Rastas, reggae and back to reality

When setting off in 1994 to go travelling, the Caribbean was the place I most wanted to spend some time. Events led me elsewhere but it was satisfying to finally see the Caribbean close up.

Over the Bahamas after leaving Miami

Island in the Caribbean further up the chain

Coming in to Saint Lucia

We felt lucky we ended up on Saint Lucia as the people were superbly easy going and friendly. They get a lot of tourists and parts of the island are very poor but most people are warm and genuine and as a rastaman said, “It’s all about respect”. Give some and you get it back.

Our comfortable, very 80s room at the Royal St Lucian

The food was good with plenty of local fish and a good Cantonese restaurant. The music is mostly reggae, dancehall and soca which we enjoyed and we got to a local village ‘jump up’ street party on a Friday night with a big sound system set up in the road to blast it out while all the locals danced or watched. A taxi driver who seemed to know us but was strangely unfamiliar gave us a lift home and what appeared to be a detour quickly led to sudden visions of abduction and robbery and protestations of “Where the hell are you taking us?!”, before the case of mistaken identity became clear and we headed back the right direction with laughs all around.

Exploring the old kitchen at Pigeon Island Fort

Looking over Rodney Bay from the fort (named for Admiral Rodney who led the British fleet to rout the French fleet on neighbouring Martinique in the 1700s).

The scenery is tropical and at times volcanic and spectacular. The sea was warm, green and offered some reasonable snorkeling off the palm lined beaches. The island of Martinique can be seen across the channel to the north and we took a ferry trip across to check it out and the crew managed to get everyone singing happy birthday for a couple of us (a day early but certainly memorable).

Enjoying the rough ride to Martinique with Sean Paul in background

Colourful Fort de France, capital of Martinique

Petit Anse beach, lunch and snorkeling stop

La tormenta perfecta (perfect storm) on the way back

The first few days we stayed in a big resort and hung out in the beach huts and hammocks while C negotiated the beach vendors. We then moved onto a smaller place and on down the coast to a Marigot Bay guesthouse run by a Canadians Normand and Louise. They (and their neighbours) ferried us down a track to the bay every day and we had a few good banana daquiris with the local bar staff for my birthday.

The next night we were treated to an impromptu dinner show complete with band and a big drunk English girl wearing a transparent dress and union jack undies who attempted to bump and grind on the dancefloor with every male (and C and staff) in what was a very small sedate restaurant. She was the talk of the village next day.

Doolittle's at Marigot Bay, apparently where the original Dr Doolittle movie was filmed

Birthday drinks or 'dacquiris are dangerous'

We had a few days at La Haut Plantation overlooking the Piton peaks, the town of Soufriere and the volcanic sulphur vents and boiling mud pools for which the town is named.

The plantation where we stayed and something to boil copra in

After spending so much time together dinner conversation was sometimes a bit lacking so innovation in the form of napkin folding competitions was a welcome relief. C won hands down (or rather ears up).

The ladies working at the plantation are like a family and took a real liking to Catalina. They drove us around, explained the local food, made us some tasty drinks, and covered the bathroom in bougainvilleas each day. What a nice way to finish up the trip.

After C talked me out of sea kayaking, a morning sailing was nice too with a few guys from the UK and US despite a grumpy-ass skipper. We’re already looking forward to seeing more of the Caribbean at some point, hopefully by boat. C’mon Dan, hurry up and get your skippers course!

A final cocktail to celebrate our adventures and surviving to tell the tale despite (in order of dangerousness) Italian driving, American food, sharks, guns, bears, terrorists, snakes, homies, driving snow and rain, hot deserts, wild seas, precarious mountain passes and the threat of starvation created by my never stopping to eat, which I’m sure C would have listed first not last.

And that was it.

Back around the island to the airport (people on islands always seem to drive like lunatics despite their crappy roads), wait two hours, flight, immigration one hour, arrange hotel Miami, go to hotel, change rooms three times, sleep, back to airport, wait four hours, flight to Milan (sitting next to Gianpaulo from Bologna who sells marine parts in Miami), wait three hours, flight to Madrid (on an Alitalia MD-8 from about 1970), wait eight hours in smoky lounge, change gates three times, flight to Santiago, back where we started, go to sleep.

Getting bleary eyed