for years. Although to be fair it’s not a truly tropical island really; no parrots and no wild
pigs, not even a snake; the mongooses have seen to that.
When I arrived in Barbados it was dark. It usually is by the time we arrive from England, so I couldn't see much. But going by the warmth, the smell, and the sound of Reggae music, I knew I where I was. My eyeballs felt like peppered red spiders, the capillaries popped by ten hours of sucking stale air on flights from Manchester, past Barbados, to Tobago, and then back to Bridgetown with other sweaty Brits. Why backwards? Cheap fuel is the answer to that conundrum of course.
I smiled at the customs agents queue as each bored uniformed young lady glumly studied each and every form before sticking them all in a stack to be forgotten. Of course we were near to the back of that seemingly never ending line as always. Move forward. Stop. Move forward. Stop. ‘Welcome back to Barbados.’ Our customs officer said with her bright red lipsticked smile. 'Good to be back.' I replied - and it was.
My taxi driver was waiting, a big relief as I’d booked him by email from Britain and his response to my email request was, ‘Yeah mon.’ He’d even spelt my name right on the card he was holding up. I just rolled my eyelids as we sped along the strangely named highways and through even stranger named roundabouts (Garfield Sobers, D'Arcy Scott, Errol Barrow - no, not the lead singer of Hot Chocolate) to beeps and flashes and barely missing a few drunk pedestrians. But a couple of heart attacks and fifty US dollars later he delivered us safely to out little bit of paradise.
I smiled at the customs agents queue as each bored uniformed young lady glumly studied each and every form before sticking them all in a stack to be forgotten. Of course we were near to the back of that seemingly never ending line as always. Move forward. Stop. Move forward. Stop. ‘Welcome back to Barbados.’ Our customs officer said with her bright red lipsticked smile. 'Good to be back.' I replied - and it was.
My taxi driver was waiting, a big relief as I’d booked him by email from Britain and his response to my email request was, ‘Yeah mon.’ He’d even spelt my name right on the card he was holding up. I just rolled my eyelids as we sped along the strangely named highways and through even stranger named roundabouts (Garfield Sobers, D'Arcy Scott, Errol Barrow - no, not the lead singer of Hot Chocolate) to beeps and flashes and barely missing a few drunk pedestrians. But a couple of heart attacks and fifty US dollars later he delivered us safely to out little bit of paradise.
“Bashy bim,” he said. Local slang for “cool Barbados,” and it was out there somewhere as I knew (did I mention I’ve been before), but for now I had to negotiate a dark path and steps with a couple of cases. Ah well, all would be well come the dawn which in my case (no pun intended) was a very dark not quite four o’clock in the morning.
And of course, it all was. Eventually.
I pulled back the curtains sat on the terrace and waited for the morning and the brilliant
early Caribbean light to stream in. There was jungle all around and, across the street,
a shanty town village with barking dogs, cows, goats, and the smell of bacon.
"Andrew gone Barbados, he watch monkeys.' I sang as I sipped my first rum of the day...
What next? I wondered.
And of course, it all was. Eventually.
I pulled back the curtains sat on the terrace and waited for the morning and the brilliant
early Caribbean light to stream in. There was jungle all around and, across the street,
a shanty town village with barking dogs, cows, goats, and the smell of bacon.
"Andrew gone Barbados, he watch monkeys.' I sang as I sipped my first rum of the day...
What next? I wondered.
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