ONCE AGAIN, WITHOUT THE NET

Tuesday, 13 August 2013

WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART TWO

DAY 1 BARBADOS AND THE AIRCON

We are kings (and Queens of course) and our apartments are little short of magnificent. They call them the Super Deluxe rooms and we feel like rock stars as we a shown in. They are spacious, with huge beds, slickly clean and most importantly, air conditioned. I have forgotten to mention as well ,that we have arrived here with sweat dripping from every pore of our bodies and that sweat is sweating too. Apart of course from Trish who looks annoyingly fresh. Thankfully the AIRCON is already switched on. The owners must be used to bedraggled travellers turning up on their doorstep, looking as if they have been dipped into the swimming pool prior to arrival. I for one have a love affair with AIRCON. The feeling of claustrophobically gasping for the thick mouthfuls of humid air outside is instantly relieved when the AIRCON clicks into action. Trouble is, it then means you have to go out into the thick stuff again from a lovely AC room at some time in the near future. You can't hide! But you can enjoy!

WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART ONE

DAY 1

Up early and onto the train direct to Gatwick. The usual misgivings about leaving the house for so long unattended but what can you do? We are all in good shape and not too tired. Göran is a little apprehensive about the whole trip having never been so far from home before but I think that he is feeling good that Trish and I are experienced Caribbean visitors. We are quickly at Gatwick and the crowds are considerable but Virgin Atlantic are well organised and we have checked in on line so we are soon relaxing in departures. Travelling these days is so much easier than those in the past but to avoid even the smallest of inconveniences, it still needs planning like a military campaign, the equivalent to the Siege Of Leningrad. It's with this in mind that Trish comes to the fore. This trip sees yet another of her charity shop buys in action. To avoid the usual rummaging around to find face (and on occasions, arse) wipes, various electrical connections, pens and the usual travelling paraphernalia, she has bought a see through bag for a mere £1 and she is now the envy of many eyes as she expertly goes straight to the smallest item in demand. On this occasion girlie face wipes for Merlin as the heat of check in starts to show. We are on the way to Barbados. He's gonna be in trouble.

BARBADOS

The heat hits us like one of those wipes they give you at your local Indian after you have finished you meal. We are soon in the immigration queue where, as if in an episode of Doctor Who, time, already five hours in debit for us, slows down to a crawl. West Indian time has celebrity status of course and anyone who fails to pay homage to this celebrity is going to have a frustrating time. Each passenger is regarded as suspicious, a combination of Lord Lucan and Julian Assange. Every passport is scrutinised in detail as the restless but patient hoard shuffle forward in minute measures.

Eventually it is our turn, well almost, because an over eager family in front fail to wait, not once, but twice, to be beckoned forward to have their paperwork checked, and are summarily dismissed from the immigration officers presence with a curt wave of the arm. I am thinking these officials should be employed at every one of the UK immigration points. Potential immigrants would simply die of boredom and/or malnutrition while they wait to be processed. The mood is calm as the last of us are through to the Carousel where our bags, dizzy from repeated revolutions while we were processed, seem to have fallen from the track and wait for us to retrieve them.

Hotel, a shower and a few beers beckon.

WEST INDIES DIARY PART FIVE

DAY 8: BE WE LIMING?

We are sitting eating breakfast at a roof restaurant in the middle of Port Elizabeth on Bequia. Port Elizabeth is a horseshoe bay with small coloured shops, cafes and restaurants running along its boundary. In front of them is a small road and a smaller footpath divided by colourful shrubs. In front of that running down to the beautiful turquoise sea is what could loosely be described as a beach, but the sand has been compacted by the passage of many vehicles over the years so it looks more like a sandy scrub. This is where 'liming' goes on.

For the ignorant or uninformed 'liming' is a word particular to the Windies. I have alluded to it already earlier in this diary but it is here where we can see it, from our lofty vantage point, in its truest form. There are countless groups of individuals, usually, but not always male, sitting or lying around, on upturned boats, car bonnets, beer crates, boundary walls, in fact anywhere which affords them the opportunity to do nothing. True, some chat amongst themselves, some shout pointless questions at passers by in their incomprehensible dialect, or just simply stare as we wander past doing our utmost to look as if we are 'liming' too. But we can't. We have tried but we can't. Merlin desperately wants to. He has taken the word into his rapidly expanding vocabulary. I asked him this morning what he wanted to do after breakfast. His answer was predicable, 'just lime' he said. And so we do. Up here in this rooftop restaurant. We are liming. We have had breakfast, I am writing this, Test Match Special in one ear, listening to Australia try to score 299 to win the Fourth Test, Merlin is texting and Trish is reading. But we aren't really 'liming'.

We are frauds. Why? Because down below us a group of four or five professional 'limers' are stationed under a tree, one is on his back on an upturned flat bottomed boat, feet up on the lower branches, baseball cap peak over his eyes, arms folded behind his head. He could, actually, be dead because we had breakfast here yesterday and I saw him then, in exactly the same repose. His mates seem oblivious to this possibility and they joke and high five each other at intermittent intervals. A green pick up arrives and the driver, an exact clone of any one of the group gets out and immediately goes into 'lime' mode as if the effort of driving his truck down here was a totally stressful and taxing experience that he had in fact been putting off for some time. He doesn't even shut the door in an act of defiance, a solitary finger raised at the working world. The sound of reggae is coming from somewhere. A few of them move slowly with the beat but soon give this up as too much effort.

I am reminded of the villages we will pass through on St.Vincent on our way up to Rosehall later this week. The terrifying ride in The Vinccy Van (probably one of the only things that does move quickly in these parts). The van will tear down the main streets straight and true scattering dogs, cattle and human traffic alike. There are always 'limers' who are sitting on the walls, cars, crates and three legged chairs watching us arrow past. And they are there again, days later, in the same location watching us speed through in the other direction. They are unmoved, unimpressed and not unusual for this is the land of 'The Limer' and we cannot hope to follow. We are perhaps too busy feeling guilty for not 'doing something'. Even on holiday. I mean I am typing away on this keyboard for example. No wonder I attract cursory glances from those who meander past below. Merlin has turned to 'Bubbleshooter' to take up his spare time and Trish, doing the best 'lime' of the three of us, has migrated to a huge cushioned chair at the back of the restaurant and is looking like she is going to fall asleep. The staff have too disappeared. The early morning breakfast 'rush' is over and they too need to 'lime'.

A thought occurs to me. There are two mobile networks in The Windies. I know that from my SIM card experience in Barbados. One is 'Digicel' and the other is 'Lime'. I am thanking whoever it is that has watch over us that I chose the former rather than the latter. I am also thinking how 'Lime' can be integrated into UK Immigration and Border Security. Perhaps a simple Limigration and Border Security would do. That would certainly put me off any type of queue. Imagine our prostrate friend below, attending a desk at Heathrow for example. A queue of hopefuls not moving slowly forwards. Perhaps he could bring some if his mates and they could all man stations. Brilliant.

Meanwhile time passes below and I think the flakey 'limers' on the balcony are the only ones who know it. After all, we do have a ferry to catch.

WINDIES DIARY PART FOUR

DAY 5 STORM WARMING

We are now on Bequia, a small island just off the coast of St. Vincent. We previously visited this island four years ago. It is a jewel in The Grenadine chain, of which there are many. This jewel is easily reached by passenger ferry and after checking in again bedraggled and dripping I hastily book three places on The Friendship Rose, a magnificent tall masted schooner which promises a trip to paradise.

So today we find ourselves putting out to sea at seven in the morning under a weak Caribbean sky. There are about twenty of us on this voyage to the Tobago Cays, a magnificent coral reef and nature reserve some three hours away under sail and with a good wind which is what we have today. Our crew are of course experienced, they are going to and from our destination on a weekly basis. But that does not mean the work is any easier. Sails, and there are three of them, have to be hoisted and this takes considerable effort utilising the strength of the male members of the crew. The captain, a wizened Caribbean, with a face that reflects many such sea journeys under the tropical sun, directs proceedings from behind the wheel. Mostly by sign language as his voice cannot be heard over the crashing of the waves on the hull of the Friendship Rose as she ploughs her way across the warm spraying waters.

Our party is the usual multi-national mix of tourists, although I am convinced as is Trish, that one of the two elderly Caribbean ladies sitting opposite us in their day out finery, is in fact the Captain's wife. They both seem to know everyone of the crew and our Captain pays particular attention to the elder of the two when he passes by en route to the stairs leading down to the bowels of the ship and appropriately, the toilets. She also, on occasion, waves his comments away with disdain. What more evidence do we need?

Soon the sun worshippers are out, not least a quartet, all from the same family, male and female in equal mix, one of whom is draping herself, like Cleopatra awaiting the arrival of her lover, on the raised cushioned part of the aft deck. She is all bronze face, white sunglasses and sarong, hair streaming back in the wind. Picture perfect. But that picture is due to change...with a vengeance.

Many others are too enjoying the early morning sunshine. We pass islands waking up to the new day and other boats bobbing on the water. The sun grows stronger and breakfast, consisting of coffee, fresh fruit and croissants is served. (Some of us will be seeing that breakfast again).

Trish is going well. Last time she spent the most of the trip hidden under a towel, slumped on the aft cushions trying to ignore the pitch and roll of the ship wondering why she ever agreed to come on the damnable excursion. This time my mother has rescued her. Knowing we were going to repeat the journey, I suggested she follow the practice of my mum when I was young....Qwells. These small tablets sorted out my car sickness issues and unbelievably they are still on sale in all good chemists. And they are working for her. She is able to look at the rolling horizon, watch the birds swoop for fish in the cresting waves, see the dolphins rise and arc into the water and perhaps most importantly enjoy the beverages included in the price of the trip.

There is a small commotion at the wheel. The Captain is gesturing towards the horizon. I look too and can see a bank of dark clouds rolling towards us. The wind is picking up. The sails begin to slap against their frames and hats have to be held down. The sun is weakening, obscured by scudding clouds, fleeing in the face of their angrier cousins. One of the crew emerges clad in a sou'wester of the brightest yellow, with more in his arms which he gives out to the crew, Captain first. I wonder how many of us are aware of this. Cleopatra looks concerned and shifts uneasily upon her dais. The wind picks up even more. Ponchos are given out and Cleopatra looks less regal now. The noise of straining canvas fills the air and now the wind whips around us. Children are sent down. The Captain's wife and friend too. Others by choice. The rain starts. It comes sideways. We pull the ponchos around us, they billow and flap. Mine looks like Superman's cape, in full flight.

There is no sun now. Driving rain soaks us as does the spray, forcing salty water up nostrils and down necks. It's warm at least. We hold on to the rail where we are sitting. The wind is fierce now, in seconds despite the ponchos we are soaked. I look towards The Captain, I expect to see him tied to the wheel, short, fat cigar burning, grim determination on his face. Instead he sits calmly on his seat, one hand on the wheel as if he is your favourite grandpa taking you for a Sunday afternoon drive in the countryside, roof down, elbow on the windowless door edge, regaling you with tales of his boyhood.

Time has passed. For some it will have dragged, for us it has added thrillingly to the adventure. The storm seems to be at its height now and one of the crew signals to the captain from the prow. He is pointing forwards to a small sunny break in the dark curtain of cloud. A window of golden opportunity perhaps? I fully expect there to be a pot of the shiny stuff there if and when we arrive, as it seems as if we are turning towards it, away from the darkness. Again the sails strain against the crosswinds and the ship staggers to starboard. Those unlucky enough to be walking across the deck at this point are thrown sideways losing their balance like a drunk wandering homeward after a full yet foul night out.

Cleopatra staggers past, heading below decks. She looks the worse for wear. Previous elegance buried under a rising stomach, her once bronze skin a less than lustrous pallor. Sunglasses are nowhere to be seen, possibly blown the same way as my cap, overboard and gone. Others follow. Some are completely unaffected, another example of life's never ending game of roulette. Water runs down the deck swilling around in little whirlpools confused by the changes of direction. But we go unerringly towards that brightening light. Little by little the sky grows less dark, the wind begins to drop and the rain eases, no longer lashing sideways, until it's hard to tell rain and spray apart. The sun breaks through and immediately warms all around. I expect to see our ship steam in the heat.

Seabirds return, swooping and diving. Ponchos are removed and we emerge into a bay of delight, many impossible shades of turquoise water ripple around us, small sandy beaches lie resplendent in the Caribbean sun, palm trees sway in the gentle breeze. It's as if we have reached the other side of a wormhole, once threatening to tear our world apart as we navigated its depths but rewarding us with the tranquility of its other side.

Brightly coloured fish meander and dart below us as a small tender is lowered with all who want to visit the watery wonderworld. We fix masks, snorkels and flippers and prepare for the adventure to come. The Tobago Cays have even restored our Cleopatra to her earlier self perceived splendour as she and her entourage go ashore in regal anticipation. There is of course the journey home to come but this is easily forgotten as the magnificence of nature once again takes away breath and overcomes imagination. We are all easily rewarded and completely overwhelmed by what we experience here in a paradise of unspoilt splendour.