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.

DAY 2 LOUSY LIAT

Woke this morning to the sound of the early travelers turning up at the airport. I am, at the moment, reading ' A Helmet For My Pillow' by Robert Leckie, an account of one Marine's Pacific Campaign in the Second World War. In my case however, it was 'A Rucksack For Pillow'. Yes, we spent the night in Barbados airport, admittedly a far less daunting place than Okinawa Island but nevertheless fraught with unexpected twists and turns.

The excitement started just after the last Blog Entry. We made our way to the appointed departure gate for the short ride to St. Vincent. The rain continued to hammer down and the visibility was poor to say the least. Now for those with experience of Liat Airlines will know it takes a mere change in the direction of the wind to create panic and cancellation. Their planes never leave on time and the service is so laid back it makes JJ Cale look hyperactive! There was however, a break in the weather. We were herded onto the twin propeller aircraft that was to complete the first part of our journey. And there we sat until the captain informed us that due to a lightning strike at St. Vincent which disabled the runway lights, we were going nowhere. At that point Liat's Customer Care Service kicked in. In other words no-one knew what the f---was going on!

Eventually we found our bed for the night and following an evening meal that made the last airport delicacy I was forced to endure at Kuala Lumpur last spring, seem like the finest offering from a King's table. We tried to get some shut eye ready for the morning madness as we would attempt to find air transportation that 'might be available' to get us to St. Vincent.

So as I write we are back in the departure lounge. How we got here I don't know. This Liat mob would do well to take a look at the fine job Air Asia did with it's stranded customers at Kuala Lumpur. No text messages here. Not even a normal message. The staff at the check in queue would struggle to get a job sweeping shit in Fred Carno's circus. The only way we made it through is because I had my eye on an English businessman who somehow evaded the so called queue and presented himself at the desk. How he did this I am not sure but in a very loud voice I enquired how he had made it to check in. He gave me the 'zip across the mouth sign' and I understood. I, having made my point and liable to make a fuss if were denied access to check in, glanced at the check in clerk. Unspoken understanding flashed between us. If he was going, being well behind us in the queue, so was I and Trish and Charlotte. Not worth the aggro dear!

Now all we have to do is get on the plane, get to St. Vincent and get up to Rosehall. The journey's not over yet!

BARBADOS

A Virgin Club Lounge Breakfast!

At the time of writing we are sitting in the departure lounge at Barbados airport waiting for our connecting flight to St. Vincent. Outside, under ever darkening skies, the rain is lashing down, indeed it is coming with such force that it is bouncing up from the tarmac. There is precious little chance of a take off any time soon.

The day had begun so well, apart from poor Charlotte getting in trouble on the the train down to Gatwick. She had a bought a ticket, in good faith, using her Young Person's Railcard, which had unfortunately expired. She has another one at home, but she has not been there over the last week to collect it. No matter, First Capital's officious ticket man was having none of it. What a pity he didn't realise the massive favour I had just done his company. There were no trains in or out of Harlington yeaterday (Sunday) I know that because our return from Scotland included a taxi ride from Leagrave where the Luton Airport special deposited us with no explanation or assistance. They put a helpful notice on the ticket machine to inform customers of this. That notice was still there this morning, leaving a fair few puzzled commuters staring at it, as no one thought to put a date on it. It simply read ' no trains in or out of this station today'. I ripped it down to the relief of said commuters who then caught their usual train. How many of them I wondered had turned tail and either gone home, got out the car or hired a taxi before I got there.

Still, the uselessness is not confined to England. Here in Barbados eliciting either help or information is like Russian Roulette. Some airport officials are helpful but others regard questions as an interference to their day, which looks as if it consisits of slouching up against one wall or another.

But I digress. Upon arrival at Gatwick we were whisked up to The Virgin Club Lounge for a fancy breakfast, a surprise from Charlotte, via one of her friends who works for Virgin. It was lovely. A bloody Mary or two and a full cooked but posh breakfast which Rustan would have for sure added to his food photo collection was most welcome as we waited for our flight to Barbados.

So here we sit, waiting for news of our short hop over to St. Vincent. The rain hammers down and the personel have to work a bit harder to entertain and inform the punters. I can smell the sweat from here.