I can't work out exactly how I got here, but I think I'm a victim either of globalisation or of chaos theory. Most likely it's a bit of both, let's call it Chaosisation. Not that it really matters what you call it, these days it's all about the bottom line and the bottom line is that because some trailer park types somewhere in America couldn't pay their mortgages I'm now island hopping across the Caribbean. That's life in the big city I guess, although these days it's more life in the small islands.
Barbados was first. Preparation being the key to any successful endeavour, a two week family holiday to ease me gently into Caribbean life was entirely appropriate. It would have been foolhardy to go straight from the hassle of packing up my flat into the rigours of island hopping and a fortnight with few demands on my time beyond allowing my niece and nephew to push me into the pool was ideal preparation.
Winning $150 in the second annual Reggae Lounge backgammon tournament was pretty stressful, but aside from that it was mostly chillaxing and by the end of my time there I felt ready to face the coming trials with equanimity and took the short flight to St Vincent in high spirits. There I was joined by a companion of dubious character who I shall refer to as Zorba. Our first act on meeting up was to get drunk, our second (the next day I hasten to add) was to hire a car and attempt to track down the set of Pirates of the Caribbean.
As there are essentially only two roads this ought not to have been a problem, however, after apparently driving past the marked location several times without spotting it we decided it might be worthwhile asking directions, surely a simple task given that the locals speak English. Sadly not. I thought the Bajans were a bit hard to follow, but these guys really put the ish into English. After several failed attempts at enquiring as to the whereabouts of the set for the motion picture Pirates of the Caribbean, I decided to effect a Vincy accent.
“What way Pirates o de Caribbean?” instant understanding “Dat wey, it mark up” [there's a sign]. The set, as it turned out, was fairly unremarkable but my new found language skills are a tool for life.
Bequia (pronounced Beckway) was next, a small island where we enraged one local landlady by shopping around, so much so in fact that when it turned out her offer was the cheapest she withdrew it in a fit of pique. A decision which cost us EC$20 per night and an extra five minute uphill walk each day. Cow. Despite that the island was very pleasant and the snorkeling good so we extended our stay to four days and on each of them smiled sweetly at our nemesis as we walked past her still vacant apartment.
From Bequia we took the Thursday mail boat down to Mayreau where for US$40 a night we rented a three bedroom house complete with lounge, kitchen, bathroom, mosquito infestation and a bucket for the toilet available on request. Mayreau made Bequia seem like a bustling metropolis, at least in so far as there were probably people on Bequia who weren't related to each other and also in that on Bequia if you're stupid enough to turn up without any money there's a bank to remedy the situation. On Mayreau you have to be more creative. We solved the problem by alternately eating in the one posh restaurant which took credit cards, and convincing the locals to invite us to their place for lunch.
We also cut costs by taking a tour of the nearby Tobago Cays (pronounced Keys) on a local water taxi rather than the posh yachts. This saved about US$50 each but cost us a heavy price in pain and discomfort as the guy we'd organised it through turned out to be a bit of a character (pronounced drunk wanker) and got his mate to drive through the waves as quickly as possible so that the white boys up front got their arses well and truly tenderised.
That helped make up our mind as to how to get to Union Island and that afternoon we took the ferry the short distance South to the last of our Grenadines. The outstanding memory of Union Island is not a beach but a nightclub called Stress Out. It's essentially a house with the second floor (half) converted for use as a club. We were taken there by someone the locals refer to as The Stress Manager such is his attendance record at the eponymous venue. While we chilled on the balcony enjoying the music (which is quality out here by the way) he proceeded to rule the dancefloor in a manner all his own.
Aside from Stress Out there was little to keep us in Union Island so we soon found ourselves waiting at a jetty for a ferry to take us to the next country in the chain. The regular ferry was not running (it break down and get mash up on de reef) and for a while it looked like we might be out of luck as they struggled with mask and snorkel to get the reserve boat operational. In the end, though, perseverance paid dividends and, whisky bottle in one hand, joint in the other, our driver was ready to take us on to Grenada.
Tune of the moment: Guinney Pepper's 'Lick the Chalice'. Whilst clearly I can't agree with its core message, its musical artistry is impossible to ignore.
Photos at: http://don-simon.smugmug.com/
