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.

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.