February 2025
Agnes He
For someone like me—a planner, a researcher, a curator of meticulous itineraries—what unfolded was unlike anything I had ever done. It was whimsical, unscripted, almost rebellious in its spontaneity. We took a trip to Trinidad and Tobago, a place we knew little about, with no agenda, no plan, nothing but two air tickets and the knowledge that our good friends will be there. It was out of character, out of my character.
The reasons for this leap were several. January 2025 brought a shift in the U.S. political landscape, a tide of uncertainty that left many of us in the university weary. Sometimes, the wise thing is to step away, to retreat from the noise and find solace in distance. And then there was my sabbatical—a semester I had envisioned filled with collaboration and creation, working alongside colleagues in the UK. But life had other plans. My elbows and wrists rebelled against me, making typing a struggle. Voice input became my lifeline, though it felt clumsy, like trying to paint a masterpiece with mittens on. Work became a challenge, and my sabbatical plans had to change.
But perhaps the most compelling reason was the pull of friendship. For ten years, Jackson’s close colleague and friend Eugene and his wife Maria (who divide their time between US and Tobago) had extended a standing invitation: Come to Tobago. Stay with us. Let us show you this part of our world. And so, we thought, what better time than now? To escape the biting cold of winter, to step away from the chaos of politics, and to embrace the warmth of friends, even if just for a fleeting week.
We bought our tickets on a whim, just before the great carnival would sweep through Trinidad and Tobago. We knew little about the islands, their rhythms, their secrets. We had no itinerary, no checklist of must-see sights. This was unlike any trip we had taken before. We were totally unprepared yet fully committed.
And then, magic happened. Freed from the shackles of schedules and the weight of expectations, we simply let go. We discovered the beauty of trust, of believing that nature, and good friends, will guide you where you need to be. This trip was a lesson in surrender, proof of the power of faith—not in plans, but in people.
The landscape of Trinidad and Tobago mirrors its weather—vivid, unpredictable, and breathtakingly varied. One moment, the sun bathes the earth in golden light, warming the air with comforting moisture. The next, rain cascades from the heavens, and thunder roars ferociously. In the same way, you might find yourself winding along a narrow mountain road, only to plunge suddenly into the lush embrace of a rainforest. Seconds later, the scene shifts again, and you emerge onto the smooth, sun-kissed sands of a pristine beach. These transitions come without warning, without preparation, yet they carry a thrilling sense of wonder and discovery. They jolt you awake, forcing you to see the world with fresh eyes and a renewed mind. Each moment feels like a chance to begin again. Though the islands are small in size, the sheer diversity of their landscapes and weather is so vast that as if nature has compressed the grandeur of infinite possibilities into this tiny corner of the world.
The truest sense of abandonment and release came alive when Eugene and Maria led us to Argyle Falls in Tobago. After a 20-minute hike through lush, whispering greenery, we were met with a spectacle of nature’s raw power—a two-tiered waterfall cascading with a kind of wild elegance that took my breath away. The lower level was beautiful, serene, but the higher level beckoned with a challenge. To reach it, we had to climb a steep, slippery mountainside, a path so treacherous that a rope had been anchored for the daring to cling to.
At first, doubt crept in. I stood there, staring at the ascent, my mind racing. Maybe I should stay here, I thought. Maybe the lower level is enough. But then Maria, ever perceptive, said softly, “If you don’t go up, I’ll stay here with you.” Her words struck me like a gentle but firm nudge. I couldn’t let her miss out on something she loved. So I made a deal with myself: I’ll try. I’ll go as far as I can. If it’s too much, I’ll turn back.
What followed was a miracle of determination. Hand over hand, foot over foot, I climbed, my body contorting into positions I didn’t know it could hold. I didn’t care how I looked or how awkward it felt—I just moved, one step at a time, until I reached the top. My heart pounded, my head spun, but I had made it. Exhausted, I told them, “You go ahead. I’ll sit here and watch.” Maria smiled and said, “If you change your mind, come join us. No pressure.”
But how could I not change my mind? The waterfall looked both daunting and mesmerizing. Watching them laugh and play under its torrent, I felt a pull, a longing to be part of that wild, unbridled joy. I carefully made my way to the falls, each step guided by their steady hands. Without my glasses or my hearing aid, the world was a blur, the sounds muffled, but it didn’t matter. What I couldn’t see, I felt. What I couldn’t hear, the waterfall drowned out with its thunderous voice.
And then, I was there—directly beneath the cascade. The water crashed down on me with a weight that felt like the sky itself was pouring onto my shoulders. It was a massage too intense to bear, yet too exhilarating to resist. I wore no swimsuit, just a simple top and skirt, and as the water soaked through every fiber, I felt an incredible release. It was as if the waterfall was washing away every inhibition, every fear, every weight I had carried.
In that moment, I was wild. I screamed, I laughed, I let the water claim me. There was no hiding, no seeking shelter—just a raw, visceral connection to the natural world. It was freedom in its purest form, a surrender to something greater than myself. This was what it meant to be alive. To feel, to embrace, to let go. To be one with the water, with the earth, with the moment. To me, it was a baptism.
One of the most unforgettable experiences of our trip was witnessing the steel orchestra based in the Buccoo area of Tobago. Imagine a sea of 100 musicians, each wielding steel pans of varying sizes, standing in a formation that mirrored that of a Western orchestra. The smallest pans are positioned at the front, with their high, bright tones shimmering like sunlight. Behind them, the mid-sized pans hummed with a warm, resonant depth, while the largest pans anchored the outer layers, their low, thunderous notes vibrating through the air like the heartbeat of the earth. It was a visual symphony, a living, breathing arrangement that echoed the structure of violins, violas, cellos, and basses—but with a spirit entirely its own.
The sheer energy, the raw devotion that poured from every musician was contagious. It was a full-bodied act of love. Their entire beings were engaged—hands flying, feet shifting, bodies swaying as if dancing with their instruments. The conductor was a whirlwind of motion, darting between the orchestra and the audience, his gestures dramatic and fluid, a bridge between sound and soul. The synergy was palpable, not just between the musicians and their instruments, but between their bodies and the music itself. From a distance, the orchestra moved like waves on the ocean, a rhythmic undulation that was as mesmerizing to watch as it was to hear.
The steel pan, an instrument born in Trinidad and Tobago, carries a story of resilience and creativity. Originally crafted from discarded oil drums, it has become a symbol of cultural pride and democratized music-making. Here was an orchestra that welcomed so many—young and old, seasoned and new—united by their passion for rhythm and melody. It was deeply moving to see such a vast crowd pouring their talent, time, and heart into this shared creation. There was something raw and authentic about the music, the beat, the rhythm, a force, a living entity that demanded to be felt.
I turned to Eugene and Maria, curious. “Do they follow sheet music?” I asked. The answer was no. These musicians didn’t rely on written notes. Instead, they knew their conductor intimately, they knew each other deeply, and they moved by feel. They calibrated their movements and their tones in real time, their collaboration seamless, their coordination almost instinctual.
The performance was electric, contagious. The music wasn’t just heard; it was absorbed, felt in the bones, in the pulse of the blood. It may not follow any notations but flowed from the heart. It was a celebration of community, of creativity, of the human spirit’s ability to turn hardship into beauty. I was reminded that music, at its core, is not just about sound—it’s about connection, about the invisible threads that bind us together in rhythm, in joy, in the shared experience of being human.
In the short week we spent in Trinidad and Tobago, we were gifted several once-in-a-lifetime experiences, but none quite as breathtaking as witnessing the Scarlet Ibis flock to the Caroni Swamp. As I have been dabbling in acrylic painting over the past couple of years, I have often imagined birds in flight as shades of gray or black—subtle, muted strokes against a pale sky. But the Scarlet Ibis shattered every preconception. These birds are not just red; they are a blazing, vivid scarlet, a color so intense it seems to defy nature itself. And when not tens, not hundreds, but thousands of them take to the sky at once, it is nothing short of otherworldly.
Our tour of the Caroni Bird Sanctuary began at 4 p.m., led by a guide whose deep knowledge of the region’s flora and fauna was matched only by his reverence for the spectacle we were about to witness. He timed our arrival perfectly, just before sunset, when the Scarlet Ibis would begin their daily ritual. As the golden light of dusk spilled across the horizon, the sky transformed into a canvas of light yellows and golds. Against this radiant backdrop, the ibis began to arrive—first in small clusters, then in waves, their scarlet bodies streaking across the sky like living embers.
The formations were mesmerizing. Sometimes they flew in a chaotic, swirling mass, a storm of red against the heavens. Other times, they arranged themselves into precise shapes—a long, undulating line, or a formation resembling the Chinese character for “人(person),” a triangle with a single bird leading the way. They converged on a tiny green island from all directions, their movements fluid and purposeful, as if guided by some invisible force.
The island itself became a living masterpiece. As the ibis circled above, their scarlet wings catching the last light of day, they seemed to greet one another, their flight a dance of connection and community. They would swoop low, skimming the treetops, before settling on branches, their red bodies transforming the green foliage into a colossal Christmas tree adorned with crimson ornaments. The island, once a patch of green, now shimmered with the vibrant red of thousands of ibis, a living mistletoe tree on a scale beyond imagination.
It almost felt like a cosmic event, a realignment of constellations not in the sky, but on earth. The boundaries between bird and tree, sky and land, seemed to blur. The scarlet bodies of the ibis dotted the green expanse like stars, their movements so fluid and harmonious that it became impossible to tell where the birds ended and the trees began. I had never seen anything like it. On Long Island, we have cardinals—small, bright flashes of red—but the Scarlet Ibis is something entirely different. It is not just a bird; it is a symbol, the national bird of Trinidad and Tobago, a creature that embodies the vibrancy and vitality of this land.
Trinidad and Tobago, once the world’s second-largest producer of cocoa powder, is a land steeped in the rich history of chocolate. During our time in Trinidad, Eugene and Maria took us to the Brasso Seco Village, home to a cacao plantation. The journey there was an adventure in itself—a treacherous, winding mountain road riddled with potholes, so precarious that at times we all had to step out of the car to lighten the load, allowing Eugene to navigate the path without damaging the rental car’s undercarriage. But the effort was worth it. When we finally arrived, we were greeted by Carl and Kelly, the passionate stewards of this lush, vibrant plantation.
Carl, born and raised in Trinidad, had spent over a decade working in the tech industry in North America before realizing his true calling lay in nature. Kelly, originally from Massachusetts, had fallen in love with Trinidad during a college trip and never left. Together, they embodied a beautiful blend of cultures and backgrounds—Carl, of mixed racial heritage like many in Trinidad, and Kelly, a white Caucasian who had fully embraced her adopted home. The tour they gave us was unhurried, a “go-with-the-flow” experience that felt more like a walk with friends than a structured excursion. Out of respect, Carl wore shoes, but Kelly chose to go barefoot, her feet treading confidently over the unpaved, rocky, and sometimes muddy paths. For an hour, she moved effortlessly, her bare feet connecting her to the earth in a way that felt almost sacred.
As we wandered through the plantation, Carl and Kelly shared its history, but what captivated me most were the cacao trees themselves. Kelly corrected some of our misconceptions, pointing out the immortelle trees with their vibrant orange flowers—tall, majestic guardians introduced to provide nutrients to the cacao trees. This was a place where nature solved its own problems; no fertilizers were used, and the ecosystem thrived in perfect harmony. The waterfalls and the brooks, they told us, were so pure and clear that the water was drinkable.
The plantation, though not vast, was a tapestry of biodiversity. Rows of cacao trees stood alongside other fruits and flowers, their shades of green painting a living mosaic. The warm, moist climate meant no need for irrigation—nature took care of itself here. We passed a handful of laborers tending to the fields, raking the soil and pruning branches.
After the tour, Carl and Kelly invited us to their treehouse—a simple, open-air structure nestled among the trees. From its elevated perch, we could see coconut trees at eye level. The treehouse and their home—a modest, windowless structure—was a testament to their minimalist, eco-conscious lifestyle. Despite the remoteness of this village, Carl and Kelly were far from isolated. With cell phones and internet, they stayed connected to their children, one attending college in Trinidad and the other working in the U.S.
As we settled into the treehouse, Carl and Kelly offered us a taste of their cacao. The beans, surprisingly mild and far less bitter than I’d expected, were the foundation of their dark chocolate. We sampled 70% and 60% dark chocolate, each bite rich and complex. They also prepared cocoa tea, a traditional drink made by boiling cacao in water for 15 minutes before adding cream and sugar. Sipping it in the treehouse, surrounded by bird nests hanging from the branches and the lush greenery of bananas and coconuts, felt like a taste of paradise.
Trinidad and Tobago, two islands nestled in the Caribbean, carry a history as rich and layered as the cultures that have shaped them. Long before Christopher Columbus set foot on their shores at the end of the 15th century, these islands were home to indigenous peoples. After Columbus’s arrival, Trinidad fell under Spanish rule, followed by the French, while Tobago became a chess piece in a colonial game, passing between the British, French, and Dutch multiple times. By the late 19th century, the two islands were united as a single political entity, and in 1962, they gained independence from the British Empire.
In the colonial period, Africans were brought as slaves, East Indians arrived as indentured laborers, and Chinese workers came in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Each wave of migration left its mark, resulting in a vibrant cultural fusion that is reflected in the islands’ architecture (and of course language and life).
One of the most striking examples of this architectural heritage is the George Brown houses, a signature style named after a Scottish architect who settled in Trinidad in the late 19th century. These homes, with their distinctive "gingerbread" aesthetic, are a blend of beauty and practicality. Characterized by steeply pitched roofs designed to shed heavy rainfall and provide insulation, they also feature open spaces at the top of interior walls for ventilation, decorative windows, and large central atriums with high windows that allow for cross-ventilation and natural light. The use of cast iron and intricate detailing adds to their charm, making them both functional and visually stunning.
During our trip, we had the privilege of touring one such house—the former home of Eugene’s family, now a museum. Built by George Brown himself, the house was as much about artistry as it was about utility. We were greeted by Carmelita Bissessarsingh, a young woman whose family has dedicated themselves to preserving Trinidad’s cultural heritage. Her father, Rudolph Bissessarsingh, a retired art teacher, painted the oil paintings that now adorn the house’s interior. Her brother, Angelo, initiated the cultural preservation project (but sadly passed away at a young age). Carmelita’s passion for history was evident as she spoke of her desire to interview Eugene’s aunt, now in her 90s, to uncover more about the house’s past. It was heartening to see the younger generation taking up the mantle of preserving their heritage.
Our journey through Trinidad’s architectural history didn’t end there. We passed by the church Eugene and Maria attended in their youth, a Romanesque-style structure in the Belmont area. Like many historical buildings in Port of Spain, it reflects the islands’ long and complex colonial past. Along the Queen’s Park Savannah, are the Magnificent Seven, a row of Victorian-style mansions that have stood for over a century. These grand buildings, with their intricate facades and sprawling verandas, are a stark contrast to the modern glass-and-steel structures that now dot Port of Spain’s skyline. The juxtaposition of old and new is a visual reminder of the islands’ evolution, a blend of colonial history and contemporary progress. From religious structures like churches and mosques and forts to public buildings, schools, airports and private residences, each structure tells a story—a story of colonization, independence, cultural fusion and globalization. Speaking of airports, China is helping Trinidad and Tobago build a big new airport in Tobago, which currently has a small, 2-gate (one domestic one international) airport which connects directly Tobago and New York (JFK).
Our dear friends Maria and Eugene opened their home and their hearts to us. Not only did they introduce us to the richness of Trinidad and Tobago, but they also shared a deeply important aspect of their lives—their faith. Trinidad and Tobago is a meeting place of many religions, including Roman Catholicism, Protestantism, Islam, Hinduism, and many other faiths. Maria and Eugene, both lifelong Catholics, were raised in families deeply rooted in this tradition. Maria shared with us how church activities in Trinidad and Tobago differ from those in the U.S. In her experience, worship in the U.S. tends to be more rigid and structured, whereas in Trinidad and Tobago, it is dynamic, interactive, and filled with vibrant, uplifting music.
We learned during this trip that 2025 marks the Roman Catholic Jubilee, announced by Pope Francis. This special event occurs every 25 years, and while I’m not entirely sure of its full significance, it seems to be a time when the grace of the Catholic faith is felt most profoundly—a year for renewal and reflection as "pilgrims of hope." From Maria and Eugene, we learned that church attendance has been declining in recent years. While there are still some young people in the congregations, the number of young believers is relatively small. Additionally, there is a shortage of local priests, which has led to a situation where multiple churches must share the same priest. They mentioned that the region has even begun importing priests from Africa to address this shortage. Despite the challenges facing organized religion here, I was struck by how progressive the society seems to be. For instance, the LGBTQ+ community is generally well accepted. A prominent example is Calypso Rose, one of the country’s most celebrated cultural icons, who is widely admired for popularizing Calypso music worldwide. There is a museum dedicated to her which we visited in Fort King George in the beautiful town of Scarborough. Calypso Rose is openly lesbian and married to a woman.
One evening, Maria and Eugene took us to their church, where they recorded a choral performance. Both of them are gifted singers, and Maria has spent a significant part of her life conducting church choirs in the U.S. The song they performed, titled You Are the Source of My Strength, draws its inspiration from a biblical phrase: "You are my source of strength; I will sing praises to you." The recording process was divided into three parts: the male voices, the soprano section, and the full choir. It took six attempts to perfect the male vocal section alone. Maria shared with me that, aside from the choir leader, none of the members read music. Instead, they learn entirely by ear. Despite this, their singing was profoundly moving, filled with emotion and sincerity. The music flowed from the depths of their hearts.
I can’t help but marvel at the bond we’ve formed with Eugene and Maria, despite not sharing their religious beliefs. True, a deep friendship can transcend not only language and race but also belief systems. As an agnostic, I believe that while we may not share the specific tenets of any one religion, we share something far greater. We all draw strength from some source. We all believe in human decency, compassion, and respect for one another’s beliefs. We all seek out the good and the special in those around us, striving to make ourselves and our surroundings a little better each day.
Of course, it was Eugene and Maria who provided us with the most insightful and informative perspectives on Trinidad and Tobago. However, the person who first sparked my fascination with this part of the world was the linguist and lexicographer Lise Winer. She was my colleague and friend in the Linguistics Department during my first job at Southern Illinois University. When I met her in the early 1990s, she was completing her magnum opus: the first Dictionary of the English Creole of Trinidad and Tobago. (Lise) Winer is often regarded as Trinidad and Tobago’s very own Webster.
Years later, we visited Lise again in Montreal, Canada, where she was teaching at McGill University. By then, her dictionary had been published, and we purchased a copy directly from her. We later presented it as a gift to Eugene and Maria. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the richness of the region’s distinct pronunciation, vocabulary, and grammar, which clearly reflect the influences of African, Indian, and European languages. But I vividly remember certain features, like the rising intonation at the end of sentences, even in declarative statements. I also recall with great fondness the many conversations I had with Lise about the storytelling traditions of the region. She spoke of how everyone seemed to be a natural storyteller, possessing remarkable dramaturgical skills that captivated and intrigued their audiences. Storytellers would effortlessly weave together multiple voices, ventriloquizing the diverse characters within their tales. It was as if a single person could embody an entire cast, bringing each character to life with vivid authenticity.
The Creole language itself is a testament to human ingenuity. Born from the interactions of speakers of many languages, it features simplified grammatical structures compared to its parent languages. This simplification is not a limitation but a strength. By streamlining complex verb conjugations and intricate syntactical rules, for example, Creole becomes more accessible to people from varied linguistic backgrounds. It stands as a remarkable collective creation, a great accomplishment, born out of human coexistence—whether by choice or by circumstance.
This is why V.S. Naipaul, the Nobel Prize-winning author and native of Trinidad and Tobago, was profoundly mistaken when he claimed that his homeland had contributed nothing to civilization. At the very least, at the linguistic level, Trinidad and Tobago has given the world something extraordinary: a vibrant, dynamic Creole language that embodies the resilience, creativity, and interconnectedness of its people.