The independent nation known as The Bahamas (only one of two countries in the world that get to use the “The” that way – please don’t read that out loud if you have a lisp) was the last Caribbean country on our list. I wish I could say we saved the best for last, but unless your idea of tropical perfection includes Vegas style high rises and casinos, albeit very nice ones, and posh, too, well, you might agree with us that The Bahamas, especially Paradise Island, just over the bridge from Nassau, is way over-developed. Yes, the hotels are magnificent and the beaches are spectacular and the people staffing them are extremely well trained and professional. So, what’s my beef? It’s just kind of not very exotic, if you know what I mean.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s a fabulous location for a wedding, and that’s exactly why we were there (for 4 days of uninterrupted celebration of the marriage of two beloved youngsters), and I guess if you are trying to keep 140 wedding guests happy and entertained it’s exactly the thing you want. For my tastes, it’s just too, too perfect. I guess this is a sign that I’m getting cranky in my dotage. Complaining about perfection.  So be it.

The Bahamas became an independent country (of some 700+islands) on July 10, 1973. Before that it was part of the British Commonwealth. So it turns out, the Bahamians threw off the yolk of British colonialism only to be over-taken by hotel developers from New Jersey. What were they thinking? Well, according to at least one of our taxi drivers, they were thinking of the $$$$$$. Same old story: “…pave paradise and put up a parking lot…” Cue Joni Mitchell.

If you only ever go to Nassau and then over to Paradise Island you will agree with me that something gets lost when you groom every square centimeter of a tiny island within an inch of its life (I know, that’s a very tricky conversion. Math and measures ain’t my thang.)

Nassau town itself is still kind of quaint and picturesque and “raw-ish” in an original kind of raw, but once you cross the bridge to Paradise Island, you might as well be in Vegas or (horrors!) Atlantic City. You will have to head back over to Nassau via the other bridge if you want any kind of local color and that will be most likely found in the district along the beach known as “the fish fry” where you will partake of authentic Bahamian cuisine and likely drink too many over-priced rum drinks. (Isn’t that what you go to the Caribbean for? Oh, and friendly Desto3 Traveler’s Tip: The cost of alcoholic libations over on the island is dear, so if you need to be frugal, pick up a few bottles of whatever in Nassau before you cross the bridge to save a few bar tab bucks.)

The fish fry in Nassau town was originally just a few shacks put up where the local fishermen haul in the day’s catch. These days some nice-ish restaurants dominate the tourism trade. We went with a party of 20+ and they handled our big table with the aplomb of the finest restaurants. The food was decent, too. (Get the mahi mahi if it’s on the menu.)

From Nassau you can take a small plane over to Eleuthera and then hop on a water taxi to Harbour Island. Now we’re talking my kind of “paradise” island. Pink sand beaches and crystalline blue waters. If you want transportation you have to rent a golf cart (about $US60 per day) and you will need it if you want to bop around on the island and get away from your resort. There are taxis but they are not tremendously reliable and they can be pricey. The taxi drivers are probably somebody’s brother in law with a running car. He may have to move some things around to make room for the passengers and there’s no meter. It’s a kind of original Uber minus any kind of reasonable standards of hygiene or safety. But, local color galore.

We would heartily recommend the Pink Sands Resort, a 5 minute taxi ride from the Government Dock where the water taxi drops you. They will arrange to have a golf cart brought directly to your cottage. No request is too extreme and the personnel is beyond world class. Your “room” is really a well appointed cottage with a private deck and virtually invisible to any other guests.

The sand on that beach is not to be believed. Like sifted, pink-hued flour. The restaurant and bar (excellent fare, btw and a righteous bar menu with good wines and nightly entertainment) are right on the beach and below it is the “beach shack” where all the water sports equipment resides until you need it. (Kayaks, paddle boards, snorkeling gear, etc. all included in your package.)

You can walk down the shore to a few other hotels and their restaurants and there are several really excellent ones in town (need the cart for this). Do NOT leave the island without at least one meal at Queen Conch.

This is a laid back vacation spot. Remember your mosquito repellant and your eReader and go with people who don’t need a lot of “high stim” activities. You’re welcome.

Although Desto3 rarely makes a recommendation for specific travel pros, on this trip we would make an exception. We consulted Laura Sangster, Vacation Maker from The Journey Group for all our needs on this trip coordinating  all the reservations for 4 people from two different locations. Everything was flawless and every recommendation was superb. Don’t go to the Caribbean without contacting her.  It’s her specialty and she knows her stuff. (Desto3 was not compensated for this endorsement. We were just hugely impressed with Laura’s knack for the region and her stellar work to make some difficult (read high maintenance customers) logistics work out well. Credit where it’s due and it’s due here.

Let’s introduce Jamaica with some classic Jamaican humor:

The Jamaican Tief

A Guyanese and a Jamaican walk into a store, the Guyanese tief a chocolate bar and when they left the store he said, “You see that? I tief three chocolate bars. Nobody can ever tief like me.”

And the Jamaican said, “Mek wi go back to the store. Me ago show yuh a who a the real tief.” They went in and the Jamaican said to the cashier, “Yuh want to see a magic trick?”

The cashier said, “Sure.”

“Hand me a chocolate bar.” The Jamaican ate it. “Hand me another one.” He ate that one. “Hand me one more.” He ate the third chocolate bar.

“But, sir,” said the cashier, “where’s the magic?”

The Jamaican man pointed to his Guyanese friend. “Check him pockets and yuh find all three a dem.”

We asked the usual, “What are five characteristics of the average Jamaican?” Almost everyone said the same thing. “Jamaicans are all different. None of them are the same.” It was really a struggle to get Jamaicans to lump everybody into the same categories. When pressed, the best we could get was, “Jamaicans love to laugh. Jamaicans love to eat. Jamaicans love to drink. (Rum? This always brought a guilty little laugh.) And, Jamaicans love music.

I might add, Jamaicans are averse to reducing all people of any culture into a stereotype. And, good for them.

That little opening joke however is illustrative of a characteristic we encountered many times in Port Antonio, Jamaica: Jamaicans are extremely clever and good natured. They do indeed love to laugh and most of the time it is at their own expense with deep amusement that they are telling tales out of school. Unlike some other foreign cultures, Jamaicans on the whole are very quick to pick up on a joke and they will extend it forever. A shared joke becomes a strong bond.

Food? We were bellying up to the bar at a jerk chicken center with a couple of Red Stripes before we even got to our hotel. We had to walk through a purple haze to get inside. (I haven’t seen a cloud like that since 1969!) There was a serious game of dominoes going on just outside and it was lightning fast and everybody was having a GRAND time. We had 3 orders of jerk chicken, a couple more of jerk pork, and Pablo wanted more…(More! More! Give me more!) As it was closing in on Midnight and I feared for his intestinal track I dragged him away. (It wasn’t easy.)

We avoided the big tourist traps around Montego Bay and Kingston where the Sandals Resort and that ilk have set up camp but there’s a price to pay for being that kind of tourism snob, and that price is paid in both time and money. Port Antonio is on the northeast coast in Portland Parish. The road to Portland Parish from Kingston is long, (2.5 hours) arduous, (full of potholes and narrow in many places) and Jamaicans drive on the wrong side of the road. (Thank you Great Britain for another perfectly good country ruined.) The official language is the Queen’s English which everyone speaks to tourists, but amongst themselves Jamaicans speak a patois that is both charming and nearly indecipherable. Lots of fun to try though.  Because of the wrong side of the road thing we hired drivers to take us everywhere and the hotel (Pablo’s BFF, Anthony Bourdain also stayed here) provided instant drivers at our beck and call and not too much $$$$.

It was made abundantly clear to us by everyone on the way to Jamaica, in Jamaica and from Jamaica that if you want to score a little ganja, just say the word. We investigated the possibilities so that we could report back to our Desto3 followers but all inquiries were of a purely anthropological (not commercial) nature. (I swear.) Consensus is that though ganja is still technically illegal in Jamaica, it is nevertheless everywhere and easily acquired by anyone. More than one Jamaican asked us about the rumor that the quality of California weed is outstanding. Word travels quickly among the enlightened. We could have purchased something called “Marenga” whatever that is but I think we are too old to try to find out. Let us know if you know. Also available, (although a little more on the down low was the availability of some serious obeah. (Black magic.) We passed on that, too, but it was tempting to think we might be able to “put a hex on you”. Not “you” you, but, you know. “You” as in whomever.

It’s a unique country.  Granted independence in the early sixties and dominated by a minority ruling class of extremely wealthy individuals of mixed race, it is nevertheless, on the whole a very poor country. All the wealth is at the top. Like every other tropical paradise, tourism is a HUGE piece of the economic puzzle that is the Caribbean. They are known for Blue Mountain coffee. (Coffee is an important export – coming soon to a Starbucks near you. No joke.) Some sources report Jamaica to be #1 in the world in homicides. Everyone in Portland Parish will tell you (brag) that there’s NO violence there. All the murderers, gangsters and criminals live in Kingston. (Another reason to avoid that place.) We felt extremely safe in Port Antonio and though there’s plenty of security around, for the most part it is disguised as “grounds keepers”. (At least where we stayed.) Off campus, the drivers were all big, buff dudes who seemed to know everyone and also seemed a bit intimidating even as they distributed hearty high fives everywhere we went.

I could wax poetic about the lush, tropical beauty of the place and the incomparable grandeur of the seascapes, but why don’t you just look at Pablo’s pics, mon?

Haiti

Here’s a puzzle: Why was there a bidet in our hotel bathroom in Havana and NO bidet in our hotel in Cap Haitian? Hmmmm? Didn’t the French, (who colonized Haiti), invent that particularly endearing plumbing device? (In my opinion the best thing to venture forth from France to the New World  – besides, obviously, French wine, French Cheese and young French musicians, also French Fries, French Toast, French bread – oh hell, I’ll admit it, I love EVERYTHING French. But, I especially love the bidet. (Yes, I know, this says something unflattering about my psycho-sexual development. So be it.) I can’t for the life of me figure out why it didn’t catch on here in the western hemisphere, (except, obviously – and big, big surprise – in Cuba. Who would have expected THE PARTY to be big fans of the clean butt?) So, please feel free to enlighten me if you have any insights into this conundrum.

Although I do not at all consider this an insignificant cross-cultural observation, I’ll move on to others.

I can’t speak to Port au Prince because we didn’t go, but I gave Cap Haitian 3 days of my life and that’s all that place is going to get. I’m ambivalent at best about Haiti and even though they say there’s a new Minister of Tourism who is busting her butt, (her dirty butt unless the Minister of Tourism digs have a bidet), trying to lure the Europeans and the Americans and all manner of others to do a little vaykay there, I’m not really feeling it. Yet. I’ll admit I signed on to visiting Haiti with prejudice. From the get go, except as a place of extraordinary exoticism, Haiti has a bad rep. Maybe deserved. Maybe not. But, statistics can be impressive and stats like, 90% of Haitian children have intestinal parasites….for me, that’s just no. The most common site, (and these were in highly impressive numbers; public education is mandatory) were the school children walking to school in absolutely immaculate uniforms with ostentatious matching hair bows. Meanwhile, the literacy rate in Haiti remains scandalously low at around 50-53%. But, damn, the kids LOOK good walking to school. Now, maybe this is just ignorance on my part, but wouldn’t it be smarter to put some effort into actually teaching kids to read and write or maybe just eradicating intestinal parasites instead of outfitting them in natty uniforms? Or, is that just my ignorant western cultural prejudice operating? I’m willing to be educated myself. When I asked our guide what happens to the kids when they finish school he said frankly, “There isn’t anything for an educated person to do in Haiti, so they just revert to being uneducated.” Say what????? I got bummed and I stayed bummed until we left. And, leaving was a whole other adventure.

Dominican Republic

Haiti shares the island of Hispaniola with the country of the Dominican Republic (remember, don’t confuse this country with Dominica!). We were forewarned about the border crossing and even told it would be smarter to fly there. (If we cared about our health and safety at all.) Always up for a challenge and a little international adventure, your intrepid Desto3 team took the overland bus. The only buses in Haiti I knew of were the “tap-taps”, usually independently owned (and decorated and let me say this about that – Oh wow! Oh big wow!) –  the tap-taps are probably where everybody contracts intestinal parasites. I expected goats and chickens to be in even numbers with the human passengers. The day before we left we happened to encounter an American ex-pat who’d been living in Haiti for 12 years and he gave us an earful. First off he told frighteningly believable tales of border crossings involving upwards of 8-hour delays while the passengers took sequential collections to pay off the border guards until “enough” was proffered. How much EXACTLY would be enough? So, imagine my surprise, nay delight, when arriving at the spectacularly primitive bus depot we were met by a large, modern, air-conditioned transport? And, wonder of wonders…the bulk of our fellow passengers (at least 2 dozen) were bona fide soldiers in the Chilean army serving in the UN special detail in Haiti en-route to R&R in the DR? So, guess who got no shit, NO shit, not the teeniest bit of shit, at the Haiti/Dominican Republic border? That’s right. (I <3 Chile!)

But, in addition to trying to scare the crap out of us about daring to cross the border via bus, that American dude also told us other equally terrifying horror stories about the D.R. in general. “The people are miserable, they hate Americans, they’ll rob you blind, rifle through your luggage, generally do what they can to make your life miserable for your time in their country. You will be relentlessly hassled. ” Okay. Let me just say…what the hell…?????

Not one word of that was true. We had a great, GREAT time in the D.R. Every encounter with every single person was wonderful.  We weren’t hassled, we weren’t robbed, we weren’t mistreated or frightened in any way. The beach vendors in the D.R. are licensed and strictly regulated. If they get a complaint (for instance they don’t take a simple “no” for an answer and move along immediately) they can lose their sales license. They are very courteous and friendly. Not pushy. And, hey, people? These folks are just trying to make a living, same as everybody.

We got a driver and guide, just because we didn’t know what to expect and why take chances? But, LOTS and lots of Americans drive rental cars over there. Lots and lots of Americans own second homes in the D.R. It’s a hot spot. And, for that it’s got a little bit of a Hawaii vibe. It is highly developed. It is the antithesis of Haiti and maybe that is why there’s so much enmity between these two neighbors who share a tiny little island. I didn’t detect any major resentments toward us about the tourist take-over. The islanders I talked to had a realistic grasp on the economics of tourism. In terms of “friendliness” it’s the same everywhere I’ve been in the world, including Haiti. People pretty much don’t engage until you smile first and say hello. Then, BIG SMILE and usually a very pleasant exchange.

Yesterday, on the beautiful little Caribbean island of Dominica, Pablo and I hired a driver and a guide to tour the island. He was a lovely man who described himself as “mixed race”, half Kalinago Islander (on his mom’s side) and half Black African (on his Dad’s side). Most of the island’s 71 thousand inhabitants are “mixed” with only a few thousand “pure-blooded Kalinago” tribesman left. His van and his driving (on the wrong, i.e. left, side of the road), were impeccable if a bit speedy on the windy mountain two lane, but brand spanking new highway that transverses the island from our lodging on Pagua Bay (outstanding!) to the capital town of Roseau. Our guide’s knowledge of the island, its history and botany, and also his current political insights were vast and freely given. He had one tiny, bothersome quirk, and that was that he punctuated every single piece of information with the moderately condescending interrogative, “Do you understand?” I’m sure the fact that the question was delivered with a strongly accented English (while not a Spanish accent) had everything to do with the fact that I woke up at 2:45 a.m. (en punto – I checked the clock) dreaming of being back in Spanish I under the instruction of one, Mrs. Palermo. (Cue her incessant “¿Comprende usted?”) To be fair here, Mrs. P’s incessant need to interrogate thusly might have been singularly annoying to me because I so rarely did “comprende” anything. Not in her class. Not in Miss White’s Algebra III/Trig class, and certainly not in Ms. Garamondi’s Chem. (Honestly, it’s a wonder I graduated high school at all!)

The unconscious is mysterious and unfathomable, (my discipline was Psychology – I know, I know, not a “real” science), so it’s little wonder as I’ve been bumming around the Caribbean for several weeks where fluency in Spanish would have made things much easier (in Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic and yes, in Florida, too). Those locations and spending a day with our lovely, (if slightly supercilious), guide to Dominica, my own unconscious produced a dream (a truly alarming one) featuring my old High School Spanish teacher. I woke in a sweat and not only because it was 90 degrees Fahrenheit in the middle of the night.

If only Mrs. P had told me in Spanish I class, fifty years ago, how much fun it would be to carry on fluent conversations with people who live in other countries, or maybe if she could have known how very, very badly I would one day need desperately to locate a reasonably hygienic “baño” in the middle of a Cap Haitian, Haiti street, I might have been persuaded to study harder (or at all) and I would have known that in Haiti the people speak Creole first, then French, and significantly very few of them speak a word of Spanish. But, that’s travel for you. It provides endless opportunities for nostalgic regrets. I have a few. Perhaps more than my share. Nevertheless, I hold no grudge, except possibly that “D” Mrs. P gave me sophomore year that put the kibosh on my cheerleading career and got me kicked off the squad.

Note: on Dominica the language preferences are thus: Creole favored, universal command of English – the official language, enough French to get by, – Creole is pretty much “French-ish”, and almost zero knowledge or use of Spanish.

More useful info for those headed to the Caribbean: Let’s begin with Dominica wherefrom I write to you this very day and then move backward to the Dominican Republic and Haiti.

Dominica is commonly referred to as “the nature Island” and for very good reason. The place is tiny but verdant and much of it is arboreal rain forest. It is mountainous, too, so waterfalls are ubiquitous. The beaches are mostly black sand and much of the coastline is rocky with waters too dangerous to swim in because of extreme currents and undertow. The lack of swimming/sunning beaches is maybe what has saved Dominica to date from utter destruction by the tourist hordes. (Dominica is geologically on the younger side and volcanic, so hot springs, including the eponymously named, “Boiling Lake”, abound and are accessible for swimming and soaking. Some, not all! Some are too damn hot. The popular ones have been developed and you will have to pay a usage fee.) There are miles and miles of interior hiking trails and it is increasingly popular for hikers to purchase passes to trek (backpack) the 9 or 10 days in and out of the national park system.

The history of Dominica has been shaped to a large degree by its geography and weather. They say that Christopher Columbus (not a Spaniard you know but a Spanish lackey) discovered Dominica on a Sunday and hence, gave it the name “Dominica” (for Domingo the Spanish name for Sunday). CC was unable to land though because of (what proved to be typical) foul weather so he sailed on and sent a crew back only later to see what there was to plunder. There is actually talk on the island currently about changing the name back to the original, Kalinago name, “Waitukubuli” which means, something like, “she’s a long tall Sally in a Green Dress”. (I made that up; it’s close though.) The move in this direction is primarily fueled by the fact that many of the islanders don’t like (I mean they REALLY don’t like) that a lot of people confuse Dominica with the Dominican Republic. Trust me, these two places could not be more different in almost every single way. It’s like confusing NEW York with NEW Mexico.

Meanwhile, in terms of the history of the place, Spain hung in on the island just long enough to leave a very slight culinary influence and zero Spanish language. (The only Spanish we heard was a couple of airline pilots in the hotel restaurant.) Following Spain’s exodus, just as they did in the other nearby Carib islands, the Brits and the Frenchies fought over control long enough to install African slaves and to also completely alienate the local indigenous population. The aural history of the Kalinago people trace their settlements back to 200 B.C. and the village (US$10 for a 45 minute tour – worth every penny) has a really interesting recreation of an early native settlement. (Kind of the Williamsburg of Dominica complete with a rather nice Rue du Crappola.) Our guide through the village chuckled at the notion that Columbus “discovered” Dominica.

In the end, Dominica lacks the large, commodious safe harbors and the resources for ship repair that made the others in the Caribbean so precious to the colonizers so it just wasn’t a valuable enough (i.e. consistently accessible) sea port.

What’s left of the French language is a form of Creole that seems quite unique to Dominica. (My own knowledge of the Creole language is limited exclusively to the names of comestible food items that, when ingested outside of New Orleans, usually results in regret, deep, deep regret, either relatively immediately or, within a few hours. You know what I mean.) Still, I have to say it is testament to their good tastes that the people of Dominica, Black, Pureblood native Kalinago and mixed race alike, all chose to emulate the French, and to a lesser degree the Spanish, and not the British in their cooking. The British left them the English language when they departed. And, a parliamentary form of government. And, possibly, a sense of order unseen on other islands. Dominica is extremely tidy and the land and area around the homes, however modest, are often manicured and cultivated with enviable botanical delights. Honestly, this sounds crazy, but it’s not unlike how the Dutch wash their stone steps every day and have tulips all over the frigging place.

Sorry about the almost “F” word. (I have been making some attempt to keep the Destos “g” rated.) I don’t know why, but try as I may, I just can’t get those Spanish verbs conjugated the way I wish I could yet I speak smut fluently.  (I must say, such fluency came in handy yesterday when some oily dude in Roseau tried to shake us down for US$5 to take a picture of a bicycle against a wall.)

Next Desto, Haiti and the D.R.

My room-mate in Cuba occasionally snores. It’s the same room-mate I have in Oak Park, but when he’s traveling and he has to be up for an early departure he worries that he won’t sleep soundly so he takes a “sleep aid”. (Ambien.) Some of you, especially those of you similarly afflicted with departure anxieties and who are also in possession of a prescription for it might know and even have personal experience with this particular drug. If not, be aware: Ambien, after a few nights, is known to transform a normally civil, circumspect human being into an unrecognizable and vituperative evil golem. Ingestion of Ambien suspends all normal, desirable inhibitions… in some patients. (This warning isn’t provided by the manufacturers.)

Example: two nights running, in the middle of the night, in my otherwise comfortable and pleasingly quiet habitacion, at the Melia Cohiba Hotel in Havana, Mr. Golem decided it was a great idea to bust out into a rather loud, obscene version of an old Elton John song that was stuck on replay in his altered consciousness. “WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET A _____ _____? WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO? WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO-OO-OO?…” (Use your imagination to fill in the blank.  It isn’t the first thing you’d think of from the ordinarily supremely cultured source if you know him. My dear departed Mum would call it “filth”.) Here’s the thing with people who take Ambien for a number of nights running. You can’t wake them up and, more importantly, you can’t shut them up.

Lest you think this intro is in any way irrelevant to a Desto postcard from Cuba, let me enlighten you. In Cuba, (at least in the Melia Cohiba Hotel), the construction standards seemed to reflect (exactly) the kind of inattention to any degree of sound-proofing that you’ve seen represented in every film you’ve ever seen about “Communist” countries. (I guess in addition to the obvious cost considerations, the total audio transparency between walls made it much, much easier for “the party” to keep tabs on “the people”.) You can hear the folks in the next room breathing, especially if they are breathing hard, which, I’ll admit, can sometimes provide for some entertaining episodes.  So anyway, in this instance, I was not at all alone for my room-mate’s impromptu, 3 a.m. song spree. Our comrades in room 1221 were likewise serenaded. Thank god we were at the end of the hall so we only had neighbors on one side. The porosity of the adjoining wall also allowed me to hear the riotous laughter from the two lovely divorcee ladies from New York, (also on our tour). The first night they laughed. Night #2 wasn’t quite as amusing. Let’s just say that breakfast was a bit awkward. And, none of us was able to represent the U.S.A. as the usual chipper, well-rested American senior citizens we might have otherwise, sans the Elton John cover concert. Except for my room-mate who slept through his entire show. He was fresh as a daisy both mornings with complete amnesia.

So, basically there are two ways to go to Cuba as an American citizen. Legally and illegally. You are free to book a flight from another country, (usually the scofflaws go in from Mexico or Canada), and thus you avoid the unpleasant red tape that prohibits the U.S. citizens from re-entry when they want to come home. I know many folks who have done this. The only downside is you don’t get your passport stamped in Cuba because you aren’t “really there” at all. You are in Canada or Mexico. Wink, wink. However, as the U.S. teeters on the brink of lifting the embargo on Cuba, there exists a burgeoning tourist industry involved in what is commonly known as “people to people ministries” and by applying for and being granted a “license” to travel inside Cuba, ($$$$$$) you can go in with a tour group as an American and you get a stamp and you are a “legal” tourist. A multi page information packet informs you of the decorum you must display while there and also the restrictions. For instance you are forbidden to purchase anything in Cuba and transport it back to the states. Penalties are high if you try and get caught. Exceptions are made for “educational” materials. Cuban cigars are not educational  but CDs are. Books are too, but not books published prior to the revolution. You will be relieved of those if you try to smuggle them in. And, possibly shot on sight for trying. (Just kidding, but we were warned that this is considered a very serious crime, so utilize the Un-Nike injunction…Just Don’t Do It.

Such tours are conducted to expose American tourists to the new, modern Cuba. Cuba under Raul. Fidel has relinquished party power to his brother because he is currently under the weather, although he still writes (uh huh) a column in the only news publication, Granna International, that you can get. In fact, Fidel “wrote” a cogent if critical piece for page 3 of the 8 page current issue of Granna entitled “That Which Can Never Be Forgotten” citing a recent article in the New York Times liberally. (Who knew that Fidel subscribes to the NYT?) You are right to assume that when Fidel says “never”, he means never. It’s as if 1957 was just yesterday.

On these types of tours there is very little opportunity for independent exploration. You are bound to your guides, one American and one Cuban and I must say that they are truly spectacular. Informed and candid and helpful. And really, really, unbelievably patient. I believe every person on the bus except one was in possession of an AARP card if you get my drift. Can you imagine a more “challenging” occupation than corralling 23 AARP members in a somewhat hostile foreign desto? I cannot. I give the guides very high marks for grace under the enormous pressure of keeping us all together with a ratio of 1 to 11.5. (Good job, Jeff and Ya!) I say “somewhat hostile” because, although our experience was entirely free from bad vibes, one Cuban did refer to us as “lovely enemies”.

In the evenings you are allowed to venture off to dine independently if you choose, even though the cost of your evening meal is included in the price of the tour and you sacrifice that money to the tour company. (We thought it worth the small sacrifice since how often do you get to Havana?) You can also contract one of the many “classic antique” American cars that Cuba is known for as a taxi to your restaurant. We did so twice. Once in a 1935 sedan of unknown make and model and once in a 1957 Chevy.

Where previously, after the Revolution of 1959, all business ventures were owned by the state and all business policy was really Communist Party policy, Cuba has recently begun to allow small business ventures of a capitalistic nature. Naturally the first of these are restaurants and the taxis necessary to get the burgeoning tourist hordes to those restaurants. Mostly the small eateries are Paladors, private homes that put up a few tables and serve the tourist trade and the more well heeled Cubans. (The growing entrepreneurial class.) We were told by our new Cuban friends that the uniform salaries of the professions are so low that the taxi drivers and the waiters in the restaurants are often times doctors or engineers moonlighting to advance their standard of living. I don’t know if there’s a Yelp! Cuba yet, but I’m positive that if there is, the Paladors are killing the state owned restaurants on Yelp! The food, the atmosphere, the service in the Paladors was world class. The state owned restaurants? Think hospital cafeteria or maybe the “cafes” in the U.S. national parks and you have a glimmer of the comparison. Fidel will blame the embargo. Everything inferior or bad that occurs in Cuba is a direct result of the embargo. Your kid fails Algebra? Your mother in law doesn’t like you? You are losing your hair, or your mind? The embargo is to blame. The young people make fun of this kind of scapegoating and it is a kind of humor that separates the Cuban generations. Another feature that appeared vastly different between the millennials and their grandparents is the fading of paranoia. The twenty somethings are openly candid, even mildly critical of the government, but people say forty and up still look over their shoulder before they tell you that, yes, there is crime in Cuba.

Perhaps it is a result of growing up with bitter and disillusioned grandparents who once had great hopes for the party and the people, but now see crony capitalism return to Cuba, especially Havana, with a vengeance. Who can say for sure?

We had some interesting sociological questions and indeed the tour arranged for a lovely social psychologist to provide us with a captivating lecture one day. Here’s just some of what I learned in my three point five days in Cuba:

Though a communist country, many Cubans are somewhat religious and they are now free to practice their religion. Many Cubans, not only the descendants of slaves, (those “Black Cubans” whose families have not intermarried with the Spanish enough to be noticeable), but also light skinned folks, “whites” and “mulattoes”,  practice the ancient African religion known as Santeria. We were treated to a brief description and history of Santeria inside a “gallery” of wildly colorful murals, by a famous Cuban artist who may or may not have been “crazy”. (Not my term, his assistant admitted that the line between genius and nutso is not always easy to determine for certain. Think of Gaudi. Think of Gauguin.) The demo of the various “gods” involved in Santeria was a theatrical melding of a Roman Catholic high mass, a Chippendales/Hooters stage show, a 1960s men’s movement drumming ceremony with a little snake handling Baptist preacher action in the middle of it all. Everything that makes religion great. And, oh, the mandatory “collection” was taken at the end. (Great Big surprise there. Nope.) The devotees of Santaria go through some kind of secret procedure where-after they then dress all in white and wear white turbans on their heads for a solid year. No mention of what kind of underwear, magic or otherwise, was forthcoming and, I didn’t ask.(I know, you’re shocked.) You could see the devotees of Santeria everywhere in Havana. We also were taken into a Cathedral where a few people appeared to be saying prayers and more than a couple candles had been lit, so the intrepid Catholics have worn the Communist party down some although in no way was there a large visible clerical presence, but you don’t know what will happen. Since Fidel eased up on Catholicism in 1992 and especially since the Pope’s visit in 1998, tons of Catholics have come out of the closet. Our guide told us that there are a few thousand Cuban Jews in the country, a couple of synagogues, a smattering of Muslims, at least one Mosque, and plenty of people who consider themselves “Christian” but don’t attend church on the reg.

Public education in Cuba is free and attendance is compulsory until about age 14 or grade 9. The universities are free and ostensibly available to everyone, but the admittance exams are highly competitive and, as in the US, those kids who are lucky enough to come from backgrounds that will be supportive of education are generally  “advantaged” even though things are supposed to be “equal for all”.

On other social fronts Cuba is not unlike the U.S. Homophobia is prevalent even though it is legal for people to engage in “non-commercial” homosexual acts. Gay people cannot legally marry and gay men especially are targeted for harassment.

Health care is free and universal. It is illegal to practice “medicine” as a business enterprise in Cuba. Nobody wants to be a doctor in Cuba anymore because the salaries of the professions are so low and societal prestige will always be more an outgrowth of relative economic wealth as opposed to simple human virtue. (Am I repeating myself? Forgive me, but Fidel should have seen that one coming.)

Abortions are legal and very common. The most popular forms of birth control are the IUD and condoms. The average Cuban woman only bears 1.3 offspring currently meaning that the Cuban population is both declining and getting older.

One young Cuban woman told us that in general young Cubans are apolitical. (Maybe even hopeless.) They see the party as a fact of life. Che wasn’t even a Cuban. In some ways he means little more to them than a really nice guy whose image sells t-shirts to the tourists.

Given that history has proven that revolutions are always produced by the young, the passionate and the disaffected, it’s highly unlikely that Cuba will experience another one any time soon

Dateline: February 8, 2014

Every once in a while the universe will send you a gratifying confirmation that you are not a complete idiot, (or at least that you have taken the right fork in the road, just this one time). We got one of these delightful cosmic messages at the airport in Antigua upon departure to St. Kitts-Nevis when we learned that our fellow Dominica-bound LIAT passengers were still holed up at El Cheapo Airport Hotel waiting for the weather to calm. Three days later! (Thank you, Jesus! for giving us the good sense to stuff Dominica entirely and loll about at our final destos an extra day each instead.) Note: everything you will hear about Dominica is positive, and fans of the island border on fanaticism when describing the pristine, unspoiled natural beauty of the place. Unfortunately we were told that it is a fairly common occurrence that you can’t get there due to prohibitive wind conditions, so bear that in mind when making your travel plans. (It remains the least developed of all the Caribbean isles, perhaps for good reason.)

Feeling smug (because we managed to retain our wheelies again as carry-ons) we approached the gate (now very, very, very early for our flight to St. Kitts-Nevis) where a gorgeous young man in a starched white shirt and creased black trousers approached and inquired politely if we were Mr. and Mrs. Soandso. Not one to miss out on an opportunity I replied, “That depends. Would we want to be them?” Yes, it turns out, we would. The Soandsos were meeting their private jet captain (the handsome child who looked a lot like Justin Timberlake, now that I think about it) for their charter flight. Ah, so that is how the “other half” lives (and avoids the inconveniences of public transit and Economy class). Oh well. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s private Learjet, eh?

The final leg of our Caribbean adventure, the dual-island nation of St. Kitts-Nevis is the smallest country in the Americas, both in terms of size and population. Together about 53,000 inhabitants populate these tiny islands which are separated by a narrow – two mile – ocean channel that takes about 45 minutes to cross by public ferry. (I’m sure the Soansos take the chopper over – five minutes, tops.) The rest of us will need to know that the international airport is on St. Kitts and it has daily service in and out to both Miami and New York. British Air also flies in a couple times a week from London. (Probably why a goodly percentage of our fellow tourist types on St. Kitts were from England.)

Like the other Caribbean countries we visited this one has the archeological remnants of an early “archaic” people who never got around to making ceramic eating utensils or planting crops. These primativos disappeared, nobody knows why, but eventually a more “evolved” society of agriculturalists moved in about the same time Christianity was getting going on the other side of the globe. As elsewhere in these parts, these guys (Arawak Indians) were ousted rather violently by the Caribs who themselves got a “hi-bye” from the Spanish in the late 1400s. (Columbus claimed the islands for Spain without any kind of permanent settlement. St. Kitts is actually the short form of St. Christopher.) Next up the French and British passed St. Kitts-Nevis back and forth for several centuries.

The colonial period of course meant slavery in a very big way, first, for St. Kitts’ brief and unsuccessful foray into tobacco exportation. (Tobacco was an instant failure; they simply couldn’t compete with Virginia in the States, even WITH slaves!) When tobacco cultivation gave way to sugar, the island became a monoculture producing nothing else for more than 350 years and dominating the agricultural picture until 2005 when the government owned Sugar Corp finally gave up the ghost. Today tourism is the economic mainstay. The majority of the current population on St. Kitts and Nevis are descendants of those early African slaves.

You can still circumnavigate the island on the centuries-old train tracks that moved the sugar cane from the fields, if that’s your thing, and, because a lot of the old plantation manors were bought and renovated as Inns and Hotels, you can opt for the luxury of staying at one of those instead of the big resorts like Marriott on St. Kitts or the Four Seasons on Nevis. We chose the former and we were really glad we did.

A little bit about our digs: Ottley’s Plantation Inn is owned and operated by an extended family of Americans who originally hail from somewhere in the Northeast. Perhaps they consult the January/February weather temperatures from “home” each morning and that is why they are so relentlessly cheerful, but a nicer more welcoming bunch of expat Yanks will be hard to locate anywhere. They had me at the “welcoming fresh fruit punch” at check in. Once an 18th century sugar plantation, the inn currently sits at the heart of 35 acres of sloping mountainside, completely surrounded by rain forest. A network of nature trails immediately adjacent to the main house offer glimpses of monkeys and more flora than would please a world class botanist. Marty, one of the principles, leads daily afternoon hikes and provides informative lectures to any comers. Like the love child of Carl Sagan and Bill Nye, the science guy, Marty’s love of all things Ottley’s Plantation make a simple walk through the forest a highlight of your day. I would say, to my utter amazement, I was captivated by his guided tour. (But, do put on the deet. Mosquitos galore.)

The main house is restored but not in a fussy way that inhibits your comfort. You don’t get the sense that the joint is a museum, it’s more like a step back in time to a truly gracious and welcoming hospitality. Our spacious room on the first floor looked out over the sweeping lawn down to the pool and restaurant pavilion and beyond that all the way to the sea. Just past the restaurant there are a number of newer stand-alone bungalows, each with its own private plunge pool and nothing but forest to interrupt your view down to the ocean. (These were obviously newer construction and beautiful and private but we wanted the “old plantation” factor that the main house provided.) Honeymooners might opt for privacy, though.

You are a good shuttle ride (provided once each day) down to the nearest beach, or into the town of Basseterre (where the ferry will take you over to Nevis) and there is rumored to be decent golf on the island. We somehow never felt the need to chase a tiny white ball around on acres of green manicured lawn, so on this we cannot accurately comment. Lots of our fellow tourists rented cars but, be forewarned, this is a place of dicey mountain roads and citizens who insist on driving on the wrong side of the road. Driving here is not an enterprise for the faint of heart.

Up at Ottley’s, other than the nature trails, there isn’t much to do other than bask in the sloth of utter relaxation, lie by the (quite nice and big enough to do laps) swimming pool, or get a massage up in the rainforest “spa” pavilion. The website boasts a tennis court, but, you wouldn’t see Roger Federer playing on it. And, we did have some laughs using the croquet set that you can check out from reception, but, I suspect that nobody goes to Ottley’s for the lawn sports. It looked as if there were some evidence of a nightlife in Basseterre, and there’s none at the inn, so be ready to pay for a taxi or manage the drive if you must do karaoke.

Otherwise, the restaurant on the premises suited us fine for 3 dinners, one lunch, and 3 brekkies. I would even say it was some of the best food in all of our Caribbean travels and definitely the nicest ambience. A perfectly decent wine selection and not outrageous, too. The only downer was the big table of loud, obnoxious Americans who had come up for dinner (on a junket) from the Marriott, on our last night there. (But you can hardly hold the establishment responsible for them. It did make us really happy that we hadn’t STAYED at the big M though. That much I will say.) I’d go back in a heartbeat to St. Kitts and Ottley’s but maybe next time I’d spend a night or two over on Nevis and I’d have Justin Timberlake fly me over.

Dateline: February 3, 2014

Bound for the relatively unspoiled island of Dominica on another, (delayed by several hours) LIAT flight, we learned first hand the true meaning of the location, “Windward Islands”. What it means is, you will not be served any beverages, either alcoholic or non, (no matter how much you beg), you WILL stay in your seat and keep your seatbelt firmly snugged against your tummy, no trips to the tiny potty closet, (no matter how badly you have to go), and you will never actually get to Dominica, (although not for lack of trying on the part of the intrepid cockpit crew). You have to give them points for persistence. Three aborted attempts to land the aircraft before at last throwing in the towel and heading to Antigua instead makes for a truly thrilling late afternoon and evening. (As close as I have ever come to actually using the airsick bag.)

At the airport we avoided waiting in the long queue for the vouchers provided by LIAT for accommodations by just going directly to our lodgings at the Admirals Inn at Nelson’s Dockyard a couple days early. (I’m sure the “free” hotel was lovely, and I’m sure the “complimentary” meals were scrumptious, and I do have some regrets about missing out on Dominica, but, I can be decisive when fate tells me to be.)

Antigua is the main island of the nation of two islands known collectively as Antigua and Barbuda. Antigua means “ancient” and Christopher Columbus gets credit for bestowing this name on the place. (He also named Dominica, Spanish for “Sunday” because it was a Sunday when he first caught sight of the place, or so the story goes.) There is evidence that the Native Arawak people populated Antigua from as early as 1100 AD and the usual struggles between this native group and the Caribs from Venezuela dominate the island’s history until the Europeans arrived in the fifteenth century. The first significant settlement of Europeans didn’t take hold until the mid 1600s when the British moved in and started cultivating sugar. The Brits of course needed labor but the native population succumbed pretty early on to diseases that they had no immunity from so the plantation types had to import slaves from Africa. It is an interesting little factoid that at one point on Antigua a majority of the slave labor force was imported from Ireland. True. The history of the colonization of Antigua is pretty similar to most of the other Caribbean island nations except for a particularly gruesome period of torture and mayhem, even murder on the part of the slave owners. We could detect not even a smidgeon of racial tension or lingering hostility. I guess all is forgiven and folks have moved on. (Oddly, the very ground upon which dozens upon dozens of slaves were burned at the stake is now the Antiguan Recreation Grounds. Say, what?!) Eventually, as everybody knows, the notion that human beings should be bought and sold as chattel and executed at whim, became increasingly unpopular, (even in England) and by the mid 1800s slavery was completely abolished.

I was kind of amazed at the naval museum in the area known as Nelson’s Dockyard, (a shout out to Horatio Lord Nelson who was rumored to be kind of a prissy dick) which houses a lot of artifacts from the period when the British used this harbor to repair sailing vessels. The entire boatyard is remarkably well preserved and currently houses a lot of quaint shops, and restaurants including the Inn itself (where we stayed) and a great bakery just steps away out the back door.

Today the restaurant in the Admirals Inn commands the torch lit patio space in between the Inn proper and the harbor. The lobby and bar occupy the first level and the second level houses the rooms. Ours looked down on the patio and the harbor beyond. As soon as we arrived, we chucked our bags into the room, splashed a little water on our travel-weary faces and ran down to catch a late dinner. The food was great. Fresh fish and perfectly steamed vegies. Good warm bread and a nice bottle of vino. The cares of the day rapidly receded and became, (obviously) just another amusing story in our LIAT Airlines collection.

We took a daylong tour which covered the entire island (87km in circumference), and visited the site of another significant historical locale, the fort where the Brits watched the American rebel supply ships sail past during the Revolutionary War. Also on the day’s itinerary was a cliff top view down to the drug and alcohol rehab facility owned (in part) by Eric Clapton, The Crossroads Centre. Can I make it known here and now that if I ever do need rehab, THAT is where I want to go? It looks like a mighty fine location to get sober. They say that old Slowhand, (when he’s on the island), bumps about like any old geezer and even sometimes shows up at local pubs to “sit in”. We did not see him, nor were we invited to tea at the clinic. Next, time, E.

There’s a great gallery full of island-made art and kitschy souvenirs just a couple blocks down the main road from the hotel and there’s a super little diner in the “mall” on the same road. The owner has “rooms to let” for the itinerant little army that moves about the Caribbean to crew on the gorgeous yachts that are attracted to English Harbor. In my next life that looks like it could be a fun way to kill a decade as long as I can get the patch for seasickness. It’s easy to kill an afternoon just gawking at the rich people and their boats.

Be aware that there’s no usable beach at the Inn; you have to get shuttled over by one of the hotel’s staff to the beach across the harbor in a little tiny dinghy, but that was actually a fun excursion. Don’t miss the hike (easy but wear shoes not flip flops) past the yacht harbor up the hill to the remainders of the fort. Miraculously, we had the whole place to ourselves. (I guess only the plebes partake of the sweat inducing exercise. Nary a yachty was spotted even though we could have literally thrown a rock onto a half dozen one-percenter decks from the top of the climb, (had we been spiteful).

We had a spectacular dinner (with a great bottle of wine from a stunning wine collection) at Hamilton’s Bistro while pretending to be rich and famous.

The only advice I might extend to others regarding Antigua is, you’re going to hear a LOT about some place called OJ’s, supposedly a “must do” kind of place. I found it to be over priced and over hyped and I was really sorry that we wasted our money and our time finding it and eating there. There’s better. But, then again, the beach there was spectacular, so if you’re a location/view-over-food kind of traveler, forget everything I just said.

Next desto: St. Kitts and Nevis. Two islands, one country.

Dateline: January 27

Re: The aforementioned Liat airlines. “Liat” in the native Carib language means, “Hurry up and wait, and by the way, your luggage won’t be there when you get there”.

Of course not, but you could be tempted to believe.

Having fears in Barbados that our “lost” luggage would never catch up with us while we island hopped all over the Caribbean, that it would just bounce from island to island in hot pursuit, you can imagine our relief when, (just a few hours before we had to leave for the airport by cab), our bags were delivered to our room.

I was steely eyed when we checked in for our flight to St. Lucia. There was no way in hell I was going to check my wheelie. It was going to be a carry on from that point on. The desk crew could see the madness in my eyes. That’s probably when they confessed that our bags were never lost at all. They had merely been removed before departure because apparently a large party of over-weight last minute Barbadian passengers had checked in, requiring the removal of a lot of weight in the form of passenger baggage. Seriously?

What to say, but, wtf?

Somehow (US$10.) we convinced the girls at check in that our wheelies were “carry-ons” and we proceeded to our gate where many, (many) happy hours were spent waiting for our next sky adventure on Liat Air, the very short flight from Barbados to St. Lucia.

Can I tell you, I’ve been on a number of “diverted” flights in my day. It can be disconcerting. But, I have never experienced anything like the “Day of Diversion” that this day was. Check the map for a full appreciation of this story. Barbados to St. Lucia is an incredibly short distance with nothing but a tiny bit of sea in between. When the captain comes over the PA and announces that instead of landing in Castries, on St. Lucia you will instead be doubling back to St. Vincent because your flight isn’t absolutely full, and there are a few passengers back there headed to St. Lucia – Okay, Okay, what’s one more landing and takeoff? It’s still all good, right? Because YOUR luggage is over your head and you are almost giddy with that knowledge. Now, everybody buckle up and here we go….St. Lucia! No, not quite yet. Again the captain over the P.A. Again with the announcement that we are bound for an unscheduled island. Again we get diverted. This time to Martinique. The same drill. Nobody gets off. A whole bunch of people desperate to make a connecting Virgin flight to get back to London get on. They brought with them an air of panic. That is precisely when the gentleman to our left glanced out the window only to notice that his luggage (and his golf clubs) were being removed from the back of our plane to accommodate the baggage belonging to the “limeys”. (His word, not mine. Don’t shoot the story teller.) As he was a rather fit young man, (looked like he could have been a line-backer), I might have taken his enthusiastic objections a bit more seriously if I was that flight attendant. For one tense minute I thought they would come to blows. But, in the end of those exchanges, everybody knows: the airline has the upper hand. The large, athletic looking gentleman finally capitulated, collapsed back into his seat and watched his golf clubs sadly motor back to the terminal, presumably to spend at least part of his golfing vaykay without him. I felt his pain. Pablo, on the other hand was perversely amused and I had to elbow him in the ribs when he started to laugh out loud. (Everybody knows for certainty that one would surely get thrown off a flight for clocking a member of the flight crew, but who knows what might come of passenger on passenger violence when the laughing geezeer in 14C starts smugly reporting that all of his personal effects are safely in the overhead, Sucker!)

The important thing is, (and I repeat, Liat is world renowned for the safety records of their pilots), we arrived intact (and bonus: with our all of our personal effects in hand). The airport on St. Lucia is in Castries which is about an hour’s drive north from where we stayed, up in the mountains near Soufriere. Most tourists arrive in St. Lucia on the big cruise boats to disembark for either a quickie island tour or a shopping day-trip in Castries, the largest town, pretty big as Caribbean cities go, and home to about one third of the island’s entire population.

The auto tours will take in the rustic attractions like the drive-in volcano and the national park. If you’re “off the boat” I recommend taking in one of those driving tours as the shopping in Castries is just another typical Rue du Crapola. Soufriere, on the other hand is small and quaint, without the influx from the boat to contend with. You get a much better feel for the island and her unique people there. Just outside the town of Soufriere is the Botanical garden which is worth the visit. (Guided tours are available by docents within the park, but this is not really necessary. The garden is well annotated throughout and unless you are working on your dissertation in botany, you’ll be pleased with the amount of information.

Our hotel, La Haut Plantation, was smaller than some of the really huge, much-touted resorts on St. Lucia but everything about it was superb. They offer accommodations in a broad price range, but don’t skimp. Our room (US$300/night) was possibly one of the best views we’ve ever had – in the world. Our large private deck extended out over lush tropical forest with a magnificent unobstructed and close up view of the Pitons, the twin mountains that make this place famous. The room was enormous. The owner’s house is a short walk down a dirt road and guests of the plantation are invited to swim in the big infinity pool just outside its doors in the shadow of the Pitons.

The restaurant is quite good, reasonable in price but limited in selection; the wine list is a tad short, but you WILL survive, and a few days and nights, maybe 3 is sufficient for this locale.

You can’t walk into Soufriere from La Haut, you need to take the shuttle, but the town is walk-able and interesting once you get there. If you are lucky, (we were) there will be a wedding going on in the big Catholic church in town. The celebration put me in mind of something I saw once in New Orleans and that probably is because the folks here have some of the very same cultural influences: French, African and Indo Carib. Almost everybody on the island is Roman Catholic but when you get folks talking you will find that many practice “ancient African” rituals on the side. We stopped for some liquid refreshment on our way back to the shuttle pick up and our bartender told us that you can purchase a hex for just few measly dollars, and Lord, it was mighty tempting, though I ultimately passed, fearful that the karma bus would get us on that windy road back to Castries.

They say Oprah has a home on St. Lucia and if she does she’s a smart cookie. It is unspoiled and beautiful. The people are fine company. I would say avoid Castries and the daily influx of cruisers but otherwise, this island is a gem.

Next desto: not Dominica as scheduled but instead, Antigua. But that’s another long story featuring Liat Airlines. Meanwhile, we still wish you were here.

Dateline: January 20

Today we leave Grenada for the island of Barbados. First, one must not depart Grenada without mentioning the brilliant young Olympian, Kirani James. Failing to do so could result in significant fines. (Nah, not really, but kind of.) In fact the airport in Grenada has the distinct appearance of a Kirani James National Shrine. Or, since Kirani James memorabilia of every possible variety is on sale in the airport gift shops, you could easily mistake the location for the Kirani James National Shopping Mall.

Fans of the Olympics will remember this young sprinter for taking the Gold in London in the 400 meter. They say that thousands lined the streets of Grenada for his homecoming and that upon his arrival the Prime Minister Tillman Thomas announced Mr. James would be bequeathed government bonds totaling up to EC500,000, (US$250,000), a commemorative stamp be crafted in his honor, a new stadium be named for him, and that he would be appointed a tourism ambassador. Kirani James’ gold medal is the first Olympic medal for Grenada of any color in any sport. And, he is some kind of F A S T. To say he is worshipped like a small-g god here is a vast understatement. Grenada LOVES Kirani. The way we used to love Lance. And, Michael Phelps. (Let’s just hope KJ doesn’t get caught with the excellent ganja rumored to be plentiful among the islands hereabouts.)

So, on to Barbados. Via LIAT airlines. This was our first LIAT flight so we made the mistake of checking our wheelies. (We did NOT do that again.) Here’s the thing about LIAT. The pilots have the best cumulative safety record of any international airline. That’s the good news. The bad news is…well, here’s my sad story:

The Grantley Adams International Airport on Barbados underwent a massive $100 mil renovation sometime in the last decade, so it is lovely, but not lovely enough to offset the pissedoffedness one experiences when one’s luggage does not arrive with one. (Or, two, as was our case.) You know the drill. You land and you go to baggage claim and stand around awaiting the arrival of your bag, while, one by one, every other passenger pulls their luggage from the carousel and goes their merry way until it is only you, (and your traveling companion), dejectedly watching the empty carousel go round and round. It always takes a while for you to admit the truth. Is it just my imagination that the lucky people who get their bags glance smugly over at you in the exact same way that the popular kids used to look at you when they got asked to dance at the seventh grade social center sock hops while you were left “unchosen” to your own devices in the designated wallflower section of the gym? I don’t know why, but it is personally humiliating when an airline loses my baggage. (Perhaps I should take this up with my therapist the next time I go into therapy.) Whatever. It takes forever and then some to find the appropriate airline personnel to whom you must report lost luggage, and even when you do they always act as if this has never, in the history of aviation, happened before. Another hour to fill out the necessary paperwork. It is only in the taxi as you motor on to your hotel (sans personal effects) do you realize that you are in Barbados for godsakes without even one clean pair of underpants, never mind your frigging bathing suit. (Or, your Lady Schick, or your tweezers, which hirsute, AARP aged women will know is an item, along with your 10X magnifying purse mirror, you do not want to be without for even 24 hours. Seriously, who knew that menopause would bring on the facial hair with such vengeance? Two days of negligent depilation and I can give Pancho Villa a run for his money. But, this is all TMI, I am sure.) Onward.

Barbados, as Caribbean destinations go, is known as a charming sovereign island nation. European discovery is credited to the Spanish in the mid 1600s and alternatively to the Portuguese in some accounts, but it was settled (the last go around) by British colonialists and therefore, “Ba-jans” drive on the left side of the road and they all speak with a quaint British-tinged accent. The population enjoys a nearly 100% literacy rate and as a nation they spend almost 7% of the GDP on education. (Higher than the U.S. slightly in both stats.)

December through May marks the “dry season” when rainfall is lowest and accommodation prices are highest. June through November then is the “wet season” with a wide rainfall average that spans between 40 and 90 inches annually. The reported average temps don’t vary all that much, ranging between 70 degrees F and 88, although I last visited Barbados during the month of August when the daytime temps were over a sweltering hundred degrees. On our current trip, in January, the heart of the dry season, it was “cloudy with a chance of” the entire time and it poured down rain on us en-route to town so take those weather designations with a grain of (sea) salt.

Once upon a time, prior to the 1970s, (when I last visited), Barbados’ national economy was dependent on sugar cane. The development of tourism, (some say “over-development”) has long since eclipsed any agricultural product and has also mightily changed the look and feel of the place. It is really, REALLY developed now. In 1975 you could walk along the main roads and count the passing cars. These days the road into Bridgetown is a heavily trafficked thoroughfare and you couldn’t pay me to walk that road. (Better to hop into a “route taxi” called a “ZR or Zed R” by the locals, but be forewarned: The ZR drivers in Barbados do not know the meaning of the word “no”. If someone is at a bus stop, the driver WILL stop to pick them up no matter how full the vehicle. You might be expected to travel some distance with a brand new BFF sitting VERY close, even in your lap. I encourage you to view this as an opportunity for one of those rare olfactory cultural exchanges as the ZRs are dirt cheap and a private taxi will cost ten times the price at the least.)

Even though the island is outside the major hurricane threat zone, you should be made aware that Barbados is one of the most densely populated islands in the world, and as such they are forever battling the attendant problems of surrounding seawater contamination and the kind of interior island pollution that affects the quality of the drinking water aquifers. Geologically speaking, this island is the by-product of the kind of tectonic influences that created the abundant surrounding coral reefs. The reefs are home to at least four sea turtle species, but the human sewage factor is always threatening devastation. Over-fishing is also a problem. So, in short, mankind, with his insatiable seafood appetites and glutinous consumption, not to mention his incessant pooping, is currently the most problematic of all known environmental threats to idyllic life on Barbados.

We stayed at one of the typical conference oriented hotel resorts. Not terrible, but not memorable either. (Or, maybe I would have viewed it better if our luggage had been delivered to the hotel as promised which didn’t happen until just before we had to leave for the airport to island hop over to St. Lucia two days later.) In the meantime, we shopped Broad Street and Swan Street for cheap interim bathing suits so we could at least put in a modicum of (overcast) beach time. (Also, a surprisingly professional tweezers and a razor so I could remove the most conspicuous of my superfluous body hairs, thank you, Jesus!) The shopping district is a busy, hectic place with lots of upscale shops and street vendors alike. (Plus, one excellent beauty supply store.) We walked around and took in the swell boats in the harbor, had a lovely exchange with the sales girls in the department store and ate some empty calories in the form of nothing I can even recall.

Sadly, in conclusion, regarding the “tropical paradise” of Barbados, our missing luggage, plus the crap weather, in addition to a nagging sense of disappointment that the island has been all but ruined by development — somehow all of this combined to kind of shut the door on the place. I don’t think I’ll ever return. Maybe it’s just me, but when the “birthplace of Rihanna”, the “oldest Jewish Synagogue in the Americas” and the “world class Kensington Oval cricket stadium” are at the top of the list of cultural highlights of a place…just, meh. But, then you might be a Jewish, cricket playing Rihanna fan, so don’t go by me. If you’re in the hood, it’s super easy to hop over to Barbados from any number of Caribbean islands. You should go see for yourself.

Oh, and one last fun faq: according to our hotel’s tourist guide, the actual etymological origins of the word “Barbados” translates as “the bearded ones” which supposedly refers to the Spanish (or Portuguese) visitors in the sixteenth century. (Oh, the irony!) My advice? Just between us (girls), if you do fly LIAT, don’t check your wheelie, or at least remember to pack your personal hygiene gear in your carry on. Maybe your bathing costume and a spare underpants too. I wish somebody had told me. Meanwhile…our next desto: St. Lucia.