Road Rage and Critically Endangered Monkeys

Boats underneath of a palm tree in Nariva Swamp, home to the critically endangered white-fronted capuchin.

There are moments in time that become inflection points—or in my case, plot twists that lead to connections and realizations.

The morning after a series of flights from hell, an ill-advised mix of pharmaceuticals and whiskey, and finally a sleep that I wouldn’t call “restful” so much as “unconscious,” I find myself in a hotel lobby, gripping a cup of something that resembles coffee. Xena arrives right on time, bright and early, an enthusiasm I can’t quite muster. Today’s mission? A trek to the east coast of Trinidad, where we’ll take a boat through a swamp to find the last remaining population of critically endangered Trinidadian white-fronted capuchins. Think of them as the “real housewives” of the capuchin world—rare, territorial, and very likely judging me. And why? Because I love them.

These capuchins, unlike some of their more adaptable cousins (think Marcel on Friends), don’t do well with humans. They cling to the last untouched fragments of forest on the island, or at least places that haven’t been thoroughly trampled by tourists with selfie sticks. So here we are, driving across Trinidad in search of these shy creatures who would prefer we didn’t bother.

Xena, clearly immune to my travel-related crankiness of yesterday, is chatty. I pry my eyes open a little wider and ask her about herself, hoping to bridge the gap left by my jet lag and general misanthropy. Her story is unexpected. She comes from a family of conservative Middle Eastern immigrants, where the traditional path is marriage, family, and not becoming a single mom who lives out of a suitcase. But life doesn’t always respect tradition. She accidentally became pregnant, decided to raise the baby alone in New York City, and somehow managed to return to Trinidad as a black sheep with a suitcase full of determination. Now, she’s an independent contractor, supporting local tour agencies while giving the proverbial finger to societal expectations. Her courage is impressive and touching.

As a solo gay traveler who finds himself anxiously googling “LGBTQ rights in [insert country]” before every trip, I feel an unexpected kinship. Xena gets it. She’s lived it and doesn't ask about my background or why I'm traveling to see critically endangered monkeys alone. It’s refreshing and unnerving at the same time, like drinking orange juice right after brushing your teeth.

The stormy Trinidadian highway leaving the Nariva Swamp Preserve.

As we make our way through the central forests and out to the coast, the scenery turns into a classic Caribbean postcard: the beach on one side, forest on the other, palm trees swaying in what is quickly becoming a menacing wind. I’m trying to appreciate the beauty, but the gathering clouds suggest that Mother Nature might have other plans.

We arrive at what might once have been someone’s home, now a “visitor center” that looks about as official as a lemonade stand. Xena exchanges words with two men whose accents are so thick the English that they're speaking sounds like another language. After a few nods and indecipherable murmurs, she turns to me with bad news: the water levels in the swamp are too low. Unless the levels rise, our boat won’t make it to the capuchins.

As we wait, one of the men presents me with a turtle, his tone suggesting it’s the crown jewel of Nariva Swamp. I snap a photo and making a mental note to look “fascinated” as I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking at. Meanwhile, I spot an orchid growing on a tree—a species from Asia. I marvel at the audacity of this plant, thriving where it has no business being, often much like myself.

An Asian orchid that somehow found it's way to a Caribbean island nation.

Finally, Xena returns with the good news: her colleagues have, through what I assume involved great effort and swearing, dragged our metal boat into the swamp. We’re good to go. I honestly don't see how the water level is any different, but whatever. When in Rome.

As we sail through a mosquito-laden swamp, the sky opens up in a torrential downpour. Unsure what to do, I dig through my bag for anything helpful, which, in a twist of fate, is an obnoxiously fleur-de-lis poncho that a colleague gave me during a recent work conference in New Orleans. I throw the poncho over me and my camera bag, not just surprised that I'm wearing a random sports teams' fleur-de-lis patterned poncho in the middle of a Trinidadian swamp in search of critically endanger capuchins, but I have no idea what this sports team is. I'm clad in a plastic poncho that’s more “football-game-or-bust” than “rugged adventurer.”

Scenes from Nariva Swamp:

Eventually we dock. Xena stays under a cover near the boat. Our guide, still unintelligible to me, points out various plants and animals while we walk through a forest laden with dead leaves, which I dutifully nod at as if I understand a single word he’s saying.

At last, we spot the reason behind my trip to Trinidad and Tobago - a white-fronted capuchin—a lone male, glaring at us with all the disdain of somebody who's been pushed to their limits. He shakes branches at us, hurling leaves and twigs in a grand gesture that screams, “Get lost.” The intelligence required to critically think about how to get humans to go away and the anger in his expression is striking. He’s not just annoyed; he’s plotting our demise by way of falling debris and water. And frankly, I don’t blame him.

I fumble with my camera, struggling to capture a shot in the rain-soaked gloom. Eventually, I accept defeat against the backlit monkey and retreat to the boat. I sidle up to Xena and ask, in a low voice, if tipping is appropriate. She nods and mentions that our guide is a humble man who could use a little extra. I dig a five-dollar bill from my wallet, praying it’s generous enough and not some unwitting insult.

The White-Fronted Capuchin - backlit and wet.

As we head back, traffic grinds to a halt, the kind of gridlock that makes you question your life choices. It's like a mini–Los Angeles during rush hour. We crawl along inches at a time until, suddenly, a woman carrying a baby, steps in front of the car. Xena taps the gas just as the woman shifts forward, and there’s a soft, regrettable thud. The woman’s fine, but furious. She marches to Xena’s window, shouting, while Xena, unfazed, rolls down her window and starts shouting back in a blend of Trinidadian dialect and New York ferocity.

In that moment, two things become clear: one, I’m possibly about to witness a full-blown altercation that could become an international incident; and two, Xena is absolutely the person you want in your corner when things go sideways. Eventually, after a theatrical exchange, we break free of the chaos and return to my hotel.

How can a city tiny island nation have five lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic?

I confirm with Xena that she'll be the person that returns to the hotel later in the afternoon, then grab lunch, and prepare for my flight to Georgetown. At the hotel bar, I try a local delicacy called roti— something that looks like a kind of burrito that's made from flatbread and curried meats and vegetables - a result of the Caribbean melting pot. Its as comforting as it is messy and a fitting end to a day that’s been a blend of beauty, chaos, and tiny monkeys.

When it's time to head to the airport, I collect my bags and head to the front of the hotel. A driver who is not Xena is awaiting me. He doesn't help me with my bags and spends the entire ride to the airport on his phone. I miss Xena. I hope that she's not in trouble from the accident or completely mortified. Accidents happen and this one wasn't her fault.

The driver drops me off at the airport, where I check in at the Caribbean Airlines counter—a brand I hadn’t heard of before booking this trip, but with airfare prices that make you ignore the three-star reviews and hope for the best. In this part of the world, the choices are limited, so it's either Caribbean Airlines or a very ambitious swim.

Roti at the Hilton Bar.

With time to kill, I do what any experienced traveler does in unfamiliar territory: seek out the airport bar. Bourbon isn’t on the menu here, so I settle for rum, served with a single giant ice cube. I swirl it around, vaguely wondering if the water on this island is drinkable and if alcohol is strong enough to kill whatever bacteria might be lurking in my glass. It’s a calculated risk—one I decide to take, because at this point, hydration is overrated.

When they finally announce boarding, it turns out that “boarding groups” are more of a suggestion than a rule. There’s a small group of us trickling onto the plane, which seems oddly empty until I realize it’s already half-full from an earlier stop. I head to the back, noting the retro ‘90s decor, a dead giveaway that this plane might have started life as a Delta reject. I reach my row only to find someone already seated in my seat. Turns out Caribbean Airlines, in a fit of generosity, assigned the same seat to two people.

My Trinidad goodbye drink.

I settle into a new seat and notice that there’s only one flight attendant for the entire plane. There’s no safety briefing, no reassuring announcements. Just the engine hum and a faint sense of “good luck” and reggae music. At this point, I’m too exhausted to care. After a day spent communing with critically endangered animals, navigating accidental vehicular incidents, and praying that my rum was bacterium-free, I’m ready for this flight to be over. I sink into my seat, bracing myself for a bumpy, no-frills ride, and hoping this plane has just enough gas in it to get me to the next country in one piece.

As I sit in my pre-warmed seat and attempt to read a book, my thoughts keep drifting back to Xena. The sheer force of her personality, that fiery resilience forged through a life that defied expectations, leaves me in quiet awe. I realize I should have said something more—maybe told her she’s a force to be reckoned with. Or, more likely, I wish I could go back in time (years) and tell myself that, after a day that felt like it was written by a slightly malicious travel writer. I regret not slipping her a bit of cash as a small thanks, a nod to the few people you meet who make travel feel less about the destination and more about the connection. It was like two outcasts maneuvering a swamp together.

This trip, marked by chaos and capuchins, served up one of those moments in time that become inflection points with an ironic flair only travel can manage.