SCALEYRADIO 19 'The Liming Appreciation Society' Show

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WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART 10

DAY 17 MISSED CONNECTIONS

The feeling I had was well founded. The flight from St. Vincent finally arrived but at four hours behind schedule it was going to take a miracle to make the connection at Barbados. And Liat don't deal in miracles. They deal in disappointment. They make you wait in the baggage hall, a cavernous carousel of emptiness on this particular day, for your bags to be coughed up onto the belt. Suitably late. I smelt conspiracy. Is that my seat being given to a standby refugee out there at the check in desk? A well placed airport employee directing us immediately to our gate would  save the day but this is Liat and something like that is about as far away as a one legged man winning an arse kicking contest.

So here we sit. Another day, and there have been three of them so far, in the fully non air conditioned check in area of the airport, on standby. Feathers flew when we arrived for there were fifteen of us who were likewise inconvenienced and true to human nature a pissed off leader and spokesperson for the group soon emerged. Liat staff were duly called to account for their ineptitude and our untidy gang were ferried to a hotel for the night and told to return tomorrow to be placed on standby.

A quick appraisal of the group told me that we would be going nowhere fast. There was a family of five with two small children, a little old lady, in tears most of the time, a mother and daughter, four independent travellers and us. Our plight soon turned into a plot. From a well known Agatha Christie novel. For three days we turned up at the airport and each day we returned with less people. We even accommodated  an even more deserving family of four who had been sleeping rough at the airport not knowing until meeting us that they had rights too. Of course The Caribbean's equivalent of Ryan Air
had not bothered to inform them that as the delay they had suffered had been due to technical problems, they, like us, were entitled to overnight accommodation and sustenance. so our number grew by four more after the first day.

We called a House Meeting, deciding in true Titanic fashion that it would be women and children first etc. This left we three with the feeling that we had as much chance getting home as Tom Hanks in 'Castaway' although our current surroundings put me more in mind of 'Terminal.'

But wait, I can hear you thinking to yourself, 'wow not bad, all expenses (no alcohol) paid accommodation in Barbados for a few days. How bad can that be?' Some Facebook posts supported this sentiment. And you might be right. But somehow the fun of it all was dissipated by the daily twelve to six session at the airport, sitting staring into the distance, waiting for your name to be called, eating complimentary fast food, wondering how long the agreement at The House Meeting would last when the chips were down.

So now here we are, the last of the fifteen. Everyone else has gone. Their names have been called. It's now day four and yes, I know people have endured much worse but vision becomes blinkered and you just feel the subliminally acute frustration of wanting to get home. And it's not quiet in this place. There is a huge water fountain which cascades day and night, a never ending backdrop to the coming and going of people, many taking photos of the soon to be departed, the regular flight announcements that even  top multi linguist would never be able to decipher, the sound of wheeled cases dragging across the tiled floor, the birds winging their way to the fast food area to find morsels and then taking to the air again with the sweetest of irony. It's hot and hypnotic and only Merlin, who, at the end of our time in The Caribbean has  perfected the art of 'The Lime' is fully suited to it.

A cluster begins to form around the check in desk. All the regular passengers are through and we now fight for the scraps left by the missed connections, cancelled trips, traffic jams, accidents and lost passports. We've been here before of course and our experience picks out the rookies, we are like vultures circling, scanning the plains for the weak and dying. We have already established our territory before they even arrived, well before. We know how to stay in the eyeline of the check in clerk, meeting her gaze like a western gunfighter squinting against the unforgiving sun. We are ready and waiting, coiled. All we want is to hear our names. Merlin has been sent to do the same at another desk. He too keeps in their peripheral vision. Would be passengers start to shuffle nervously, there is no mercy to be shown tonight. We will be away, no more taxis, no more hotels, no more sparkling turquoise sea to greet the early morning swish of the curtains. We will be away. Any moment now. Our time has come. But...........will there time for some duty free shopping?

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.

WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART SEVEN

DAY 10

Our host at Dennis's Hideaway, Dennis (!), is an interesting character. It's off season at the moment and as we are the only guests, apart from the occasional stray from the village, we have his undivided attention. Unfortunately. Denis means well. He's got a business to run and its a great place he has. An oasis of calm in a noisy Mayreau village, the nearest thing to Rosehall, Trish's mum's village, that we can experience before we actually get there the day after tomorrow.

But what of Dennis? He's born here but he went to sea at 13, a captain of a shrimper at 19, the youngest ever. He's a right Uncle Albert. He has countless stories of his seafaring days.

He's in his early fifties, short of stature with a round affable face. He has a wicked smile and an infectious laugh. his eyes glitter but are melancholic. For those of you have seen the odd Bond movie, he is always dressed in white. A white jacket and trousers of the kind worn by doctors in the USA and dentists in Sweden and........ Bond villains. The trend was started in Dr. No and from then on through a number of the films, with the addition of a white cat for good measure. Dennis is always to be seen around the property which is festooned with tropical vegetation. He appears from between the vegetation at regular intervals. I fully expect to see him with a silver automatic pistol in his hand. When we first arrived and needed a shower there was no hot water. There still isn't. Water is precious on Mayreau. Rainwater is caught in huge buts and pumped to taps and toilets. The water temperature is that of the outside air which on average has been about 36 degrees. I asked Denis what happened when anyone complained about this. He told me a story. One American tourist came to the bar as he was serving other guests.

    'Do you expect us to shower in this cold water?' The American asked interrupting. To which Dennis replied,
   ' No I expect you to use this kettle.'

Denis as I have mentioned is a one time sea captain. The tall tales abound. Interesting at first but on day two,  we three succumbed to the temptation to lay bets as to how soon after beginning a conversation with him he would mention his seafaring days. Double money if he also mentions his favourite English town...Newcastle where his heart was broken and has never recovered. No prompting allowed folks. It doesn't take long.....
   'When I was first on a shrimping boat I was just 13 (ching), I was a Captain by 19 (ching ching), I was a tug Captain after that (ching, ching, ching), then I Captained a luxury yacht around the Grenadines, Mick Jagger, David Bowie and Viscount Lindlay were my guests, I know them all.' (ching, ching, ching JACKPOT!) We are cruel I know. Denis is a decent bloke but only talks about himself, his life, his loves and his boken hearted love of Newcastle (ching).

Merlin has sent me snorkelling. The 'road' that runs past The Hideaway goes right, up to the church past Rastareggaecafé or left down to the beach. He wants a conch. He won't go himself. Our last snorkelling expedition saw us burn ourselves to buggery. You would think a couple of adults would be more than capable of avoiding this discomfort. But no. On arrival at Tobago Cays a few days ago, so eager were we to get into the sparkly turquoise sea that we omitted to apply ANY sun cream at all. An hour's snorkelling later and we are screaming in the shower. I have recovered quickly although dead skin is coming off my back like the plastic wrapping from a cucumber. Idiots for sure. Go to the top of the idiot class. So I am designated conch diver.

Trish has an aversion to sea water more desperate than that of Dracula to a crucifix in direct sunlight but she agrees to accompany me complete with sun brolly, MP3 player and book, happy for me to do my poor impression of Jaques Cousteau. Merlin stays home and limes. I find a conch pretty quickly but as usual the tropical water world is incredibly beguiling. I stay out for a bit more fun after depositing Merlin's conch on the shore.

We are the only ones here. We have the whole beach, some half a mile of it, to ourselves. Nevertheless I surface every now and then to make sure Trish is OK making sure that I'm OK. Suddenly I see her waving, beckoning me in. She is smiling all over her face. I consider ignoring her. She is clearly not in any danger, isn't suddenly ill and my trunks haven't fallen down. Wading ashore I see she is holding something in her hand. As I get closer I see its a small plastic bag tied at the top with a knot. Inside is something that looks like..............surely not......it looks like......Well Trish certainly isn't the kind of girl to score a wrap off a passing stranger, even if there were any. But this is what she is holding in her hand. I remember the story of  'The Duffies' Rob Jones told me. Duffle Bags stuffed with dope, washed up on the beach in front of his house when he worked on Cat Island in The Bahamas. He was told by his boss never to touch them for their owners would come looking for them and handing them in at Cat Island Cop Shop was not a sensible option. But this is hardly in the same league. What to do now? We discuss a plan.

We are back at The Hideaway. Merlin is on his way down to look at his conch. The conch that bears a strange gift inside.

WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART SIX

DAY 9 MARVELLOUS MAYREAU

We are aboard another ferry. This time, defying all previous writings, a fast, twin hulled job. It arrived at the port in Bequia at speed and us passengers only had a ten minute window to disembark and embark. It's almost as if the sleepy time timeline of our island has been violently disrupted by the arrival of the beast, after which, everything once again returns to somnambulant ways.

As Bequia quickly recedes into the foamy distance we settle down for the hour and ten minute crossing to Mayreau. When I say settle down I really mean 'get ready'. For this is a violent journey. The ferry soon picks up speed and tosses from side to side with plenty of pitching thrown in for good measure. I hadn't anticipated such a ride and although Trish has taken her pill I fear that it might have been taken a little too late. (I am right it turns out). Merlin and I, like most of the passengers, suffer the bucking behemoth with resilience combined with boredom, as it is impossible to read or write and the film they have playing is for me at least, a bussman's holiday. It's about a headmaster, (Morgan Freeman) trying to tame a school of delinquent, mostly black, teenagers in an 'Eastside' area, of some down at the heel, drug infested suburb of an American city. It comes complete with clichéd transformation of bad guy, no respect given, into........ good guy, high fiving with one time  school drug pusher students, now reformed, complete with eighties mullets. Yes it spews out at you at pace throughout the movie. It's crap. Also, because of the fear of being washed overboard, we are not allowed outside. So no escape. We have to be satisfied with staring into near space. Just staring and thinking. I think we be Liming again, in a peculiar way.

Eventually our journey is over and we have arrived on the island of Mayreau. No port here, no harbour, just a concrete jetty where a battered old pickup is waiting for us. The charm of this type of holiday is the sheer anticipation of what comes next, not for us the all inclusive security gated resort, rather the battered pick up, smelling of old rancid oil and diesel, misfiring monstrously as it climbs the hill away from the ferry now speeding to its next destination.

We arrive at Dennis's Hideaway, a much recommended guest 'house'. It is slap bang in the middle of the only habitation on an island so small, numbering some 250 inhabitants, that it doesn't even have a name. We are just 'In Mayreau'. Lining the narrow Tarmac road that rises up to the highest point of the island are shacks and villas alike, some grand some not so. But most splendid of all is a garish Rastafarian bar, dark on the inside and multicoloured out. We are greeted with enthusiasm with dismembered voices from the inside as we stroll past on our first excursion away from the beautiful sanctuary of our abode. Dare we venture in? No, not until I have had a few rum punches at least! 'Ok see you later man.'

Most residents are busy liming outside on terraces of various quality. Some houses are ornately built with perhaps a bar, restaurant or even a small shop but most are small corrugated roof shacks. We are either greeted or stared at. If the latter we always give a greeting ourselves, sometimes returned sometimes not. We climb to the highest point of the island, perhaps stupidly in the midday sun, searching for a view, and come across a white guy up to his wrists in engine oil. He has a house off to the right on the crest of the hill, standing in an open space. A couple of containers are in his yard and a tumbledown shed. He sees us and we wave a greeting. He comes over. American. Young. Probably mid twenties. We chat and it turns out that he's a missionary. A real, live modern day missionary. He's built this house and works in the community giving the youth the chance to develop their life skills and spreads The Word at the same time. He's also got a great view form his terrace. Click click. We invite him for a beer later.

We come across a small church. Roman Catholic, ancient, but its in good order. It's incongruous, standing here at the top of the village. It has a large bell which has crashed from its original, rusted, mounting. It's now tied much lower, to a beam, so low in fact the clapper can be rung by hand to summon the faithful. Inside there are interesting historical items, stories detailing the lives of those gone before. Fading newspaper articles from long ago. It's amazingly quiet here. It feels as if it is a crime to speak too loudly. Round the back a goat is tied to a tree and there is a open area with seating and a breathtaking view over the Tobago Cays. Union Island towers in the distance across a silver ripple of water. It's jagged line graph silhouette towering above the yachts and boats that scud the bays. A light but welcome breeze dries the sweat on our faces and ripples our shirts. There is atmosphere here. One that has endured for centuries.

We make our way back down the hill, past the rickety unattended barrows selling conch shells, others bread and vegetables, past small shacks with 'bar' painted colourfully on the wall with enough room for two guests at the most, past dark doorways with the sounds of reggae or other such music oozing out. The 250 inhabitants go about their daily routine and we watch them do it.

WINDIES DIARY 2013 PART THREE

DAY 2: THE BRIDGETOWN GO SLOW

As I have previously alluded to, speed and efficiency are not two concepts that go hand in hand in The Windies, especially the former. We are in a large department store in the centre of Bridgetown. We have some touristy things to do. Merlin needs postcards. Yes, I said postcards. Some friends of his have insisted on postcards from the Caribbean and not the sort purchased here but then arriving  with Swedish stamps on. We both need a SIM card for our Windies phones and Merlin wants some presses for his two boys. Best to get this all out of the way quick is my tactic. Oh but I have mentioned that word again. As I approach the Digicel desk I realise I am in for a tough time. Slumped behind the desk is an 'assistant' who looks as if she has just been told she will be working the next four weekends in a row for no extra pay. Added to this the lottery ticket she bought but lost last week, has just won the biggest ever jackpot in Caribbean history. Nervously I approach the desk. Attending to my enquiry she fails to put any of the words she utters into a sentence, also failing to remove the hand from under her chin, which  presumably is there to stop her face ending up like the one in the hippy poster that adorned countless bedrooms in the seventies with the words 'Stoned Again' above it.

Showing great restraint and calling upon previous Caribbean experience, I let her go about her business. She manages to remove the back from my phone, whip out the old sim, break the new one from its holder and insert it into my phone, replacing the cover with the manual dexterity of Dynamo, Magician Impossible. I am reminded of a friend of mine who, having spent some months at Her Majesty's Pleasure told me that he could now roll a fag with one hand. Presumably the other hand was guarding his arse. For this was a long time ago when we were young and ripe.

Unfortunately, we all have to undergo this torment but eventually get SIM cards inserted and up and running. Unfortunately Merlin now wants to buy his gifts duty free. We approach another desk. There are procedures. Again I think of our immigration problem......if only.