Something notable about our travels down the Lesser Antilles has been my total reconsideration of the former British islands.
Prior to this trip, the majority of my time in British Islands was spent in St. Kitts and Nevis, during the summers of 2011 and 2012, while teaching sailing for Broadreach. The diving at St. Kitts was good, but my experiences on land fell short. I had a strong impression of acrimony between the locals and tourists. Given the historical context, tension isn’t surprising. Justified, even. Understanding the root of it does not equate to enjoying it, however.
What led me to that impression I can’t entirely recall. Probably my own experience mixed with other sailors’ ruminations on the subject. Regardless of where it stemmed from, I wasn’t keen to revisit them on this trip.
In retrospect, my time on land in ’11 and ’12 was primarily spent dealing with Customs and Immigrations. I’d show up to their offices with stacks of fifteen passports only to be met with the dourest of looks, if any eye contact at all, and barely comprehensible mumbled instructions. I’d put on a big smile and yes sir and no ma’am and attempt small talk. I’d comment on the weather and ask how things were going with work and the cruise ships and the hurricane season. I’d try hard, but never get more than a half-sentence back and impossibly slow service and port tariffs that seemed to be made up on the spot. Pick up the calculator, add, subtract, multiply at random and there’s my fee. In short, they didn’t seem to care for me, viewing me as a wallet at best. And I didn’t much care for them. So I’d pick up my groceries, fill my diesel and water tanks, and get the hell out of the harbour and be done with the people of St. Kitts.
I still don’t understand how being unpleasant makes a Customs agent’s day any brighter (as opposed to the ever pleasant St. Barth’s customs agents), but this is not a phenomenon unique to the former colonies. If any foreigner were to form their impression of American culture based on how they were treated by TSA officials and the lady at the DMV, they’d never return to the United States.
But that’s what I had done. I’d formed my entire opinion of St. Kitts and Nevis, and consequently extrapolated it to all British islands, on my interaction with bureaucrats.
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This time around we have spend a lot of time on land most of the places we go. Cat insists. I could be content staying strictly on top or underneath the sea, but she’d lose her mind. We’ve been doing nothing in particular, mainly drinking local beers and eating street food, walking around aimlessly, but at least seeing more of the islands than the Customs offices.
We’ve got the most pleasure out of riding around in the local buses with no destination. Watching the island go by through the window, trying to pick up the other riders’ local patois as they discuss the weather or the labour party, watching giggling kids hop on and off in place of a conventional municipal school bus system, seeing how far we can go before the driver tells us we’ve reached the end of the line. It’s simple, but has given us a greater impression of the people and places than anything else we’ve done. We don’t kid ourselves about being anything other than tourists, despite our unconventional method of conveyance to these islands. We didn’t arrive on a Carnival cruise line, but no one on shore knows that. The depth to which we can immerse ourselves in a place as conspicuous outsiders is reached very quickly, so being able to sink in to a seat at te back of a bus with no one paying us any mind has given us more insight in to places and people than anything else we can do.
The buses themselves deserve description. These are not typical American style coach buses, they are little Japanese 12 person vans that look like toasters. Not to be satisfied with factory paint jobs, the drivers go to great lengths to personalize each one. Perhaps vanity, perhaps for easy identification. It starts with a name in big script across the front and rear winshields, maybe the driver’s nickname (“Mr. Cool Guy”, “T-Bone”), something vaguely biblical (“Jah Will Provide”, “Iron Lion Zion”), a phrase that they like (“Let Them Talk”, “Bulletproof”), or something totally non-sensical to the uninitiated (“Respect Eric Spaghetti”). Once they’ve got a name as a solid foundation, the bright green and purple and yellow paint jobs begin. Some chrome accents. Fuzzy steering wheel and neon dash covers. No primary colors here. 800 watt stereo with twin 12″ subwoofers blasting either reggaeton or a sermon, depending on day of the week, is a necessity. For the truly ambitious man of the road, it’s custom airbrush work. Favorites appear to be jungle scenes of tigers or dolphins frolicking under a rainbow – incongruous with a name like “Big Hustler.” The sum makes for a spectacular mode of public transportation that costs almost nothing. To get all the way around most islands, not an insignificant journey, costs a couple dollars per person.
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The people we’ve actually interacted with have generally been warm and pleasant. Perhaps indifferent to our presence. Very infrequently unpleasant. Vendors will always recognize that we’ve got a few bucks in our pockets and do their best to get those bucks in to their own. They can be aggressive, annoying, but they’re trying to make a living. I don’t begrudge that anymore and don’t let it tarnish my impressions of these islands. The Customs agents are still dour, but perhaps I would be as well if I worked in a white room processing triple carbon copies.
What I’m getting at, I suppose, is my own foolishness in drawing sweeping conclusions based on limited experience. This time around I’m not going to make any claims about the British islands. I’ll just keep my eyes and ears open and take them in for what they are.
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