Off-Season Specialists

Valli watering our pet crocodile

From time to time someone will inevitably ask me "For god's sake, how the hell does a peasant like you get to stay in these amazing places".  I have one hyphenated word for them....or is it two words?..... Off-season.  This is the magic word (or words).  You basically have to be prepared to go to places when nobody else wants to be there.  That's how we are currently able to stay well beyond our means  in a holiday house belonging to a wealthy Englishman.  Nobody wants to be in the Caribbean in the summer.  It's bloody boiling.  All the house owners are drinking champagne and shagging young french girls on the beaches of St Tropez, or drinking jugs of Pims and having quickies with their tennis partner's daughter in The Hamptons.  They have no interest in their winter toys.  But, and here's the opportunity, they don't like their places to stand empty for all those months.  Empty places get musty and robbed.  That's where we kindly step in and do them the favour of caretaking.....naturally at a cost.  But at a cost far, far less than they charge in peak season.  What can I say?  I'll put up with the sweating if I get to do it from some loaded dude's infinity pool.

Pretty as a postcard

Every morning I wake up, I just can't get over our good fortune.  But it's not just the house.  It's the place.  We discovered it by accident when our babysitter in New York once told us she was from the neighbouring island.  This island, Bequia, is what the Caribbean used to be like 50 years ago before American big business slapped resorts all over the place and McDonald's set up shop.  Not here.  Bequia doesn't have a single hotel. And the closest thing they have to fast food is fried breadfruit.

Everything looks good from the air

Princess Margaret Beach (apparently she took a dip here)

The beaches are completely undeveloped.  You buy your fruit and vegetables from stands by the side of the road, and your dry goods in 1 pound plastic bags from one of the only three shops in town.  They only got electricity here in 1970, and paved roads a few years after that.

Main street of town

Reggae blasts out from every car.  While at the Rastafarian fruit market, sweet mary jane is the main produce exchanging hands.

Is that a beard dread?

On Sunday mornings the sound of gospel singing echos up from the valleys, and all the passerbys put on their Sunday best (complete with hats) as they walk to church.  In this respect, it's a total trip to the past.  Not to mention the manners.  When I go for my morning walk, I'm  waving to all cars and "Good Morning"ing my fellow strollers left right and centre.  Conservatism too is at it's best here.  Forget suntanning your boobs at the beach, even babies running nude are frowned upon.  I also think the housekeeper is shocked Mark and I aren't married....yet.  Whatever Cathy....forget your sense of propriety, where was your gratitude for that fricken glass dolphin I lugged all the way here from Bangkok for you?  Last year she finally asked me with despair exactly what religion I was.  When I explained our situation - Jewish father, unbaptised mother with no particular religious affiliation and two unbaptised babies she didn't come back for a few days.  I'm surprised she hasn't tried to bring us into the fold.  I'm a little disappointed.  I can see myself singing "hallelujah" and "praise the lord" in a purple robe.  It'd be a bit hot though.  And I'm tone deaf.

Hallelujah ladies

The island itself is only 18 km square.  The locals are from a mix of African, Scottish and Indigenous Carib descent.  In the old days, pirates were known to use Bequia as their base.  I always dream of unearthing some long buried pirate treasure, but keep forgetting to bring one of those metal detectors.  Although whenever you spot one of those cheap bastards going through the sand you always think "What a scumbag".  I'm not sure I'm ready to become that guy just yet.

John and his conch shell

Momissa and little Israel

Here, we have no friends, no family, no responsibilities, no restaurants, no cafes, no trashy mags(!), no cinemas, no shops, not much variety in the food available.  But it's just the way we like it.  We give up alcohol and our usual 3 coffees a day.  I stop eating two blocks of chocolate in bed, and drink litres more water than usual.  We eat much more fruit and vegetables, and buy it all from a happy black woman called Darky (I felt uncomfortable addressing her at first), a Rasta called Sunshine, and from a shy dude called Cali and his sister Matilda.  Yesterday I mistook Matilda as Cali's mother.  It possibly caused offence.  Perhaps now she'll stop cooking us breadfruit like she did last year.  That shit is not good.

Breadfruit - eugh!

Spicy N  Herby ..... Breadfruit

This place is like a treasured reprieve from what is sometimes a hectic schedule and a busy life.  We look forward to it, as the perfect time to get healthy, play with our children and relax.     At least this year we're not training for a marathon.  That was probably the least relaxing activity we have ever indulged in......Instead we'll just go down to old Pam and Tony's for some good old Caribbean eats....in other words, breadfruit.  Ah gawd, where's Starfucks when you need it?