Five Days in Mayreau: A Travelogue in the Grand Tradition

Prologue: Darwin, Swift, Kerouac, Twain and Theroux I Ain’t

An apology and note on the illustrations; in which the author’s family decides to escape the annual carnivale; the invitation of the Banfields; the feeding of the fish and other preparatory matters.

The Travelers: Me, Robert & Logan, Melanie & Lila, Mum, Dad

Let me begin by apologizing. This is an extremely long post (over 6,412 words). It may also be extremely boring. In fact, I’m fairly certain that it is phenomenally tedious. Sorry. It’s five days worth of blog entries smushed into one long post. With pictures. If you decide to read on, then feel free to make a cup of herbal tea or decaf coffee, grab a bottle of Jack Daniels, light up a spliff, or cut up a few lines of coke, whatever it is you indulge in when relaxing, because I think you may need to get settled and cozy before reading on. Alternatively, you may want to read it in stages – a little at a time. In yet another alternative (can you have more than two alternatives?), you may just want to scroll to the end of each day to see the photos. Whatever.

In addition to the above, my tenses are all over the place in this entry. English teacher my ass, I confused even myself here because I wrote entries twice a day, while trying to pretend that I was writing them a week after the fact. Clearly even my overactive imagination was not really up to this task, and it shows in my tenses. This entry is also largely unedited. I was just too impatient to get it up.

Just a quick note: unless otherwise stated, I took all the photographs. Dad took the ones that I didn’t. Robert took one of them, using Dad’s camera.

For a few years now, my family has tried their level best to escape carnival. It’s not that we have something against arwe culture or anything; it’s just that arwe culture is often mistakenly described as being little more than the dutty wine, ragga soca and wet fete. Obviously there’s much more to carnival, but it’s been lost over the years (in my opinion). Culture has become ONLY popular entertainment – artistic expression and the whole post colonial search for self-hood through significant bacchanalia, evocative revelry and meaningful creative articulation has long been thrown out the window.

I’m not going to go into an anti-carnival rant, however, because there’s one fundamental thing about the festival that has remained the same: it is still a release. It is the one time of year that people party like they mean it and release a year’s worth of pent-up tensions. The tensions may be different, and the modes and levels of release may be different (more wutliss lasciviousness, higher incidents of violence and drunken debauchery) but the principle remains – it is the time when we let our hair down (damn, a cliché).

My family usually lets our collective hair down (notwithstanding the fact that my hair grows significantly lighter every year) by going away. My parents generally go somewhere by themselves and, for the past few years, I’ve gone to Bequia with Robert, Mel & the children to housesit for Aunty Arlene. This year, my Dad invited us all to go to Mayreau with him and Mum. He recently bought some land down there and figured we should all check the place out. My brother and soon-to-be-sister-in-law couldn’t make it because Bro had to man the fort in Canouan – Dad’s business does all the air conditioning for the resort/villas on Canouan and my brother, as heir to the a/c throne, was needed since all the servicemen got time off for carnival.

Preparations for the little trip were fairly simple: I got my landlord to feed Jack Russell, Morningstar, The Continental Principality of the Americas, Vanilla Sex and Blueberry Muffin (my five fish); I packed a rucksack (say that in a Swedish accent, it’s funny, I saw it in a movie once), my laptop and my camera.

The Banfields’ preparations were a bit more complex. Having children really does change your life. They had: a suitcase (medium-sized), a duffel bag (medium-sized), a backpack, a baby bag, a car seat and a stroller. For five days. Most of it was milk and diapers. Mel had spent days planning what she was going to bring – which books (Cat in the Hat was a must), which toys (a boat, floatation ring and other beach essentials), which technological diversion (Dora the Explorer DVD to be played on Uncle Wivee’s laptop – to be used only in case of emergency), etc. We were checking through customs when someone cried: “oh my God! We forgot the children!”

Kidding.

Day 1

In which the author and his companions travel by land, air and sea; the myriad facial expressions of Lila Mary Banfield; Dennis and Gosia: an introduction; a walk through the village; here be midges; one big, fat fish, right in front my face; a note on noise; the trippy air conditioning.

Preparing for take-off.

I know it’s weird; I mean we live on an island – how does going to another island (in the same freakin’ country) constitute a vacation? Well here’s how: we had to drive to the airport, board a plane, disembark on another island, walk to a dock, board a boat to yet another island and walk up a hill; that’s three separate islands in the one country. Plus, Mayreau is completely different from mainland St. Vincent. The pace here is slower than Bequia, Canouan or Union Island. There’s only one village.

After the plane (a Grenadines Alliance 9-seater, piloted by what sounded like a New Zealander named Chris) was airborne, Lila stood up on her seat to look out. That was worth the entire trip. When she looked out the window and saw the sea beneath her, as well as the islands, her face was priceless. She went from shocked, to amazed, to excited, to jubilant – all in the space of a few seconds. Just being an observer of that almost-two-year-old’s realization that she was above everything else – was flying – was enough to make me appreciate the experience as I must have done the first time it happened to me. It’s amazing how much wonder I experience when I see the awe Lila feels in her exploration of the world.

Anyway, after 20 minutes we arrived on Union Island, walked to Anchorage and hopped onto Dennis’ little boat. Dennis is the guy whose guesthouse we’re staying in. He’s originally from Mayreau, but left for sea when he was 12. That’s right, he left home at 12 to make a life on the ocean. Eventually, he made his way back to Mayreau to open up his guesthouse, as well as to run diving tours. He’s just friendly enough. I know that sounds odd, but there’re two types of hosts – the ones who are full of themselves and stern, and the ones who are full of shit and intrusively friendly. Dennis is neither – he chats for a bit, quite cordially, then let’s you get on with it. Plus he’s a really good cook, but more on that later.

Gosia is Dennis’ Gal Friday. At least, I assume she is. She’s Polish and I have no idea how she ended up on Mayreau. I’m also unsure about her relationship with Dennis, but I assume they’re “together” [insert adolescent giggle here]. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. She’s also a very gracious hostess. Again, just the perfect amount of friendly.

When we arrived on Mayreau, we decided to settle into our rooms, have a drink and a quick soak in the pool, and go for a walk. Our rooms were basic, but comfortable, with a fantastic view of Saline Bay and Union Island. The pool at the guesthouse was only half full – but that’s to be expected on Mayreau where the only fresh water comes from the island’s sporadic rainfall (no rivers here).

There’s one main road. We walked half of it that first afternoon – uphill to the Catholic Church on the peak. The church is beautiful. It is small, but so intimate and warm, built entirely from cut stones and wood. There’s a wattle-and-daub hut just outside the church that acts as a gift shop. If I were still an active Roman Catholic (not lapsed, as I like to describe myself) I could imagine myself feeling closer to God in a church like that – a real God, a God of the people and not of the hypocritical elite.

On our walk we met several people [cue the condescending “local colour” descriptions]. Our first encounter was with a man who shouted at me for taking photographs. This was bit daunting, but I ignored him. We than ran into a couple children tethering their goats. They smiled and waved (as did we). We saw a bunch of white people walking aimlessly. We avoided them like the plague (self-reflexivenss is not our forte). We saw a woman with a child. She was quite friendly. Then she started shouting. Apparently, she was trying to communicate with her neighbour down the road. Who needs a phone when you can just shout? Finally, we met a lovely woman who was missing her two front teeth. She told Robert that her brother’s daughter was “clear skin and pretty” just like Lila. She also told us that Mayreau carnival would be in a week’s time. She stressed the queen show for some reason. I can only assume that she is to be a contestant. Hopefully her front teeth will have reappeared by then.

At the bottom of the hill, in Saline Bay, midges attacked us. Luckily, they disappeared once we got back to the guesthouse.

Dinner that first night was magnificent. Since it was carnival in St. Vincent, all of Dennis and Gosia’s staff had gone to the mainland for five days; ergo, Dennis and Gosia had to do everything themselves. Dennis played chef. Let me just say this: he grilled the best Red Snapper that I have ever eaten; it was perfectly seasoned, the meat tender and juicy. He grilled an entire fish for us. This was preceded by seafood thermador (callaloo soup for Robert who’s allergic to shellfish) and accompanied by random vegetables and potato wedges. Everything was delicious.

The only thing to mar the otherwise delightful evening was the music or, as Lila put it, the noise. There were three places vying for the title of Nightspot of the Night. Dennis himself was playing some rock steady reggae; the place across the street (called, I think, Rose’s Supermarket) was playing a mixture of soca, ragga soca and (inexplicably) 90’s R&B slow jams (when I heard Gotham City I suffered a minor crisis of surreal angst); and Robert Righteous and the Youths Seafood Restaurant and Bar was alternating between soca and conscious vibes reggae. Lila kept putting her hands in front of her eyes, hugging her mother and saying that the “noise was scaring her”. Seriously, it’s situations like this that the word “cacophony” was invented for.

Finally, we retired to our respective rooms. After we’d all had our sparing showers, we turned on our air conditioners and settled in for the night. Then I had to go get a glass for my father to drink some Eno. Then the a/c circuit breakers… erm… broke. Or something. How the hell am I supposed to know what happened? Everything stopped working at the same time. Luckily, Dennis sorted it all out and everyone went to bed. Except me. I stayed up to write this first bloody entry. Now my back hurts from hunching over my computer.

Dammit.

Lila; enjoying the kiddie pool and being cute.

Honor & Glory Gift Shop; wattle & daub.

Goatherd.

Inside the church. [Photo by Dad]

Robert & his girl.

Melanie & her boy.

The Bible in the church.

Dad providing some entertainment.

Me; the intrepid, incompetent, photographer. [Photo by Dad]

My Puddin'.

2 kewl (dedicated to Cristobel). [Photo by Dad]

Some islands. Forgot which ones. Dammit.

A delicate bloom.

Mel injecting a touch of whimsy.

Mel again.

Model at large.

The official dock at Saline Bay.

Gem Star coming around the point.

Dinner. Robert ate one of the eyes.

Day 2

In which the author’s father disappears down a bank and is late for breakfast; a morning on the beach; a perfect moment; lunch: where the author’s mother meets a past student; a siesta; walking to Salt Whistle Bay; Dennis unleashed.

Throwing out their seine. [Photo by Dad - too early in the morning for me.]

In true rural style, I was awoken on day 2 by the sound of roosters crowing, lots of roosters (I would’ve typed “cocks” but we don’t swear in front of Lila anymore because she’s at that parrot stage). It wasn’t an unpleasant way to wake up – I’d taken a teeny cupful of Nyquil at around midnight and that always makes for a deep, full sleep. I did have to wake up once during the night to turn the a/c up from 21 degrees to 28, then I had to wake up again to turn it back to down to 25. Apart from that, it was a good night (despite the blaring cacophony from the battling nightspots).

Dad had gone walking at 5:45am (apparently), so I called him at around 7:15 to find out where he was. He had walked to the opposite end of the island where he’d climbed down a bank and couldn’t climb back up again. This is typical behaviour for my father. We didn’t really worry until we got hungry. Mum suggested that I call him just in case he’d fallen down, struck his head and was lying in a ditch somewhere bleeding to death while wild goats ate his sneakers. Luckily, this hadn’t happened and he was fine, so the rest of us headed down to breakfast at around 8:00. He eventually showed up at around 8:30, after having wandered around until he came to Salt Whistle Bay (Dennis’ Hideaway is in the village above Saline Bay). He seemed upset that we hadn’t waited for him to eat, but both Mel and Mum are diabetic and HAVE to eat at a reasonable hour. At least, that’s what I told him.

After breakfast, we put on our swimming gear, slathered sun block all over ourselves and strolled down the hill to Saline Bay to swim and generally loll about like white people fresh off a cruise ship. Can I just say that Saline Bay is abso-fuckin-lutely gorgeous? I can? Thanks. I’ll say it then: Saline Bay is abso-fuckin-lutely gorgeous. The water (like it generally is in the Southern Grenadines) is as clear as… well… extraordinarily clear water. The sea that day was dappled green-ish/blue-ish and the expansive beach was yellow and completely devoid of humanity – apart from three girls who chatted us up, realized we weren’t bona fide tourists and then disappeared.

As with any other experience, this one was intensified because I got to see it through Lila’s innocent eyes as well as my own usually apathetic, cynical blue-grey peepers. It was perhaps the most tranquil two hours of my life (apart from the time I spent touring the underground opium dens of Istanbul). We walked along the beach, swam, played and generally just lazed about. At one point, I swam out from the shore. I looked into the shoreline and saw a placid, beautiful beach scene, with my parents and the Banfields scattered across the sand. I was treading water above a bed of sea grass dotted with six or seven starfish. I could see the starfish wavering in and out of focus under water that can only be described as mottled verdant/cerulean (green-ish/blue-ish simply won’t work here). Just then, a flock of seagulls flew past me, skimming the water inches away from my bobbing head. It was a perfect moment. Of course it was spoiled a bit when I noticed that the birds were en route to a patch of water just behind a yacht; I could only assume that they were going to feed on the yacht’s waste. Ah well.

After we’d had our fill of swimming and basking in the sunlight, we trudged up the steep hill back to the village. We showered and went to the Combination Café (it’s a combination internet café and restaurant) where we had a tasty lunch before heading back to Dennis’ for a siesta. The lady serving us was one of Mum’s many past students. They gossiped a bit about people they knew and Mum found out that church on Sunday normally starts at 8:30am and wouldn’t be a full mass this week because Fr. Mark was not on the island. Instead, it was something called a Eucharistic Service. I think. The plan was for Mum to take Lila to church with her on Sunday morning. When we walked up the hill between Dennis’ and the church later that afternoon Mum decided to take a miss on her Sunday morning worship.

After the siesta – which wasn’t really a siesta for me because I had a backache and couldn’t sleep or even hold a book to read – we trekked from Dennis’ to Salt Whistle Bay. We left Dad there and the rest of us headed back the way we came. Dad walked around half the perimeter of the island. He met us back just in time to shower for dinner. Apparently, two dogs that we met on the beach at Salt Whistle Bay accompanied Dad on his little sojourn. They left him at the gate to Dennis’.

Dennis was quite chatty and gregarious both before and after dinner; definitely more so than the day before; much more so than the day before; I say nothing further. He also played a CD of some Sparrowesque calypso. It was his – not as in he owns the CD (which he does) but as in he was the person singing and playing guitar (though not the other instruments). He also regaled us with some political rhetoric (Southern Grenadines style). His dinner of Creole Conch Steaks, aromatic rice, stewed callaloo and steamed carrots was, however, delectable. Dennis is truly an amazing chef. I’ve paid five times as much money for food that wasn’t nearly as good, and enjoyed it. That’s how good Dennis is. He’s so good that we decided not to have dinner anywhere else for the entire four nights. We’d outsource lunch, but not dinner.

After dinner Dad, Robert, Lila and I walked down the hill to Saline Bay. I took a few useless night shots and we headed back up. We all trooped into the Banfields’ room before going to bed so we could preview the photos I’d taken so far.

Lila asked me if all my hair fell out, and why. Twice.

The dock at Saline Bay.

Taking a photo of these girls costs a dollar US each - or an insightful conversation about education.

Lila doesn't walk. Ever.

See what I mean. No walking.

My parents enjoying Saline Bay.

Mel and Logan.

Dad

Mum: loco grandparentis.

Logan. He's just chillin', 'cos he's not bothered.

Dad: loco grandparentis.

Trooping up to the top of the hill. [Photo by Dad]

Awww.

Photo by Dad

Canouan. My brother and soon-to-be-sister-in-law were there.

Saline Bay. [Photo by Dad]

Photo by Dad.

Day 3

Which turns out to be much the same as Day 2; an exploration of the author’s family’s land; the salt pond: the author’s narrow escape from certain death by quicksand; Robert Righteous and the Youths Seafood Restaurant and Bar; an arduous, yet satisfying hike; five very stuffed guts.

Lunch at Robert Righteous and the Youths Seafood Restaurant and Bar

Ditto day 2 with the following additions/variations:

Before swimming, Dad took Mum and I to see the plot of land he’d recently purchased in Windward Bay. Talk about being off the beaten track. The track could actually do with a good battering. We walked along a dirt trail for a few minutes. This ended on the beach. We then walked along the beach, through a copse of manchineel trees and sea-grape bushes, along the beach again and up another dirt footpath to get to our land. It was completely impenetrable (our land I mean), overgrown with dry brush and tamarind trees. I forced my intrepid parents to pose in front of the impregnable, dehydrated forest and photographed them for prosperity… erm… posterity. We plan to build a house on this land eventually. That’ll be nice.

On the initial track to our land, well, just off the track actually, there’s a gigantic salt pond. In the olden days (also known as days of yore, yesteryear, back-in-the-day and the past), the major income for the few inhabitants of Mayreau (apart from fishing) was salt harvesting. The people would allow the salt pond to fill up then dry down. They’d then harvest the resulting rock salt. With the advent of tourism, this is now done less frequently. It’s still done though. I’ve heard that there are plans to get rid of the salt pond and build a marina. Typical. This place is unique to Mayreau. There’s also a small mangrove ecosystem there. Fuck it. Let’s get rid of it in favour of yet another playground for the almighty tourist. Surely we need to keep some sort of cultural and ecological integrity?

I spent a little while exploring and photographing the salt pond. I didn’t realize that the land was pretty much quicksand. I was crouched down trying to focus on a seagull perched on a post (I didn’t get the bloody shot by the way) when I noticed that my feet had sunk halfway into the sand! They made a sucking sound when I pulled them out and slowly backed away. The ground was spongy, but I hadn’t realized that it would swallow me whole given enough time! When I sank in, my crocs got all covered in the thick, black goop that oozed out of the salty, sandy earth. Scary. Happily, I have tons of pop-culture, vicarious experience with how to escape from quicksand. Here’s the trick: DON’T PANIC OR STRUGGLE! Any Scooby Doo cartoon could tell you that.

Lunch today was at Robert Righteous and the Youths Seafood Restaurant and Bar. While we were there, Robert Righteous brought out some of the rock salt from the salt pond for us to touch and taste. It felt and tasted like rock salt. I mean really, what was it supposed to feel and taste like? Chicken? He also gave Dad a souvenir tee shirt. It was red. I bought a yellow one for Mum and a green one for me. It’s ‘cos we’re such a conscious, ital family. I’ll have to make sure that I don’t wear mine when I think they’ll be wearing theirs. Wow. Can you imagine? We’re a cheesy enough family as it is.

After the siesta Dad, Robert and I decided to go for a hike. Mum and Mel decided that they’d stay in Mel’s room and hang out while Lila watched her Dora DVD and Logan ate, slept, shat and cried.

Dad took us on one of the hikes he’d done early in the morning. We walked down to Saline Bay and across to Windward. We pretty much hiked the entire Windward coast of the island. A lot of it was along beaches, but quite a bit was also through scrubland. I took a few shitty photographs, but really, I was just enjoying the hike for its own sake. I picked up some detritus thrown up by the ocean – a few shells, some sea sponge and what we call sea-coconuts. We saw some Sand Pipers, Sea Gulls, Wood Doves and three Pelicans. When we hit Salt Whistle Bay we also saw a ridiculous amount of yachts, speedboats, cabin cruisers and other ocean-going pleasure craft.

Most of the people we passed seemed to be speaking French. Dad offered to translate but I reminded him that just because he looks at the French channel on television in the hopes seeing naked women doesn’t mean he can actually speak the language.

I was last in line for most of the hike. This was a very unlucky position to be in. Robert farted first, that’s for sure, but he did it infrequently. Dad, however, once he got started, pretty much expelled the most noxious, continuous gas throughout the entire hour and a half hike. At one point, I had to tell him that I was sure something was wrong with him. He reminded me of a dog, like someone had been feeding him Alpo chunky or Pedigree cuts or something. I am still gagging from the memory of it all.

We eventually arrived back at Dennis’ where we showered and headed down to see what gastronomic marvel he had prepared for dinner. It was barbeque – chicken and fish. The fish tonight was something called Amber Jack Fish, which was cooked to perfection; it was succulent and moist. Our sides were fried rice, salad and bacon-wrapped plantain.

I know that those people who’ve read this far must be asking themselves (yourselves): “why the hell does this idiot keep describing dinner? Wouldn’t this already superfluous blog post be much more concise if he left out all that extraneous crap?” There’s something you need to know about the Abbott family and our vacationing habits. We likes to nyam plenty good food. There it is, plain and simple. Most of our vacations center on two main activities: walking and eating. The descriptions of meals here are as they are because this is an integral part of the whole experience for us. Usually, when we speak of our vacations after we’ve returned home, we reminisce about the food we ate. We still talk about meals we had when I was a teenager and we took our first trip to Canada. Don’t even get me started on the memorable breakfast in a Scottish B&B that included more food than we could possibly eat even if we grazed all day long. Robert still yearns after that breakfast. Dennis’ dinners rank up there with the best we’ve had.

After dinner, Dad and I had to walk down to Saline Bay to recover. I kept enough distance between us that I did not have to tolerate any dog-food flavoured fart bombs before bed.

Mum and Dad standing in front of our plot of land... well... part of it at any rate... the bit we could stand on.

The salt is deposited around these rocks when the pond dries out.

The white stuff is called "hush". It is not really salt. But I thought it was anyway and tried to taste it. Yuck.

Hush.

My footprints - sunk into the goop.

A Visitor on the beach. Lila said: "Lila no like".

The Tobago Keys

Day 4

Which is as much a repetition of Day 2 as Day 3 was; the author’s father acquires a rather distinct fragrance; a broken promise; the author erroneously attempts to harvest salt; a 5 pound bag of salt rocks.

Me attempting to "pick salt". [Photo by Dad]

Ditto days 2 & 3 with the following variations:

At breakfast on Day 4, I noticed that Dad seemed to have acquired an aroma. It turns out that he’d been wearing the same tee shirt for all his hikes and walks. The same tee short for four days. Wow.

Also at breakfast, I reminded Dennis about the promise he’d made the night before – he was supposed to organize with someone to go with me down to the salt pond to “pick” salt. He appeared to be in a bit of a foul mood though (as was Gosia) so I didn’t press matters. I told him that we’d be on the beach until about 11:30. Needless to say, no one showed up to demonstrate salt picking to me. Ah well.

At around 11:00 I decided that I’d try my hand at salt picking sans instruction, guidance or previous knowledge of any kind. It couldn’t be that difficult, right?

I spent about 45 minutes up to my ankles in black goop trying to find rock salt and wondering why the fuck I’d decided to do this in the first place. Dad, Robert and Mel watched me for a while. Robert even got his feet a bit dirty. A bit. A tiny bit. Eventually they all became fed up and headed back to the beach. Well, all except for Dad. He gamely stuck round until I finally emerged from the sludge covered up to my knees in a substance the consistency and colour of tar, but smelling of stagnant, briny, brackish water. My toenails are still stained black. Dad stuck around, it seems, so that he could photograph my disgusting-looking legs and feet. Thanks Dad, you’re a real trooper.

At lunch, I asked Robert Righteous’ barmaid how exactly the salt is harvested. She told me that it’s only ever harvested in the depths of the dry season when – and this is vitally important – the entire pond has COMPLETELY DRIED OUT! Then you just walk out onto the flat where the pond USED to be and pick it up. I’d waded around in the bloody thing for nearly an hour, sporadically plunging my hands elbow-deep into the mire in an effort to scoop out actual salt, for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I’d endured a singularly unpleasant experience simply for the sake of doing something unpleasant (it seems). I then asked her where I could get some of the rock salt that she and RR had showed us the day before. She disappeared for about 10 minutes then came back with a plastic bag full of rock salt. She gave me 5 pounds of rock salt as a gift. Can you beat that?

I have to recommend Robert Righteous and the Youths Seafood Restaurant and Bar. The food is very good. More importantly, however, RR himself is an amazing host. He chats, he entertains, and he smiles continuously. He doesn’t just speak in platitudes either (which many people in his business do); his conversation is genuine and meaningful. He makes you feel welcome and comfortable. I’d go back there any time.

After our siesta, Dad and I went for a hike on the leeward side of the island, across the village and down towards our land. Robert couldn’t make this one because his entire family was fast asleep.

This island really is beautiful. Because Mayreau gets a meager amount of rainfall per year, at best, the landscape is somewhat harsh. Much of the vegetation is dry, spiky and short. I don’t find this ugly though, not even close. The tiny population makes for something almost indescribable in the whole mood of the island. I suppose it’s different if you actually live here and are a part of village life. However, for a visitor – even a visitor from the same country – the seeming placidity and open friendliness of the people who live here (apart from the guy on Day 1 who cussed me for taking a photograph), coupled with the wide expanses of secluded beach, appear to be the very definition of paradise.

I keep saying “seem” and “appear” because I know the dangers of labeling people or places based on an outsider’s scanty, superficial experience of the place. People call mainland St. Vincent a paradise, but I disagree. Maybe if I were a part of Mayreau village life I’d not call it paradise. As a visitor, however, I do feel like this is paradise.

Dinner on our last night was not as extensive as usual. This was good, because it meant that we could gorge on dessert. Dinner was seafood pasta tossed in olive oil, ginger and garlic. There was conch, shrimp and fish in the pasta. Yum. Robert had chicken chow mein (which he said was great) and Lila had pasta with tomato sauce (she ate tons of it so clearly she loved it). Dessert was banana flambé and ice cream all around. Lila’s face when Dennis and Gosia lit the flambés was priceless. That, coupled with her predilection for blowing out candles, leads me to believe that we may have a pint-sized pyromaniac on our hands.

Salt Picker. [Photo by Dad]

My legs/feet covered in black sludge. [Photo by Dad]

Day 5

In which the author and his companions are unceremoniously turfed out; the woes of airlines and minor functionaries; a driving tour; shopping; an afternoon Bougainvillea; the author’s mother tells a funny story involving an aeroplane, a prime minister and a goat; an unexpected announcement; home again, home again.

Skipper Logan [Photo by Dad]

Dennis and Gosia wanted to go to Mardi Gras. We left Mayreau at 7:30am. I was not amused. I was even less amused when we got to Union Island. Robert and I went to carry our bags to leave at the airline check-in desk while the others went to order breakfast at Bougainvillea. We arrived at the airport, along with ALL of the luggage, only to be told by some guy sitting behind a counter that the office for our airline wasn’t open yet and that in any case he thought we probably wouldn’t be able to leave our bags.

We decided to wait around until the person in chare of our office arrived and speak to them personally. We waited. We waited some more. I got so irritable that Robert gave me Lila’s Crix Minis with Spinach so that I’d get into a better mood. Eventually, about an hour and a half later, we noticed that the people who were waiting to check in moved en masse into the “departure” lounge. We sprinted for the check-in desk while wondering aloud how come we hadn’t seen the agent arrive. Get this. The agent was the same unhelpful, idiotic muthafucka who’d told us the office wasn’t open! The asshole obviously must’ve realized that we were waiting around to see the agent and decided to mess with our heads. He’d completely neglected to tell us that HE was the friggin’ agent! The moron wasn’t dressed in a uniform so how in the name of Jesus H. Christ were we supposed to have deduced that he had any kind of official capacity?! I was fit to burst by that point. All he did was smile this vacant, superior smile. Robert and I ended up dragging all the freakin luggage BACK to Bougainvillea and having breakfast an hour after everyone else. Luckily, the lady there was kind enough to store the luggage for us for the day.

After we ate, Mum called up some taxi man she knows (don’t ask) and organized a driving tour of the island for us. That was fun. Lila fell asleep on my lap. It was sweet. Dad took some shots. They were lovely. The driver tried to sell us some land on the shore of a mangrove swamp. I don’t think we bought any (although anything is possible). I discovered that my grandfather once owned quite a bit of land in Union Island.

When we got back to Clifton, we went shopping. Mel and I had spotted all the touristy shops at the beginning of the drive and made a beeline for them. I spent some money in a little shop (I forget the name) run by a French woman (everyone in Union Island seems to be French). She had one of those stereotypically thick French voices – you know, all raspy and husky, like she chain smokes filterless roll-ups while chugging hot coffee every 20 minutes. That kind of voice. Like the candle from Beauty and the Beast. It’s a voice and accent that I love. Anyway, I spent a fair bit of change in her shop. I was mesmerized by her unselfconsciously externalized internal monologue. She kept telling herself what she was doing.

There was a guy in costume (sort of) going around talking nonsense to people. I think it was something to do with carnival. Mum said it was an old tradition, something that used to be done at J’ouvert. I have no idea, but Robert got a great shot of him and his friend with the French shopkeeper in the background.

We pretty much spent the afternoon at Bougainvillea. We had lunch there (which was ok, but nothing to scream about – although the chocolate mousse was freakin’ sinful). At lunch, Mum told us about this one time, at band camp… no… wait… it was another time, at a CXC workshop in Grenada. It was 1982. She was traveling to Grenada when they stopped in Carriacou to collect Herbert Blaize (then PM of Grenada). They removed several chairs from the cabin and the Prime Minister of Grenada, Carriacou and Petit Martinique boarded the aircraft carrying a goat on a tether. I swear to God. My mother was right there.

Eventually, we made our way to the airport (again for me and Robert) and checked in. The idiot was still there. He kept miscounting us. Idiot.

Anyway, while we were waiting in the departure lounge, we watched some of the Mardi Gras on TV. At one point, a section of a band was walking across the stage when the announcer… erm… announced… that this section was sponsored by Banfields’ Service Station! We were all very excited since that’s Robert’s station. It was a minor highlight.

We boarded out flight at around 5:15pm – a 19-seater this time. We were back on the mainland within 15 minutes and I was home in 40.

Lila; checking out the bar list at Bougainvillea.





The weird carnival guys; sultry French shopkeeper in background. [Photo by Robert]


We stopped here for a drink. I can't remember the name of the place. Dammit.

Mum's hat.

Epilogue

In which the author muses on several diverse things; a conclusion.

I enjoyed this little mini-break immensely. Mayreau is beautiful. I could do this every carnival.

My only problem would be the whole lack of water. One half-dead shower a day doesn’t cut it with me. The first thing I did when I got home was scrub myself properly. Apart from that, I had a grand old time.

For some reason, I kept reading a particular poem while I was there. I read it every night before I went to bed. It’s never really been one of my favourite pieces of poetry, but I suppose it must be, now. It reminds of a time in the past…. I’ll end on that note. Finally, I’ll end this bloody blog entry. Thanks to everyone who stayed with me ‘till the end (all three of you – I know Mum, Deb and Nads will always read my drivel now matter how tedious or ill-conceived it is).

The End (except for the poem below)

From: Twenty Love Poems
# 20
I can write the saddest verses

I can write the saddest verses tonight.

Write, for example, “The night is full of stars,
twinkling blue, in the distance.”

The night wind spins in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest verses tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times beneath the infinite sky.

She loved me, at times I loved her too.
How not to have loved her great still eyes.

I can write the saddest verses tonight.
To think that I don’t have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the verse falls onto my soul like dew onto grass.

What difference that my love could not keep her.
The night is full of stars, and she is not with me.

That’s all. In the distance someone sings. In the distance.
My soul is not at peace with having lost her.

As if to bring her closer, my gaze searches for her,
My heart searches for her, and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, of then, now are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, it’s true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched for the wind that would touch her ear.

Another’s. She will be another’s. As before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, it’s true, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, and forgetting is so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is not at peace with having lost her.

Though this may be the final sorrow she causes me,
and these the last verses I write for her.

Pablo Neruda
(translated by Mark Eisner)