Highlights of the East Caribbean....

Dominica



Dominica was one of our more exotic destinations in every sense of the experience. It’s an independent nation, struggling for a foothold in the second world. We were told Jugo Chavez is bringing economic opportunity in the form of oil refineries. If you are visiting the city of Portsmouth, you’re probably a sailor or a member of the Peace Corps. Whenever we went to the market, which starts hours before dawn, I was often mistaken for a Peace Corps worker. There is both appreciation and animosity towards them and “the students” at the local medical school just outside of town. They’ve built their own tiny city and have the chance to mingle with local Rastas on the weekends.

The Valley of Desolation

One such Rasta named “JC,” was our hiking guide on a day long trek through The Valley of Desolation to the Boiling Lake. “They (the students) don’t like to mix with our kind,” he informed us while giving us the back-story on Dominica’s diverse subcultures. JC explained what it meant to be a Rasta, living off the land and having a keen knowledge of how to use every bit of the environment for shelter, food and medicine. In JC’s case, being a Rasta also means trying to fly under the radar of the local park wardens, and anyone who may try to keep him an honest citizen.

Turns out our guide was “unofficial,” but not “unentertaining.” The moment we stepped out of the rental car to start our hike, I detected an herbal scent wafting from the back of the jeep. There stood JC with a mischievous smile. Dominican Rastas seem to be free to smoke provided they don’t try to share it or sell it to their foreign counterparts. JC rolled a spliff so big he didn’t need to “share it.” Inundated by the smoke, I pushed Stephen ahead of me on the trail. “You go first, or I’m going to be too high to make it to the boiling lake.”

You’d think JC’s habits and general demeanor would make him a slow hiker, but he put both of us to shame. He knew these trails like he could walk them in his sleep. He was unbelievably quick, even in his heavy boots that he shared were two sizes too big for him. As he belted out Michael Jackson’s Greatest Hits, he’d stop dead in the middle of the chorus to point out a special type of tree, and pick up the beat exactly as he left it. He’d find time to bust a moonwalk or some other Michael dance move and still be way up ahead of us.

This trail was an unbelievable 8 hour trek through dense rainforest (where we got to swing from vines) and sulfur fields known as “The Valley of Desolation.” The descent into the steep valley was a little precarious with slippery mud below your feet and shifting rock overhead. “Move quickly,” were JC’s orders – but not too quickly or you’ll slide the whole way down.

The sulfur fields were neon greens, oranges and yellows depending on a combination of elements – heat and sulfuric content. We were literally stepping over lava flows. It bubbled in some places, and JC said you could boil an egg in it. Close to all this activity, the streams flowed in a variety of colors: orange, onyx and a pure white that reminded me of glacial waters – steaming instead of freezing.

Along the ridge of the forest, water flowed into natural pools that held the temperature of a hot tub. JC let us climb into one of these pools, hidden inside a cluster of trees. Hot water poured down the rock face and over a natural infinity edge into the next pool below. As we dug our toes into the dirt, the heat became more intense.

Our hike ended at a boiling lake. It was far bigger than Stephen imagined, a deep crater almost 100 yards in diameter and almost 300 degrees Fahrenheit. Each time the center started boiling up, it would roar and hiss, then blanket us with a thick cloud of steam. Sitting around this volcanic wonder stirred up talk of volcanoes which made JC uneasy. As we shared our knowledge of Yellowstone’s super volcano and scientific estimations that it’s overdue for an eruption, JC became upset with us. “No! Jah would never let that happen,” he insisted. As we made our case, he made his – one I’d never considered before. “Were humans around the last time it erupted?” he asked. “No,” we answered. “Well, now that humans are here, Jah won’t let the volcano erupt.” Sounds plausible.

Titou Gorge

Our epic hike ended at Titou Gorge, one of the film sites for Pirates of the Caribbean. The scene in which Johnny Depp is walking with those long sticks and then falls into a Gorge….you can actually go swimming in the bottom of the gorge in the coldest mountain water that flows between huge boulders that give you the feel of swimming inside caves. Very little light gets inside and the water varies from an ice blue to a deep emerald. In the last “cave,” a water fall rushes in and you can climb onto a ledge to sit behind it.

Screw’s Sulfur Spa

Another highlight of Dominica was “Screw’s Sulfur Spa.” A business savvy Rasta, “Screw” held onto a vision for years that a hot spring lie under his property in the village of Wotten Waven. For years, he dug with a shovel until one day hot mineral water seeped through the ground. Screw had built his home in the top of a very large tree that existed on the property. Soon, this tree would also become the bar and reception area for an elaborate resort. The resort grew from a few small basins into expansive pools of varying temperatures. The landscaping incorporates art and the natural rainforest. My favorite time to be here was at night when you can float on your back and gaze up at the stars through the trees. Screw was extremely generous, especially with his ganja rum. At the end of each visit, he gave Stephen a few shots of this “truth serum” and a bag of fruit from his property.

Zumba

In Rouseau, we were anchored next to a big catamaran, “Hands Across the Sea.” The couple aboard ran a non-profit organization dedicated to bringing school supplies to children on the islands. Their cousin, a dancer trained in New York City, was also visiting to give workshops to the local dance schools. She invited me to join a Zumba session one day at a school auditorium in town. When I got there, the dancers were giving a recital to the local heads of ministries. When they were finished, a few of the girls welcomed me and pulled me up on stage to Zumba with them. Suddenly we were all performing for groups of uniform-clad school children funneling in. They were dancing in their seats, and some even ran up on stage.

Eating in Dominica was a great experience whether at the local market or in a restaurant perched in the treetops in Wotten Waven. Locals love to cook with “ground provisions,” meaning yams, tarot root, yucca, potatoes, and plantains – anything starchy. They’ll load your plate with fish, rice, ground provisions and “green salad” (lettuce & tomato), all prepared with local spices. They love to make fritters out of just about everything too – fish, potato, onion, meat.

Dominica is one of the poorer islands, and had one really bad incident of theft in the Portsmouth anchorage that earned it a bad reputation among cruisers. There was just one time that we felt “unsafe” while walking through a residential area back to the boat at night. In populated areas, it’s always best to take a cab after dark. After a few cat calls, I picked up the pace and looked straight ahead. It turns out one of the guys calling out to me was actually our “boat boy,” and was just trying to say hello to us. The local government has compensated for recent crime by organizing boat boys to look after yachts at anchor and connect them with services during their stay. We found most Dominicans to be very fun-loving, straightforward and generous. Dominica isn’t a beach resort-type destination, but it’s definitely worth a visit on a cruise ship.

St. Lucia

We spent a few weeks in St. Lucia, where Mom & Dad Toman came to visit over Easter. We spent a few weeks in Rodney Bay, home to a few resorts, including Sandals. We met a couple that has been sailing the Caribbean for about 30 years, part of the time for leisure and part of the time as a charter business. They were extremely friendly to us and invited us to a sunset happy hour at the yacht club they belonged to. Like most places, we appeared to be the youngest among the crowd. At times its fun, and at other times it gets lonely. We’re always grateful for those who “take us under their wing” and welcome us into the group.

We hooked back up with a couple we met, Russell and Annie, who have been sailing their catamaran all over the North Atlantic & Caribbean for a few years. Annie and Russell have about 30 more years of life experience than us, but are extremely youthful and seem more like our peers than most. We had the best time with them at the local Friday night street party. All the bars stay open and set up food stands on the street. A few roads are blocked off for a stage where either a DJ or band sets up. It is the best atmosphere, with locals and tourists mixing easily. This is partly because local men & women will pick visitors out of the crowd to dance.

We sailed down to Marigot Bay, a much quieter town, in preparation for Mom & Dad Toman’s arrival. They rented a beautiful condo overlooking the bay, and we got pampered with AC and hot showers all week. The pool had a swim up bar with the most delicious but overpriced tropical drinks. We spent a lot of time just lounging here, or snacking on hors d'oeuvres back at the condo. A couple of nights, we took the 30 second ferry ride across the bay to the only two restaurants.

One afternoon, we sailed with them to the Pitons. This was an impressive sight, but our plans were cut short when some dangerous cross currents made our ride less than relaxing. Mom Toman and I were enjoying the view from the bow when things started to get bumpy. “Hey girls, why don’t you make your way back to the cockpit,” Stephen called out. Suddenly, Dad Toman started heading towards us in a gesture of chivalry I feared might end in a man overboard drill. Fortunately, all passengers were secured. The wind and weather was great, but there was a southerly swell that induced a bit of seasickness.

On another day, we did some land travel with a personal driver. The sights we visited included “The Drive-In Volcano,” botanical gardens and a natural sulfur spring. The site of the volcano contained lava pools like those in Dominica’s “Valley of Desolation,” and were far more accessible with added protections for the public. You weren’t going to walk around lava pools here. The tour guide warned of the dangers, citing tragic accidents where the ground gave way and a man was severely burned. Another lost his pet dog who decided to jump the fence.

The drive up the windy roads was perhaps as adventurous as our sail. The van brought on a new wave of motion sickness as our driver boldly jerked around every turn. The gardens were a gorgeous reprieve with waterfalls and hundreds of species of tropical trees and plants like “crab claws,” bird of paradise and cattails.

St. Lucia’s natural sulfur springs did not meet the bar set high by Screw’s Sulfur Spa, but it was still a unique experience for Mom & Dad Toman. This was the first time we have ever spent a week alone with them, outside of Long Island. Free from typical distractions, we got to know them in a special new way - outside of their role as parents and grandparents. This was true quality time without agendas or time constraints. Marigot Bay is the perfect place for this type of family vacation.

The Grenadines

Bequia

The Grenadines is the quintessential paradise of the Eastern Caribbean. We spent several weeks hopping through the islands of both the Northern and Southern Grenadines, two separate nations for purposes of customs and immigration. Here, there are less “excursions” as each island becomes the destination with their distinct beaches and cultures. Time actually moves slower than anywhere else in the Eastern Caribbean, more like the pace of molasses.

St. Vincent has an unsavory reputation, so we bypassed it and headed for Bequia. Stephen found a lot of great scuba diving opportunities here, and earned his advanced open water certification.

This island was small enough to tour by scooter in one day. The day we drove across the island was the day we visited the sea turtle reserve and happened upon “the whale.” We learned the importance of preserving one species, and drove down the road to bear witness to the endangerment of another.

The methods behind Old Brother Heg's turtle conservation were questionable, but he reports that his tracking proves better odds than natural survival rates. He has received criticism for feeding his turtles canned tuna, but he swears it has resulted in a breed of stronger, more determined tuna. “To them, I say bullshit!” he defended. He explained that the turtles have to fight there way to the bottom for the tuna much earlier than their bodies typically allow them to sink. My favorite turtle was Brother Heg’s family pet. Our cruising friends, Herb & Frank told us to look out for it. It was marked by two holes drilled in the ends of its shell. Heg put these holes here for his grandchildren to take the turtle to the beach. The poor turtle is restrained against his natural urges to head for the ocean!

The beaches of Bequia were gorgeous, and empty. The nightlife was shared equally among the restaurants in town, as each claimed their night of the week for lobster, reggae or two for one drink specials. Every bar had a waterfront view, and there was even a little resort complete with a dive center and spa.

Mayreau

We skipped Mustique, home to one of Mick Jagger’s McMansions. We were warned the prices would be too steep for us to set foot on the island. Our next stop was Mayreau, in the Southern Grenadines. The island of Mayreau had the best sunrises and sunsets because of the way the light would shine against the little spit of palm trees in Saltwhistle Bay.

We picked up a passenger in Bequia, Andy. He was a boat captain that Stephen met while diving and needed a lift down to Union Island. He’s the captain of a big mega yacht, owned by a pro-football player and was out of his element on our little sailboat. One thing he could do well, however, was set an anchor. That was crucial in this tiny bay where the edges could get shallow fast.

Andy joined us on shore for a lobster cookout prepared by local fishermen. This was almost the last night of lobster season, and lobster was not as abundant in the East Caribbean as we had hoped. Our lobster dinner came with a complimentary hand-rolled spliff. For digestion, of course.

The next day, Steve & Andy went for another dive, and the dive boat dropped him off on Union Island. We pretty much laid on this picture perfect beach for two days in a row. We toured the island in one morning, stopping for groceries at a convenient store run out of a woman’s home, and for breakfast at a little Rasta diner, “Righteous and de Youths.” Righteous was not so righteous when it came to the fair price he promised. We gave him the benefit of the doubt, and didn’t insist on nailing down a dollar amount when he failed to produce a menu. How much could a plate of eggs and a dinner roll cost? Try $30 US. I don’t think so. He must have mistaken us for tourists. We were quick to let him know that we had been around the block and knew the price of eggs. And so our breakfast dropped to $15.

We spotted a little stone Church with goats in the yard, containing statues and altars adorned with sea shells. It was a very inviting, cozy Church with one of the best ocean views. Imagine stepping out of mass onto a cliff that overlooks the Grenadines.

Tobago Cays

From Mayreau, we headed to the Tobago Cays, the most spectacular snorkeling grounds I had ever encountered. When Brigitte came to visit, we took her here for her first snorkeling lessons. There were several tiny islands in this cluster that makes up the Cays. These islands were mainly rock with short but steep hikes to the top for sunrise & sunset views.

One day there was a group of men experimenting with this crazy flying machine. It was a parachute attached to huge circular fan powered by lawn mower engine. They strapped themselves into the seat, gave it some juice, and soared above the Cays. To coast back down, they would simply let off the gas. We climbed to the top of the island they were taking off from to watch this experience akin to the Wright Brothers sampling their first flying machines.

The Cays is a marine park with special protections for both the reefs and a preserve where you can snorkel & swim with sea turtles. We would happen upon two or three turtles at a time, often two adults and a baby feeding on sea grass. Underneath the water, you could hear them chomping. They seemed unafraid and would linger as long as you kept a safe distance.

Carriacou

Carriacou was the last island in the Grenadines that we stopped at before heading for Grenada. There wasn’t much happening on this island. It was pretty much a place to clear out of customs and make use of the Internet. We noticed there was a lot more nudity going on in this anchorage and couldn’t figure out why. One morning, a naked couple practiced some sort of calisthenics routine in their cockpit.

The most fun we had in Carriacou was at Lady D’s Hallelujah bar, a fishing barge docked in the middle of the anchorage. We stopped for happy hour on our way back from town and ended up staying for dinner, listening to Jo’s whole life story. She was in a panic when we arrived; worried she had just made a bad investment by taking over the business. Her dinghy engine had cut out on her on her way to work and she was adrift until she radioed a friend who gave her a tow. She was frazzled as she tried to get the place in order, but we were in no rush. She made us a huge meal for practically nothing and told us how she had left the island to work in London as a seamstress for top designers years ago. They paid her a pretty low salary, but she saved her money until she could afford to return to Carriacou as a landowner. When she announced her plans to leave, she said they reacted with jealousy. They commented that they must have paid her “too much” for her to be able to afford a home in the Caribbean. She explained that if they hadn’t spent all their money on Prada and martinis that they could have afforded the same and more.

The morning that we cleared out of customs, we had breakfast on a little patio just yards away from Synchronicity. As I sipped my coffee, waiting for Stephen, a high speed ferry filled with school kids in uniform pulled up to the dock. They filed off the boat in maroon jackets with navy blue ties and pleated skirts and pants. Not a bad way to get to school.

Headed for Panama!

After two short, but eventful months spent stateside, I am heading back to the Caribbean this evening. Jenny and I will be flying out of Reagan Intl. into Panama city and then catching a commuter flight into the San Blas tomorrow morning. Stephen and Chuck will be waiting for us at "el aeropuerto," a conglomeration of huts built around a tiny airstrip on the main island of El Porvenir.

They promised to bring coffee, which will be needed after two late nights with the Sanders' family and a third night of travel. I don't know if the Kuna are big on coffee, but Stephen happily reported Balboas (the national beer) are still $1 as in 2006. This is good news for our budget.

I'm looking forward to traveling back with Jenny, who is sometimes nervous about flying. Good thing I didn't show her the picture of our commuter plane before we left! Our arrival into San Blas marks the beginning of the second half of our journey - the Western Caribbean. Stephen and Chuck arrived in San Blas last weekend after a week long passage from Curacao.

Jenny and Chuck will be our first guests on this leg of the trip and I am excited to spend some quality time with them here. The last time they were both aboard Synchronicity was Fall of 2008 when we arrived in Annapolis after our trip up the Northeastern coast to Maine. Chuck gave us our first boat, the "L Phin L." It's come full circle as we now get to share with him, the dream he inspired - a major ocean passage and its payoff.

We plan to travel through the San Blas islands until October, when the squalls hit. By this time we'll be near Playon Chico, towards the eastern most end of the island chain where we can sail on to Cartegena, Columbia. From there, we hope to travel through Panama again, onto Honduras and Belize. At that point, our course will be determined by the status of the oil spill, hurricane season, and/or other opportunities to replenish funds. In our life of unknowns, at least one thing remains certain - we will need to work again!

Brigitte and Moncie will be our second guests, arriving in the San Blas the first week in September. Sharing San Blas will be like watching the expressions on a kid's face at Christmas. You wish for something like this, see it in the movies and magazines, but is it as real as the picture? And would you ever get to have it for yourself?

An archipelago of over 300 islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama, the San Blas is about as surreal as it gets. It is home to the Kuna Yala, an indigenous indian tribe still practicing a very traditional way of life, making the best of their natural resources.

In the 1930s, the U.S. helped the Kuna negotiate terms with Panama on this reserve that now belongs solely to them. They are considered citizens of Panama and often send family to live in Panama City for months and years at a time for work and a public school education. The Kuna seem to have the best of both worlds without the tax burden. They continue to fish in hand-built canoes with make-shift sails, yet carry cel phones.

J.C., our charter captain in 2006 informed us, "Don't let them (the Kuna) fool you. They are not poor, but very rich." He explained how tourists come to the island feeling sympathetic for the Kuna and are ready to give them top dollar for their fish and crafts. They perceive the Kuna as an isolated and perhaps desperate group, as they hustle out to your boat in their dug-out canoes, inundating you with their wares and making the saddest puppy dog faces when you don't buy from them equally. "The Kuna are the richest people I know," JC explained as he kept them honest in their negotiations with us.

Kuna are smart, and very entrepreneurial. They may not be rich by U. S. standards, but they have an abudance of wisdom and contentment. They measure their wealth through their ability to provide for every need while maintaining a life free of daily stressors common to the modern world - the ones that can lead to a general unhappiness most of us get comfortable with. And they get to do it in a paradise many are eager to devleop.

Another interesting aspect of their lifestyle is the culture of making "molas." Molas are pictorial patterns embroidered onto pieces of fabric for the purpose of sharing Kuna tradition. The art is passed on in every family, usually to daughters unless there are only sons. In that case, the youngest son is often raised as a female for the purpose of carrying on the tradition. There are "Master Mola Makers" and then there are those that mass produce the patterns of the "artists." We met two such artists, Valencio and Lisa (above).

The patterns made by a Master Mola Maker are more intricate and therefore more expensive. Lisa is known as the "Donna Karan" of the Kuna, since she makes clothing as well. Stephen bought one of his favorite shirts (his "Camisa de Lisa") from her in 2006. He ran into her this week, adding another camisa to his wardrobe. It will be interesting to stay in the San Blas for such an extended period, making the transition from tourist to neighbor. I'm pretty sure life without internet is key to preserving the Kuna way of life. Bottom line, don't expect to hear from us for a while. On days with good frequencies, we'll send some messages from the boat, and we'll talk to everyone in October!!

Isles des Saintes, Guadeloupe

"Les Saintes" is a chain of 6 - 8 islands, mostly uninhabited, just 12 miles off the southwestern end of Guadeloupe. If you speak a little French, or can tolerate the language barrier for a few days, this is an awesome vacation spot. It's a superfast ferry ride from Guadeloupe and a favorite vacation spot among the French. Their harbors are the clearest we've seen since New England, the people are warm to guests (even English speaking guests) and their villages are beautiful and clean. Attitude aside, the French have the nicest developments so far. The main settlement here is, "Le Bourg" a fishing community on the the largest island, "Terre d'en Haut."

They wake up really early around here. Fishermen are buzzing about the anchorage in their skiffs by 4:00 am. The town is awake and busy by 6:00 am, when the boulangeries (bakeries) and patisseries (pastery shops) are filling the air with their scents of fresh baguettes and melted chocolate found in the pepitos and croissants. For the best pick of the batches, it's best to make it to shore by 7:00 am, as they may actually run out by 8:30 am. As soon as the patisserie sells out, it closes its doors, but the bakeries continue to make bread and sandwiches into the afternoon.

In town, dogs follow their owners down the street without a leash and stop to play with their neighbors or chase chickens around with their pals. Everyone seems to know all of the local dogs, which shopkeeper they belong too when they are roaming free and making their way porch to porch. The houses are beige and white with red tiled roofs and almost every one has a garden with beautiful flowers or shrubery - often cactus. Like so many other islands, many people own goats, cows and chickens - and lots of them. For some reason, the animals seemed especially social here and would walk right up to the fence to greet you. Unlike their cousins on the other islands, these goats are opportunistic and know how to schmooze the tourists for food through the fence. I love when all of these animals are grazing and hanging out together, especially when there is an iguana in the mix. There's usually just one or two at a time and they seem to be staring at the other animals in disbelief, as if they are thinking, "Where in the hell am I?"

The center of town is built around a small park with palms, fruit trees and benches. It's a great place for hanging out in the morning, eating your pasteries, drinking your American coffees out of your own personal mugs and watching the Frenchies mingle. Sometimes you can pass the time eavesdropping on conversation and making up your own dialogue. Our favorite scene was a mother who stopped her scooter in the middle of a crowded street to start screaming at her son for misbehaving. It drew quite a few more observers and this dialogue was not open for interpretation. Scooters and bicycles are the main mode of transportation, so if you plan on visiting this island, you can rent one or take a taxi. There are no car rentals.

But the island is so small, that it is usually about a 15 minute walk to any of the beaches or trails if you're into hiking. We hiked the closed off road to the top of "Mt. Chameau," a little over a 30 minute trek to the top. This walk has the most amazing views the entire way up, with one exception...The Saintes version of a "recycling plant." We spotted many recycling bins in town, color-coded to sort aluminum, bottles and cans. We thought this was fantastic and thought the Saintes to be very environmentally conscious compared to everywhere else we've visited where recycling seems to be non-existent. Stephen says he was suspect of this but "wanted to believe." Well, I don't know why they bother to sort it when it all gets dumped over the side of the mountain. Stephen and I noticed the smoke from the anchorage and decided to walk out to the end of this paved road and peer over the edge to see what was burning...all of the plastic bottles and aluminum cans, covering the mountainside until they slid into the sea below. "I knew this place was too good to be true," Stephen expressed in disappointment.

At the top of Chameau, the highest point on the island at 1,000 ft., was a historic Napoleonic lookout tower where we scaled three very exposed and questionable ladders to get to the roof. From up here, you have a panoramic view of the entire island chain, Guadeloupe to the North (photo above) and Dominica to the South. This one tested my phobia of heights, and another woman trying to ascend was making the mistake of looking down on her climb up. She froze half way up the ladder, her husband waiting at the top. Since he seemed a little impatient, I wish I knew French to yell down, "Just look at the rung in front of you!" I would have thought twice about this climb too, if I didn't see really small children and then adults twice my size already on the roof.

We met another American couple, Bobby and Leslie, on a boat hailing from Rock Hall, MD. The place of Stephen's infamous tale about trying to sail the Tartan (our first boat) back to Baltimore in a Nor'Easter. We were so happy to speak English, we lamented together about the French and exchanged information about the islands. They had told us, "Be sure to hike the donkey trail down the other side of the mountain, you can't miss it...just look for the yellow painted rocks." I was feeling a little leary about this, and as we stood at the top of Mt. Chameau, I looked back at the lovely road, so easy to follow with incredible views. Surely we would be back into town in no time to head for the beach. Then I looked ahead down a rock-lined path covered in dense forest and Stephen's face beaming ear to ear at the prospect of following the trail to discover views that only donkeys get to appreciate. "What the hell?" I muttered to myself.

I came to regret this pretty quickly as the very steep "yellow-marked" trail began to disappear under piles of dried leaves. The views were great for about 5 minutes until we were enveloped by trees and then practically crawling on our hands and knees as the overgrowth got thicker. Suddenly we didn't hear traffic or any signs of civilization anymore, just the sounds of a distant sea crashing on the shores down below. I imagined us descending out onto a cliff with huge crashing waves. "I don't think we're on the trail anymore," Stephen said before climbing a tree to see out over the forest. I praised his agility when he discovered the way out. So 45 minutes later, we had traversed the side of the mountain, spotting the occasional goat that "baaa-ed," to us up through the bush. Apparently, they don't even really venture here. "We're on an adventure!" Stephen said with some excitement in his voice. He is always great about putting a positive slant on an adverse situation. "Is that what this is?" I asked, still undecided.

After crabwalking and sliding down mounds of leaves through a gully that looked like it could have been a trail, we finally heard cars passing close by. Suddenly, I spotted a road sign, leading the way up over a possible drainage ditch. The best part of getting lost was emerging from the mountain to discover we were right at the beach we wanted to check out yesterday. Dirty and sweaty from the mountain, we jumped in, in our hiking clothes. We also discovered a large pipe leading into the cloudy water - "Hmmm...what are we swimming in? Well, that was refreshing." At least we didn't waste time walking over with all our beach gear. Back at the boat, I chose to stay down below while our neighbor who suggested the "donkey trail," stopped over to visit. Stephen very politely described our adventure, to which Bobby replied, "Oh...we haven't been that way in 'a few years'."

This advice was redeemed later by their ability to help us out in a state of panic. Stephen and I had come back from town with armfuls of groceries and in the process of loading everything onto the boat, failed to secure our dinghy. Twenty-five minutes later, we emerged ready for the beach, to discover our "car" was missing. I can't adequately describe the sickening feeling of losing your dinghy and staring back at a wide expanse of water to know that it could be already drifting out to sea. We were so fortunate to meet Bobby & Leslie the night before, the only other two people we knew who spoke English. I dove off the boat and swam over to them, luckily they were on board. As I climbed up their swim ladder out of breath, I told Bobby, "I need your help, our dinghy is missing." After a 30+ year career with the DOD, Bobby sprung into action immediately. "Hop in our dinghy," we'll go look for it." We had motored less than a minute when I saw the "Sea Eagle," with our orange gas jug tied along side a catamaran anchored behind us. The woman was from Sweden and spoke enough French and English to receive the dinghy from a local fisherman and return it to us. This act of kindness restored my faith in humanity and in the French...at least for the time being. I was so relieved, I stood up in the dinghy to hug this woman. Stephen and I wish we could have communicated well enough to try to find the man who saved it. This experience confirms why "The Saintes" is a truly special place among islands that are growing more desperate.

When we finally made it to the beaches, our favorite was "Pompierre." This beach was stacked with very tall palms and other low lying trees that gave you plenty of shade, to the point where it was harder to find a spot in the sun then away from it. For me, this is a good thing. This is the most popular and the prettiest. The two don't always go hand it hand, but the French really seem to know how to vacation with very little enviromental impact. This bay was clear with a soft sand and weed bottom. The bay was extremely protected with a small island blocking the entrance. It was a fantastic view and great for snorkeling along the outer edges. There was a trail to the other side of the bay where there was another beach along a bluff, exposed to the sun. From here, people were swimming to the larger island or atoll in the middle and walking up the grassy side of it to the top. Stephen swam and snorkeled the whole distance from the main beach to the other island, where he discovered squid and huge blowholes into the sea.

We've been eating on board most of the time, usually only treating ourselves to dinner out once on each island. The Saintes was definitely a place we wanted to try French creole cuisine and had the best atmosphere for it. There were lots of really small, quaint places with stone courtyards or waterfront views. Stephen was extremely happy to find "Coleurs de Monde" where the menu was in both French and English and the waitstaff spoke English as well. It was an easy choice. It was upstairs with tables on the balcony that overlooked the anchorage. There were antique, stained-glass lamps at each table and the food was so rich and amazing. We shared a seafood penne in a cream sauce and tiger prawns in a red creole sauce. Now I know why the French eat so much and stay so skinny, the food just goes right through you. All the creamy cheeses, sauces and pasteries - I don't know how they do it on a regular basis, but once in a while is definitely worth it.

Carnival!

We wanted to experience Carnival! in Guadeloupe (their version of Mardi Gras) and weren't disappointed. For an island lacking access to so many resources, I was astonished at the pagentry involved. I have never seen costumes so exquisite or performances with such a high caliber of coreography, all done locally.

We celebrated Carnival in both Pointe Pitre and Basse Terre. While Pointe Pitre is the biggest city, Basse Terre is the capital and put on the best celebration. Carnival was basically celebrated Friday through Tuesday, (Fat Tuesday) when they put on a "black & white parade" to symbolize the "death" or end of the festivities.

The festivities in Pointe Pitre were more humorous than Basse Terre. We learned from this experience that the best place to see the parade is at the main grandstand area (think Herald Square). Each group is slowly filtered through this bottle neck, creating a very anti-climatic experience as you get juiced up by the drumming and dancing of one group, and then you wait around for at least 20 minutes - sometimes half an hour until the next one comes through. We've adjusted to island time, but come on! This was slow as molassess, lasting from about 4:30 PM - to after 10.

During the periods of waiting, we sampled all the local carnival cuisine, basically three types of sandwiches: a bokit (sandwich on a pita), an aroulou (French version of a hamburger on a colossal roll bigger than the patty by at least an inch around), and a baguette with thon (tuna salad), poulet (chicken salad) or jambon (ham). We learned that "fromage" means cheese and "oeuf" means egg. Complet (like deluxe) is their version of everything which is lettuce, tomato, mayo ketchup, onion, cheese and egg. Steve liked having a fried egg on his burger. This process was not without its challenges, as we find the french language so difficult, and they find communicating with us equally frustrating. It was at least adventurous, but nothing compares to American carnival food.

We were fortunate to meet enough generous, English-speaking people - mostly among the younger generation, who were able to help us find out when and where the big celebrations were. We observed that while most people only spoke French, they also only listened to American music. The evening before the first parade, the Miss Carnival pageant was held in Pointe Pitre's town square. The emcee and pageant participants carried on with the crowd in French and then one of the singer's broke out into Michael Jackson's "We are the World." In English! Then a couple came out and danced to "Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing. "What is going on?" we were both perplexed. It seemed that our music of the 80s had just reached Guadeloupe. But not really, because everywhere I went, I heard Hip-hop and R&B currently popular in the states. A dance troop put on a performance that was all hip-hop, and fashions were definitely influenced by American mainstream. So perhaps the younger generation knows more English as a result of their affinity for our culture. No wonder we feel like the traditional French dislike us Americans so much. Their kids want to be just like us, to the point that the young males aren't wearing speedos anymore, but OP boardshorts instead! Thank god the days of the banana hammock are coming to an end.

Sorry I digressed....By the time we made it to Basse Terre, we had this Carnival thing down for the big extravaganza. We had gone through so much to get there, that we weren't missing it for anything, not even an untenable anchorage that bounced us around in our sleep. Clearly it was bad, as we were the only boat bold enough to anchor there. And so we stayed out until the very end of the celebrations...not eager to get back and fight the 3 foot rollers in our dinghy. Stephen steered us through the swells as I focused on the starry night sky above.

There were about 80 groups or more in the parade in Pointe Pitre, and there were at least this many in the Basse Terre celebration. Only a few of the groups were repeated in this parade. There were so many new colorful and artistic costumes and floats. The drumming just got livelier and better. Jam sessions consisted of coconut shakers, loud whistles, conch horns, djembes and huge drums men wore slung over their shoulders. One group would chant, make these gutteral sounds and jump high with their drums, beating them in mid-air. Stephen was able to capture this above. It seemed that at least 50% of the population was part of the pageant with this amazingly innate sense of rhythm and movement. Their pride in this tradition was evident mostly in their presence - the way they carried themselves, but also in the hard work that went into the sewing, and float design.

There were many themes interwoven into the celebrations. There were extravagant headpieces, that at times became too topheavy for the dancers. Costumes were made from materials symbolic of birds,animals and other things found in nature - very ornate and tribal. There was a lot of Caribbean plaid, red, yellow, green and orange patterns. Groups wore masks of famous French and American politicos (many Obama masks) with long-sleeved button-down shirts suffed fat around the belly so they needed suspenders. Then there were lovely ladies who donned body paint in lieu of material.

Then there was this whole monkey and devil theme where groups of mostly young men would wear monkey or white faced-devil masks with purple hair and crack very big whips on the ground right next to you. This was very startling, not just for us but for all of the spectators who seemed leary and even disapproving of these groups at times. I would like to find out more about the symbolism behind these costumes and the whips.

Then there were groups designing floats and costumes around the theme of the business they were promoting or an environmental cause. Like the tailors that rolled down the street behind a huge pair of scissors and thimble. A young group made a statement by dumping grocery carts of trash all over the street and acting out a scenario in which they all worked together to clean it up. Litter & general garbage disposal seems to be a huge problem for many of the islands.

Crowds of people flooded the streets and the main square. Even little toddlers marched with their group in miniature versions of the costumes, binkies still in their mouths, shaking their little bodies to the beat of the music. There was such a great energy, that language was no longer a barrier, as you could communicate through looks and gestures, everyone sharing the experience.

It was another late night, and this time we let McDonald's fuel us, as "Le Big Mac," is a term we understand. The menu here, was very limited though, your only options being "Le Big Mac," "Royale with Cheese (quarter-pounder)," chicken nuggets and chicken snack wraps. We went back later for coffees, thinking McDonald's would not let us down. To my dismay, the McDonald's version of coffee was the smallest I've seen yet on a French island. It was literally a shot sized styrofoam cup filled only half way. Stephen brought me two coffees. "WTF?" was written all over my face upon opening the lid.

The celebration in Basse Terre went on from after 3Pm until after midnight. Although exhausted from non-stop celebration, we were so glad to be a part of it. It was one of the most beautiful and engaging things I have experienced visually and emotionally. I can only imagine what the celebrations are like in Rio.

Antigua

After two weeks of sharing an island with mostly donkeys, we were in for a little culture shock when we arrived in St. John's, Antigua. First off, there were actually restaurants we could go to for a meal, wow! And they even held regular hours. First night at anchorage, we decided to reacclimate to civilization and had a few drinks at Hemingways, where the bartender and owner were very generous and gave us the lowdown on the area: where to shop for food, where to go for nightlife, areas to avoid. Valerie, from Guayana, let us sample the house passionfruit juice and ginger beer, teaching us how to make our own aboard.

It was an off night. With no cruise ships in port, the shopping district was like a ghost town and we were Hemingway's only customers for hours. As friendly as the staff was, we decided to search for cheaper eats. A walk through the town was kind of sad. Without tourism, it was clear that St. John's had very little going for it. Being the only visitors in town, we were targets for all the husslers until Monday, when hundreds of tourists descended from the bows of the cruiseships onto the town like ants - the albino kind.

Stephen and I awoke Monday morning and peered out our portals. "Holy mother of God," where did these ships come from and how did they sneak in so quietly? It was amazing, we didn't even feel the slightest rocking, anchored on the other side of the pier, a few hundred feet away. The activity swarming around the ships and "Heritage Quay," the shopping district was our entertainment for the morning. We saw a rather ambitious couple in matching exercise gear jog down the ramp, eager to get their exercise in. "Where do they think they're going to run around here?" Surely their strides would be broken by the vendors and crowds. There were no parks, no open spaces.

Then we wondered what the tourists would do all day in St. John's. Once we left, we would discover that as in most other islands we've visited, the cruise ships usually pull in to the least scenic ports. It makes sense, as their size can only be accomodated by the industrial areas. This whole area was reminding me of the Baltimore Inner Harbor with palm trees. As you pull in, you are greeted by freighters and shopping pavillions. While these ports can be charming in their own way, the islands have so much more to offer. While many may leave without ever finding this out, some get to sample this beauty by being the first off the ship, in search of a ride or ferry to take them out of town. They will at least get to see one of Antigua's gorgeous beaches before they have to leave port again.

We decided not to stay long in St. John's. We'd take care of business: post office, internet and grocery shopping. The anchorage itself was noisy and stinky. It was lined with mangroves which emit a sulfuric stench, and nightclubs which pumped music until early morning. However, Gretchen seemed to like it here. A mangrove tree served as an apartment complex for cranes that came and went all day. When they were still, it looked like a giant rose bush whose blooms morphed into birds as they stretched their wings and took flight. Gretchen is a city cat at heart, so she was content to watch the traffic and talk to the birds as they passed overhead.

We were lucky to find the restaurant, "El Taco Loco," off the beaten path. They were usually out of a lot of stuff, but the food was so cheap and so good that we ate here for dinner and lunch. We especially liked Omar, the manager who remembered us from our last meal. "We have the chocolate cake today, do you still want a piece?" We were out of luck on Sunday when the only places open in the entire city were Subway and the open air markets selling fresh produce. There was not a coffee to be had anywhere that morning, and the market was intimidating since at that time we were the only two tourists in town.

People called out to us from every stand, coming up to us and literally placing fruit in our hands to touch. "It's good, see." Wow, talk about an interactive shopping experience. On our way into the market, young boys awaited as we approached in our dinghy, hoping to help us tie up for money. A very sketchy young guy asked us if he could help us carry our bags. When we said "no thanks," he continued to stalk us the whole back to our dinghy. We stopped several times, and I kept noticing him across the street or somewhere behind us. I thought he had finally given up when I looked up from inside our dinghy and there he was sitting on the curb staring us down. I have learned to become more aggressive in order to let people know that we won't be intimidated, so I stared right back. When we went grocery shopping, a sweet young girl checking backpacks and women's handbags at the front asked me if she could have mine. "I'm glad you think it's nice, but no."

The one landmark we did visit while in st. John's was the historic Cathedral that they finally closed as it is hundreds of years old and in desperate need of repairs. We read the apologetic letter posted on the front door explaining that after a church member was injured by a part of the ceiling that caved in, a survey determined the church could not remain open. There was no sign of construction, however, and no guarantee of reopening as they also explained the insurmountable task of raising millions of dollars from parishioners to fix it.

What we found most interesting about this church was the surrounding cemetery and the way its grounds were being used by locals. In my experience, I am used to cemeteries being treated as solemn places in which you engage in behaviors that demonstrate respect for the dead. All around us were people sitting or laying atop headstones, gabbing away on cel phones, eating their lunch or taking a mid-day snooze. Stephen and I used to find ourselves saying, "unbelievable" about so much in our journey. We've since changed this to "Believable."

We made it out of St. John's Harbor, to the outer islands where we spent a few days snorkeling reefs and lounging on the beach. We anchored behind "Redhead Island," a small rocky, uninhabitable island that became our private anchorage for two nights. In the morning, we dinghied over to Great Bird Island, about a 5 minute ride, so we could hike to the top before the tour groups arrived. On top were magnificent views of the outer islands and reef surrounding Great Bird. We found a huge blow hole opening up to the sea below and stumbled upon nesting birds that started to squawk and protect their babies as we got closer. "Stop scaring them!" I yelled to Stephen who kept inching closer for better pictures.

We returned later in the afternoon as the crowds thinned out and all that remained was a catamaran that stopped for about an hour. We decided that a ferry to the outer islands was the best option for tourists visiting by cruise. Here, they were far from vendors toting Antigua t-shirts, glossy conchs and shot glasses. A single vendor set up on the other side of the island each morning with coolers of food and beer. I was surprised by the number of people who stayed on the cat instead of getting off to check out the beaches. Then there was this man in the photo above who decided he was going to take it all in. As the cat approached the beach, he was the first one at the bow with snorkel mask already on, breathing hose in his mouth. They lowered the swim steps and he went down face first, gliding the entire 8 feet to shore where he ran out of water to float in. Once he hit solid beach, he stood up, snorkel mask still on and walked the path to other side where an entire bay of reefs awaited him. "Good for him!" He was making the most of his vacation.

The East Coast of Antigua is an amazing sail. We had ideal coniditions, close-hauled in 10 - 12 kts. of true wind against a gorgeous backdrop that changed from green countryside to steep, rocky bluffs and atolls with caves carved along the edges. The island offers just enough modern civilization to keep you connected while giving you plenty of places to escape to. The settled areas among the shores were quaint & picturesque, reminding you of a time long passed.

There were many sailboats, as Antigua is a popular destination for yachters. It features many races, including the big one, "Antigua Race Week," the last week in April. This has been a big regatta for the Caribbean for the last 30 years with a few hundred yachts participating from other countries. The anchorages here are well-protected and beautiful with clear water. There are so many anchorages and beaches in Antigua you really could spend a couple of weeks sailing between them.

Our last stop in Antigua was the historic English Harbor. This anchorage didn't have a great beach, but was very pretty and peaceful. We couldn't believe how many boats were anchored here while it remained so quiet. We arrived early enough in the afternoon to tuck up close to shore with enough room to swing from some very interesting boats: a zebra striped boat named "Rush," and "Sea Terror," which looked like a terror to sail on. An interesting voodoo mask hung inside its cockpit.

Lots of big yachts and catamarans tied up stern to quay at Nelson's Dockyard, named for 18th century British naval commander, Lord Nelson. After 4 weeks of accumulating laundry, we were able to get it done in a little laundry room inside the dockyard. Just me and its manager, Cheryl or "Baby" as Stephen preferred to call her by her nickname. I found this to be my best laundromat experience so far. Even though we opted to do our laundry ourselves rather than pay for Cheryl to do it, she insisted on helping me load and fold. "I'll get bored if I don't stay busy, " she explained. When we first spotted the laundry area, we saw two machines sitting on the grass in the middle of the courtyard. Since just about everything is "believable" to us now, we started to turn around thinking this outdoor set up was the laundry facility. To our amusement, these were two non-working machines, as we would have guessed at first glance in our former lives.

The dockyard included customs & immigration, (who didn't catch that Barbuda neglected to charge us entry fees), a pub with the first beer on tap we have come across since Bermuda (Heineken), and a grocery store that closed by 5 pm, while we were sipping those draught beers.

Aside from Nelson's Dockyard, the other attractions here are Fort Berkeley and Shirley Heights. We hiked the 10 minute trail from the Dockyard to the end of the fort, which overlooks the sea and the surrounding harbor. The trail and fort were filled with goats which were gorging with milk. We had a hard time deciphering whether some were actually holding milk or just had some really big kahunas to put any male to shame. Anyhoo, the fort still stands from the 1700s - the days of Lord Nelson when they stored 300 barrels of gunpowder inside what was then, a "bomb proof" warehouse. But seriously, the goats had some of the largest testicles, proportionately speaking of course, of any animal we have seen.

We attended the famous Sunday Night party at Shirley Heights. From the beach, we climbed a trail to the very top. You could hear the steel drums so clearly the whole way, deceiving us about the distance remaining. "We've got to be close," we kept saying. An opening through the trees revealing we were only half way to the top. We were so focused on mixing a drink for the trek up that we forgot to bring our headlamps for the hike back.

When we made it to the top, the trail opened up onto a field of people far less sweaty than us, holding rum punches. A skinny, tanned blonde woman with perfectly styled hair in a long flowy dress passed by us. "If she's here, there's got to be a road," said Stephen. Fortunately, there was a road and plenty of taxis, but we spent our last EC on rum punch. Hmmm....a ride back down or another rum punch? It was some really good punch. The kind with nutmeg.

The steel drum band was excellent. They sounded more like an orchestra. They played until 7:00 and then a reggae cover band went on til late. It was an awesome party with families with small children, 20-something singles, older women with hired escorts, cruisers and locals. It was cool to see people from outside the U.S. party to the Stones and Paul Simon.

Shirley Heights overlooked the entire southwest end of the island, spanning both English and Falmouth Harbors. When the sun went down, red lights from the masts of the megayachts docked over in Falmouth lit up like a city. What Stephen and I appreciated most, however, was the food line. This place knew how to streamline things. With the number of people there, their were no waits for food, no pushing your way through the crowd to order. You picked up a ticket numbered according to your choice of BBQ. You walked over the the BBQ line where a lady immediately piled green salad on with tongs and then 1 huge ice cream scooper of potato salad. They had the grill going all night so there was no waiting for your ribs or chicken either. This was by far the fastest service we have encountered in the Caribbean.

We feel blessed to have encountered another amazing island with exhilirating sailing that seems to keep getting better. Everytime I begin to think that we've been through a lot to get to this point, however, I am reminded of how lucky we've been. We ran into Hannah & Ky in English Harbor, the couple who were demasted in Bermuda. We knocked on their boat when we spotted it, and learned more about their journey and the perils they have been through.

This couple is sailing just until summer, when they have to be back to the states for Ky's gradschool program. They started in Houston, TX, and were grounded on a sandbar somewhere in GA when the tide went out. Floating upright again, they sailed on to the Abacos and headed for the Med. A couple hundred miles past Bermuda, they were demasted in some strong winds. The whole rig came down at night while Hannah was on watch and they spent the next day or so pulling it back on board and jury-rigging a sail configuration while pitching in big sea swells. With half the sail area, it took them two weeks to beat windward to Bermuda.

We found it amusing that they also had to beat in to Bermuda from the opposite direction. "That must be the Bermuda Triangle," said Stephen. Like him, Hannah's hubby regretted that this all happened on her first passage. "I'm just happy she still wants to sail," he said. I give this girl a lot of credit. I have symptoms of PTSD from some seriously big waves and the entire rig of her 30 foot boat came down in some serious weather while she was alone on watch. They were at sea for 27 days before making it to Bermuda where they were grounded until they could replace the mast. And here they were...they had made it to the Caribbean, determined to make the most of what time and money they had left. You never know what you would do if faced with the same circumstances, but if I lost my mast I don't knonw if I'd keep going. "Gee, this has been real...but you can drop me off here..." I joked with Stephen. "Yeah, real awful," he added.

Hannah and Ky are truly amazing and inspirational. Each time the wind begins to gust or the waves begin to steepen, I feel fear well up inside of me. I think I fear the feeling of being afraid more than the actual circumstances. I hate the thought of being paralyzed by fear and try to push myself to take the helm when the winds start to howl. There is so much to discover on a journey like this one, not just about people and the world at large, but about yourself. Free from many of life's distractions and easy escape routes, it's easier to hear your inner voice and check it from time to time, observe how it affects your experience. For me, living so close to nature has revealed the fragile balance between peace and chaos & the interconnectedness that exists within our private realities and our surroundings -the world as it truly is.