WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART NINE

DAY 16 THE ROOKIE'S TALE.

For our travelling companion Merlin, it's his first holiday outside of Europe. He is usually found during the summer, skulking around Gothenburg looking for somewhere to park his Volvo, and no, at the age of 61, I don't think that is a euphemism. Anyway, last year we talked him into coming on this trip with us and now we are sitting at St. Vincent airport at the mercy of Liat Air once again, waiting for our flight to Barbados which is over three hours late but par for the Liat course I am afraid. Merlin sits next to me reading a Mills And Boon novel he stole from our Hotel on Mayreau. He's nearly finished it and when I asked him why the hell he was reading it in the first case he replied 'in case there are any sexy bits' but he's still waiting after over 300 gormless pages. I can hear reggae music filtering out of his headphones and some time ago he stuck one earphone into my ear revealing that it was Jo Gibbs and The Professionals. A fine choice.

Merlin adapted quickly to life here. One of the first techniques he learned was 'liming' referred to in a previous blog. He seemed glad to learn of it for he has done nothing else. If a walk is suggested at any time now he responds to the suggestion as if  missing a leg. He has had all food served to him whether in a restaurant, hotel or indeed at Rosehall where my lovely wife waited on him hand an foot. Yesterday I went down to the kitchen for a beer and she said 'what about Merlin?'. My reply was not complimentary. As you may know, Merlin doesn't drink. So he has found a new favourite here, quite appropriate really as its a beverage that goes by the name of 'Hairoun Lemon and Lime.' I think he did it on purpose

However, the trip has not been without superlative rookie moments. The greatest of these was the
spectacular  failure to apply any sunscreen whatsoever when snorkelling under the blazing sun in The Tobago Cays. This has also been written about before. He may just have wrapped himself in silver foil to complete the job properly. I am worried now as the last thing his eldest said to me was 'look after dad'. God knows I have tried but I let my guard down just once and look what happened. The sunburn also meant of course that he was unable to carry his rucksack and with her words ringing in my ears I was forced to do a pretty good impression of a Himalayan Sherpa for a couple of days. But of course I was always plotting revenge as I staggered under the weight of God knows what in that rucksack.

It arrived upon our own arrival at Rosehall. As I have mentioned before Cousin Elwyn lives in the house in which we were staying. Now Elwyn speaks English but it is as unintelligible as the public address announcer at this bloody airport. Even less so to the ear of someone from Sweden. I promise you I am not exaggerating. To strike up a conversation with him is akin to doing so with Donald Duck. It's patois of course and If you ask any kind of question you are doomed. All you can do is nod generally and given that you don't know what he is saying, he's definitely having he last laugh.

So I did the equivalent of the 'farting in the lift gag'. If you are too well brought up to know what that is it goes like this: apparently you wait until you are in a lift with a group of people, preferably, but not always, mates and you make sure they are going to a higher floor than you (going up) or lower (going down). Not long after you step in, calculating release time carefully, you step out on your floor leaving them with a present of your own making. The ensuing screams, curses and swearing are a joy to hear from both inside the shaft and usually from the next available landing above or below. Basically you leave the unprepared with a ticking time bomb.
     'So Cousin Elwyn, this is Merlin, he's really interested in your opinion on people who sit around all day liming' (he thinks they are no good, lazy and a burden on society). Cue my hasty departure leaving Merlin to either nod or shake his head in all the wrong places. Later that day I actually caught Elwyn trying to start a conversation with Merlin all on his own, for his own amusement no doubt!

Generally the boy has done real good and as we sit here for a plane now four hours late he remains cheerful with Big Youth now for company. Me, I feel a sense of impending doom. A Virgin might not be waiting for us in the next port if this goes on any longer.

WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART EIGHT

ROSEHALL

Merlin decided to export his 'gift' from Mayreau to Rosehall. More of this later.


We are now in Rosehall. This is the village on St. Vincent where Trish's parents grew up and of course her mum is still living here. The journey to Rosehall is a precarious one whether you travel by dollar van, taxi or private car. St.Vincent is mountainous and the roads are narrow and old, often doubling back on each other with the most hairaising of hairpin bends which pitch the traveller either up or down at the end of them. Traffic coming in the opposite direction hogs the middle of the road as do we. The only way to avoid a head on collision and at times, a sheer drop into the Caribbean Sea, is the tactic of blowing your horn as you approach the bend. Thus the two drivers should always hear each other, as only the tough ride with windows up in this humidity. Indeed the horn is an essential part of the St. Vincent M.O.T. As are brakes and lights. But that's it. Approved for another year. Worrying. Especially as actually steering round these deadly mountain roads accurately is essential. Merlin is at this moment considering asking for a 'St. Vincent M.O.T. when his capacious Volvo is next due in Sweden. After about an hour and fifteen minutes climb, a decent half an hour shy of the Vinncy Van public bus/taxi record, held by an individual named Dan, you arrive in Rosehall.

The terror climb is worth it, for Rosehall is the highest village on the island and overlooks the impressive Mt. Soufrié volcano as does The O'Garro house, our home for the next few days. This means we have an unimpeded view of sweeping rainforested hills dwarfed by the slopes of the giant. Clouds come and go at its summit, some hug and swirl round the top of the crater, plugged since 1978, when it spewed forth flaming rock, smoke, and dust, while the lightning flashed, lighting up a false dawn. The occasional hawk rides the hot up currents circling with a very occasional flap of wing swooping and soaring, looking for prey on the ground and perhaps in the air.

Below the house on this side of the valley, a multitude of tees and bushes grow, tended by Cousin Elwin a gnarled almost toothless septuagenarian with hands as tough as leather and a handshake to match. He lives at the house and is part of the family. The greenery also produces a wealth of fruit and vegetables, mango, breadfruit, dasheen, coconut and plantain. It's as green and forested as far as the eye can see. It's also hot and humid. Even when the occasional rain arrives, the humidity afterwards saps the energy from the unready. The rain arrives now, rolling in from the valley between the slopes of Soufrié, warm and refreshing but bringing also the humidity that will follow. An inescapable heat which permeates every move and gesture, sapping not only strength but patience.

The house we live in is grand, but like all houses here, be they spacious modern homes or the ramshackle shacks that often stand next to them, the roof is made of corrugated metal. This gives the rain terrific amplification reminding me of countless camping holidays spent cowering under canvas as rain sheeted down. The noise is as intense here on our roof as that on a tent.

In the yard at the back of our house is the dwelling occupied by Claude, another family member. This shack belonged many years ago to the newly wed O'Garros, before they journeyed to England to seek a better life, before they returned after years of hard labour to build the house we live in now. The shack stands as a kind of reminder of the old days and to shelter Claude, a wild eyed rum drinking Vinccy, who can frequently be seen shouting at the fields at the front or back of our house. He is there now, dressed in grimy tshirt and cut off jeans, half empty rum bottle in hand cursing the wind and rain in the already incomprehensible dialect of the islands, made worse by the influence of the drink.
He ducks into his shack, a multicoloured one storey board house, the size of a decent garden shed back home, its rusting tin roof held down in places by chunks of stolen breeze block.

As soon as it begins, it is over. The sun breaks through the cloud and the rainforest steams. The steam rises and joins the other clouds in the sky and the Caribbean Sea re emerges from the haze and sparkles again, horizontal bottomed clouds scudding together along the horizon as if waiting for someone with a barrel bent rifle to take them down and win a fairground prize. A white sailboat rounds the corner where a black sanded beach, always deserted, juts out into the sea, ahead of a natural bay for which the boat is headed. The sounds of our village rise again, dogs bark, tied to winding backyard trees, small children and mothers refuse to yield giving way to high pitched raised voices, reggae throbs in the distance while a man sings and someone nearby is having their hair cut as the electric buzz of the clippers joins in the gentle cacophony. A small green lizard, yellow bellied and swift, appears on the balcony. It stops for a moment and hurries on, descending the wall and disappearing into the bush. A breeze whips up. There is more rain coming. The cycle continues.