the cave seemed to pick up speed — the bats began flying out a handful at a time, then ten at a time, each moving on its own course. We peered over the edge — the whirlpool of furry bodies below seemed to be rising closer to the edge of the cave, and every second more and more flew out, many passing just close enough to brush our faces with the tip of their wing.

Soon they were pouring out by the dozens, a moving current of bats, more than the eye could see. Feeling a little braver, we now stood up and let the bats pass as close to us as possible, some veering away a fraction of a second before hitting us head-on. I must say it was exhilarating being so close to the tiny creatures, knowing that no matter how close to you they passed, their skilled radars would keep them from collision. Finally it seemed to be reaching a crescendo — the movement in the cave was rising, getting bigger and faster and denser, the sound got louder and louder, the bats kept circling around and around at break-neck speed, and the departure of the bats didn’t appear to be stopping; it just kept going and going like it would never end, as many bats as there are stars in the sky. Unfortunately, it was starting to get dark by, and since we did not know how long the bat exodus would continue, we reluctantly had to leave.

Mystified, we headed back through the forest towards the car, catching glimpses of bats darting about through the trees. I still have no idea how long the entire process takes, but considering we watched for over an hour and had the feeling that what we saw was only the beginning, we can only imagine how many bats really do live in that colony. It has been estimated that there are well over a million in that one cave alone. Hopefully one day we will go back, this time equipped with some flashlights so we can wait and see just how long the exodus takes. But it is good to know that you don’t need to go far to get lost in The Middle of Nowhere, and that hidden deep in the forests, one of Trinidad’s wonders, for now, remains pristine and untouched.