The afternoon is expiring and the water taxi driver is surveying the scene the Sugar Beach Resort. A young couple frolicking nearby with floats in the water, resort goers lazily reclined under their respective palapas, an older couple taking a lazy walk at water’s edge.
“You sure you don’t need a ride to Soufriere,” he calls out. You squint your eyes, grimace in feigned bewilderment and shrug indifferently.
“I guess if it’s a good price we can visit Soufriere,” you respond. You realize the alternative is another anguishing hike up over the saddle from the mountainous Pitons, something that you would like to avoid, but you cannot tip your hand. His eyes light up at the notion of getting a fare on his return home.
…
He pulls up the battle scarred anchor, the sound of the chain tickles the metal floor just before the engine kicks to life. Sugar Beach Resort fades into the distance on your grand sea escape. The feeling of skipping the arduous climb melts away into the warm breeze.
…
Soufriere is a walkable town, with just enough activity. The buildings vary: run down, brightly coloured and historic. A produce market of sorts is arranged along the street. A handful of sellers show their merchandise.
In the center, the public minivans are parked by the town square, no longer home to the guillotine erected during the French Revolution. The Church of the Assumption rises with its stone face just to the north.
You enter a bread bakery and order a handful of rolls for the evening, pick up some groceries—such as some requisite hot sauce—at the nearby grocery store, and squeeze your way into the back of the public minivan that will bring you east. Then, it’s a matter of waiting for the van to fill, at which point it rattles awake and starts its journey forward.
…
You’re back in Soufriere, having just hopped out of the public minivan, and walking west. Another formidable hill challenges you. The sand causes your feet to slide and you journey upwards. The occasional car, heading up or down, sends you to the non-existent shoulder, allowing you a fine excuse for a rest.
The road curves around a bend, offering an overlook of the town you just left behind. The blue sea stretches out to the horizon. The Pitons rise into the clouds.
One foot after another finds you finally on the downslope and not before long, you are walking into the Anse Chastanet resort, known for its superior snorkeling accessible just off shore. Upon entering the beach area, you turn right towards some lounge chairs. Finding a perfect spot, you drop your belongings only to be denied the chair without some egregious fee.
You pick up your belongings, head back the other way and set up under a large palm tree. The beach is nowhere as nice as the one at Sugar Beach, but is entertaining the snorkeling and diving fans. Various boats pull in and anchor, causing you to move locations several times.
…
Back in Soufriere, you are walking along the street that runs parallel to the water, declining the occasional sales pitches being called out to you. A touristy restaurant stares you down, straight ahead. It doesn’t have the right look or feel. You turn back, noticing a brightly coloured hallway with a small sign for a restaurant hanging from the ceiling.
Climbing the stairs, you find yourself in an airy restaurant of moderate size. A friendly woman greets you and seats you. The place is empty, perhaps due to it being mid-afternoon. You order a fish roti and a refreshing freshly squeezed passion fruit juice.
The sea breeze blows in from the open windows as your empty plate is collected by the waitress. You take some minutes to absorb the waterfront activity from your second floor perch.
…
The ride home, which in the past days has been relatively traffic free, hits a snag. You soon realize there is a funeral going on. The number of guests is profound. Car after car, person after person lined up in their respective places; the receiving line stretches endlessly.
Perhaps the person was famous or well-regarded, or perhaps it is just a normal outpouring of support which is typical for a close knit town on this pleasant island.
As the bus rolls along, you wonder how the deceased died, what the life story was and how it will impact people going forward.
“Stopping,” you announce and the bus lurches to a halt. “Thank you,” you call out to the driver as the van pulls away, leaving the warm late-afternoon sun and air behind.
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