Vendredi 11.05.07 Loose in St. Lucia
Passport. Check. Tickets. Check. Drivers Licence. Check. EC$Dollars or Travellers Cheques. Nicola. Check mate. Picture of freaky Martiniquan guy? I reckon I can strike that off my list. It wouldn’t be a freaky Friday without having a Martiniquan chat you up on the bus and give you a passport picture of himself with his address on the back. He distracts me and I get off the bus closer to town than to the port but I’ve plenty of time as the queue is going nowhere fast.
The barnyard chaos of the port has already started long before we arrive. Nic and I register ourselves as Irish chicks as the beefy Caribbean heifers and bullish, horny lads push and shove their way along the queue with their bags and boxes brimming with fodder for the weekend. The boat is just as packed and we’re sandwiched between an old Martiniquan couple and a younger French duo. Fran and Bex are also on the boat but the ocean motion and complaints from some die-hard film fans to move my head drive me back to my seat.
The queuing and bickering continues at the immigration check. We wait for almost an hour in the scorching sun until we’re herded into the barn once again. When we eventually get to the desk the guard has to consult his colleagues as he’s unsure whether we need a visa or not even after we’ve pointed out the gold embossed European Union lettering on our passports and told him that Ireland accessed to the EU with the U.K in 1973. Being able to speak English here is no great advantage it seems. Our Geography Flunky Friend returns and lets us through after showing us his Jazz Festival tickets. Give us one of them instead of a visa mate!
Stephen and Glenda are waiting for us at Castries in their snazzy brand-new 2.6L Hyundai Jeep. They haven’t been waiting too long for us due to the traffic. After picking up Donald and making a pit-stop at the mall and the police station we’re dropped off at our hotel in Gros Ilets. It’s actually a B&B. Tropical Breize. We’re only there five minutes when I find ants on my person. I think that’s it but in the bedroom they’re all over my bed. If my frantic swatting gestures don’t kill them the air-con should.
Stephen’s house is big enough to house my whole extended family; a friend of his rents it and he’s here for the week. Stephen did ask if we could stay but his friend was reluctant to let two wild Irish girls run riot around his mini-mansion. After the grand tour of the American-style diner kitchen, multiple sitting rooms, turret retreat and five terraces Nic and I lump ourselves in front of the modestly sized T.V with the mega bag of nachos and some beers. Wow! English language T.V. This house is enviable. We’re Irish so we can’t get much greener but this place would bring out the forty shades of green on anyone though it is missing is a pool which is a big hole in the plans. Stephen eventually shakes himself out of the power-shower and we’re off down the road to Castaways at Rodney Bay for mammoth size burger baskets, Piton Beer and over-attentive staff.
Passport. Check. Tickets. Check. Drivers Licence. Check. EC$Dollars or Travellers Cheques. Nicola. Check mate. Picture of freaky Martiniquan guy? I reckon I can strike that off my list. It wouldn’t be a freaky Friday without having a Martiniquan chat you up on the bus and give you a passport picture of himself with his address on the back. He distracts me and I get off the bus closer to town than to the port but I’ve plenty of time as the queue is going nowhere fast.
The barnyard chaos of the port has already started long before we arrive. Nic and I register ourselves as Irish chicks as the beefy Caribbean heifers and bullish, horny lads push and shove their way along the queue with their bags and boxes brimming with fodder for the weekend. The boat is just as packed and we’re sandwiched between an old Martiniquan couple and a younger French duo. Fran and Bex are also on the boat but the ocean motion and complaints from some die-hard film fans to move my head drive me back to my seat.
The queuing and bickering continues at the immigration check. We wait for almost an hour in the scorching sun until we’re herded into the barn once again. When we eventually get to the desk the guard has to consult his colleagues as he’s unsure whether we need a visa or not even after we’ve pointed out the gold embossed European Union lettering on our passports and told him that Ireland accessed to the EU with the U.K in 1973. Being able to speak English here is no great advantage it seems. Our Geography Flunky Friend returns and lets us through after showing us his Jazz Festival tickets. Give us one of them instead of a visa mate!
Stephen and Glenda are waiting for us at Castries in their snazzy brand-new 2.6L Hyundai Jeep. They haven’t been waiting too long for us due to the traffic. After picking up Donald and making a pit-stop at the mall and the police station we’re dropped off at our hotel in Gros Ilets. It’s actually a B&B. Tropical Breize. We’re only there five minutes when I find ants on my person. I think that’s it but in the bedroom they’re all over my bed. If my frantic swatting gestures don’t kill them the air-con should.
Stephen’s house is big enough to house my whole extended family; a friend of his rents it and he’s here for the week. Stephen did ask if we could stay but his friend was reluctant to let two wild Irish girls run riot around his mini-mansion. After the grand tour of the American-style diner kitchen, multiple sitting rooms, turret retreat and five terraces Nic and I lump ourselves in front of the modestly sized T.V with the mega bag of nachos and some beers. Wow! English language T.V. This house is enviable. We’re Irish so we can’t get much greener but this place would bring out the forty shades of green on anyone though it is missing is a pool which is a big hole in the plans. Stephen eventually shakes himself out of the power-shower and we’re off down the road to Castaways at Rodney Bay for mammoth size burger baskets, Piton Beer and over-attentive staff.
The St. Lucia Jazz Festival is in its 26th year. Last year Seal headlined. Other years have seen UB40, Earth, Wind & Fire and other big names on the main stand. John Legend is on tonight. He’s the only one I’ve heard of on this year’s programme but I’m sure I’ll get a crash course in Jazz appreciation over the weekend. The rain doesn’t take long making its way to St. Lucia. Everyone and everything is soaked but the celebrations keep going strong all night. Stephen isn’t keen on joining in on the late-night street celebrations so we leave him home before heading to the Jump Up. This weekly Friday night street party sees food, beer and local wares for sale on the streets of Gros Ilets. There’s live music and the brave are still usually partying until morning swings around. Nic and I are only there a minute when some American directs us to the cheapest beer stall. EC$3.50 for a bottle of Piton – that’s not even €1.20, and it’s damn good local beer. Damp steam rises as the crowds dance, eat and drink the night away. Local kids weave in and out among the revellers selling plantain crisps and popcorn. We’ve had our evening fun but our warm, dry bed seems like a better option tonight so it’s back to the B&B for some zzzzs.
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