When you gotta get to town, you need Faith.

Story goes that just about anyone can enter this line of work, decide their own route (there are only a few), and make up their own hours. Most driver-owners customize their vehicle’s interior with an assortment of lights, signs, accessories and sparkly upholstery. They also determine their own bus nickname, of course, which offers a glimpse into the driver’s personality or view of the world.  

Here are a few of the buses plying the rutted streets of Bequia these days…

 What if someone needs to get out and we’re all in the way?  What else?  We all climb out, the helper handles the fold-up seats (in the aisle), we maybe bid “good evening” to the departing, and then shimmy back in again.  Always in the middle of the street; there are no official stops. 

When I asked, “Wha he yellin’ about?”  The driver replied, “Oh, he just need more sex.”  Everyone laughed.  So I retorted, “I don’t tink dat be any way to get it!”  And everyone laughed harder. 

They’re a driving risk, to say the least. But even worse, they’re noisy. One recent, early morning, a nearby sheep was having a ba-a-a-a-a-a-d dream.  He would NOT shut up.  It wasn’t til the sun came up that I could see him—tied up in the yard next door.  No way did the shepherd own that property. But who cares?  It’s free sheep chow. 

Please keep your goats out of my gardens; they’re eating my flowers,”

So why all the fuss over grow-your-own meat?  It’s cheap, for starters.  After all, every time one has a baby, you can slaughter the parent and still break even.  But mostly, they just love their mutton.  It’s a delicacy around here.

Barack Obama became president of the USA, and the whole world, and Bequia today. There was a Big Party of Americans at a fancy new beach bar with a Big TV, but we missed it (long story). Instead, we ended up in a few neighborhood spots with small TVs, and smaller, but no less enthusiastic crowds. Here are just a few memories…

• In the bookstore, where there are maybe 3 American magazines (most likely dated November), Obama was on virtually every cover.
• On the streets, spontaneous cheering was erupting wherever people gather.
• In the Sailor’s Bar, the owner’s daughter came home from school and watched with wide-eyed curiosity.

• In Coco’s Place, a handful of salty Yachties were mostly speechless, but leapt often to their feet, wiped many a tear, and became instant soul-mates.

Thanks to Jesper (breakaway kid) for this great photo.)

• Coco himself seemed emotionally entranced by the event.

• An elderly couple, probably expats, sauntered down the street grinning. She held a big bunch of red, white & blue balloons.
• A young, dressed-up native woman stood on a corner yelling about “Obama!”. When we stopped near her, she stuck her head in our car, said “Where you from?” And gave us big love.
• “Obama” was the one word clearly heard all day long and the morning after, no matter how unrecognizable the patios or how thick the Creole.

The future is upon us. The hard work has begun. I’m far away from my homeland, but proud to be an American.

Insects and infections. Noisy nights and strange neighbors. Hyper dogs and bored offspring who don’t yet understand “Island Time.”  Not nasty enough? Okay:  Rude dude choking his chicken in the bushes below our balcony; hostile neighbor kid piling dry plywood on my blazing BBQ grill. There are worse stories, but let’s keep this PG-13. 

Somebody asked me if a Sabbatical like this brings constant Paradise–or is the BreakAway road pocked with potholes?  Of course there are plenty.  And while complaining rarely helps, here—by request—is a short, requisite rant about…

11 Predictable Problems in Paradise

• Surfing the interNOT.  We chose our places to stay based on purported internet access.  But so far, all 3 destinations have had disappointing, if not maddening, connectivity.  Makes this project (and communication in general) a major head-banging challenge.
• Feeding the bugs.  At times, my children appear to have chicken pox.  And nights are often punctuated with slaps and curses and rabid scratching. But it’s just the mosquitoes, no-see-ums (sand fleas), and more.  Even free-basing deet doesn’t help. 
• Feeling faraway.  I rarely mind not “being there.”  But helplessness drifts in like stormy seas when a close family member is in surgery, the house is exploding with its second messy plumbing disaster, and imperfections persist that Paradise can’t fix. 
• Going without.  Living with less is part of the Mission—and good for the kids.  But frustration quickly elevates when one is unable to get essentials like a guitar pick or sandals.  2 deliveries of necessities to St. John didn’t make it before we left.  And one can waste hours “in search of” on islands. 
• Ride the rip-offs.  The St. John gas attendant, for example, will fill your Jeep to $23 and not have $2 when you give him $25.  Or the dollar bus driver will take your money twice (she paid the fare; he didn’t see/know it so paid the  man again).  Encounters like this happen on a daily basis.  Make it a game (and carry small bills). Or simply say, “Happy New Year!” and consider yourself the richer.  
• Pre-negotiate most everything.  It took some “hold-ups” by porters, taxis, and vegetable vendors to remind me of this mantra.  First ask, “What’s this cost?”  And when a restaurant hands you a menu without prices, ask for another or just leave. 
• Paying the price.  These islands are expensive, naturally.  But they’ve proven to be manyfold worse than expected—200%+++ markup on everything.  Our travel budget included hefty per diems that have been, to paraphrase President Bush, woefully misunderestimated. 
• Doing island time.  The Slow Movement is cool, but getting blown off is a bummer.  In a recent 12-hour period, a playdate didn’t show.  A fishing guide didn’t show.  And neither did the caretaker/cleaner.  As a part-time adult, I can accept it.  But the kids were genuinely hurt. 
• Managing eating disorders.  I’ve become a grocery sherpa for the kids.  Restaurants serve warm wine and cold meals.  Buffets become an inebriated feeding frenzy.  A simple “club sandwich” arrives as something unrecognizable.  OMG:  I miss my kitchen?
• Being held hostage.  Transit brings risks.  Some movers view customers as sub-human cargo.  At one airport, they took our water at security and then put us in a balmy waiting area for a few hours.  There was no snack shop, no vending machine, and no drinking fountain.  Thirsty?  Tough. 
• Bad (or rude) service.  Disinterest in tourists is a science in some places.  But so can be rudeness (especially on the American islands), where macho machine-gun banter can be the cover charge for getting attention.  When my Jeep broke down in the middle of the road, right by a service station, getting “help” from the attendant (!) went like this.  

ME:  So sorry, but you want help me move dis broke Jeep outa da way?  

HIM:  (long pause)…Don’t want to.  

ME:  Ha!  Okay.  You just take da wheel and I poosh.  

HIM:  You not strong enough to poosh!  

ME:  Yassuh!  Assa good one!  Allright allright:  I just leave Jeep hee-ya; not my sah-vees station; I doan give a sh*#!  

HIM:  No no no—can’t do dat.  (pause, stare)  You tryin’ put me to work!  

ME:  Yah well, I can see you very bizzee in dat dere chair.  

HIM:  And I can see you ain’t go noplace wid dat brokedown Jeep.  

ME:  Okay.  Dat sound real good den.  How ‘bout I just sit right hee-yah wid you all day den.  

HIM:  (stands up abruptly, but we’re both smirking by now)…Put dat ugly ting in neutral me-son; I show you how to poosh a Jeep.  

ME:  And I owe you a cold beer, me-frenn. 

But who ever said travel was easy?  Or settling into a new place with strange food, currency, customs, and characters?  Gosh, if it were easy and cheap and risk-free, people would be doing it all the time.  Money aside, I’m reminded often why a guy can only tap the moxie to do this every seven years or so. 

And while I’m happy to rant, may I also state that—as is true anywhere, people are mostly kind and honest, and will go out of their way to help a stranger.  That’s even more true on islands like these, because it has to be. 

No, Paradise isn’t perfect.  But it can come pretty close—with enough patience, persistence, and (to quote the Rastas), positivity. 

And suddenly, you’re feeling like a local…

“Bequia is like St. John was about 40 years ago,” sailors and Caribbeanheads told me.  Upon first impression, I’m thinking they should have said 55.  Or more.  But our ferry pulled up, and we disembarked, aiming to find out. 

“Island time” works well for, well, not working. Not living off deadlines. Not getting anywhere by any particular time or worrying about much. But “island time” fails miserably when trying to catch ferries and make airplane connections. 

The ferry floats away from saintly St. John.

The good news is we made it off St. John and on to St. Thomas.  Then Anguilla.  Then Antigua.  And eventually to our destination, the island of St. Vincent.  And it is breathtakingly beautiful.  Worth the hassle?  Of course (but that’s easy to say now).  The bad news is the day was, as expected, an endurance test, only worse. 

"Island time" and flying skeds don't mix well.

“Island time” was taken to new levels, and I don’t mean 20,000 feet in the air.  I mean:  Refusing to let planes land.  Stranding people in airports.  Canceling flights.  Holding passengers hostage and inventing a form of “island torture.”  They call it a “soft strike.” 

It comes courtesy of the air traffic controllers on the island of Antigua, a hub for Liat island-hopping airlines.  Seems the Controllers want more money, or something, and the government won’t pony up.  So…they create chaos out of flying (which is already chaotic down here) and make everybody really, really mad (in all senses of the word). 

We’d already received angry and defensive e-mails from the airline.  Every cabbie or airport employee was talking about it—or refusing to.  And frankly, there probably hasn’t been this much drama down here (other than hurricanes) since Reagan and Troops invaded Grenada 20 years ago. 

As for me, I got scolded by a flight attendant and frightfully threatened by a security officer (who was about twice my size).  A Gamegirl was stolen from right under my nose.  And I witnessed unprecedented airport panic and paranoia.  And that’s saying something, since air travel has been increasingly unpleasant since 9-11, if not before. 

In the Antigua airport, most chairs were taken.  Most garbage cans were boiling over.  And the food stand was down to hot dogs and warm beer.  At one point, I stared at an (empty!) garbage can for an hour or more, convinced that this was the appropriate mediation focus for the day. 

Stranded. I meditated on this trash can.

A TV preacher barked in a Patois growl while a nearby CD stand played short samples of reggae, Jamaican toasting, and soca at full volume.  At one point, I thought I would scream.  But instead, I must have zoned out, because that’s when the new pink GameGirl (a necessary drug for CurlyGirl on a day like this) was pilfered.  Disappeared like magic.  

We got lucky.  Our plane flew.  We got out of there, and onto St. Vincent only a few long hours late.  Needless to say, we went out for a celebratory dinner and stayed up way too late.  When getting there is not half the fun, getting there feels twice as good. 

• On St. Vincent, “island time” is alive and well.  And suddenly, slowing down to soak it all in is a euphoric experience.