Farewell Sweet Bequia

So there comes a time when all good things must come to an end, and that end is today.  Ten weeks on an incredibly beautiful tropical island in the East Caribbean Sea - how can things get better than that.  The thing is, I don't know if they can.  Things will be different, and I have no doubt that things will be great for many more weeks to come.  But seriously, this is the ultimate.  It's like this place isn't real.  Sort of like an imaginary world of perfection.  Bequia's motto is literally "Bequia Sweet Sweet Sweet"!.  And sweet it is too.
Anyway, I can really understand why some people come for a holiday, and end up building a stone cottage on the point.  Maybe we will too one day. But back to reality we go, and a good reality it is too.


Things I'm going to miss about Bequia

1.  The incredible natural environment
2.  Living half outside for 10 weeks
3. The beaches

4. Reggae on every radio station.....or Rihanna
5. Non chemically treated fruit and veggies at the Rasta markets

6. Picking bananas out of our garden and mangos off trees on the side of the road
7. The sunsets

8. Always being warm
9. Having so much time
10. All of us being so happy and healthy

11. Punching people's fists and saying "respect"
12.  Living in somebody else's dream house
13.  Looking at a postcard-like view all day everyday
14.  Feeding our pet tortoises

15. Saying hello to every person I pass, and waving to every car while on my morning walk
16. Feeling so so relaxed
17.  Drying my washing in 20 minutes
18. Fireflies in the garden at night
19. Eating soursops and sugar apples

20. Living my childhood dream of having a pool

Things I won't miss so much

1. Sweating all the time every day and all night
2. Being scorched by the sun
3. Searching my dry goods for weevils before cooking
4. All my clothes, shoes and bags going badly moldy in the humidity
5.  Sitting on a piece of whale vertebrae when I go for a drink at a local bar

6. Saying hello to every person I pass and waving to every car while on my morning walk
7. Eating so many bloody bananas
8.  Not being with friends and family
9.  Applying mosquito repellent and calamine lotion to the girls during every waking moment
10.Not being able to get my grey roots attended too (someone called me Grandma the other day)

Obviously the list of good things outweighs the bad, so we must conclude that Bequia is in fact, shit hot good.  As you can tell from this blog I'm being grossly sentimental, but Bequia deserves a bit of sentimentality.   I'm really going to miss this place.......Bye Beckers - see you next year xxxxxx

Up, Up and Away

Tobago Cays - yes please

Ridiculously lovely

Tobago Cays (pronounced  Tobago "Keys") would have to be one of the most stunning sights in the world (apart from me first thing in the morning on January 1st each year).  Basically, how could you get better than 5 uninhabited islands, with lush white beaches all surrounding a reef - perfect for diving and snorkeling?  Off one of the beaches is a large amount of sea grass, which attracts masses of giant Hawkbill turtles that you can swim with and some very large rays - which seemed reasonably friendly.  Maybe not if you're Steve Irwin.  Was it ever proven that his last word was "crikey" or was that an evil rumour?

We see beautiful sea creature - Caribbeans see soup and a few hair combs

What doesn't look good from the air?- well perhaps Chernobyl....

Naturally you have to get here by boat.  The closest port is union island - for us it took 2 and a half hours by old fashioned wooden sailing boat from Bequia.  How charming.  In fact, the site is so picturesque that it was used extensively during the filming of Pirates of The Caribbean.  Many areas around here were.  And quite rightly so, as after all, it is actually the Caribbean, and nothing more looks like the Caribbean than the Caribbean itself.


So, that morning we set off on the Friendship Rose.  Fruit, coffee and croissants were served as the boat pulled out of the harbour and rounded the south side of the island.  We spotted the "Moonhole" as we rounded another bend.  The New York Times in 2004 described Moonhole as such;

"It is a quirky 19-home ecologically oriented development built of native stone, with whalebone accents, on the steep hills of the island's southern tip. The name comes from a soaring natural arch on the shore through which the moon can be seen at times"

Whalebone accents huh?  Told you whale slaughter was on the menu around here.  These structures were build by a couple of hippies in the 60s (obviously that free love doesn't extend to our seabound mammal friends) and you can actually rent one to stay in - for a high price.  Call me Miss Picky - but if I'm shelling out mega bucks for accommodation I would at least like my dwelling to have walls.  If you're squatting - no issues, but when coughing up hundreds,  you actually may like to have running water on hand, and a light or two.  It does look impressive from the water though.  Which is where I'll keep my experience of the Moonholes.

The arch where the moonviewing goes down

As I said - walls just aren't a priority

Jabby - our saviour

Next we saw flying fish which was a first for me.  Those little bastards sure can move.  I was feeling quite enchanted with the whole experience.  Until reality settled in.  It started with being sick of the boat.   Look, and I'm sorry to those dear friends of mind that love a sail,  but I just don't get the whole boat thing.  They are great at first - but then, don't you just want to arrive somewhere???  The whole time you're on board you're just looking for land.  And when you finally spot it, it takes ages to actually get there.  By the time you step foot on the jetty, you're like "Thank FUCK for that".  Then the reality that you have to go all the way back starts to eat away at the initial relief.  Deserted islands are great sounding - but they are in fact deserted.  You can't sit under an umbrella and have a cocktail served by someone called "Sunshine" with Bob Marley floating out over the humidity.  When ourselves, and our fellow passengers got rowed over to one of the white sand beaches, the race was on to find shade.  I ended up fighting over a twig's shadow with a overweight pasty Russian.  So of course we got sunburnt.  All of that snorkeling and staring at turtles turned it into the 3rd degree kind.  We also got caught in a rip over the reef, and had to be rescued along with a 70 year old.

So pretty - but this shot excludes the group brawl over the shade under that tree

All I wanted to do was to be teleported home, preferably with a fist full of aloe vera.  As we got rowed back to the boat, and hung around on there watching an annoying group of Americans get plastered on beer, I wondered why I constantly insist on suggesting we take a tour somewhere.  They always sound so, so much better than the actual experience.  Am I alone in thinking this?  Other tourists are irritating, the heat is suffocating, the food uninspirational.  Plus, I'm so totally over hearing about what Johnny Depp got up to during filming. "That's where Johnny Depp stayed"  "I once gave Johnny Depp a ride to the airport"  "Johnny had a pina colada and a club sandwich at this bar" "Johnny Depp waved to my cousin's friend's mother"  "Johnny Depp did a shit in this toilet".  It gets a little much.  I get it alright - Pirates of The Caribbean  was 'ere, and you may have had some Johnny Depp-ish experience.  Move on people.

This island's catch cry is "Resort of Johnny Depp"

This is where the cousin's friend's mother waving allegedly took place

Hold back that chunder handsome

Unfortunately, there's another factor involved in travelling by boat.  It's called sea sickness, and it is a horrendous experience.  My beloved gets sea sickness so badly, that just sitting on a surfboard makes his gut churn.  Once he went for a kayak/snorkel trip, and his friend ended up paddling them both back to shore, while the poor green Chalky lay helpless in the bottom.  Although I have been known to have a heave overboard on occasion, I seem to be more of a plane sickness type of person.  Did you know that those paper vomit bags are surprisingly sturdy?  A memorable incident, was when I had an attack of the spews just as my plane landed. I was sitting in the very front seat, and every other passenger had to walk past a chundering me to get off.  Of course they all looked - who can't resist a stare in such a circumstance.  As I finally dragged myself to my feet the pilot kindly said "Is there anything I can do to help you Miss?"  I handed him my vomit bag and stumbled off the plane.  It will probably be the last time he ever voices concern for a puker.

So lately I've been pondering another island trip, but luckily I have also managed to talk myself out of it so far.    I know it seems lazy, but honestly home is so so much better.  It's cool, there's a pool, a fridge, snacks, a bed, banana lounges, drinks with ice.  And more to the point no annoying companions - (apart from the kids).  I now understand why my mother says she would rather watch overseas destinations on TV than actually go there.  While it's true that reality often exceeds expectations and you mostly remember the good times, you have to face the fact that you will often be hot, tired, frustrated, hungry, irritated, broke, unsatisfied and sick.  But isn't that all part of the fun????  Maybe it was when I was 20 - but my current attitude reflects an awareness of my age that I typically try to deny and suppress on an everyday basis.  Now are the times when I will often ask myself "What would Johnny Depp do?"  It seems obvious doesn't it? Especially with my now intimate knowledge of his Caribbean daily schedule. A cocktail. A sandwich.  And a poo.

The Fatty and The Hag

"There are two types of women in the world - those who like chocolate, and complete bitches"
Dawn French.

Something that's popped up on Facebook a couple of times now, which also happens to be something that pisses me off (for a change) is the above post, which shows the photographs of Gillian McKeith and Nigella Lawson, and the accompanying dialogue.   I'm sure you've all seen it before - but basically the gist is - Nigella is a hot sexy piece because she consumes meat, wine and fattening desserts, while Gillian is an repugnant dog because she advocates a mostly vegan lifestyle.  There are so many things wrong with this on so many different levels.  I could go off on a feminist tangent abut how disgraceful it is that women are once again judged solely on their looks as opposed to their deeds  - but I won't of course, because I'm not an ugly butch leso with unwaxed facial hair.

Let me instead stick to the obvious issues that this (non) representation of the "healthy" lifestyle vs.  the "fuck it - lets bathe in lard" approach brings up.  Firstly, lets tackle to all too apparent differing circumstances that these two photographs are taken in.  The one of Nigella is apparently taken 4 years ago, and lighting is doing her a lot of favours.  Also, she's in an evening gown with her tits taped up, and let's face it - there has been a hell of a lot of injectables shoved into that face.

Oh dear

The one of Gillian instead, is the worst possible photo that could be taken of anyone (except the one next to this text block).  It was taken while Gillian was a contestant in "I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here".  In the image above, she's just crawled out her mosquito infested tent in the jungle, hasn't showered for a week and has just faced the challenge of eating a tarantula for breakfast.  There is no way anyone could not look like a wretched hag under these circumstances.  If the focus of this argument is in fact looks, then perhaps a photo should be posted of the two ladies in their bathers for a second look and analysis.....

You really shouldn't do this - oh, and go easy on the eyeshadow next time Gilly

Not Nigella's finest hour - at least we know why she has great skin - hint- it's not from butter

It's not that I particularly like either woman.  Nigella is often described as "delightful" and "charming".   don't find her so.  Besides, I don't see what's so delightful about watching a grown woman give a blow job to a wooden spoon full of cake batter.  Many people argue that her meals are devoid of processed food, and that she makes everything from scratch.  It's a pity that a large percentage of these meals use such natural ingredients as double cream, piles of sugar, and blocks of chocolate.  Forget how she looks on the outside - how are those arteries love?  Plus, she also suggests giving piles of refined sugar to children in some of her "child friendly" snacks.

Oooh yeah baby

Scrubbing up a little better

I've also watched Gillian McKeith's show "You Are What You Eat".  It's one of those shows that takes an overweight unhealthy Brit,  and lays all the food they have consumed in a week out on a table.  That bit's my favourite, and is seriously revolting.  Perhaps not my favourite bit is when she makes them do a poo, and examines it, then proceeds to tell them how disgusting it is.  It's poo Gillian - it's meant to be obscene.  Considering that the woman refers to herself as a doctor (and isn't) obviously means she is a bullshitter.  Although she also refers to herself as "The Queen of Greens" and "The Nutritional Nazi".  Fair enough - she also has delusions of grandeur and is anti Semitic.

No Spanx can hold that in

How can anybody argue with the notion that eating a shitload of fruit, vegetables and healthy grains is good for you.  It seems stupid to me.  I know from personal experience that when I eat like Nigella, I do not, and never will look like Nigella - except from behind.  Plus I feel like shit.  Whereas, when I pump up the health factor, and consume largely a plant based diet, I feel bloody amazing, and look a lot better as well.  Nigella is obviously blessed with great genes, as she is, of course, beautiful.  I would further suggest that Nigella looks gorgeous in spite of what she consumes, not because of it.  However, it is very interesting that she has recently lost a shitload of weight by abandoning her former "guilt-free" eating of midnight snacks, consisting of scones dripping in double cream and golden syrup (yum by the way), in favour of a Gillian McKeith style of eating.  Nigella originally tried to blame the weight-loss on bunion surgery - which I don't get -what they cut a bit of her bum cheeks off at the same time or something?....But she has now come clean about eating clean.      http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2065733/Nigella-Lawson-weight-loss-secret-revealed-James-Duigan-Bodyism-Clean-Lean-plan.html

Shunning bacon pie

Oh jesus - this is worse than the ice cream licking

Diets, bodies, lifestyle choices - obviously this kind of topic can not be adequately addressed in this meagre rant.  I have my own opinions and you can all have yours.  All I know is that I want to live a life where I eat the healthiest food I can, and give myself good nutrition whenever possible.  I also thinks it's fine to indulge in treats sometimes, but I want to do so without having a guilt break-down over my thighs.  I want to enjoy life, good health and fitness and try to ensure that my own daughters don't grow up as screwed up over weight and food like myself, and the majority of women out there.  This is why that post on Facebook pisses me off.  It is like saying - who gives a fuck about health and well being?  Eat everything you want and you may in time - providing your desserts have enough heart attack inducing butter in them - become as attractive as the woman pictured here.  What a load of shit.  I might go and suppress my irritation with a carrot........cake.  Or how about a caramel ice cream sundae with fudge sauce?  If it's good enough for Nigella....

Nigella whips up a healthy brunch for the kids

Sport Sport Fucking Sport"

Weird and Creepy - what's with the giant evil baby's body anyway?

I must confess, I wasn't exactly counting down to the Olympics.  But now they're here I've become an Olympic Addict.  I freely admit it.  I tuned in with excitement for the opening ceremony.  It certainly was "spectacular", I'm just not sure if I liked it.  Kenneth Branagh with bushy sideburns and a top hat, talking ye olde English shit?  Please.  And what was with that hospital bit?  That creepy giant baby?  I'm with dlisted.com - that was plain wrong.  This site also brought up another good point.  In that boy/girl hook up with texts segment - how did the boy text the girl to tell her he had her phone, when he had her phone????......it just wasn't covered satisfactorily.

shut your pie hole Kenny

Today I watched a whole hour and a half of men's gymnastics.  I didn't even care that there were no Australians in it.  Before that it was another hour or so of men's synchronised diving.  What the.....?  I didn't even know that was a sport.  Well in the Caribbean they do -  it's all over the one and only Caribbean channel that telecasts the games.  I spotted a small group of people watching more synchronised diving in a beach bar a couple of days ago as well.  No Aussie's in today's event of course, it means you're forced to go for the Mexicans....they came second - "Go Mehico".  I only go for them so I can say "Mehico".

Seriously - who knew this was a sport?

Whenever I'm outside Australia I do find myself often becoming overly patriotic.  For god's sake I used to wear an Australian flag bikini out and about (I'm going red just thinking about it).  But I'm not alone.  Just look at the Australians draped in flags standing on at hill in Turkey at 5am shouting "Oi Oi Oi", when ANZAC Day to them previously meant unrestrained biscuit eating and the day off work.  I myself, patriotically shed a little tear when the woman's relay team "brought the gold home" with their "stunning victory".  I'd never even spared a single thought for any of those women previously, but now I'm bawling over them, and honestly believe I share their joy.

Ah girls, you melt the heart

Australians are a fickle lot.  Let the home crowd down in any way, and immediately your name is dirt.  It has to be gold all the way - Emily Seebohm is going to get no love for the crappy bit of silver she got after losing Australia's her gold.  Liesel Jones becomes another chubby loser, and Stephanie Rice is of course the slutty bigot we always knew she was.  Meanwhile Nick D'Arcy lost hope of redeeming himself to golden boy status, and is just another thug.  And a loser.  Don't forget loser.  However if it had gone the other way for any of the poor, once loved bastards, it would have been "Our" Emily and "good old D'Arcy - he's such a loveable rogue".  All would have been forgiven, Nick would have been able to job Robert De Castella, Liesel would have got sponsorship from Tim Tams, while "fun loving Steph" would have been able to flash her snatch to her hearts content.

All the disbelief in the world isn't gunna get you the gold bitch

Now if I could just find my last white Tim Tam

So you look hot? It's no gold medal love

D'Arcy and Monk - doing it for the kids 

There's also another Olympic effect.  I may be alone here but after seeing all those unbelievable bodies parading around in their speedos and tight pants, I'm always like "Right! I am putting on my gear and getting out on that god dam road for a run dam it".  It's never successful.  I've caught sight of myself jogging before and it's not pretty.  Shoulders hunched, shuffling feet, strangely high swinging arms, a sticking out chin and a puce red complexion.  I've avoided exercise of late.  Forget all the other factors like laziness and a preference to eating cake, I've been scarred.  Last year, Chalks and I did 3 months of training in this sticky, humid, hilly place and then ran a marathon in Switzerland 2 weeks after we left.  It wasn't my first one either - so you think I would have learnt from the first 42km run I did in Tokyo in 2008.  That one left me unable to walk for three days.  Couldn't bend my legs - they were stuck straight.  It was actually humorous......

Cordi by a hair.......

After my first marathon experience, I became pregnant soon after.  Ending up a rather large unit I told myself that one day I would run another one. It's ok to deceive yourself when you're very fat.   My own father thought this was a great joke and declared that it would never happen - "the first one was a fluke" he would taunt - I was dreaming in his humble opinion.   That was all the motivation I needed.  I decided then and there that I would run another one.....eventually....after I finished my family pack of M&Ms.  Anyway, two years later (I had a lot of chocolate to get through first), when I hobbled across that finish line in Lausanne, I looked forward to calling him and saying "Hahaha".  When I think about it, I do find it a little strange and a unusual aspect of my character, that I would put myself through months of hellish training in 35 degrees and 90% humidity, running up to 90 kilometres a week, and then fly to Switzerland where I proceeded to drag my punished body 42km around a lake, every fibre of my being begging me to stop, just so I could say to my Dad "I told you so".  Hmmmm could be one for the therapist's couch.

The medal is gold bitches - gold!

But of course I wouldn't do it unless I got some other kind of pay off.  There is something satisfying in completing a task so daunting and unimaginable to yourself just a short time beforehand.  I literally ran so much before the marathon that I wore my heels down and deflated the air right out of my Nike Airs.  Unable to buy a new pair until we left the Caribbean, I created a new style of Nike.  Nike Papers.  This is where I stuffed the soles with newspaper and glue.  Not really imagining they will take off, but I guess it's all in the marketing.....

It's only natural that seeing incredible feats of sporting achievement everyday would make me reminisce about my former sporting "Glory" and I do use that word very very loosely.  I am way off even considering running another one.  There's too much dedication involved.  I'm much more dedicated to watching sport on TV at the moment.  You experience all the challenges, the highs, the lows, the desperation, the triumph - all without cracking a sweat....Go Aussie, and do I dare bring the bogan?....well it is the Olympics, surely that is classifies as a special occassion......here I go....forgive me.......OI OI OI!!!!!!!!  (I'm so sorry everyone, I've never done that before.......fuck, I may as well put LOL on the end to top it off)........

Never smile at a crocodile

It can’t be denied.  I’ve been a bit slack of late on the old blog writing.  To be honest, there just isn’t that much going on around here.  What do I write? – Yeah I ate another mango, took another swim.  Who wants to hear that crap?  Certainly not the majority of my audience who are for the most part sitting around in jumpers experiencing a daily high of ten degrees.  Now, they definitely don't want to hear that I spent another day in my bikinis.  It’s nauseating and offensive.

Therefore, I’ve decided to dive into the archives and throw a few stories of old out there.  The other good news is that these stories are already written, have accompanying photos, and have been sitting in the files of my old computer for the last four years.  A computer that my trusty buddy dug around in boxes of my crap looking for that I’d left in her cupboard since 2006.  That means less work for me, and more bullshit for all you.  A good result?  Well I’m sure you’ll let me know in time.

Our first tale is a little number I call “Teasing Crocodiles”.  It was written in May 2008 when I spent a month in Costa Rica.  Actually there’s a lot I wrote about that natural Disneyland of a country – so just let me know if you tire of it.  Otherwise it’ll just keep on coming…….

Teasing Crocodiles

I can’t help but think that crocodiles are the kinds of animals that shouldn't ever be teased.  Let’s face it; it’s not like tugging gently on a ball of string, as your fluffy little ginger kitten paws it cutely with that sweet, if not slightly half-crazed look in its eye.  After all, it's a universally accepted fact that crocodiles can eat people, and sometimes do.  Kitties only do the same if they’re trapped starving in a house with their already dead owner and there’s nothing else to snack on except a dead rotting face.  Kittens never do the killing themselves.  Or so we're led to believe.

murderous little ranger

That’s the difference between kittens and crocodiles, well among many such as size, colour, number of teeth, lack of fluff,  and then there's the reptile factor. It’s a well known fact that at least a couple of times a year a German backpacker is devoured like a hot piece of schnitzel.  Most Aussies’s then comment on the victim’s stupidity for deciding that a morning dip in a Kakadu lake was just the thing to wake up with (how about the flesh being torn from your arse to do the job Helga?  - you should have just gone a warm cup of international roast with powdered milk…..).  We do actually feel sorry for Han’s and his error in deciding to take a closer look at six metre beauty from his cheap flimsy kayak, but mostly we thank our lucky stars it wasn’t us being made into a continental breakfast and go onto the next story about the world’s biggest squash being grown in Shepparton.

hello handbags

However, along with the terror comes the fascination.  One day, while driving from the small town of Atenas located in the mountains of Costa Rica west of San Jose, I noticed we were approaching a tourist hot spot.  According to a well-known travel guide, it was the bridge at Tarcoles - whatever that shit means.  I had forgotten about it until I saw the people looking over the sides.  “It’s the crocodile bridge – stop stop!!!” I shouted.  We stopped. I got out into the heat and expectantly peered over the rail of the bridge. I definitely wasn’t prepared for the several 4 metre long salt-water crocodiles basking in the shallows.  Nor was I expecting to see one, two, three, four more submerged beasties.  Their armoured backs were caked with dried mud as they floated there like giant murderous logs. Looking out over the other side of the bridge, we saw four more crocs soaking up the rays on the shore, and a few smaller ones lurking in the mud.  In total we counted seventeen – and they were just the ones we could see.

It’s hard not to let the imagination run wild, and imagine leaning just a little bit too far over the edge and then toppling down into a mass of snapping jaws, with lots of blood and screaming. Or it’s actually less scary and more thrilling if you imagine it happening to the American tourist next to you.  She was wearing Crocs.  How appropriate.  And basically, with that kind of fashion choice she deserves to have her limbs torn off her body and her torso stashed under a log for seconds.  I too, always plan my outfit according to what giant predator I intend to be maimed by.  Imagining immediate karma from my grisly and strangely satisfying vision (I really hate Crocs), I kept a firm grip on the rails with one hand, and on my purse with the other. A loss of all life’s essentials could almost be just as bad as the actual limb tearing.

die you purple croc wearing freak. Die!

Deep in thoughts of death, maiming, splurting blood and screaming – basically just like any other day - I then noticed a couple of guys approaching the bridge and laughing wickedly.  They were tying a chicken to a string.  This was one of the supermarket bought chicken you’d turn into a sumptuous meal, not a little squawking feathered chicken. We followed the three Costa Rican lads (or ticos) back to the middle of the bridge.  There was quite a crowd out there now – after seeing the chicken on a string they had decided to stay for the show.  We all watched intently as one of the ticos lowered the chicken ever so slowly down, down and closer to the three or four crocs below.  It was spotted on the descent by couple of the larger ones who slid towards centre position and eyed it off.  However, it was the biggest croc in the river that positioned himself directly underneath. One of the smaller ones, however, wasn’t letting it go so easily and mounted the chief’s back, snapping wildly at the chicken. He managed to grab part of it in his jaws, but the ticos pulled most of the chicken back up quickly, as four crocs thrashed around in the water below.

The watching crowd gasped with expectation.  After all it’s not everyday that you have fun with a roasting chicken.  Then, when all was calm in the river, the chicken was let back down.  However, there was no mucking around this time. The biggest croc didn’t let the chicken out of his sight.  He had his eye on the prize and with a huge propelled jump and a snap the chicken game was over.  As he swam off fast and hard with the chicken and string in his mouth, suddenly there was a crack and the string flicked back up with extreme force hitting one of the ticos in the face.

Everyone applauded (apart from the dude with the welt on his cheek), and suddenly the spell was over as people wandered back to their cars.  I felt a rush of exhilaration mixed with guilt for enjoying the show so much.  There’s something uncomfortable about witnessing the teasing of crocodiles.  Deriving pleasure from watching ancient reptiles fight over a 2-dollar chicken is an uncomfortable realisation about what you yourself consider entertainment.  You become an unwilling witness to their loss of dignity.  Not that they’d give a shit though.  Especially Big Brucie who actually scored the chicken.  You know that with a snap and crunch any one of them would make an entrée out of you without hesitation, but seeing them vulnerable brings up unexpected reactions.  I had heard a couple of Americans mumble disgustedly, “that was sick” yet they watched the whole event with fascination and took a shitload of pictures to later show their friends back home. After that little show, the town of our destination, Jaco - supposedly rife with drugs and prostitution, seemed uneventful and tame.

That’s entertainment in a developing country for you.

Wild Wild East

Where as Mustique is a fake world of perfection, and Bequia is a clichéd example of paradise, the next closest island to us, St Vincent is quite something else.  It is wild and crazy, and has no rules.  Whenever any crime happens in here in Bequia, it is typically attributed to a St Vincien.  For example, this happened last year when some dickhead left our back door open (yes, me) and we got robbed in the night. 

give me back my ipad bitches

People who have had thieves in their house can relate to the feeling of violation.  It really sux.  I remember as a child we had several break-ins at my parents house.  One in particular stands out.  A large group of blundstone boot wearing dudes basically had a party at our place one night when we were all away.  The booze cupboards had been raided and demolished, they’d tried on our ski gear and had had sword fights with the skis.  There was piss on our walls and perhaps most disturbingly a large antique bottle that had contained red ink had been smashed, poured all over, and trodden across my parents beloved pale minty green carpet.  Jesus they were uptight about that carpet.  It was shoes off at all times and not a skerrick of tucker to be munched while standing on it’s plushy beautifulness.  So you can imagine when it was covered in red ink and blundstone boot footprints.  Although at least I could eat my vegemite on toast in front of the TV for a couple of weeks until it got replaced.

Our robbery wasn’t quite as violating.  True there was mess – stuff tipped out everywhere.  My brand new ipad of 3 weeks had been knocked off which could or could have not been karma (I was doing an incredible amount of boasting about it).  The theft of Chalky’s iphone with all business contacts in it was quite a blow…..to him.  As was several hundred bucks in cash.  But perhaps the worst for me – which we discovered much later, was the theft of two of my rings.  One was my engagement number and although sentimental, it was luckily just a temporary until I was able to get my greasy mitts on a real rock.  But another really special one ended up at some pawnshop somewhere, or perhaps melted down for a tooth filing. 

Really, we just breathed a sigh of relief that they didn’t decide to hold a knife to our throats and try for some bigger loot.  If we’d had to call the cops, or should I say cop, we would have been waiting a long time.  The robbers would have had enough time to not only murder us, but dissolve our bodies in lime to get rid of the evidence.  Bequia’s sole policeman wasn’t exactly in a hurry to come up here, and upon meeting him we immediately lost hope that anything would be recovered.  However, if you’ve got a baby goat that’s stuck in a ditch, he’s your man and I can give you his number.

all aboard

If you want to visit St Vincent from Bequia, you have to take a one hour ferry trip.  You can drive your car on board if you like.  A top idea – with the sun and the heat, the last thing you want to be doing is wandering around Kingstown until 5.30pm.  The main town itself is very third-worldish.  Fruit and veggie stands all over the sides of the road, mangy dogs, puddles of dirty water, rubbish, hecklers, and a hot hot sun.  Fun to be a part of……until I crack the shits because I’m too hot and want to go back to the air-conditioned car. 

not exactly loving it either

off to see a volcano

The nature itself is just like the people.  Wild and out of control.  The jungle is so lush, that it literally drips down the hills to the black sand beaches.  These beaches owe their dark hue to St Vincent’s active volcano La Soufriere.  Old Soufers hasn’t blown its lid since 1979, but when she does, she doesn’t muck around.  Thousands of people are killed in explosions that can last for 10 months, while many villages are evacuated.  But because of the volcano, St Vincent has an incredibly lush fertile soil.  All the fruits and vegetables sold around this region all come from St Vincent.  But, by far it’s biggest cash crop is every uni student’s and dole bludger’s favourite – good old green gold.  In fact the amount of pot coming out of St Vincent is so prolific that the prime minister of Barbados went absolutely mental at the St Vincent’s prime minister a few years back.  I think he wanted him to clean up his country’s act.  It didn’t work and the buds just keep on blooming.

Why would he shut it down?  It's the sole reason his country keeps afloat, and he, himself can buy a few stone mansions around the place.  Seriously, the country has no industry.  If you check it out, bananas are listed solely as the only exported commodity.  It really is the country of "make it up as you go along". It's a broken down, crappy dump, where nothing works or is ready within anywhere near the timeframe you need it by.  That's mainly because everybody's stoned.  What a brilliant place.

a tempting night out beckons

irresistible chickeny goodness

St Vincent has also just finished it’s major event of the year – Vincy Mas.  Carnival time in the Caribbean goes sick nuts, and the St Vincent’s celebrations are one of the sickest of all nuts.  It’s a ten day party of drinking, dancing , dress ups,  and tits and arse shaking.  My god, there has never been more bumping and grinding going on than by the ladies of Caribbean Carnivals.  They put rap artist videos to shame.   Then there are the Jab Jabs.  The spooky motor oil and molasses covered revellers of the night that come down out of the hills and dance the streets with the aim of terrifying the onlookers. I’d be definitely terrified.  Terrified I might get that bloody motor oil on my dress.  To cover people in that black sticky shit is their aim, so hugs and grabbing abounds……

OK then.....

piss off buddy

scarier than the jab jab

This year we missed Vincy Mas, but next year we are going all out.  I’ve already started building up my butt with fried chicken and breadfruit so I can strap on one of those sparkly numbers and shake it all night.  However, it just doesn’t work so well for white people though – and my embarrassing lack of rhythm puts a spanner in the works really as well.  I think I’d rather sit back and watch with a large joint of St Vincent's finest in my hand, fend off the Jab Jabs and search women's hands for my pink sapphire ring.  That failing, there's always Mount Coke......Vive Vincy Mas……