THE TRIP
This is an
unfinished story of a trip my husband and I took in 2005. While on this trip we
each kept a daily journal of our experiences; this is a partial compilation of
those journal entries.
Rob and I
awake at 1:30 am to get ready for our 2:30 am limo ride to Pearson
International. We are going to St. Lucia! It is our first plane ride and
holiday out of Canada together. We will be gone one week. My eyes are stinging
from fatigue. We are on time but our driver is late. We call; he is stuck
behind a snowplow. He arrives at 3:00 am and I proceed to pray with my eyes
closed for the next hour as we navigate the treacherous snow covered highways.
If we hadn’t planned this trip I never would have ventured out. Aside from a
few ice storms this winter this is by far the worst weather.
We arrive and join a very
long line to the check in counter. I am surprised so many people are traveling
at such an ungodly hour. Now I understand why we were told to arrive three
hours ahead of departure time. We wait in line at least an hour and finally get
to the check in counter. Our carry-on is too heavy. The check in clerk tells us an empty wheels
carry on weighs 5 kgs and that we are only allowed 9kgs on board. I quickly dump
all but our snorkel, flippers and books into our suitcase. It is still
overweight but she lets us go. Next time I will use a knapsack.
We find our way to a coffee
shop and drink down a cup then go outside so Rob can have a smoke. I am wearing
my fake fur coat and find the cool air outside refreshing. Finally it is 5:30am
and we go into the “passengers only” area. I always feel guilty going through
customs; I don’t know why. I think I’m afraid I might have forgotten something
or broken a rule I was not aware of and I’ll be pulled over and miss my flight
wasting $4500.00 because presumably Rob would not go either. We get through
then I realize the check in clerk had told us to watch for gate changes because
of the bad weather. I forgot. Now I am stressed; what if we have entered the
wrong gate area, how will we get out, are we allowed? Rob asks if I want to
ride the moving carpet. I am chippy because I can’t rest until I find out about
our gate; besides the last time I went on one I fell down.
We find gate C29 to
Hewonaura, St. Lucia. Now I can rest. We use the washroom then find a place to
sit. Across from us sits a short, large breasted woman in heavy make-up, gold
necklaces, rings and ridiculously manicured nails, they have stripes down the
middle. Her male companion is an odd match for her. He is a tall unattractive
man in an old tee shirt and splash pants. She seems nice but trying too hard to
look like somebody, he looks like he is overcompensating the other way.
Behind us is a sadly
disheveled old man who appears disoriented and confused. This poor fellow is
stooped over and shuffles when he walks. His hair looks like it hasn’t been
washed or combed for a very very long time. His female companion is no spring
chicken either. She has a terrible cough and I wonder if I should go over and give
her a cough drop. I also wonder why they are traveling alone. That being said I
hope they are not seated beside us on the plane; if something happened I would
feel responsible for them.
Finally we are allowed to
board. We produce our boarding passes and our passports. We are assigned a
window and middle seat. I put our carry-on under my seat by the window and am
thankful I am a short person. The seats are so tightly arranged Rob must twist
and turn to fit in. A woman about our age with short hair and glasses is our
third. Her nails are deep set and beveled and I can’t remember who else had
these odd fingernails and why. Over the course of our flight I discover she is
the mother of an oriental girl across the aisle. I wonder, is she adopted? Is
it a mixed marriage or even more intriguing, is the mother a surgeon (over
scrubbed nails) and a single parent? The daughter is beautiful. It is obvious
they have a very fluid relationship. I also notice a birthday card that mom is
using as a bookmark. It is from the daughter, loving words are written.
I observe that most of the
women are fresh faced, no make up. They look so free and unfettered. I wonder
if I could ever be so daring and not care. I admire them. I am at an age where
almost all young girls without the fussing over themselves look beautiful and
mysterious to me. I want to ask them if they feel centered in themselves, if
they know who they are and where they are going. Or is it the opposite; do they
feel so awkward and self-conscious they prefer to blend in and go unnoticed. I
want it to be the first thing. I need to know it is possible and that life is
better for them than it was for me.
We have now been waiting
about 30 minutes on the runway. The plane has become very stuffy. When I look
at Rob he is pale and sweating. I am alarmed but do not tell him how sick he
looks as I know from experience how psychologically this will only make him
feel worse. I pass him a Kleenex and a Gravol thanking God I brought some. He
washes it down with a swig from our water bottle. I wonder if he is
claustrophobic. I discovered this about myself quite by surprise on a flight to
Vancouver. The thought occurred to me that I was sitting with many people in an
air-pressured space. I began to panic. I couldn’t move, and I couldn’t breath
and worse I couldn’t leave. I was trapped. Prayer is always good at a time like
this. I sang gospel tunes to myself and it helped.
Rob assured me he wasn’t
claustrophobic. Later he explained it might have been a number of things. We
had not been moving, he had to use the bathroom but the seatbelt sign was on
the whole time and the air was stuffy.
The pilot explains we have
to go for de-icing. I worry about how long this will take because it still
looks like Rob could faint or vomit any second. A machine shoots peach coloured
slushy all over the plane. This procedure takes 20 minutes. Finally we are
ready for take off. We are running an hour late; it is 7:30 am. I have no ear
trouble; Rob seems okay too. Then a gross chemical smell permeates the plane. I
wonder if something is wrong with the engines. I ask the flight attendant what
the smell is; she says it is the de-icing fluid. Thank God it dissipated. It
had the potential to give me an awful headache. Rob goes to the bathroom and I
return to my seat. He is there forever and I am getting anxious. Has he
vomited, worse has he fainted and banged his head? I am just about to go check
when he comes out. He is okay and looks a bit better now.
Breakfast is an interesting
boat of potatoes and scrambled eggs accompanied by coffee, bread and fruit, not
bad. We don’t read, we are too tired and probably in culture shock already. We
have been hibernating for a long time on Maplegrove Avenue and this is a lot of
new for us. I wonder if Scott and Jenn went to school. Our third offers us
headphones but we decline. The movie is “Ladder 49.” There is both too much
else yet nothing going on to watch, however, the TV screens are distracting and
between dozes I find myself lured into watching without sound.
Most of Rob’s colour has
returned. Perhaps all the excitement has been too much. He hasn’t traveled in a
long time. He has had experience with the kind of hot sun we are flying into.
We are like peas and carrots he and I. We fill in each other’s holes. We have
become like an old pair of slippers, not new, worn in places, faded, but soft,
loose and comfortable. We love each other deeply. He is my best friend.
The people in front of us
insist on having their chairs back, which makes our space even tighter. I feel
sorry for the people two rows ahead because a hugely overweight guy is coughing
incessantly beside them.
Apologies for running late
are made by the pilot. The flight attendants try to appease us with food and
snacks. Like children we need to be diverted from whining too much. We have two
flight attendants, Stephanie and Lynn. Stephanie is tall, thin, blond and seen
many a tanning bed. She appears to be incapable of smiling; this however, may
be due to the fact that Lynn is so chipper she is annoying. She is one of those
people who are efficient, quick and polite. She wears a fake concerned smile.
By the end of the flight her broken record of “coffee, tea” etc. make me want
to smack her.
We are approaching St. Lucia
and from the air it looks more mountainous than I expected. Rob begins to look
pale again. He had dozed a bit earlier. Now his ear, the bad one, is hurting.
Next time, if there is one, I will give him two Gravol and a decongestant pre
departure.
We have a smooth landing.
The airport is delightfully old fashioned. We step out into the warm sun and
descend steps onto the tarmac. We make our way into the tiny airport; it is
blissfully quiet and low key. After a bathroom stop we get in line to show our
passports then meander over to baggage claim. There is only one carousel, which
makes this part easier. I am glad I put stickers on our suitcase as I soon
discover that green is the most popular luggage colour. I am happy to be here
but will be happier once we are at the hotel and settled in. Everyone seems to
have a line behind a sign that has his or her hotel name on it. Vans are ready
to whisk us away but I can’t find our hotel queue. I ask a girl at the travel
desk. I need a travel transfer. I think we have one but if not we will have to
take a cab. I go back to Rob who is waiting with our luggage and having a
smoke. We do have a transfer so we haul our bags behind our designated tour
sign. Now I can breath a bit more easily. I notice the sun, the air, and the
trees. Everyone is happy, there is an air of excitement, even delight and
expectation; we are on holiday.
Our driver ushers us toward
a van that is already almost full. He quickly piles our bags in the back. We
take up two of the remaining three seats. There is still another couple that
needs seats. No problem. The driver deftly produces a folding chair, snaps it
open, throws it under the man and we’re off!
The trip has already worn us
down but this last leg of the trip brings new meaning to the words perseverance
and patience. I thought they’d been exaggerating about it taking two hours to
get from the airport to our hotel. The entire island is only 25 miles long, but
sadly it is true. As we start out it is adventurous and exotic. I am on a kind
of safari. The vegetation is different; there are spectacular seaside views and
rainforests that smell like the inside of the Botanical Gardens. But as we
careen and I mean careen around hairpin turns and up and down hills the ride is
becoming tedious. I think of the apostle Paul and how much he endured in his
travels but I am not comforted. I just want to be there already. By now Rob has
gone without a cigarette for hours, if I was still a smoker I’d be a total
crab. I am also increasingly disturbed by the desolation and poverty. Shacks
and shanties serve as homes. Everything needs a coat of paint. Garbage and
broken cars litter the roadside. But the children are beautiful. Whether they
are dressed in their crisp clean blue and white or red and white school
uniforms or in casual clothes they are gorgeous.
In a bus shelter I see a
woman with a small child asleep across her thighs, tummy down. I am struck by
the ingenuity of this. I have never seen anything like this in Ontario. In fact
I realize few women carry their babies in Ontario, they are all in snugglies,
slings or strollers. Strollers would be useless here as all the roads are dirt
and rutted. To lay a child down on a public bench is so unsanitary, what a
practical solution.
The highlight of the ride is
the cow in the road. These cows are not like the kind I have been exposed to.
These cows have long curved horns and are a beige grey and brown colour. They
remind me of the cows of India. The St. Lucians let their goats, horses and
cows wander free to graze anywhere; they leave long ropes dangling from their
necks I suppose to make catching them easier.
The cars drive on the left
with the steering wheel on the right this takes a bit of getting used to. The
drivers are reckless and rash. You might take your life in your hands walking
on the roadside, although we pass a few locals on foot carrying various fruits
on top of their heads. We pass a vendor pedaling a wagon uphill on his bike, I
am exhausted just watching him. Our driver frequently honks his horn when he is
passing another tour van; I guess he is just saying hello or maybe ‘look out
for the cow or person around the next corner.’
The road seems to wind on forever then
we get into Castries and come to a halt. This is the main downtown area, again
the only beautiful thing here are the groups of children in school uniforms. We
are stuck in “rush” hour traffic and now Rob is beside himself. This is taking
too long. Somehow I envisioned it all to be lush, fresh and untouched by all
the western trappings. The banks, rundown factories and ugly large buildings
are a disappointment to me. Finally we get moving. The thought crosses my mind
that they are intentionally taking us through this mess to make us feel sorry
for the locals and spend more money. Yes, I am cranky.
Praise the Lord we arrive. Our van comes
to a stop. Dazed and tired we stumble out and drag our luggage into reception.
In the foyer we are offered a rum punch or fruit juice. I decide to be prudent
and go for the juice; one of us needs to be on the ball in case something goes
wrong. I will relax when we are in our room. This, however, is not to be. A very rude concierge calls us out of line
and informs us that he needs us to go to another room. Having worked in
customer service I know this is being very poorly handled. Bad form! My only
plea is to know how far. He assures me it is not far. Dully we agree and are
given keys to our room miles (or what seems like miles) from the main hotel.
Nonetheless, it is a nice room, quiet and clean. We are just thankful to be
stationary. I would not mind staying in this room but we have been told our
reserved room will be available tomorrow.
We check out the safe, Rob puts our
travelers cheques in it. We unpack, wash up then take in the view. We can see
the ocean and palm trees, I am so happy. I never thought I would get to see a
real palm tree. We lie down for a bit and turn on the TV. There is a re-run of
“Charlie’s Angels” on which we find amusing.
We arrive half an hour early for supper
so we go to the bar and order the best pina colada I’ve ever had and a rum and
coke for Rob. When we return for supper Rob is turned away for wearing open
toed shoes. We trek all the way back to our room to change his shoes. Finally
we eat-buffet! We are starving! We haven’t eaten since breakfast on the plane.
After we have eaten our fill we return to our room and sleep like babies for 12
hours.
The First Day There
The first day is
glorious! I jump out of bed like a child
on Christmas morning. I can’t wait to get to the beach! The new day is like a
present I haven’t opened yet. The excitement and anticipation of discovering
new things is almost overwhelming. I open the curtains and window. It is just
as I imagined, a paradise. It is sunny and warm; the air smells like the ocean,
shells, and fish. Unbelievably there are very few people outside, this is even
better! Rob and I quickly wash up to go for breakfast. As I brush my teeth I am
thankful that St. Lucia has completely safe drinking water; in fact during our
week stay I notice locals filling pails and drinking from black hoses that
stick out of the mountains.
Rob remembers to wear closed
toed shoes and we head for the restaurant. Breakfast is anything and everything
I could ever want. The food is delicious. The only thing missing is cream for my
coffee and real milk for my cereal. All such foodstuffs are powdered; they
probably don’t raise dairy cattle here. The restaurant is right on the beach.
There are no windows, but quaint wooden levered shutters that I suppose they
close if it rains. Because it is open concept diners are visited by stray cats
hoping for a bite from the kindness of strangers. They are small thin cats
compared to the ones back home. I can’t help feeding them they are so cute.
Breakfast over; we approach
the main desk where Rob inquires about our room change. We are given a new set
of keys. We return to our room, pack up and venture out to our originally
reserved room. It is even nicer! From our balcony it appears to be the best
room in the place. I can see a pool, gorgeous gardens, dozens of palm trees and
a wide expanse of ocean. Someone has also left us a beautiful gift basket of
fruit, crackers and champagne. Later in our stay we discover that it is a good
thing we did not have this room the first night. Apparently there was a big
party at the main hotel that went on until three in the morning; we never heard
a thing from where we were. God is good.
Bathing suits on, towels in
hand –to the beach! The sand is HOT. Many people have set themselves up on the
terrace above the beach; are they crazy? We find a spot that looks good, one as
far away from others as possible, plunk down our stuff and wade out into the
mesmerizing warm light green water. Oh, it is heaven! The waves are gentle; the
sand is soft beneath my feet. I swim out and look around, then roll over onto
my back and stare up at the blue blue sky. Rob is taking it all in from the
waters edge. Standing there in his red bathing suit he looks like a model for
Sears catalogue. Eventually he joins me. We explore around like two seals
playing. We are both invigorated and blissful. We head back to our towels to
sunbath and have a drink. This is the life! Lying there I am comfortably warm.
The waves sound like a mother quieting her child: shshsh, shshsh, shshshs. I am
lulled into a peaceful place; I am drifting away on a wave, the tender breeze
cooling me nicely, and then I scream! Something is crawling on my ankle. I jump
up. It is a crab. He thrusts his two-inch claws in the air as if to say “en
guard”! He stares up at me as if trying to decide what his next move will be,
then backs up and runs sideways down into a hole in the sand under my towel. I
was lying on his house. I don’t know who was more frightened him or me. Holes
on the beach belong to something, so don’t sit, step or lie on one.
Rob and I often play a game of making up
entire stories about people just by looking at them. A tall man roughly 25
years old with long blond hair and a buff body is swaggering toward us. He is
wearing a white Speedo (gross.) He is a Swedish version of Fabio and he knows
it. Rob names him Lars. Another fellow
about 30 with dark brown shoulder length wavy hair is laughing and talking to a
group of men and women. We are too far away to listen in on their conversation.
He seems very well liked and has a friendly manner about him. He is wearing
faded cotton navy blue shorts and a short sleeved white and yellow check shirt.
He is an energetic person. He seems familiar with the area as if he lives here.
Rob thinks he looks like a Serge, I agree. There are all shapes, sizes and ages
here, mostly adults. Much to my relief there are no babes. A few older women at
the end of the beach are topless but they are real women not the kind you see
on television. I am so happy to be here it doesn’t bother me.
I have been looking for Nemo
all morning. The fish are less colourful than I expected but I am enjoying the
novelty of using a snorkel and mask. I see trumpet fish, grouper, and
angelfish. Like the birds they are brown or beige, they are camouflage. Rob swims out to me to tell me it is time to
get out of the water and go inside. I think he is kidding. He is not. I very
resistant and tell him I do not want to go in after all I am having the time of
my life. He insists that we are going in, that it is 11:00 and the sun is too
strong to stay out. I am mad. I feel like a child being told it is time for my
nap. I relent and come out, I collect my belongings and sulk all the way back
to our room. In the bathroom as I am changing I notice to my chagrin that I am
already sunburned. I tell him he was wise and that I am sorry. He says he
learned the hard way in Mexico.
Lunch is a banquet. The
tomatoes are small and not as red as our Canadian tomatoes but I have to say
they are tastier. There are many fruits that I have never seen: sour sop, a
white fruit with black seeds, it has the texture of fish and tastes okay if you
can get past the sliminess; waxapple, a pear shaped pinky green apple; guava,
looks like a mini watermelon and tastes awful; and real coconut which is
crunchy and not as sweet as the stuff I buy to bake with. Mango trees drop
their fruit right outside our balcony. Plantain looks like a banana but tastes
like a good potato.
It is humid, so humid
clothes do not need to be ironed. I just hang my dresses up and half an hour
later they are wrinkle free. In the hallway however I see an iron with H
Keeping written on it. I think I should find miss Keeping and tell her. Rob
clues me in and calls her Hilary Keeping.
During the course of our
stay we become bolder. We notice sun umbrellas with Piton beer advertising on
them. (Piton beer is excellent.) We see one not being used. Thinking ourselves
most lucky we unpack and settle in. Several minutes later we are politely but
firmly told we must pay to use the umbrellas. Paying for shade! Ridiculous!
