THE ROAD GOES ON FOREVER

Rain coming over the mountains

We eventually made it up to Rosehall by mid-afternoon yesterday. Compared with the rest of the journey from the UK it was uneventful. Nevertheless the final part of the trip had to be made by taxi, as the welcoming party from Rosehall had long since departed the airport. On our way up through the rainforested mountains I saw very little had changed since our last visit. However, the vast quantity of rain that had fallen in the last 24 hours and was still falling on other parts of the island, had turned the already precariously steep and worn road into a debris strewn, slippery minefield. Water cascaded down the roadside, carrying with it the flotsam and jetsam of the forest. Red mud formed in puddles on its way to the sea which we could see was itself turning the colour of the forest floor as we looked down from the mountain side. Above us the road snaked upwards, steeply twisting and turning like an enraged serpent. The taxi driver excitedly pointed out distant waterfalls which he had never seen before, emerging from the rocks and plunging downwards. On we went, round the multiple hairpin bends, through the meandering villages and upwards, sometimes seemingly vertically towards our destination and a warm welcome.

You made it then!

We slept for 11 hours solid and woke to a bright warm morning. There were a number of people already in the house to welcome us and over breakfast we were made to feel at home. Cousin Phil, a sprightly 80 year old volunteered to drive us down into town so that I could do the food shopping which was my first job. So again I found myself, accompanied by Fred and Phil, making the terrifying trip down the mountain. More than once the clouds loomed in the distance and we prepared for the rain which came down in a torrents and flooded the road, sending water streaming down faster than we were actually moving. The car windows had to be closed and inside Phil's ancient Toyota the temperature and humidity slowly rose. We met carts and trucks coming in the other direction, hogging the narrow road on hairpin bends as if safe in the knowledge that they were the only road users. Curses and vexations were heaped upon these transgressors of whatever highway code they have up here by Phil and Fred from the rear seat. Horns blared frequently as suicidal climbing gradients, perched on the edge of a dooming drop, were negotiated time and again. We passed through shanty villages being rinsed clean by the torrents of water, their inhabitants sheltering under whatever was to hand to avoid a drenching. Forlorn fruit sellers, their fruits in ancient looking carts, watching helplessly as their wares were washed to a pap.

Eventually, we reached Kingstown which itself had not been spared the rains. The newly emerging sun causing a humid, damp atmosphere. As usual the town was crowded with the comings and goings of life. Packed dollar vans speeding by, their passengers hanging out the windows like prisoners in an overcrowded jail, market hawkers in full cry selling an incredible assortment of seemingly useless paraphernalia, cars, old and new jamming the narrow streets, tooting while their drivers cursed anything that moved or not, music blaring from the countless yet individual bootleg cd stalls, a different tune from tinny speakers for every passer by, and all the time the ceaseless coming and going of people, criss crossing the streets, shouting salutations, meeting and greeting, sometimes holding up traffic to do so. And as time passed, the sun was regaining it's superiority in the sky above us and the lying rainwater was steaming away to the heavens.

This is Kingstown, capital city of St. Vincent, getting there, being there, never ever anything less than an experience.