A bath at last! (in asphalt)

Day 130: Thursday 16th May

La Brea Pitch Lake is the largest natural deposit of asphalt in the world, with an estimated 10 million tonnes, used to caulk Walter Raleigh’s ships and – more recently – to build the Lincoln Tunnel. Raleigh stumbled upon this place by pure accident and thus – in a classic move of Western historiography – ‘discovered’ it! That’s if you take out all the people who lived by the lake and had known about it for thousands of years, of course.

At first glance the large grey-black sludge looked like a small asteroid had hit an overgrown school playground. Reeds and lilies shot up among the pools of water and streams which cool the pitch down, and turn the whole site into a lake in the rainy season.

I shelled out the seven quid for a tour which was well worth it, as my tour guide Vicky was not only incredibly well-versed on the geology, history, and economics of the lake, but acted as photographer and videographer when I took a dip. As we walked around the site, she pointed out bubbles of gas blistering out from the black surface, which resembled wrinkled tarmac, though in places the hot pitch had risen to the surface and funnels of glistening velvet seeped through.

I knew it was possible to take a dip in the lake, so I had slipped my trunks on beforehand, and when Vicky offered up the opportunity, I jumped. Well, not literally, it was actually a pretty slippery entrance, which required caution to ensure you didn’t step onto one of the red-hot gas pockets which would spring up sporadically. The three-foot deep crack was filled with murky orange-red sulphur-stinking water, which was pleasantly warm, and the closest thing I’d come to a proper bath in four months. The waters were also supposed to have a skin-lightening effect, though didn’t appear to have wiped off the tan I had been slowly cultivating.

Two buses took me back to Port of Spain, the first dropping me off in San Fernando, the birthplace of the newsreader Trevor McDonald. Whilst there, I bought a potato and cheese pasty from a bakery, and was stunned to find myself in Liverpool Street Station, looking up at the huge departures board for the train to Cambridge, with a Gregg’s cheese and onion pastry in my hand. Sometimes I feel like my brain works too quickly in making associations between such disparate things for my own good. That said, such surprise recalls provide momentary pockets of fuzzy, nostalgic warmth which can go a long way when you’re so far away home.