Home Sweet Bequia

As I've mentioned before, only an early flight can get me up at 5am.  And thus it was so.  The final double leg of a multi-day. multi-legged trip to where we are presently calling home.  St Vincent and The Grenadines.  And in particular, one of the Grenadine islands - Bequia (pronounced Beckway).  Where the hell is this? I hear most people (including myself) ask.  Well wonder no further, all will be revealed. But back to leaving the UK.  As I mentioned, we enjoyed our transit through Oxford - full of brain boxes, and cups of tea.  But it was time to board good old Vagine Atlantic straight to Barbados. I realise what I say next, may disturb and disgust, and forever seal my reputation as a giant snob.  But I'm going there, public image be dammed.

where were you when I needed you baby?

When you are fortunate enough to have enough frequent flyer points to move up a level in ye olde airplane cabin, sliding back down, as you inevitably must do, is always depressing.  That's the thing about travelling on occasion in business class, the experience forever ruins normal class.  We would never pay actual cash for it - we're not insane, it's a complete rip off - but to reap it's benefits for free is another story.  Sitting in economy class and anticipating the next 8 hours, I felt squashed and disillusioned.  There was no champagne while waiting for take off.  The flight attendants were dismissive when I asked for a foot massage ( - ok so I didn't, but Upper class Virgin used to offer manicures and massages - that's now been scrapped with the new cutbacks - it was good while it lasted).

The TV screens in the back of the seats looked so minute, the headphones so flimsy, the sound distorted.  The meals slapped down in plastic topped containers were so untasty - the vegetables so soggy and the packaged potato whip so packaged.  Where was the tablecloth? the selection of wine served in actual glasses? The boxes of chocolates? But by far the most disturbing was how dirty the seats were.  While searching for a figurine down the back of Cordi's seat, my hand got squishy yellow stuff on it.  But even worse was, when I was feeling under the seat behind me for some texta lids, and my hand closed over a giant ball of black hair.  It filled my hand and then I couldn't get it off.  I feel traumatised thinking about it.  What is it about other people's hair that is so revolting?  It's like a band aid floating in a swimming pool - inexplicably disgusting.

I'm not kidding - it was this big

Spin, for god's sake spin

When we arrived in Barbados the temperature was pumping.  We stepped off the flight into bright sunshine.  We were all blinded like little bats in the daylight.  Cord was screeching "my eyes, my eyes".  I instantly started sweating in my jeans and cardigan (England had been freezing....what are the odds?). We spent a few more hours in limbo awaiting our final and tiny plane to take off.  This is my most dreaded leg.  It's always the tiny planes that go down.  Nobody cares either.  If the death toll isn't over 150 it's lucky to make the evening news.  Eight measly bodies just aren't newsworthy.  I'm not sure about you, but I just never really feel comfortable in a propeller driven aircraft.  I need to see a few large engines to feel secure.  Flocks of birds bring down those bloody propellers - eg Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.  The pilots had one of those silver windshield covers you see in cars.  I was disturbed to see it remained on the entire flight - what if those navigation instruments malfunctioned? At least they weren't reading an instruction manual like our pilots in Costa Rica, who once flew us in an even tinier plane, deep into an peninsula unaccessible by road, i.e rescue vehicles.  There was a graveyard right at the end of the runway.  It was chilling.

Valli almost finished

Cordi's gone

Well, just for the record, our Caribbean pilots need to work on their landing technique.  As they came down fast on a tiny airstrip on the edge of the sea, we were bouncing around like a ping pong ball.  Everyone on board sucked in a large breath as we hit the tarmac on one wheel, tried to correct and almost catapulted off the edge into the water.  As the brakes came on, all eight of us started laughing nervously, which then led to a relieved interchange of smiles, when we all realised we'd live to see another (tequila) sunrise.  We cleared the tin shed of customs, and waited for our pick up the other side. One short, and again bumpy, drive home in the back of an open taxi truck and there we were.  And here we are.  For the next ten weeks.  On a tiny island in the East Caribbean Sea, off the north coast of Venezuela.

Instrument of death

Yes, it may have been a complete pain in the deep recesses of the arsehole to get here.  But when you wake up to a view like this, it's completely worth it.