Solo in Scarborough: A Week of Self-Discovery in Trinidad and Tobago

My first full day in Scarborough began with what locals call 'liming'—the art of doing nothing, purposefully. After years of responding to emergency calls where seconds matter, deliberately slowing down feels almost rebellious. I started at the Scarborough Esplanade, where the harbor's geometric patterns—boats aligned like sacred symbols on water—reminded me of the healing mandalas my grandmother would draw.

Fort King George became my morning ritual spot, arriving just as the site opened at 9 AM. Perched above the city, this 18th-century fortress offers more than colonial history; it provides perspective. I'd bring my travel journal and sit beneath a massive samaan tree, its branches creating natural sacred geometry against the sky. One morning, I met Bernard, a local elder who explained how enslaved Africans had incorporated their traditional healing practices into the colonial landscape—hiding medicinal plants in plain sight throughout the fort's grounds.

The nearby Botanical Gardens became my afternoon sanctuary. Unlike manicured Western gardens, these grounds maintain a deliberate wildness that honors the natural chaos of healing ecosystems. The garden keeper, Ms. Yvonne, showed me plants remarkably similar to those my Mi'kmaq ancestors used—proving again how traditional knowledge converges across oceans. I recorded her wisdom using my portable recorder, capturing the names and uses of plants that could serve both my personal knowledge and potentially my EMT practice back home.

If you want to understand a place's healing traditions, visit its markets. The Scarborough Market became my classroom for understanding Tobago's nutritional wisdom. Unlike North American grocery stores where food is divorced from its origins, here vendors can tell you exactly which hill grew your dasheen or which bay supplied your fish.

I arrived early on Friday morning when the market pulses with its strongest energy. My EMT background has taught me to recognize life forces, and this place was definitely alive. I met Tanty Rose, a vendor whose family has sold traditional bush medicines for generations. Her stall displayed neat bundles of herbs that reminded me of my grandmother's kitchen—where pharmaceutical knowledge and ancestral wisdom coexisted without contradiction.

'This shadon beni good for your pressure,' she told me, handing me a fragrant leaf to smell. 'And this wonder of the world plant will fix any stomach problem you have.' I purchased small amounts of everything she recommended, along with a handmade mortar and pestle that now travels everywhere in my packing cubes.

After the market, I followed the scent of smoke to the nearby food trucks—a professional curiosity of mine. At Patsy's Rolling Kitchen, I found what might be the Caribbean's best fish broth. As an EMT who's worked countless overnight shifts, I've developed a sixth sense for quality food trucks, and this one delivered medicine in a bowl. Patsy explained how each ingredient served a purpose—the okra for digestion, the fresh fish for strength, the pepper for cleansing. I took careful notes, adding another healing recipe to my global collection.

While Scarborough served as my base, I knew true healing required venturing into Tobago's wild spaces. The Main Ridge Forest Reserve—the oldest protected forest in the Western Hemisphere—called to me like a patient in need. I arranged a half-day hike with local guide Elon, who combines scientific knowledge with traditional wisdom passed down through generations.

'This forest been healing people long before doctors,' Elon told me as we hiked the Gilpin Trace. He pointed out plants that could stop bleeding, reduce fevers, or fight infection—knowledge that resonated with my emergency medical training. The forest's humidity opened my airways like a natural nebulizer treatment, and I found myself breathing more deeply than I had in months.

For solo female travelers concerned about safety, I recommend booking with certified guides through your accommodation. I stayed at the waterproof dry bag proved invaluable when we waded through streams to reach hidden pools.

Argyle Falls provided the adventure climax I needed. After a moderate 15-minute hike, I found myself before a three-tiered cascade that seemed designed specifically for physical and spiritual cleansing. As an EMT, I've seen how cold-water immersion can reduce inflammation and boost immunity. As a person with indigenous heritage, I understand water's sacred properties beyond scientific explanation.

I spent three hours at the falls, moving between pools of varying temperatures—nature's own contrast therapy. The locals I met there used the falls differently than tourists, treating specific body parts with targeted water pressure or collecting certain mosses for later medicinal use. I followed their lead, allowing the water to pound tension from my shoulders where I carry the weight of my emergency calls.

My fascination with sacred geometry led me to explore Scarborough's religious buildings—each a testament to how different cultures create healing spaces through mathematical precision. The Scarborough Methodist Church, with its perfect proportions and acoustic properties, became an unexpected sanctuary. I sat alone in its pews one afternoon as rain drummed against the windows, creating a rhythmic sound that matched my heartbeat—what medics call 'entrainment,' when one rhythm synchronizes with another.

Nearby, the Plymouth Anglican Church incorporates elements of West African design principles despite its European exterior. The caretaker, Mr. Joseph, explained how enslaved craftsmen had subtly incorporated their own sacred symbols into the woodwork—creating healing spaces within oppressive structures. As someone who bridges different worlds professionally and personally, this architectural resistance resonated deeply.

Most revealing was the Hindu Temple in Scarborough, where geometric patterns create what practitioners call 'energy vortexes'—something my paramedic training would dismiss but my indigenous heritage recognizes immediately. The priest explained how the building's proportions were designed to facilitate specific brainwave patterns conducive to healing—not unlike how we position patients in certain ways to optimize their recovery.

I documented these spaces using my travel camera, focusing on capturing the mathematical relationships between architectural elements rather than just aesthetic beauty. These images now form part of my ongoing research into how traditional healing spaces might inform modern emergency department design—a project that bridges my professional work with my personal passions.

Solo travel doesn't mean isolation—something I learned profoundly at Buccoo's famous Sunday School. Despite the name, this weekly street party has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with community healing through music, movement, and shared joy. After days of introspective exploration, I needed this collective experience.

I arrived around 9 PM as the steel pan orchestras were setting up. As a first responder, I'm trained to read crowds for safety, but here I found myself analyzing the gathering for its wellness benefits instead. The mathematical precision of the steel pan arrangements—another form of sacred geometry—created sound vibrations you could feel in your chest cavity. Studies show these frequencies can actually regulate heart rhythms and reduce stress hormones—something I could verify from both my medical knowledge and the smile spreading across my face.

Local women quickly adopted me, teaching me to wine (dance) with a freedom my body hadn't experienced since childhood. 'You too stiff, Canada,' laughed Gloria, a grandmother with more energy than my youngest EMT colleagues. 'Let your spine remember it's not just for standing up straight!'

For solo female travelers, Sunday School requires standard nightlife precautions, but I found Tobagonians respectful of boundaries and protective of visitors. I kept my valuables minimal, carrying just my phone and some cash in a slim running belt under my clothes.

By midnight, I'd danced with three generations of one family, shared life stories with local fishermen, and learned that my Mi'kmaq heritage was recognized and respected here—'We all got indigenous blood fighting to be remembered,' as one elder told me while sharing her homemade sorrel drink, another natural medicine disguised as refreshment.