The van shudders to a stop at the bottom of a steep hill to let off a passenger and take on two more. The interior, already cramped, consumes without problem. The engine whines, bellicose and begrudgingly pushing ahead. Banana trees line the foreground, leaves dancing with the wind.
The city of Castries, the capital of St Lucia, has an island energy to it, which, barring cruise ships at port, is generally devoid of tourist pollution on the day you visit. The minibus skips along until the driver calls out “last stop” and with that you are out on the street wandering.
After a quick stop at the post office, where the teller is rather curt but professional, you find yourself entering the Castries Central Market area, first passing through an alley bordered by food establishments on either side, followed by a bustling produce market and finally a small craft area.
You paw through some bottles of hot sauce, with homemade labels affixed with tape buried behind the more commercial-looking bottles. Packets of spices, nutmeg and jars of cinnamon are piled ready for the negotiating.
“That’ll be twelve EC (Eastern Caribbean dollars),” she remarks for the couple items in your hand. You hand her a twenty dollar banknote. “Ohh,” she remarks with a pause bubbling from consternation, “do you have exact change?”
She scrambles around her booth, trying to dig up some coins and dollars but to no avail. “Do you have change,” she asks the vendor next to her, who wearily shakes her head. “Wait here,” she notes, and scurries off. You watch as she makes her way like a pinball through the market.
…
You pass through Rodney Bay, where now the tourist populace comes more into focus. Chain stores and other amenities line the road, large boats are anchored in the water and the feel of the island switches somewhat. The bus brings you up to Gros Islet, where, at the end, you hop off and pay your fare.
A shack on your left side merits attention and you note an older woman toiling over some sandwiches. “What are they?” you inquire. You end up ordering one fish sandwich, perfectly fried just a little while ago and paired nicely with its bun. A fresh-squeezed juice rounds out the delicious snack and you continue onwards.
…
Passing through the sleepy town of Gros Islet, you come to a large field. If you walk the road, you have to go a long way around. If you pass through the field, you have found yourself a shortcut but in order to make it work, you must cross through what must be the mecca of St Lucia’s plastic tourism, Sandals Grande St. Lucian Spa & Beach Resort.
A guard is stationed on the eastern property line, surveying the beach. You walk by with confidence realizing, or at least believing, that public access to beaches is a right in St Lucia. Whether due to confidence or law, you cross the property line without harassment and continue at water’s edge following its northwestern slant.
Early-twenty-something year olds are lazing in beach chairs closer to the buildings, most assuredly honeymooners taking advantage of template travel packages pushed by their jealous friends or twitchy, non-creative travel agents. There is hushed talk about excursions in helicopters or day trips replete with snorkeling tours.
Feeling accomplished, and somewhat emboldened by the unmolested walk through the property, you halt to take a quick trip to the restroom, just a couple paces away. As you divert course, the property guard on the western end comes scurrying towards you. You reach for the handle.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” he yells out, “can I see an ID card?”
“Oh, I was just going to use the bathroom,” you reply, hoping for some mercy.
“Only guests are allowed in the bathroom.” What an exclusive place.
…
While the resort and all its water toys and commercial add-ons cease at the property line, the beach continues, and feels like a more natural upgrade, as it becomes part of the publically-usable Pigeon Island National Park. A man lounges in the shade with a rack of rental chairs nearby. Per an inquiry, you find the price is quite reasonable, especially by making a deal with him to only stay half the day.
The water is crystal clear, the atmosphere is completely quiet and the beach is hardly populated. The breeze, the temperatures and the atmosphere are excellent for a nice mid-morning rest.
In the distance, a boat teeters about, seemingly making its way slowly to shore. As it comes closer, you recognize a vast array of produce clipped, hanging and stored aboard: bananas, mangoes, pineapples and more. The man aboard comes into view, a lean muscular frame.
Admiring the interesting sight, you take a quick photograph. From the shadows of shubbery comes a voice. “You don’t buy?” it says, with a sharp assuming intonation. “I’m okay,” you respond calmly, “but thank you”. “Get out of here,” he shouts back, “no camera, go away, leave. You not buy, go away!”
You put your camera away, shrug at the capitalistic anger in the air. The boat’s engine is now refusing to start, choking out consistently. He scowls at it and persistently attempts to move along, but it won’t cooperate. The ocean current starts to bring his boat closer to shore. A man is yelling at him from shore. You watch for a moment and then return to the prior relaxation mode.
In order to get mad on islands like this, it surely takes a lot of experience which you don’t have. In the meantime, it is fun to watch karma run its course.
Latest posts by Tak (see all)
- Review: Yacht Isabela II Metropolitan Touring Galapagos Islands - 28 February 2019
- #088: Ten TripHash Travel Thoughts - 29 July 2018
- #087: Take a Moment - 4 July 2018
