Trinidad and Tobago is having a real moment in regard to literature. Authors like Lisa Allen-Agostini, Kevin Jared Hosein, Monique Roffey and Celeste Mohammed to name a few, are garnering global literary acclaim. They are taking the baton from some of our well-known greats such as Nobel Laureate, V.S. Naipaul. His classic, A House for Mr Biswas (1961), contains some of his best writing, including an alluring depiction of Sans Souci, a village about 7km from Toco. Reading the novel while still at school, I imagined this coastal paradise as rough and temperamental, exhibiting a wholly different character to say, Maracas or Mayaro.
I figured, after three decades, it was time to see for myself.
I imagined this coastal paradise as rough and temperamental, exhibiting a wholly different character to say, Maracas or Mayaro.
Driving to Sans Souci with my girlfriends, I felt myself channelling Mr Biswas, witnessing all that he saw, for Naipaul wrote “the wind never ceased to rage through the trees; above the swaying bush, the dancing plumes of green, the sky was high and open.” This last description was easy to imagine; I gripped the vegetation lining the small hill at the end of the beach and at the top, met a spectacular view. The sea seemed even angrier on that side, relentless against rocks that looked like sleeping Jurassic tortoises. It was in direct contrast to the small estuary I could see below, calm and mouldy green, saved for the dappling light coming through the bending trees.
Back down at the shore, it was clear that swimming would require constant negotiation with the current. The tide moved in quickly, dimpling the sand and carving new shapes into the giant, perennial rocks. Sure, Sans Souci has changed since Naipaul’s days, but the sea still retains a natural rugged beauty with waves that, on that day, faced off and crashed into each other.
The sunset chased us back to the east but not before we stopped at a small restaurant in the village for pelau, stewed lentils, rice and provision.
I wonder if Naipaul, amid the harsh English winters, ever yearned for Sans Souci. Perhaps he didn’t need to. Perhaps he simply took a page from the family Biswas on their return home – “They fell asleep with the roar of wind and sea in their heads.”
