Carriacou

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Tobago Cays

Canouan

Bequia

St. Lucia

Martinique

Friday, January 9, 2009, True Blue Marina, Grenada to Tyrell Bay, Carriacou, 12˚27.34N, 61˚29.23W . 

I think no matter how long you’ve been sailing, there will always be that initial rush of exhilaration when first setting out on a passage.  Soon enough, the hum-drum sets in, and for both of us, having been tied to a dock for over a month, the lumpy seas caused just a tad of queasiness.  It was not the most pleasant passage we’ve had, but certainly nothing like the Western Caribbean.  We did have a little excitement though.  Two hours into our sail the jib sheet parted, leaving the jib to flail wildly in the 24-knot wind. We had one continuous line: aft port, forward to jib, aft starboard.  If we’d had two separate sheets, we would have had a little control, but as it was, the clue (where the sheets attach) was too difficult to reach, even with a boat hook, to secure replacement sheets.  There was nothing to do but furl it, the end flapping annoyingly.  Without the jib, our speed slowed, putting us a little over eight hours for the passage.

We arrived in Tyrell Bay with plenty of light to pick our way around the reefs, find a slot between other moored and anchored boats, and settle in.  Before we’d even finished anchoring, the first of the “boat boys” was waiting for us; it was a young couple passing out flyers for a restaurant.  The next to come up was also advertising a restaurant, followed by a guy selling limes, a guy selling oysters, a guy selling lobsters and wine (he only had one brand, from Chile, one red and one white, which we purchased to try).  Carriacou is a small - only 13 miles square - laid-back island, its inhabitants subsisting mostly on fishing and tourism.  Since there’s not that much tourism, I suspect we cruisers are prime targets.  Most produce and all goods are brought in from Grenada via ferry, which usually makes two runs a day during the week.

Strains of steel pan music drifted out to us, but other than that, the tiny village at the head of the bay was quiet. 

Saturday, January 10, 2009, Tyrell Bay, Carriacou,  12˚27.34N, 61˚29.23W . 

We were both zonked from the passage yesterday, and slept pretty soundly.  There were about eight other boats making the passage form Grenada to here yesterday, and most of them had already left in this morning.  We set up the little 2-horsepower outboard that Jeff had purchased form another cruiser, fastened it to the dink and made a slow tour of the bay.  The motor coughed, sputtered, and cut out every time Jeff put power on; (now we know why the guy got rid of it.)  We putted around like old folks on a Sunday outing.

On the northern side of the bay is a peaceful, mangrove-lined swamp where oysters can be found.  There were a few long-term boats moored here, lines run ashore, and a couple derelict wrecks which appeared t o have been commercial fishing vessels at one time.  The head of the bay has a nice concrete pier where the ferry lands, and a long, white sand, tree-lined beach.  The village is strung out along this beach-front road: a laundry, dive shop, rum shop, several restaurants, a couple mini marts.  On the southern side are another dive shop, a pizzeria, and the Carriacou Yacht Club and marine yard.  Though the tree-shaded beach is nice, the village itself lacks all charm and interest, and isn’t funky enough to be even remotely fun.

We motored up to a boat by the name of Receta, to talk with cruisers Ann and Steve; we’d heard they’d been down here awhile and sure enough, they filled us in on where to dump trash, how to get wifi (make a donation to the Carriacou children’s fund at the yacht club in exchange for the password), hiking trails, good places to eat.  Being the weekend, most shops in town would be closed, so there was no point to going in; we were content to hang.

Sunday, January 11, 2009, Tyrell Bay, Carriacou,  12˚27.34N, 61˚29.23W . 

Receta had told us there’s a trail that goes to the top of the peak overlooking Tyrell Bay; we thought we’d give it a try.  We weren’t into our walk very long when we ran out of trail.   We picked our way through grassy patches and cool forested areas, following what we thought might be an overgrown trail, but when we came to a clearing with a large cow standing in the shade of the trees, we realized it was probably just cattle tracks.  We never did find our way to the top, but enjoyed the views of the village and bay none-the-less.

Carriacou is similar to Grenada in that it’s almost all hills, but the heights are shorter, the slopes more gentle, the vegetation less dense.  There are patches of long grass, and when the wind blows through, it ruffles the tops of the grass in waves, looking like a silvery sea.  Most of the homes we passed had rambling yards with goats, sheep, chickens, some cattle here and there, skinny dogs.  Though the atmosphere is laid back, I was surprised that the people didn’t seem all that friendly

When we strolled the beach road up and back calling greetings to everyone we passed, only half smiled and responded.

Monday, January 12, 2009, Tyrell Bay, Carriacou,  12˚27.34N, 61˚29.23W . 

Carriacou has maxi taxi busses just like in Grenada, but we opted for more exercise and a long walk into the island’s main town of Hillsborough. Our route took us through L’Esterre Bay and lovely Paradise Beach, where there were a number of beach front eateries, and a cute, brightly-painted souvenir shop inside a converted metal storage container, the kind they load on big ships and freight trains.  Inside, you would never know you were in a storage container; the floors were wood, walls refinished, nicely painted shelves and counters, and expensive souvenirs.  Though an uphill climb, the road to a round-about called Six Roads (yes, six roads actually intersect there) was pleasant, taking us by pastures and under lovely forest areas, trees arching over the road in canopy fashion.

Downhill into Hillsborough, we passed the main cemetery, much of it overgrown with vines and trees, the land reclaiming its territory.  Hillsborough itself is only a few blocks wide but long, most of the businesses stretched along the main road running parallel with the shore of Hillsborough Bay.  Callaloo, The restaurant we were planning to eat lunch at, was closed.  A passerby noticed me reading the notice posted on the door, and said it had been closed over a year, but she recommended a small café down the road.  If she hadn’t told us about it, we never would have known they served food because the front is only a narrow stand for juice drinks and ice cream; you sidle through it to the back, which opens onto a few tables set up on a covered deck overlooking the bay.  With an extremely limited menu, we opted for the day’s lunch special, boneless chicken roti.  This one was MUCH better than the one I’d tried in Grenada; it was mostly potato with tender chunks of chicken, and the dough wrapper was cooked more; quite tasty.  I asked how it’s made, and the tiny Eastern Indian woman in the kitchen came out to our table to explain: you cook your onions and potatoes in a sauce, make the dough, cook the chicken and take the meat off the bones, mix all the ingredients up, roll out the dough, place the ingredients in the center, wrap it up, and cook on a griddle, turning it frequently.  There you have it, just like that!  My guess is that each one of those steps has secret, old family recipes, which make one roti so much better than another.

After lunch we stopped in the tourism office to pick up a Carriacou map and brochure, then walked to the Carriacou Museum, housed in a restored cotton gin mill, though it’s just the walls – there’s no longer any machinery, only two small rooms.  The most interesting display was of a local artist by the name of Canute Calliste.  He painted scenes of island life and happenings in primitive, fanciful style; his humor and vivid colors caught the attention of art critics and his work became sought after by international collectors. He lived a rich life: stayed in the simple home he’d built as a young man; played fiddle and was one of the few remaining people who knew the notes of the English Quadrille; was known as an excellent boat builder; fathered 23 children!  Count ‘em – 23!!!  One of this daughters was working there in the museum; she told us a little of his life, showed us some of his paintings as well as hers and her son’s. Her paintings looked like a six-year-old did them, but her son’s had some quirky personality going for them.

Worn out from hours of walking in the heat (the usual cooling breeze didn’t reach the inland roads), we hopped a bus back to Tyrell Bay.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009, Tyrell Bay, Carriacou,  12˚27.34N, 61˚29.23W . 

Of all the boat boys that came out to us on our arrival, we asked who to call for an island tour.  Everyone had a relative who’s a taxi driver, but Simon, the guy who sells wine, said “I give tours.”  He originally quoted $200 EC for a 3-hour tour; we played the waiitn game and he dropped his price to $150 EC (about $56 US).  He met us at the Carriacou Yacht Club at 10:00 and we headed down the beachfront road.  The area in which the yacht club is located, called Hermitage, is still a private estate, stretching for dense, green miles along the road.  Right next to it was the Harvey Vale estate, which has been divided into lots and sole to the public and now is the village at the head of the bay.  Just past that area is Simon’s family estate, called Grand Anse, 150 acres purchased by his grandfather in 1914 from a bank repossession sale.  His grandfather owned a cotton ginnery and a schooner, which he used to ship freight between the islands.  He had 5 offspring, who’ve all died off now, and the grandchildren are living on the estate in several homes.

At the former Dumfries estate, now government-owned, we traipsed through the overgrowth to an abandoned lime estate and processing facility.  Inside a vine-covered stone warehouse, they had old steam-driven machinery to press the limes and dump the juice into barrels for export.  Further in, there were a couple of houses on the estate, but they didn’t look all that old in style, though they were crumbling and full of bats.  Simon said the estate was abandoned in 1970; it was in surprisingly poor condition for being inhabited only three years ago!

Passing the island dump on the way back out to the main road, we drove through a cool, crisp-smelling mahogany forest to reach Mount Pleasant and look out over the Atlantic side of the island.  The reef running the length of this eastern side of the island was clearly visible, as were two commercial vessel wrecks marooned on the jagged shelf.  Much more wind-swept and certainly more rugged, this side is sparsely populated; indeed, we passed two old forgotten cemeteries along Grand Bay, but they weren’t overgrown like the one in Hillsborough because the intense wind keeps all growth at bay; only grass surrounded the crumbling headstones, lying under cool trees, looking out onto the cold Atlantic for all eternity.

All the roads on the island are concrete, but many were damaged by Hurricane Ivan.  Simon was explaining how Keith Mitchess ("He’s a crook!”) had been in office for 13 years and never bothered to fix the roads in Carriacou; one section of the circumnavigating main road on the north-west end is so bad, you can only pass with four-wheel drive.  According to Simon, the government doesn’t do much for Carriacou, and Mitchell stole so much money it was criminal.  He’s been out of office for only six months now, but the current administration is already starting repairs on the roads.  Perhaps they’ll get the non-functioning desalination plant working as well. 

Speaking of politics, Simon mentioned that the Coards of the 1983 rift with Morris Bishop received a stay of execution; Phillis Coard was released long ago, and Bernard is due for release in 2010.  He also brought up Cretus St. Paul, who was Morris Bishop’s personal body guard.  He had been imprisoned by the PRG, and was more or less forgotten until the Americans freed him, so he was spared the fate of the other Bishop supporters at the Fort George execution.

At the north east part of the island is the town of Windward, known for its traditional Carriacou Sloop boat building.  We stopped at one wind-swept beach with a small boat propped up on barrels and old lengths of telephone poles, undergoing restoration.  The guy working on the tiny craft popped his head out of the cabin to answer questions, but was clearly more interested in getting back to whatever he was doing below; though he did say the boat had taken first place in the Carriacou Regatta years past. 

Our tour ended in the Bel Air region where we saw the remains of a sugar cane mill, though Simon didn’t know anything about its use or the clear-cut land surrounding it.  Atop the highest peak overlooking Hillsborough Bay was the graceful Princess Royal Hospital, a small, low-lying crisp white building with a long colonnade, coffee-brown wooden shutters and a blue metal roof, built in 1905.  Cotton-candy soft clouds sailed across the intensely blue sky, the town below squares of green, red and blue roofs, the cruising sail boats mere dots on the expanse of turquoise water.  The view was beautiful, but the wind was so strong there, it was actually hard to stand straight!

We’re going out to dinner tonight – hurray!

Wednesday, January 14, 2009, Tyrell Bay, Carriacou,  12˚27.34N, 61˚29.23W . 

Last night’s dinner was, by far, the best meal we’ve had since leaving home!  Bogles Round House, in the hillside town of Bogles, is a charming stone structure built around an enormous tree; the carved and polished trunk is smack dab in the center of the small dining room.  Outside, ancient-looking trees surround a well-manicured expanse of lawn sloping down the hillside, where you can enjoy pre-dinner beverages while surveying the black sand beach below and gaze out to sea.  There are a couple picnic tables under softly-lit individual kiosks set up for dining, and inside are only seven tables.  Chef Roxanne’s parents built the house as their residence many years ago.  In latter years it became a restaurant, a disco, and now back to a restaurant, with rental cottages adjacent.

Roxanne’s husband, Phil, does the serving while Roxanne plies her magic in the simple, homey kitchen.  Her food is exquisite.  Every course we ate was a winner, and the whole meal was less than the fancy lightship restaurant at LePhare Bleu! The ambiance was warm and relaxed, the music eclectic, the wine delicious.  Though still very young, Roxanne has won the Best Caribbean Chef two years now, in addition to other awards and competitions.  Her restaurant is scheduled to be featured in the February 2009 Gourmet magazine.  What a find!  

To get there, we’d taken a bus into town, disembarked at the end of the line, walked a block to catch the bus to Bogles.  The driver maneuvered that van like he was practicing for the Indy 500!  But the busses stop running at 1800 hours, so we cabbed it back.  Our driver, Keith, told us about the “official tour guide” program: the guides go through a training program, learning all the history of the island, the names and uses of the flora, etc.; upon completion they are licensed, given a tourist guide badge, and any passengers in the vehicles are covered in case of accident – unlike if you’re with a non-licensed guide like Simon.  He got vocally upset when we told him we’d gone with Simon; we just didn’t know the alternatives.  He said he’s complained many times about Simon doing that – more or less illegally – and will have to take stronger measures.  No WONDER Simon couldn’t answer tall my questions!  I wish I’d known about Keith before we went with Simon; I’m sure our tour would have been much more informative.  

Being at anchor loses its charm when you’re amongst 50 other boats and you rock all night long.  These past few nights, we’ve been thrown side to side so roughly I haven’t been able to sleep.  I’ve had enough!  Jeff bussed to Hillsborough to check out so we can leave tomorrow.  While he did that, I baked his favorite cookies and did eight loads of laundry by hand, the typical all-day job.

Thursday, January 15, 2009, Tyrell Bay, Carriacou to Clifton Bay, Union Island, The Grenadines, 12˚35.69N, 61˚24.69W . 

Though conditions weren’t ideal, they were certainly do-able, especially since we had only a short distance to go.  The seas were 8 to 9 feet, but 10 seconds apart, the wind 25 knots; the air pleasantly salty smelling; it reminded me of San Francisco conditions.

We’d been told that fuel was cheapest in Petit Martinique and the dock was easy to get into.  Though we didn’t need a whole lot of fuel, we thought we’d give it a try.  We headed up island, rounded the top and east to Petit Martinique.  They have a sturdy wooden, free-standing dock, and you motor directly into the wind right up next to it.  It WAS very easy, though quite a lot of surge.  After filling up, we back tracked up to Union Island, just 23 miles north of Carriacou.  We arrived around 1530 hours, motored around the reef in the center of th eclifotn Bay, and settled in between two reefs.  Hopefully we’ll stay flat tonight;  there’s no protection from the howling wind, but the reefs should stop most of the surge and roll.

Though there are quite a few boats here, it’s still quiet, and there’s no loud music coming from the town.  We’ll go ashore tomorrow to check into The Grenadines.

Friday, January 16, 2009, Tyrell Bay, Carriacou to Clifton Bay, Union Island, The Grenadines, 12˚35.69N, 61˚24.69W . 

We met up with Larry and Betty of Whimbrel and all walked to the Customs and Immigration offices at the airport, just a short walk outside the tiny town.  Simple and painless, we’re now “legit” all the way up to St. Vincent.

What a quaint, tidy little town this is!  Thought the streets and walkways are dirt, they are free of trash and litter; the buildings lining the main – and only- road are for the most part, well-kept.  There are a few “supermarkets” – sparsely stocked shelves in dimly lit aisles; some restaurants; a bakery that sells only bread; a French gourmet store – tre pricey; a few arts/crafts boutiques; an internet café; a cute little memorial square – actually a triangle.  The most interesting was about eight colorful booths of produce vendors in a semi-circle on a grassy lawn area.  Each one had a bright hand-painted sign – Aunt Jenny’s, Sheena’s Green Garden, Trini’s Vegetables; they all had their goods displayed in small, well-mannered piles and bags hanging from the rafters.  Fat bunches of bananas and slender pineapples hang in front of each booth; clear bags of tomatoes, limes, grapefruit, carrots swing from the rafters.  Peaked piles of onions, garlic, sweet potatoes, cristofene, cabbage, peppers sit atop the counters.   The cheerful colors of the painted booths adorned with all manner of tropical produce were just too much to resist.  I stopped to survey the scene.  “How do you choose who to buy from?”  I mussed aloud.  As we were the only shoppers, all vendors’ eyes were on us.  One woman realized or heard what I’d said.  “You buy a little from each one” she motioned.  Ah!  Simple.  That’s exactly what we did; I had brought two bags and an insulated pack with me, and ended up filling them all!

Our evening on the boat was nice and FLAT – no rolling, just a gentle rocking motion.

Saturday, January 17, 2009,  Clifton Bay, Union Island, The Grenadines, 12˚35.69N, 61˚24.69W . 

Last night’s dinner was a whole wheat baguette that we’d purchased at the French gourmet store, and a main-meal salad of delicious fresh lettuces.  The mango I put in it was exquisite.  For breakfast we had a deliciously juicy mini watermelon – smaller than a cantaloupe and achingly sweet.  We decided to go back to town for more.  This time, I brought my camera, hoping to catch the produce vendors before they close up, as Saturdays are usually half days for the businesses.  When we got there, only a couple vendors had opened; we were told the other vendors have to take the ferry from St. Vincent, which was why they weren’t open yet; possibly later in the day.   Fortunately, the lady with the watermelon was open, so we picked up a caouple more.  She’d also gotten in a fresh shipment of glossy, firm eggplants (her supplier comes in by plane from Grenada, and was sleeping on a cot in the back of the stall.)  You must understand, having spent most of our cruising time along coast lines where produce is scarce, to find so much luscious produce displayed in glorious sunshine is like coming downstairs to a loaded tree on Christmas morning. I just couldn’t get enough.

There are hiking trails going to the top of Union Island’s peak, but for some reason I haven’t been feeling too well these last couple days.  We decided to forgo the walk, and I just rested on the boat.  During the afternoon, we heard music coming from this funny bar/restaurant (I presume) on a little round islet on top of the reef, which is assessable only by dinghy.  All we can see is the bottom of the building; there are short palm trees, surrounding it, the low branches obscuring the top of the building, which goes all the way to the edge of the island with just a walking path around it.  From where we’re anchored, when someone walks on the perimeter path, they look like a giant in Lilliput.

Sunday, January 18, 2009,  Clifton Bay, Union Island to Tobago Cays, 12˚37.84N, 61˚21.42W . 

Well, here we are, in the famous Tobago Cays.  Everyone’s told us how WONDERFUL they are, just as people RAVED about the San Blas islands.  Well, Jeff and I definitely march to a different drummer.  Yes, the water is a beautiful turquoise color, the sand blindingly white.  The famous snorkeling was marginal; we saw more colorful and varied fish int eh western Panamanian islands; the current around the outer reef was too strong to enjoy the snorkeling.  But here’s the kicker: the wind never dropped below 205 knots, and there was no protection from it, so the wind chop on the water made the boat jerk around uncomfortably.  Add to that about 200 boats in the area, plus a half dozen large day-charter catamarans, each disgorging dozens of people.  This is NOT my idea of paradise!  We’ll leave in the morning.

Monday, January 19, 2009,  Tobago Cays to Corbay, Canouan, 12˚43.68N, 61˚20.04W . 

We’d read in the guide that his was Canouan’s most protected bay; it’s perfect for us.  There were no other boats when we arrived, which is good because it’s just a tiny bight, maybe room for three boats at the most.  It’s surrounded on three sides by tall hills covered with dry shrubs in a medley of rich greens, bright yellow and copper colors.  There are reefs extending out from both sides of the bay, which we intend to explore by snorkel.  At the head of the bay is a jetty where occasional cargo ships unload building supplies, and a discreet gravel/cement plant; I say ‘discreet’ because you really can’t see much of it, and there’s rarely any noises coming form it, only an occasional truck coming down to the pile soft sand.  No dust blows because the piles are protected from the winds by the mountains, which also protect our little parch of blue water, making it soothingly flat – just a gentle occasional rocking.  THIS is more like it!

A local guy came by in his skiff selling fish – asked what we wanted and said he’d go catch it.  Yah, “catch it” from some other fisherman.  No matter; when we were just finishing our snorkeling, he showed up with four ultra fresh red snappers.  Jeff grilled a couple for dinner; I made a fruit salsa to go with them, corn bread, brown rice, fresh green beans with turkey bacon, chilled white wine, beautiful star-studded evening.

Our snorkeling was fun.  The visibility was pretty good, and with our skins on we could stay in as long as we wanted without getting chilled.  We swam through dramatic rock and coral canyons, watching scores of fish dart among the rocks. There were enormous, squishy black sponges glommed onto the rocks, waving fan coral, and tubular yellow sponges.  I saw a small octopus with webbed legs, and Jeff pointed out this cool fish that was flat a laid on the rocks, blending in perfectly.  I followed him for aways, and each time he stopped to lay on a rock, he was perfectly camouflaged.  The tiny royal blue fish with electric blue spots were cute, but my favorite was the gaily polka-dotted black and white box fish, its frilly fins fluttering at it sides like lacy handkerchiefs.  There was a massive school of petite silver and blue fish, each about an inch and half long; they swam in a flowing river, their colors catching flashes of sunlight and sparkling like a driving, wind-blown rain in the moonlight.  This section has lots of tall, circular coral (or possibly it’s a sponge) that looks like rusted metal urns or vases.  I had fun playing peek-a-boo with this tiny, silver and black fish with big yellow eyes.  He would hide in a crevice of a rock and timidly stick his head out.  As soon as he saw me, he’d jump back in, then would try it again in a few seconds.  I also tried one of Abbie’s old tricks.  There was a lone pelican bobbin on the water; I tried stealthily paddling to him, just to see how close I could get.  But each time I got a little closer, he’d move a little further away until finally he flew off. 

All-in-all, it was an idyllic afternoon and evening.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009,  Corbay, Canouan, 12˚43.64N, 61˚20.03W . 

Two more boats came in yesterday evening, but they both left today.  Two others stopped here for the afternoon, but also left so we had the bay to ourselves by evening.  I think this will probably be a rare treat in this section of the sea.  All day, we see sailboats crossing from one island to another, this morning when I got up I counted 17 on the horizon.  There’s a Moorings charter base in the main bay just south of this one.  I see those boats coming into an anchorage – always too fast – and I can’t help but marvel.  This is their vacation; seven to 10 days, they’ve got to hit the highlights, see as much as they can before that fleeting week is up.  And here we are, right next to them in an anchorage, enjoying the same beautiful sights, but we don’t have to hurry; we have the luxury of waiting for good weather, we can explore each island in-depth if we choose. This is our LIFE!  It’s still hard to believe sometimes that this is the life I lead.  Why am I so blessed?

Wednesday, January 21, 2009, Corbay, Canouan to Admiralty Bay, Bequia, 13˚00.21N, 61˚14.56W . 

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Another short, easy passage, we arrived in beautiful Bequia (pronounced BECK way) early afternoon to join a couple hundred other boats already anchored or moored.  There’s plenty of room so it doesn’t feel too crowded; a wide swath for the ferry channel divides the boats on the town side from those of us on the Princess Margaret beach side.  The 5-masted Star Clipper cruise ship anchors in the bay, ferries come and go several times a day, and still it feels calm and quiet here.  At the head of the bay is the charming little town of Port Elizabeth.  There are mountains on all three sides; small homes nestled discreetly in the hills display warm, yellow lights at night, lending to the serene beauty of the island. 

Thursday, January 22, 2009, Admiralty Bay, Bequia, 13˚00.21N, 61˚14.56W. 

Whimbrel arrived here yesterday also; they stopped by this morning to invite us to go with them on an island jaunt.  We joined up with them right after re-anchoring (took three tries to set well) because we felt we’d dragged a little during the night, and wanted to make sure we were good and set.

Unlike some other islands, Bequia seems to welcome cruisers.  Daffodil Marine comes out to the boats with a fuel and water barge, and picks up trash and laundry.  Water taxis are available by VHF.  There are half a dozen dinghy docks scattered around the bay, and at the main one near the ferry dock there are large dumpsters where boats can dispose of trash for free.  At the top of the dock is the Rasta produce market, the vendors and their piles of foods packed together under one roof, just as their dread locks are piled high atop their heads under colorful knit caps.  Their prices are high, and they’re more aggressive than other vendors, so most cruisers pass them by for the other plentiful vendors along the main street.  One vendor was in the front yard of her tiny wooden home, under an enormous shade tree; she had a tall, bamboo fence, one side painted pink, the other lavender, her wooden stand turquoise, the colors of peppers, avocadoes, melons adding to the gay setting. 

Next to the Rasta market is another market of shirts and souvenirs, presumably for the cruise ship trade.  The bulk of the shops along the main road take off from here, the road divided by a narrow planted island for vehicular traffic on one side, pedestrians on the side closer to the beach.  The taxis congregate around the Tourism Office, which efficiently dispenses answers to just about any question you might have.  The taxi rate card is clearly posted, and we’re told that “all the taxi drivers are reliable.” 

With a population of 6,000, and only seven miles square, there’s only one bus route, which goes to the south end of the island near the small airport.  Larry flagged one down and we squeezed into the already packed minivan.  Someone had two large jugs taking up space on one of the bench seats, and some of the ladies in the back were hefty enough to take one and a half spaces each, but our conductor managed to cram in a few more people after us.  He stood, crouched over near the door, in a position that only a young person could tolerate for long.  It reminded me of the sixties when kids would try to see how many people they could pack into a Volkswagen Beetle.  I tried to count how many we had in the van, but it was so tight, I couldn’t even turn my shoulders around slightly to look.  The locals all took this in stride, never displaying any sense of exasperation or impatience.  The windows were all open and the breeze blew through freely, saving us from hot, stuffy misery. 

We rode to the end of the line, passing the old whaling station on its small island, alighting on a rutted dirt road.  We followed the road west, passing a lovely deserted beach opposite a future housing development.  The narrow lots were marked off, some with photos of the West Indies style home that was proposed for that site.  Most had swamps of muddy water in front of the lot markers, a sight that I’m sure the prospective buyers never get to see!

Our destination was Moon Hole, a community of stone homes carved into the mountainside in the 1950’s by American architect Tom Johnson.   Chris Doyle’s  2003-2003 Sailors Guide to the Windward Islands says “the original was built under a natural arch known as Moonhole.  It was abandoned when a huge boulder fell from the ceiling and threatened to crush the bed.  The other houses grow out of the rocks without straight lines or right angles.  They have huge arches, fantastic views and lovely patios.  There is seldom glass in the windows and the breeze is constant; there is no electricity.  Moonhole is a special kind of vacation home for the right people.  The architecture is worth marveling at as you sail by.”  At one time, tours of the homes were offered, but now it is strictly private.   A caretaker we chanced upon told us we could walk along the beach, but not on the path.  Unfortunately the small beach ended in a rocky outcrop that was un-passable; we only saw a glimpse of two homes, one without glass or doors, as described in the guide.  It would definitely take a different kind of person to live there!

Our bus ride back wasn’t nearly as crowded.  At one stop, our young conductor helped an adorable little girl climb on; she wore a crisp white short-sleeve shirt, a full-skirted jumper, white anklets with black and white oxfords; her hair was braided into a couple dozen short plugs sticking out from her head, adorned with clips, beads, and plastic hair trinkets.  She only looked straight ahead, never spoke to anyone, never uttered a peep.  The driver knew where her stop was; the conductor gently gathered her in his arms and carried her across the curving road, depositing her safely at the bottom of a long stairway ascending to a tidy home at the hill-top.  This little girl couldn’t have been more than four years old, and the conductor maybe 18 at the most.  I can’t imagine a touching scene like this playing out in the states!

Back in Port Elizabeth, we strolled along the main street, stopping in boutiques and chandleries.  The narrow concrete and stone Belmont Walkway meanders along the waterfront at the south end of town, leading you to more shops, restaurants and hotels.  We stopped at the dive shop to purchase a new mask for me, and visited their parrot, Charlie; what a character HE was, swaggering on the counter top, and letting only certain people take his picture.  At the very end of the walkway are the sprawling remains of The Plantation House hotel.  The graceful, Caribbean styled buildings are still in excellent condition; in fact, the cottages still have all the furniture in them.  An Italian banker bought the property some years back and added a concrete fence and lots of Italian statues.  According to Doyle, he ran it quite lavishly until his bank closed.  I was amazed at how well the structures were preserved – no graffiti on the walls, no garbage strewn about, just a bit of overgrown grass, and no security guards about.  In the states, this would have been trashed in no time!

I noticed in lots of the shops and the Tourism Office, posters made by children about keeping the island clean, not throwing litter.  This approach has definitely had an effect because there was no trash to be seen anywhere in town!

Friday, January 23, 2009, Admiralty Bay, Bequia, 13˚00.21N, 61˚14.56W . 

Today we had a visit from another cruising couple who are headed to Panama via Columbia and Venezuela.  We gave them our charts and guides. 

There’s a great shop here called Doris Fresh Foods Yacht Provisioning.  Doris has been running it for 22 years and has it jam packed with just about every food item you could ask for (though she didn’t have whole wheat pastry flour; said she can’t get flours and guarantee they’d be free of weevils because of the climate.)  Her husband is a professional chef, so he helps her find the best food products that people like.  It’s a tiny place, one small room with shelves fully stocked from floor almost to the ceiling, the aisles barely wide enough for one to walk down straight on; if there’s another person in the aisle you have to sidle down sideways.  Two steps down is another small room with a half dozen chest-type deep freezers, four reach–in refrigerator cases, and one wall of fresh, room-temperature produce.  She imports goods from Grenada, the US, France, among others, and has a surprisingly extensive selection.  Prices are high, as would be expected, but once I did the conversion, I realized they’re not that much more than we would pay at home on San Juan Island.

We had dinner with Larry & Betty at an Italian restaurant – mediocre food, then cabbed to Lower Bay for the first big night of the Bequia Music Festival.

Saturday, January 24 - Monday, January 26, 2009, Admiralty Bay, Bequia, 13˚00.21N, 61˚14.56W . 

Friday night’s line-up was awesome; blues all night, great sound, but I didn’t care for the venue.  It was in a small, open-air restaurant, with tables spilling out along the edges; the center of the room was cleared for dancing, and people standing around bopping to the beat, but it was so packed it was stifling.  There was a dirt area between this restaurant, DeReef, and the next, Dawn’s Beach Café, that was covered with an awning, a few plastic chairs set up, and an enormous video screen on display.  The musicians were being videoed just like in the large concerts, but the sound out here was lousy.  To my mind, this defeats the purpose of going to a live music event!  In any case, there weren’t nearly enough chairs, and we ended up standing all night.  By midnight I was ready to pack it in, though the final act still had not started. 

Saturday morning we’d slept in late; by evening we were ready for the music fest.  This time, we didn’t leave until 0200, but even so, the last act had not started yet.  These people party hardy!!!  There were dozens of dinghies on the dock when we came into town to catch a cab, but by the time we got there to go back to the boat, ours was one of two lonely dinghies patiently waiting at the dock. 

I had a ball listening to the music and watching the people.  Most of the time we stood right on the edge of the covered viewing/dance floor area, not more than fifteen feet from these black boxes that looked like giant building blocks.  The sound boomed out of them so strongly, each beat hit me like a wave – I could actually feel the whoosh of sound; it poured through my body, made my pulse jump, and there was no denying the pull of the beat.  It was IN me!  There was nothing to do but move with the beat!  I’d always wondered about people listening to such loud music; when we’re out in an anchorage and we hear it thumping, we wonder how people can stand to be up close to ti.  Now I know – the music is not an assault, it simply becomes a part of you.

It’s been so many years since we’ve done anything like that, I told Jeff it almost made me feel young again – almost because I wasn’t drinking and cruising around looking for action like I would have when I was young. J

Sunday was a much more relaxed day.  Because it was during daylight hours, we opted to dinghy to the beach in front of DaReef.  There were fewer than half the number of people from Friday, and fewer still were young people – most of the crowd seemed to be in our age range.  We arrived a little before 1300 hours and left around 1900, but STILL the last band hadn’t come on yet.  We were just plain tuckered out.

Over the three days there were some great acts – a British New Orleans Jazz Band stands out in my mind, as well as a high-energy young woman who played guitar, harmonica and sang blues with her accompanist.  The Bequia Kings of Strings was interesting, performing a unique style of tunes in what I would call a bluegrass-calypso-reggae fusion.  I wanted to buy a CD of their music, but they don’t have one out yet.  They did have one under their other name, the Country Relatives; same guys, different outfits, different music, this time not very good.  Funny thing about this music fest: a lot of the acts were the same musicians, just in various re-groupings with different names.  Still, I’m glad we stayed; Whimbrel and others left because this weekend was the weather window; we’ll just have to wait for the next one.

We had a nice visit from the two guys on Boxxer, Scott and Stephen.  We’d met them at the Boxing Day potluck in Grenada.  Scott’s considering going through the Panama Canal, so we gave him our last guide books on that area.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009, Admiralty Bay, Bequia, 13˚00.21N, 61˚14.56W . 

Most of the taxis on the island are mini pickups with bench seats in the bed with a canvas bimini, like in Mazatlan, except these all seem to be in better condition.  We hopped aboard one and headed out of town to the east side of the island and the Old Hegg Turtle Sanctuary.  Very quickly we were outside of town and ascending steep hills, the air smelling heady and lush in the recent rains.  Every once in awhile I would get a whiff of cilantro, or more likely Shadow Bene, the elongated, sharp-edge leaf they use here that smells and tastes similar to cilantro.  The wind and gusts were brisk, and with the driver speeding up the road, our faces were blown back as if we’d placed our head in front of a high-speed fan.  Like the other islands, the roads here are concrete, narrow, barely more than one vehicle wide.  The driver honks his horn before rounding a curve, just to let oncoming traffic know he’s coming; if two vehicles need to pass each other, one has to stop and pull to the side of the road to let the other by.

We descend down the opposite side of the island to graceful groves of tall, swaying palm trees, their tops whipping wildly in the wind.  One section of palm groves has manicured green grass and white rail fences around it, part of The French House estate.  We pass a number of massive private estates, with lovely grounds and impressive entrances, and one secluded housing development of villas, but few “normal” homes.  The road dead ends onto a dirt road leading to the turtle sanctuary.

It was started in 1995 by a retired diver.  He saw the Hawksbill turtle numbers dwindling at an alarming rate, and decided to take action. He reared a few hatchlings in a small plastic tub, hoping to protect the babies until old enough to fend for themselves in the wild, usually 5 years of age, then return them to the beach where they were hatched.  Now there are dozens of concrete tanks in a small building on one side of a grassy, palm-covered spread, with goats, chickens and cattle roaming freely.  By 2006, over 800 turtles had been returned to the sea. 

When you enter the tank house, you step right up to one of the largest tanks, filled with precious little four-week-old babies.  Fully formed, but smaller than the fingers on my hand, they’re waving their little flippers, swimming joyously in the clear, sparkling water.  They’re fascinating to watch!  As they grow, they’re moved into “private” tanks, each small tank holding one turtle, three years or older.  One tank had a five-year-old turtle missing one leg; I never did get an answer as to how he lost his leg, but he will never be released in the wild.  The owner wasn’t in, and the worker couldn’t answer many questions; he just performed the chores that he was assigned, one of which was to swab some purple medicine on some of the babies, which he said was to help for cuts in their skin; how they’re getting cut, I don’t know.  One aggressive guy who was separated in a large tank kept trying to get out, pulling himself up the rim of the tank with his flippers; a couple times he almost made it!  Turtles that are sick are isolated, and fed canned tuna, which they seem to enjoy.  Yet another was isolated, he’d just had his shell scrubbed, and we could see the beautiful markings in colors of black, white, peach, copper and pale green.  No wonder they’re hunted for their shells!

Outside the tank house, on the beach, was a large bit of flotsam – a section from an Egyptian satellite!

The squalls were starting to abate, so we decided to walk down the road a bit.  We ambled around beautiful Crescent Beach – glorious turquoise water, white sand beach, dense palm trees – in Industry Bay.  One part of the road was a wall of flowering bushes, a riot of color in fuchsia, orange, yellow, purple and green.  We passed a tastefully built stone home, with a beautiful stone wall fronting the road.  The stone mason was there working on it – or actually he was taking a break when we passed; we chatted about the construction.  He uses concrete blocks in the core, muds over them, then places the shale in the mud to hold it, so you don’t see any grout between the rocks.  He fitted the rocks together like a jig-saw puzzle, inserting tiny rocks where there were gaps; quite an art.

We stopped for lunch at the lovely Firefly Resort.  We were the only people there, which was surprising because the view, the service, the martinis, the food – all were GREAT!  They had a killer list of interesting-looking martinis (I tried the Full Mosquito: vermouth spritzed into a glass, vodka, cranberry, and a squeeze of lime – doesn’t that sound refreshing???), and the Firefly Martini Club; if you have eight different kinds of martinis within a year, you earn a free Firefly Bequia polo shirt.  I’ll tell you, it’s a good thing we’re not staying here longer, or I’d be sporting a new polo shirt for sure! We were only there a couple hours, and enjoyed every minute of it.

Testing the report that all cab drivers on the island are reliable, we’d made arrangements with our driver to pick us up at 1500 hours.  Sure enough, he was right on time - EXACTLY – no “Grenada Maybe Time.”  Back in town, we walked to the Sargent Brothers model boat shop, in a small building set back off the road.  Bequia is known for its model boat-building, with three shops displaying the artisans’ work.  Sargent’s is the original shop, and their work seemed to be the nicest, rows upon rows of intricately-laid wooden pieces under glossy layers of paint and varnish.  We stepped into the back room, lit only by sunlight, and chatted with one of the craftsmen; he was sitting on a simple stool, with a hull in his hands, carefully painting a boot stripe down the side of the hull; no chair back support, no work bench, no masking tape.  Seeing the conditions they work in makes the finished products even more amazing.  The tiny room was filled with boats in various stages of creation – varnished hulls hanging from the ceiling to dry, piles of carved hulls waiting to be painted, boats with decks and cabin tops completed ready for masts and rigging.  Most of the boats were sailboats – modern as well as classics from by-gone days – but there were a few power boats as well.  All of them were beautiful, and naturally, out of our price range; the one we liked most was $7000 U.S., perhaps not a bad price for the work that went into it, but beyond our reach.  Besides that – where would we put it???

Wednesday, January 28, 2009, Admiralty Bay, Bequia, 13˚00.21N, 61˚14.56W

I cooked most of day; Gary & Linda from July Indian came over for cocktails and tapas.  Fun evening.

Thursday, January 29, 2009, Admiralty Bay, Bequia, 13˚00.21N, 61˚14.56W

Happy Birthday, Judy!

I worked on downloading photos from my camera, updating the log, etc. It’s been squally, cool and gray all week, and the anchorage has been rolly, but not unbearably so.  It’s looking like our weather window is Saturday.

The lovely 3-masted Sea Cloud cruise ship pulled into the bay today.  We’re told this is one of the best small-scale cruise ships around. 

Friday, January 30, 2009, Admiralty Bay, Bequia, 13˚00.21N, 61˚14.56W

The sky this morning was soft dove gray, the air crisp and cool, with even a dab of fog on the mountain tops.  Without wind, the water was flat and calm; as the currents swirled within the bay, the boats swung on their rhode in all different directions – some pointed north, others east, some even west and south; they were like scattered jacks, with none of the syncopated beauty of boats resting at anchor.  A gentle rain fell steadily all morning, without the typical high wind gush of squalls.

With all the reports of theft, assault and piracy in St. Vincent, we decided to skip that island altogether, which meant we had to check-out of the Grenadines here.  The Revenue Office in town, which houses the Post Office, Administration, Revenue, Customs and Immigrations offices had their Mission Statement posted on a big sign in the center of the building: “This office is dedicated to providing excellent customer service through the unification of various departments, working in a spirit of professionalism and efficiency thereby enhancing the country’s financial & human resources.”  Boy, a lots of countries could benefit from adopting that mission statement, including the U.S., but ESPECIALLY Trinidad!

We had lunch at a new café, Maria’s French Terrace; simple menu, good food.  When the server came to pick up our plates, instead of asking, “How was everything?” or “Can I get you anything else?” he said “Are you happy now?”  Kinda funny.

We took this opportunity to make one last stop at Doris’s Fresh Foods and the local grocery store.  Throughout our last years of cruising, we’ve been in areas where good grocery selections were few and far between, so I’m in the habit of stocking up every time we see a nice store.  I have a feeling the rest of the islands will all have great selections; I’m going to have to break that habit!

Saturday, January 31, 2009, Admiralty Bay, Bequia to Pitons, St. Lucia, 13˚49.32N, 61˚03.93W

Well, here we are already, 1400 hours, sitting in flat water craning our necks to look up at the dramatic Pitons in St. Lucia.  Pointedly majestic, impossibly high, the two peaks rise up from the sea in vertical walls of lush greenery. What an absolutely lovely spot!  We left Bequia this morning at 0630 hours; our passage was great – only had 24 knot winds at the most, seas maybe 9 to 10 feet, but they were FAR apart so no problem.  We had to motor in the lee of St. Vincent, but the rest of the time we had a lovely sail.  It’s a good thing we got here when we did; we took the next-to-last mooring ball, a guy right behind us took the last, and another boat just had to turn aroudn and leave because there were no mooring balls left.  You cannot anchor here because it’s a marine park – also very dep – so if there’ no balls, you’re out of luck.  There are two mega-yachts on the balls, one so long it makes normal cruising boats look like toys. There’s a Hilton Hotel on the beach (we’re picking up their wifi signal- hurray), a few mega mansions on the hillside, and nothing else except stunning scenery.  The Pitons are two towering peaks, as pointed as a witch’s hat, thickly covered in green trees and bushes, with a few glimpses of rugged rock walls.  I’ve read there are guides to take people climbing on these magnificent pillars, though I would imagine only very experienced rock wall climbers would be able to make it successfully.

Jeff took the dink around the shorter, northern peak to the town of Soufriere to check us into the country; I’m staying on the boat, in case a ranger comes by to collect money for the mooring ball.   We like it here!

Saturday, January 31, 2009, Admiralty Bay, Bequia to the Pitons, St. Lucia, 13˚49.32N, 61˚03.93W

Well, here we are already, 1400, sitting in flat water, craning our necks to look up at the dramatic Pitons in St. Lucia.  What an absolutely lovely spot!  We left Bequia this morning at 0630 hours; our passage was great – only had 24 knot winds at the most, seas maybe 9 – 10 feet, but they were far apart so no problem.  We had to motor in the lee of St. Vincent, but the rest of the time we had a lovely sail.  It’s a good thing we got here when we did; we took the next-to-last mooring ball, a guy right behind us took the last, and another boat just had to turn around and leave because there were no mooring balls left.  You cannot anchor here because it’s a marine park – also very deep – so if there are no balls, you’re out of luck.  There are two mega-yachts on the balls, one so long it makes normal cruising boats look like toys.  

There’s a Hilton Hotel on the beach, a few mega mansions on the hillside, and nothing else except stunning scenery.  The Pitons are two towering peaks, as pointed as a witch’s hat, thickly covered in green trees and bushes, with a few glimpses of rugged rock walls.  I’ve read there are guides to take people climbing on these magnificent pillars, though I would imagine only very experienced rock wall climbers would be able to make it successfully.

Jeff took the dink around the shorter, northern peak to the town of Soufriere to check us into the country; I’m staying on the boat, in case a ranger comes by to collect money for the mooring ball.

Sunday, February 1, 2009, the Pitons, St. Lucia, 13˚49.32N, 61˚03.93W

Today was a disappointing bust.  There were two things I wanted to do: go to Ladera Resort for a “gourmet” meal, and soak in the mineral baths outside of the town.  We dinked to the Jalousie Hilton to tie up on their dock, walked up to the lobby and with help from Reception, got lunch reservations and a cab.  Ladera is perched atop a ridge between the two pitons; supposedly the architecture of the resort is exceptional and the food to-die-for, but the real draw is the view.  True enough, the view was stunning; looking down between the pitons, we could see the boats in the bay – they were about the size of an ant.  But I was disappointed because they only had a buffet lunch.  I HATE buffets!

 

Our second disappointment came when we got to the mineral baths.  They had just closed!  I suspect the driver KNEW they wouldn’t be open, but didn’t want to lose the fare.  We spent $50 U.S. for the cab rides (short distance but extremely steep hills), and didn’t really accomplish anything that I wanted to do. Ah well, such is life.

 

Monday, February 2, 2009, the Pitons, St. Lucia, 13˚49.32N, 61˚03.93W

A young man in a bright yellow shirt came to our boat today.  If he were in the states, people would look at him as a “gangsta” or gang member.  But here, his tight braids, rows of heavy silver jewelry, tattoos, and decoratively stripe-shaved eyebrows are just a means of personal expression, a way to stand out.  His name is Doggy, or rather, his nickname; his real name is Joel.  He runs a “boat bar, ” going through the anchorages selling cold beers, sodas, shots of rum, wine, and will get whatever you need.  In talking with him, I found out he’s actually a sweet, intelligent guy, very religious, and his tattoos refer to God in one biblical quote or another.   Jeff bought a couple bottles of wine from him, just to help him out, and we made arrangements to call him later in the evening; he was going to check with his neightbor, a taxi driver, to see if he could get us a deal to take us to the Fond Doux Plantation.

 

We dinghied over to Soufriere, a hard-scrabble town that was once the capital of the country when it was under French rule, and has now fallen on hard times.  Walking through to the back of the town, we could see old buildings that once were lovely and now are just dilapidated hulks.  There was little of interest for tourists, and few restaurants.  One old drunk , a.k.a. “birdman,” glommed onto me – why do they always pick me? – and started in on his routine.  He carved a couple humming birds out of coconut husks and stuck them into a base, asking for anything we could spare.  Jeff obliged by emptying his pockets of change, and to his credit, the birdman didn’t complain about what he’d received; we’ve found often times beggars around here get something and then ask for more.  Meanwhile, a wrinkled, bent brown woman was standing on the covered porch outside a decaying wooden building, muttering loudly, “Tourists. Dead.”  I thought, at first, she meant that all tourists should die; after talking with her, I realized she was bemoaning the fact that there were NO tourists.  I said hello to her, and told her we would come into her shop, just too look, when we were done with Birdman.  We did.  The interior of the shop was dark, tiny, and almost empty - very few items for sale, just a few palm-frond baskets, some trivets, some locally-made dolls, all grossly overpriced.  We chatted with her for a bit while she sat in her rocking chair, then thanked her for allowing us to look, wished her a good day and sauntered off.  She didn’t put too much pressure on us to buy.  J

 

Our purpose in heading to town today was to hit the Diamond Botanical Gardens and the mineral baths.  Fed by sulphur springs (the town name of Soufriere means “sulphur in the air”) with therapeutic effects, the baths were built originally in 1784 for the troops of King Louis XVI of France, so they could benefit from the waters.  They were in use for about eight years, but during the French Revolution and the Brigand War, the bath house was destroyed and the baths themselves gradually became overgrown and hidden by the bushes.  In 1930, Andre Du Boulay, the owner of the Soufriere Estate decided to excavate and repair two baths for his own use.  Later, more pools were built and made available to the public for a small fee.  Outside the gate, Jeff bought a cool mahagony-bead necklace from a Rasta guy. 

 

The estate grounds leading to the baths were well established in citrus and cocoa, but became further transformed in 1983 by Du Boulay’s daughter, Joan, after his death.  She had paths cut to the lovely waterfall and gorge, and tropical flowering shrubs and bushes of every type and color planted around and under the existing trees.  Though the waterfall was nowhere near as dramatic as those we’ve jumped off, it’s cascading waters over the moss- and vine-covered rock face was captivating just the same.  I was a bit disappointed in the baths though.  Three small pools, with no benches to sit on, so you had to crouch or try to dunk and hold yourself up on the concrete sides; for some reason, I expected the water to be warm, but it was actually a bit cool.  I stayed in an hour, hoping to get some benefit for my sprained muscles (didn’t tell you about that, did I?), and finally had to get out because I was too chilled.  But like all baths, once I relaxed, it felt luxurious, especially being under the lush flowers and trees of the botanical garden.  How I miss having a tub to soak in!

 

About those sprained muscles: way back in the end of December or the beginning of January, I was being over-zealous in my exercise, and stretched too far in the runner’s lunge on each leg without being sufficiently warmed up.  By the end of my power walk, I was in serious pain, and have been ever since.  Our long walks in Carriacou were much too painful, and by the time we stopped I could barely walk.  Since then, I’ve had to stop walking as much as possible, and have been rubbing linament on each groin area daily.  But I have to say, the mineral baths actually did relieve some pain.  True, it was short-lived, and I think to be effective I would have to do it daily for awhile, but I believe they did spur the healing process on.  Problem is, my legs were starting to become muscular and shapely with all the power walks, and now I can feel them flabbing out and the weight glomming back on my thighs.  Ugh!  The never-ending battle of the bulge.

 

Tuesday, February 3, 2009 the Pitons, St. Lucia, 13˚49.32N, 61˚03.93W

True to his word, Doggy hooked us up with his neighbor for a ride to the plantation;  actually it was his neighbor’s driver who picked us up.  The guy owns a rental car business, and Anslem, the friendly, skinny but B.O.-stinky guy who picked us up was his employee who picked up and delivered the cars.  We carefully drove down impossibly steep concrete roads, which Anslem said were a real problem when wet because some vehicles can’t make it up the hills for slipping.  He told us that all islanders speak Creole at home, and learn English in school, and seemed very proud of his ability to speak English – and he did so quite well. 

 

Fond Doux Estate has been a working plantation since before French Revolutionary days, and in fact, was the site of some of the most ferocious battles between the French and the British for control of St. Lucia.  Fast forward to 1980, the plantation is producing cocoa, coconut, citrus, mangoes and flowers, when the current owner inherits it from his father.  He keeps cocoa as the principal crop, and opens the estate to the public.  Though still a working plantation, it’s also a tranquil hotel, with the most beautiful gardens you’ll ever walk through.  He and his wife also collect old wooden buildings in danger of demoliton in St Lucia; they employ artisans to restore the builidngs using the old techniques, and place them on the grounds for guest accommodations.

 

 

 

 

For a small fee, non-guests can take a guided tour of the grounds.  Our tour guide, a very nice 16-year-old who’d recently started there – I can’t remember his name, something like Omo – kept us entertained with his stories of growing up using specific trees and bushes in his father’s Rasta household (Rastas only use natural products) as we passed by them.  They call the coconut palm the tree of life, because they use every part of the tree – the fronds for roofing, sweet jelly inside the green coconuts for nourishing baby food, coconut water for beverages, the coconut husks as a natural fertilizer and to keep moisture in the soil around the roots of plants, the trunks for bridges.  When I asked how the coconuts are harvested, he looked at me like what a silly question.  “They climb the tree” of course.  They shinny up barefoot, knock the coconuts off so they fall to the ground.  On the plantation they harvest both yellow and pink grapefruit year-round, the latter indicated by the pale rose tinges around the top.  There were some gorgeous, full nutmeg trees, loaded with the yellow globes; he pointed out that the hard, red “lace” around the inner nutmeg – the mace – is used to make “mace,” the spray that’s used in self defense classes and police actions; duh! I’d never put two and two together!  You know the cloves that taste so good ground into pumpkin pie?  They’re actually the seeds of the trees; they dry on the branches, and to harvest, workers put a basket under the tree and simply shake it.  The leaves of the tree smelled as good as the flavor of the seeds.  There was an enormous stand of bamboo, the national plant, which grows one inch daily.  It creaked ominously in the wind, but the sound was merely the trunks rubbing together.  Omo said if you don’t cut the plant back, it will take over everything; once cut, varnish on the wood keeps the termites away, and if you brush diesel on it, the wood will be preserved forever.  The hibiscus plant is what Omo’s father uses for shampoo: crush the leaves with a little water; it becomes slimy, but when you put it on your hair, it lathers up and leaves the hair shiny and clean.  Mangoes are just coming into season here; there are over 50 to 60 varieties of mangoes, but the locals seem to enjoy them best when green, eaten with salt.  They also grow coffee trees, not the coffee bush; it’s beans are black when ripe, not red.  Petite tangerines beckoned to be picked; Omo said to get them, one usually has to climb the tree, or if you’re real accurate, throw a few stones until you hit one and knock it down.  The non-edible calabash tree, the national tree, is used for bowls, spoons, decorative carvings.  The bananas were interesting; we’ve often seen the stalks of bananas growing up-side-down, but didn’t realize that after the stalk is harvested, the tree will no longer bear fruit and has to be cut down.  The trees send down suckers on their own, which take about six months to grow to full size, then another three months before the one stalk of fruit is ready to harvest.  Their apricots are probably five times the size of the Mediterranean versions we’re accustomed to, and the pendulous papayas are used when green, as a starch, just like a potato.  The lovely torch ginger lily, or wax rose as it’s sometimes called, is so sensitive, that when touched by humans, the oils in our hands will cause it to die within three to four days.  Didn’t know that, did ya?  The red, fuzzy flower on the monkey tail tree, so aptly named, was a source of great amusement for Omo and his friends when growing up, sticking the long tails in the back of their pants.

 

And then we came to the cocoa – the REAL reason I was there!  We saw trees with both green and maroon pods growing on them, the green pods ready to harvest when the pod turns yellow, the maroon pods must be orange.  According to Omo, both have the same flavor, grow and produce at the same rate.  To harvest the pods, workers use a stick with a sack attached; they pull the pod from the limb with the stick, and the pod falls into the sack.  Once the actual beans are removed from the pods, they’re piled in bins with slats placed over the top to keep the heat in, and fermented for eight to 10 days.  Funny, in the production of olive oil, this very process of piling the fruit in bins for transport to the mill causes fermentation, which is an actual defect in the oil – not something you want! While fermenting, the cocoa beans produce a slight yellowish liquid, which can be used as vinegar.  After fermenting, the beans are spread in large trays to dry in the sun, three to five weeks.  The trays are like huge drawers, which can be slid under the fermenting sheds if rain threatens; at this point, any moisture would cause the beans to rot.  They dry three to five weeks before being scooped up into a metal pot for “polishing,” a process that thins the shell to make it easy to remove.  But get this: it’s done with feet!  A young boy adds a tiny amount of water to the pot, climbs into the pot and does a rhythmic “dance” on the beans, shuffling them around side to side, over and back; his feet were gargantuan.  He does this for about 30 minutes, after which the beans are spread back in the trays and dried again for another two to three weeks.  Then the beans are roasted in a brasier, shelled by hand, ground by hand into a paste, pounded with a morter and pestle, and made into “cocoa stick,” the same as the the cocoa balls we saw in Grenada that are seasoned with sugar and spices and used for hot chocolate.  And this is where my disbelief set in.  Omo had said they sell their cocoa to Hershey’s Chocolate.  I questioned him – “ALL the beans are shelled by hand?”  “Yes, all done by hand.”  No way.  Can’t be.  Maybe all the beans in the garden area, but certainly not all the ones that are sold to Hershey’s!  We saw cocoa trees interspersed among the garden, but no rows of trees like I expected. He said they have 145 acres planted.   I suspect there is a whole other operation, away from the prying eyes of tourists and guests, that is fully modern and mechanized.  But that’s okay, the tour was still a lovely walk in the garden

.

 

On the tour, there were only Jeff and I, and a young couple from Canada who were down here for a wedding; since they were staying at the hotel, Omo showed us/them where the swimming pools are, lovely pools in a graceful Caribbean-style structure on the hillside overlooking the gardens.  We were treated to a complimentary rum punch and glass of fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, both absolutely delicious;  Jeff and I were the only ones in the restaurant for lunch.  I can’t say much for the food, but the ambiance was beautiful, surrounded by the stunning, full gardens, countless bird songs filling the air.  It was peaceful and relaxing.  Funny, the restaurant had a few CD’s on shuffle, and Lionel Ritchie kept coming up.  They seem to still like him down here; we’ve heard his old stuff played in countless venues, and even revamped by the soca band (Soca being a mix of Soul and Calypso) at the Bequia Music Festival.

 

Anslem was waiting for us when we finished lunch.  Back at the boat, we snorkeled a bit and enjoyed yet another beautiful night in the Caribbean.

 

Wednesday, February 4, 2009, the Pitons to Anse Cochon, St. Lucia, 13˚55.69N, 61˚03.49W

We motored just a short way up the island; since we paid for a week to use the mooring balls, we thought we might as well take advantage of them all the way up the coast.  There’s only one hotel here, and a pretty beach backed by tall, swaying palms.

 

As soon as we neared the entrance, the boat boys emerged from under the trees and came paddling out on kayaks; the first to reach us was “Johnny B Good,” a scrawny, middle-aged guy.  He helped us secure the mooring ball (normally we don’t need help, but the penants have been removed from all these balls so there’s no way you can snag them from the bow of your boat – you need someone in the water; I suspect the penants were removed by the boat boys.)  He said he had a gift for us – a couple coconuts and grapefruits, all of which he cut up and insisted we eat.  This of course, was not really a gift, because he asked for payment, not only for his service, but also for the fruit.  We negotiated a bit for the fruit, the service, and a little soap-stone turtle carving, and I gave him some muffins I’d baked that morning.    I don’t know if he was happy or not, but doing business with him seemed to grant us immunity from the rest of the boat boys, with the exception of one who came by and asked for food.  We gave him a bag of rice and and some canned goods.

 

This is a popular spot for the day-charter and dive boats.  All day long, they roared in, anchored for 30 minutes, dropped scores of people in the water, then blew the conch shell to gather up their customers, and left.  All day.  But by evening, there was only us and one other boat. 

 

We snorkeled the reef, but were disappointed in the lack of fish; Johnny B Good said all the tourists scare the fish away; perhaps he was right.  Jeff did point out one interesting fish, though; perched upright, north to south, inside a conical sponge, was the ugliest, scariest fish you’d ever want to lay eyes on; he was just hanging there, camoflauged by his coloring.  I tried to point him out to a young boy who was snorkeling near-by, but I don’t think he was able to see what I was pointing at, and didn’t understand English.  Ah well, I tried.

 

What a gorgeous night!

 

Thursday, February 5, 2009, Anse Cochon to Marigot Bay, St. Lucia, 13˚58.038N, 61˚01.689W

Last night we had a wonderfully calm night - amazing since it’s been so blustery lately – and this morning was beautiful.  The other boat had already left when we got up, the sun was sparkling on the water, the bay was peaceful and quiet while we ate breakfast in the cockpit.  These are the kind of mornings you fall in love with.

 

We moved three miles up the coast, and will be moving again tomorrow; there’s nothing here of interest to us.  Marigot Bay is a pretty little hole in a mangrove forest, tucked way back behind a reef; the channel to get to it is narrow, with submerged reefs on either side.  But the entire area has been taken over by mega resorts and mansions.  You cannot anchor inside the bay – you MUST take a mooring ball, which are privately owned and rather expensive ($75 EC or $28 US) per night.  The only place to anchor is in the channel, and the bottom is rocky so it’s hard to get a good bite.  Fortunately for us, our friends on Whimbrel were just leaving; they hailed us on the VHF and told us they’d found a small sandy patch, so we snapped it up just as they left.  There are way too many boats in this tiny channel.

 

We took the dink to the “village” where the Moorings charter company base is, poked around the shops a few minutes, and left.  Boat boys came by all day long.  They all sell bananas, necklaces, and baskets made from palm fronds.  The first one that came by clung to our boat the whole time we were trying to anchor, just waiting for us to finish.  Ahmed Shem was his name, 27 years old, gentle and quiet, in a battered inflatable with a sick outboard, just trying to make a living.  We chatted about life on the island, and he offered me my first taste of a “sugar banana,” a small variety so incredibly sweet it almost makes your jaws pop.  Jeff ended up buying a bunch, and I gave Ahmed a bag of food supplies; he, in turn, gave me one of his palm-frond baskets and a couple of cute palm-frond picks which he cleverly wove into a tropical fish and a rosebud.

 

Almost all the boat boys who visited were very friendly and not aggressive at all; they all welcomed us to the island, thanked us for visiting, wished us a good day – a FAR cry from the pesky and rude Kuna indians in the San Blas.   I find it interesting talking with the boat boys.  While a rare few can be obnoxious, most that we’ve encountered are friendly, kind, and gentle, and I appreciate that they’re at least trying to make an honest living, as I think for some of them it’s pretty tough.  I’ve taken to giving them small “care” packages of rice and canned goods if they look like they need a hand.  Guess that’s the Italian in me – feed people and make them happy.

 

Friday, February 6, 2009,  Marigot Bay to Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, 14˚05.127N, 60˚57.497W

Moving further up the coast, we actually got to sail again today.  The winds blow ALL THE TIME in this part of the world, so we get to sail much more than on the Pacific side.  Plus, it’s dramatically cooler here; when we’re passage-making I wear a wind-breaker, and some nights I even wear a light, long-sleeved cover.  I’m not complaining, mind you, just reveling in the fact that we’re not drenched in sweat all the time!

 

We’re anchored in the middle section of this huge bay, ringed by mega resorts.  We tried to find the spot we thought would be furthest from the pounding music of the resorts, but I doubt there is such a place. 

 

Since it was such a short passage, we had time to dinghy to the St. Lucia National Park at Fort Rodney.  It was built in 1778 and named after Admiral Rodney, the British commander of the Caribbean fleet.  The French and British were continually warring over St. Lucia; in fact, it changed hands, back and forth, FOURTEEN times during the late 1700s to early 1800s!  Finally, it was ceded to the British under the Treaty of Paris in 1814. 

 

The fort – or rather the ruins of the fort – is spread out over pretty, undulating grounds, soft brown doves cooing under the trees.  Naturally, the battery is on the highest peak, at the edge of the point, with a clear view of Dominica, the next island up the chain, affording a good view of the ships passing in the channel between the two islands.  The tumbling walls of the barracks, officers’ quarters, cooperage, kiln, and kitchens offered scant insight into what life here must have been like, but I doubt it was a picnic.  A sign at Admiral Rodney’s quarters said that he never stayed there; he preferred the comfort of his ship instead.  J  How those soldiers would be surprised to see it today!  There was even a small wedding being performed on the beach – 8 guests in white-draped chairs, bride in beautiful white gown, grinning groom.

 

I’m not clear how much action the troops actually saw, but Admiral Rodney is famous for developing a new tactic in naval warfare.  It was April 12, 1782, in the battle of The Saints, off Dominica.  Up to that day, the ships of each force would line up, one after the other, broadside to the enemy, who was also lined up the same way a couple miles away.  As they sailed in opposite directions, like traffic on a two-way street, they fired on each other.  Rodney changed all that when he ordered some of his ships to go between the French lines, crossing perpendicular rather than running parallel; now they could fire on the French ships on both starboard and port sides.  What a concept! J

 

Saturday, February 7, 2009, Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, 14˚05.127N, 60˚57.497W

“Ahoy, Musetta!”  We had a visitor this morning.  He introduced himself as Terry, from Aquarelle.  He and his wife are from Santa Cruz, CA, and he just wanted to say “hello” to other west-coast cruisers because there are so few of us over here.  Their boat, though, has never been on the west coast; they bought it here, and have kept it here ever since.  Nice guy, gave us lots of information about where to find what in Rodney Bay.

 

We dinked into the harbor for all the usual errands: dropped off laundry, picked up the parts we had ordered at the candlery, bought tools & oil at the hardware store,  purchased some nice fruit from a street vendor, and walked to the mall with the large grocery store for provisions.  When we got back to the boat, there was a new boat anchored right behind us.  Turns out, it was Phil & Debra Stolp, some old  acquaintances from the San Francisco Bay Area and the Passport Owners Association!!!  They’d had their boat Souverain in Europe since 2001, and had just crossed the Atlantic with the ARC (Atlantic Ralley for Cruisers) a week and a half ago.  They had been in the marina, and just moved to the anchorage, getting ready to head south.  Can you believe that?!?!?!  In all this big Caribbean, they end up anchoring right, smack,dab behind us?!?!?!?  That’s one of the things I love about this cruising life: You never know who you’re going to run into, and you make friends all over the world!

 

Sunday, February 8, 2009, Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, 14˚05.127N, 60˚57.497W

We had some good laughs over dinner on the lovely Souverain (a Halberg-Rassey 53’) last night; they’d already taken off this morning just as we were getting up and about.

 

In the evening we had “sundowners” with Terry and his wife, Evelyn, aboard their boat.  Evelyn is an accomplished watercolorist, and showed us some of her work.  She’s currently in the process of creating the official poster for the Capitola Art Festival, so we got to see it in it’s early stages.

 

Monday, February 9, 2009,  Rodney Bay, St. Lucia to St. Anne, Martinique, 14˚25.87N, 60˚53.19W

While in the marina to check out, we ran into Terry and Evelyn again.  Terry told us he’d just received email from a friend in Martinique, with news of the effects of the strike.  Evidently the dock workers went on strike in Guadaloupe three weeks ago, and it’s worked its way down to Martinique.  Supposedly the stores are running out of goods, the restaurants are closing, and the ATMS are out of money and the banks don’t dispense it.  Jeff got some Euros at the bank, just in case the reports are true; because the name on his credit card didn’t exactly match his passport, he had to withdraw EC dollars from the ATM, then go inside and exchange them for Euros; double fees there.

 

We didn’t get out of Rodney Bay until 11:40, but had an absolutely lovely sail up here, arriving at 13:31 hours.  The customs office closes around noon, so we’ll wait until tomorrow to dinghy in.  It’s been blowing pretty hard, but we’re well set.

 

Tuesday, February 10, 2009, St. Anne, Martinique, 14˚25.87N, 60˚53.19W

Happy Birthday, Margi!

 

Our dinghy ride to the town of Marin to check into the country was bumpy and wet.  The wind has been blowing like stink, and with the chop it created against the incoming current, we got a bit wet, to say the least.  But it was sunny and warm, and we dried quickly once ashore.  The check-in process here is real slick: you go to one of the computers set up in the customs office, click on the appropriate option, and fill out the form, which is in French and English – good thing, because they ONLY speak French here, and I speak none.  Once completed, you print it out, hand it to the agent on duty, and you’re done; no fees, nada; “rien” if my English/French dictionary is correct.

 

After checking in, we strolled the waterfront street, but there just wasn’t much to see.  There was ONE bakery open, and of course, the baquettes were gone, but there was still a long line for sandwiches, croissants, and things.  Most of the shops were closed, there were a few restaurants open, but they all closed at 12:30  – not enough food to serve the whole day.  Even the striking dock workers who had been milling about on the street left at 12:30.  The pumps on the fuel dock were out of fuel.  It’s too bad we’re here right now, because everybody raves about the wonderful and inexpensive French wines, cheeses, pates, and bread, because this is a part of France and everything is imported from there.  Now we won’t be able to experience that.  Ah well – better on the pocketbook, and easier on the thighs! 

 

It’s a good thing we provisioned before we got to Martinique.  We have plenty of diesel, but don’t have much gasoline for the outboard.  I’m still hoping to tour this island, though I don’t know how: since there’s no fuel, we probably can’t rent a car, and I don’t see much point in taking a tour or taxi unless they speak English very well – we wouldn’t be able to understand what we’re looking at as far as historical sites.  We haven’t yet spied any busses or communal taxis – though I don’t know if I’d trust there’d be one to take us back once we got on the other side of the island.  If nothing else, I’m hoping there’s a place in the caiptal city where we can sample all the different Martinique rhums because I definitely want to buy one of these famous brews.  They are made differently from the others – being distilled from pure cane juice – and are said to rival cognac.

 

On the marina dock, there were all kinds of flags and banners streaming in the wind; it looked like a boat show; we decided to check out what was going on.  It was the conclusion of a double-handed race from France (that’s what I surmised anyway); lots of go-fast boats.  Didn’t look like fun to me! 

 

Our anchorage neighbor, a single-hander on an old catamaran, came by to visit.  He brought a bag of books, hoping we had some to swap.  We only had a couple that we were happy to give him, and didn’t really want any that he had in return – not our preferred reading material – but it was pleasant chatting with him.  His name was Peter, his boat name Jolly Witch; he’d sailed from London just this season, although he’d been here six years ago as well.  Funny old guy.

 

Wednesday, February 11, 2009, St. Anne, Martinique, 14˚25.87N, 60˚53.19W

A funny thing happened this morning.  I closed the door when I went into the head, but when I went to get out, the door was locked – even though I hadn’t locked it.  No amount of turning the latch or jiggling the knob would release it!  I ended up spending half the morning in the head, while Jeff tried to get the latch free.  In the end, he unfortunately had to gouge the door a bit to leverage a tool into the latch, but a little sanding and varnish should hide all marks.  Good thing it was ME on the inside and not him, or I would have had to tour the anchorage looking for help amongst all these French-speaking boats.  Evidently a little piece inside the latch had been rusting and had chosen that moment to break.    If worse came to worse, I supposr I could have emptied the anchor locker and climbed out through the anchor hatch, but UGH – who wants to get that dirty?!?!  My patience paid off: I spent the time doing all those bothersome “beauty maintenance” chores that I so shamefully neglect when on the boat.  There’s always good side! J

 

A friend sent me a joke that was so funny I actually laughed out loud!  Here, what do you think?

            “I had lunch with two of my friends.  One is engaged, one is a mistress, and I have been married for 10+ years.  We were chatting about our relationships and decided to amaze our men by wearing a black leather bra, stiletto heels, and a mask over our eyes.  We agreed to meet in a few days to exchange notes.  Here’s how it all went.

            “My engaged friend: When my boyfriend saw me with a black leather bodice, tall stilettos and a mask, he said, ‘You are the woman of my dreams.  I love you.’  Then we made love all night long.

            “The mistress:  Me too!  When my lover saw me, he didn’t say a word, but we had wild sex all night!

            “Then I had to share my story:  When my husband came home and saw me he said, ‘What’s for dinner, Batman?”

 

Thursday, February 12, 2009, St. Anne to Anse Chaudiere, Martinique, 14˚28.769N, 61˚04.810W

On our way to the little town of St. Anne, we stopped at Peter’s boat to give him a piece of the coconut-rum cake I’d baked.  I could tell he was tickled. J  He asked if we’d pick up a baguette for him while in town.  Well, there was only one bakery open;  we stood in line for a good 15 minutes; we were almost at the head of the line when the lady in front of us purchased the LAST baguette.  C’est la vie, as they say.  Like my French?  I’ve learned to say “please, thank you, good morning, good afternoon, it was very good, why not” in French, but for some reason the Spanish words keep popping out of my mouth!  That will probably be the extent of my French.

 

We stopped on the way back to give Peter the bad news; he LOVED the cake – downed it already – and had a gift of two pounds of flour for me. J  He invited us aboard for a drink, but we were anxious to get going; said he’d be leaving soon and will look for us up island.  We’ll definitely have to have him over for dinner when we see him next.

 

The wind has been blowing like stink for days on end now, 20-25 knots non-stop, and the squalls that come through every night and early morning add another 10 knots.  Jeff gets really grumpy in this much wind. L  It was time for us to move on.

 

We had a nice, down-wind sail – actually sailed all the way – for the three hour passage to here.  There is a huge fish trap in the center of the bay that’s not marked on the sketch chart, and lots of pots marked by clear plastic water bottles that are difficult to see until you’re right on top of them.  Although there are no reefs to worry about, I wouldn’t want to be entering here in darkness.

 

This pretty anchorage is calm, and protected from the incessant wind, but another long dinghy ride into the town if we want to see it.  Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but being low on gasoline for the outboard, it’s just too strong a wind and current to row all the way.  We could also anchor in front of the town, but there’s no protection from the wind there – hardly worth it.  We are one of four boats here, and there are maybe half a dozen in front of the town.  Only a few houses look over us from the surrounding hillsides; the rest is covered with lush trees, offering quiet peace.

 

Friday, February 13, 2009, Anse Chaudiere, Martinique, 14˚28.769N, 61˚04.810W

Our pretty anchorage turned rolly last night.  Not fun, and not easy to sleep, but today is much calmer.  We dinghied to town, and sauntered about.   There is a nice new board walk along the beach, which was loaded with what looked like tourists and locals alike, though the town doesn’t stike me as tourist oriented.  There are lots of old buildings, most kept up nicely, and there’s not a SPECK of trash anywhere.  There was a cute little shop selling locally-grown produce and they had a few canned goods on their shelf; bread and eggs were all gone.  At the vendor’s market on the beach, there was also lots of produce, no bread or eggs.  We stopped at one market that had “fromage” listed on his chalkboard slate of goods; it turned out to be Swiss or Ementhaler or something like that; not what I was after, but he was nice. 

 

Saturday, February 14, 2009, Anse Chaudiere to Grand Anse d’Arlet, Martinique, 14˚29. 937N, 61˚05.171W

Happy Valentine’s Day!!

 

This morning we moved to the next bay up; the other was just too rolly at night.  We’re one of at least 50 boats here, but we’re hoping this will be flatter at night.   We had plenty of space between us and the neighboring boats, but dang, a French boat just anchored not 40 feet away from us.  All this big bay, and he’s got to plunk down practically on top of us!  We’ve seen this time and time again – always the French, always RIGHT NEXT to us.  What’s with these people???  And they go naked a lot.  At the last anchorage, the guy on the catamaran next to us stood out on his bow in the buff all morning long, combing his hair, playing with his toddler daughter; many of the women go topless; almost all swim and bathe off the swim step in the nude.  You’re probably wondering if we get the binoculars out………I’ll just keep you wondering.

 

Sunday, February 15, 2009,  Grand Anse d’Arlet, Martinique, 14˚29. 937N, 61˚05.171W

This anchorage is MUCH flatter.  I finally had a GREAT night’s sleep – AHHH, it feels SOOOO good!

 

We had a lovely Valentine’s day yesterday; I fixed the last of our pork chops with a lemon-ginger-fig compote, some steamed veggies, and grilled plantains.  I’d also made Jeff some Chocolate Anise Bark on the sly as a gift, so he was nicely surprised (not easy to do when you’re with someone 24/7).  The weather was gorgeous, the night was calm, beautiful, flat.  I’m going to miss the Caribbean when we get home!

 

Monday, February 16, 2009, Grand Anse d’Arlet, Martinique, 14˚29. 937N, 61˚05.171W

Nice and calm last night, but it’s been squally rainy off and on all morning, with gray skies.  We call these Washington days, though of course, we don’t have to bundle up.  We dinked into the town and walked around a bit, but everything was closed with the exception of a couple restaurants and a small grocery store with almost nothing on the shelves.  We managed to find a couple bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau, but since they were the last to sell, I don’t have high expectations for it.  I also found a bottle of Cane Syrup Juice – I’ll be making traditional rum punch tonight!

 

The town has a nice walk along the beach, and we could see where there are vendor kiosks, shops and restaurants, but with everything closed, there just wasn’t much of interest here.  Even the architechture was boring, modern structures with little charm, unlike the cute wooden buildings in Petit Anse d’Arlet/Anse Chaudiere.  I worked on creating new website pages all day.  We’ll move on tomorrow.

 

Tuesday, February 17, 2009, Grand Anse d’Arlet to Fort de France, Martinique, 14˚35. 94N, 61˚04.186W

We’ve kept in touch with Souverain since running into them earlier this month.  Turns out they’re heading up this way, and wouldn’t you know it, they came into the bay right after us, anchoring right next to us again.  They were able to set right away, but it took us at least six tries and an hour and a half to get our hook to dig in tightly – but better safe than sorry.  Our frustration was enhanced by the obnoxious noise bouncing from the near-by square.  The work strikers were marching down the main street, most in red shirts, waving flags and banners; some woman with a lousy voice and a loud microphone was leading a repetitious chant, and wouldn’t let up.  It seemed to take forever for them to move far enough down the quay so we couldn’t hear them any more.

 

We’re right below the sheer, blank walls of the old fort here in the capital city.  There’s a bit of wind protection, but the ferries that still charge through here send us rolling with their massive wakes.

 

We dinked to the quay with Phil; he had to check into the country, and we wanted to check out the town.  As it turned out, there just wasn’t much to see; everything has been shut down during the strike; garbage is piling up, the streets are empty of cars and pedestrians, all shops and restaurants are closed.  People on the streets are surly.  Rather than a vibrant capital, the city has taken on the appearance of a down-trodden cast-off . 

 

We talked with Chiarla, the English/Canadian woman who owns the chandlery.  She said it’s a general work strike here that’s been going on for weeks now, and things are getting ugly, people are getting stupid.  They’re all upset because the French economy has gotten so bad, but the administration doesn’t do anything to help the islands; only one in three people work, and they’re basically supporting the rest of the economy.  People are getting fed up with not being able to afford to live here.  Meanwhile, people are going to the neighboring islands to buy goods.  Even locally-grown produce is hard to find because people don’t have the fuel to bring their products to the city. She said we could rent a car, but we can’t buy gas for it, so no point in that.  I talked with a cab driver to see what it would cost to take us to some rhum distilleries: $40 Euros (roughly $60 US) an hour, because they have to wait in line for as much as two hours to hopefully get fuel.  No rhum can be that good!  We looked around for some bars, thinking maybe we could just line up a few glasses that way – couldn’t even find any bars that were open!  Maybe tomorrow. 

 

Phil & Debra came over for dinner.

 

Wednesday, February 18, 2009, Fort de France, Martinique, 14˚35. 94N, 61˚04.186W

We  went back to the chandlery today so Debra could buy some St. James clothing, then we walked up to the main market, where a few produce vendors had goods.  Chiarla was just leaving as we arrived, and pointed out the vendors she uses – said they are honest and their products are good.  We bought some great little starchy bananas that are not much bigger than fingerling potatoes, a delicious melon, and a few other things.  We were steered to Case a Vin, a small wine shop/restaurant, where we spoke with a nice woman who told us where we could taste rhum; it was a souvenir shop just a few blocks away.  Perfect!

 

Well, it wasn’t yet noon, but I was bound and determined to taste some French rhums.  Being mindful of my empty stomach, I only sampled a few selections, settling on a brand that I thought I would like.  They didn’t have the aged version available for tasting, but since the six-year-old rhum was pretty good, I thought I’d take a chance and buy the 10-year-old blend, untested.  It was their centennial edition, so hopefully it will be good.

 

Dinner on Souverain tonight.  Funny, we would see Phil & Debra at the Passport Owners Association events, and always enjoyed their company, but we had to go half way around the world to get to know them!

 

Thursday, February 19, 2009, Fort de France to Trois Islets, Martinique, 14˚32. 806N, 61˚02.468W

Jeff went back to the chandlery again to check out today.  The customs office is closed, so the chandlery is the only place you can check in or out, and they’ll be closed for a week starting tomorrow because of Carnival.  Chiarla said Fort de France is the only place on the island that is still holding the traditional celebration.  They’re hoping it will mark the end of the strike.  The major grocery stores have already signed an agreement to lower prices, though the electronics/household goods stores are still in negotiations.  We certainly didn’t feel like hanging around for a crowded, noisy brawl, and the weather is getting nasty, so we decided to move across the bay, following  Souverain..

 

This is a quiet anchorage, in front of the only golf course we’ve seen in the Caribbean so far.  The town meanders up the hill like a pretty European country-side village, but all is eerily quiet, no movement detected.  We have no protection from the wind here, but we’re at least bow into it and won’t be swinging with a tide, so hopefully we’ll stay flat, though we don’t necessarily like being on a lee shore.  One other boat, Tully Whim,  from Fort de France has joined us, but other than that, we are the only cruising boats here; there are a couple derelicts on mooring balls, and closer to town are a number of local sail boats, also on balls.  For some reason, it feels deserted here.

 

Friday, February 20, 2009,  Trois Islets, Martinique, 14˚32. 806N, 61˚02.468W

The four of us decided to venture out across the choppy waters to  check out the town.  We each took our dinks, so we wouldn’t load one down with too much weight, hoping to avoid as much spray as possible.  We all got doused, but no more than expected.   As it turned out, the town was worth it! 

 

At the dock, a local fishing boat had just pulled in and was hacking up Dorados into steaks for sale; we thought we’d buy some when we returned, but it was all sold out by the time we got back to the boat.  At the head of the dock, in the town square were a few crafts vendors and a produce vendor with quite an extensive selection, including hard-to-find eggs.  I hadn’t brought my little egg suitcase, so didn’t buy any, but made a note for later, and ended up with some lusciously sweet oranges, glossy little eggplants, more pink grapefruits – I can’t seem to get enough of those! – and a few other goodies.  There was also a mobile meat shop, like the catering trucks we see in the states; there was quite a line in front of it, and we really didn’t need anything that desperately, so we by-passed it.  BUT, there was one bakery open and AT LAST, there were still baguettes left!  There it was, the elusive French baguette, finally in my grateful little hands! One Euro a pop – why do they cost so much more in the states?

 

Though everything but a general store was closed, we enjoyed strolling through the hilly town because every block brought charming sights.  This town has the most old, wooden buildings I’ve ever seen, some with weathered tile roofs, others with crackling paint, all with traditional architecture; it was a photographer’s dream.  Though I’m not much of a picture-taker, Debra is very good at it, and she was going crazy because she didn’t have her camera with her.  We shared my camera until the batteries ran out.  Cute place, not a speck of trash anywhere, very friendly people!

 

Saturday, February 21, 2009,  Trois Islets, Martinique, 14˚32. 806N, 61˚02.468W

“Musetta, Musetta.  Souverain.”  Debra’s voice was loud and clear over the VHF.

“Souverain, Musetta.”

“Go to channel one seven.”

“One seven.”

“Take a look at Tully Whim and see if you think they’re dragging.”

“Stand by please.”  I popped up into the cockpit and eyed the choppy water.  Sure enough, she was dragging, bucking like a bronco, and moving rapidly towards the shoals.

“She’s definitely dragging!”

“They’re not onboard.  What do we do?”

Debra and I discussed our options.  Jeff had picked up Phil and they’d gone into town, so I didn’t have a dinghy.  Souverain’s dinghy was hauled up beside their boat, too difficult to lower into the water by Debra alone in these conditions.  Me being a poor swimmer, the sea was too dangerous to try to swim to the boat, and there was no guarantee I would find a key in the cockpit to start the engine.  Jeff had the hand-held radio with him, so we tried calling, but he didn’t respond.  I suggested Debra put out a general announcement to see if someone might respond and come to help.  Nothing.  We both felt awful, because there just wasn’t much more we could do except hope that the guys or Tully Whim’s owners came back soon.  We kept an eye on her, and thankfully she appeared to settle as she got in shallower water; she must have finally caught on something.

 

When the owners appeared, she got on the wheel and he frantically pumped the windlass to pull up the rhode.  They had no way of knowing that the boat had anchored herself, and I’m sure they were afraid of hitting the shoals.  But as he pumped, Debra watched and saw that he had very little scope out, which surely was a contributing factor in his dragging.  They re-anchored ahead of Souverain a bit further from where they had originally dropped.

 

Phil & Debra came over for late lunch/early dinner today; we had a great meal, and a great time, including our discussion of “what if’s” in the dragging boat scenario. 

 

For weeks now we’ve been having trouble with our batteries holding a charge; one night Jeff even had to run the generator in the middle of the night because they’d crashed.  He borrowed Phil’s load tester and found that one was completely shot, the other three are dangerously low.  Although I HATE to backtrack, we’ve decided the best course of action is to go back to Rodney Bay in St. Lucia and buy replacements.  Island Water World has just gotten a shipment in, and Ian will hold them for us.  We’ll just have to wait until the weather clears to leave here, spend a couple days at the marina so it’s easy to load the batteries off and on, then head north again.

Sunday, February 22, 2009,  Trois Islets, Martinique, 14˚32. 806N, 61˚02.468W

The weather has been blustery and squally for days now; winds from mid-single-digit to mid-thirties; sun off and on; heavy squalls blow in just as soon as we open the hatches, and stop almost immediatley after we close them.  There’s serious wind chop on the water, but we’re relatively flat, and holding securely, and we don’t have to deal with the ferry wake like in Fort De France, so there’s something said for that.  Still, the wind is getting to Jeff; he wants to move tomorrow back to Grans Anse D’Arlet, to get better protection from it.  We’ll leave tomorrow.  Tully Whim was gone when we got up this morning; guess they’d had enough wind too!

 

Monday, February 23, 2009,  Trois Islets to Grand Anse d’Arlet, Martinique, 14˚29. 938N, 61˚05.246W

We got settled in late this morning.  The anchorage looks like a parking lot, but we should have protection from the wind here.  I like a change of scenery anyway, plus it take an hour off our transit time back to St. Lucia.  It’s looking like Wednesday is do-able, but Thursday is probably better.

 

Tuesday, February 24, 2009,  Grand Anse d’Arlet, Martinique, 14˚29. 938N, 61˚05.246W

Debra called us on the VHF and said she’d taken a couple racks of lamb out of the freezer, would we like to join them for dinner.  It’s funny how sometimes Jeff “can’t hear” me when I’m 10 feet away, but he was at the bow end of the boat and heard LAMB!  You bet we’d join them!!! 

 

Today was a galley day; I made banana-pineapple-coconut whole wheat muffins; two loaves of whole wheatberry sandwich bread; a chocolate tort, rice pilaf, and some condiments/sauce for the lamb dinner.  With the oven on, the cabin heats up quite a bit so I kept the hatches open as much as possible, but dang, gusts of wind kept  blustering through, blowing my flour all over the galley!  Everything has a fine white dusting; it looks like a bakery in here. L 

 

Dinner was fabulous.  We’re going to miss Debra & Phil!

Wednesday, February 25, 2009,  Grand Anse d’Arlet, Martinique, 14˚29. 938N, 61˚05.246W

Last night our forward head stopped working; it will pump out no problem, but won’t bring water in.  That’s a boat for you – if it’s not one thing, it’s another!  First thing this morning, Jeff jumped in the water to make sure the intake valve hadn’t been plugged.  Then he started on replacing the impellor, but no matter what he did, he just couldn’t get the darned thing to work properly.  Debra and Phil stopped by late morning to see if we wanted to stroll the town with them, so it seemed as good an idea as any – take a break from it and maybe the solution will come to him.  We had a nice grilled fish lunch at a restaurant on the beach.  Tomorrow we head for St. Lucia.

 

Thursday, February 26, 2009, Grand Anse d’Arlet, Martinique to Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, 14˚04. 512N, 60˚57.0121W

We left about 08:45 and had a lovely sail all the way to Rodney Bay.  Souverain was right behind us, but of course, being a larger boat, she quickly passed us by.  Debra and I both took photos of each other’s boats under sail; it’s easy to get shots while at anchor, but the action photos are more rare.  The marina is inside a lagoon, which doesn’t get much air flow – great for a hurricane hole I suppose, but not as good for hanging out.  Also, the water isn’t very clean – raw sewage. L 

 

Jeff never did get the head working, so now he has two projects to complete while here.  I have to provision and get our wifi antennas working; we have two and neither of them works!  In addition, the strong wifi signal from the St. Lucia ARC that we were picking up last time all over the bay is down; supposedly they’re upgrading the system, and don’t know how long it will be before it’s up again.

 

Friday, February 27, 2009, Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, 14˚04. 512N, 60˚57.0121W

It had been so long since we’d done much walking, and I was feeling like my groin muscles were just about recovered, so we headed up into the hills for a long walk.  It felt absolutely GLORIOUS to get moving again, but by the end of the walk, my throbbing right side was telling me it just wasn’t ready for this.

 

While Jeff tackled his projects, I took the bus to an area called Bois D’Orange to the Computer World store.  I was expecting something like Fry’s Electronics or Good Guys; while this store was sizeable, it was pretty bare – just the basic computer components stacked on a dozen banquet tables in the center of the showroom.  There was a tiny Technical Department where I took my cable to have new clip ends put on it.  After replacing them, the technician tested the cable and decided it was bad, so I ended up purchasing a new one, although they didn’t have the same strength as mine; I’m hoping the lighter cable will hold up in these conditions (the cable hooks onto the antenna, which is strung up the spreaders, so it’s exposed to the elements and swings quite a bit.)  On the bus ride back, I spotted a computer repair place a block from the mall, so I hopped off and back-tracked to it.  He said he had the cable I wanted, but didn’t have the crimper to put the clip ends on; he told me he’d have it transferred from their other location and could do it tomorrow.  Great!  I spent the rest of the day walking to and from grocery stores.  At the marina there was a local organic produce grower selling a few choice items; I scored a HUGE bag of arugula and some tiny but glistening purple eggplants.  Island Water World will have our new batteries fully charged by tomorrow.  Jeff’s calls to Tech Support with the toilet manufacturer didn’t yield any insight; they were just as baffled as he was.

 

Saturday, February 28, 2009, Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, 14˚04. 512N, 60˚57.0121W

Jeff headed off in the dink with our 6 jerry jugs (after running so low in Venezuela, we decided it was prudent to have a few more jugs aboard) to be in line at the fuel dock when they open at 08:00.  With all the folks coming over from Martinique, we’d heard rumors they were pumping over 5,000 gallons a day and occasionally run out.  When the dock opened, they said they were not allowed to pump diesel unless the supply truck comes to refill their tanks, otherwise they won’t have enough fuel for the dredge barges and other services that are working in the bay.  Poor guy, he ended up waiting over two hours until the truck finally showed up!  He also walked a block up the street to fill our dinghy gas can.

 

We have four glass mat batteries, which are extremely heavy.  Phil was kind enough to help Jeff lug the old batteries off the boat and the new ones in, relieving me to continue my search for provisions.  The big grocery store at the mall was packed, and though I was there in the morning, when the shelves are usually stocked, certain items were already emptying out.  The only pork was picnic shoulders and legs; the only chicken, backs and feet; there was a little beef left, but I don’t eat beef so that didn’t help; the eggs were gone.  Scores of French-speaking people, presumably from Martinique, were buying up cartloads of food.  A lot of them were pushy and rude, but I imagine they’re quite stressed right about now.  We cruisers are just tourists with the luxury of moving on, whereas they’re trying to survive!  I’d met up with Terry and Evelyn on Aquarelle this morning, who told me they’d gotten emails from a friend who’s in Fort de France. He said the situation has gotten ugly there: the unions supposedly are putting pressure on the stores that remain open, threatening physical harm; people are looting and burning stores, overturning cars and burning them, siphoning gas from dinghies and stealing the gas cans.  I wonder how long this explosive situation can continue.

 

Bummer!  The new cable I bought didn’t solve the antenna problem. I took all my cables, the antenna, and my laptop to the computer repair guy.  The store owner/manager, Clayton, was on duty today; nice guy.  He spent about two hours trouble-shooting and finally got it working.  Hurray!

 

Sunday, March 1, 2009,  Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, 14˚04. 512N, 60˚57.0121W

Bummer again!  Now the antenna’s not working. L  Jeff got the head working, but only marginally – something about the shaft having too much wear; he’ll have to order a whole new unit and have it shipped to one of the islands further up the chain.  We expected to be here just one or two days; now I’m chomping at the bit, anxious to get out of here!

 

Monday, March 2, 2009,  Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, 14˚04. 512N, 60˚57.0121W

I spent the entire day at the computer repair shop; I didn’t want to just leave everything there, because I knew it would just get put aside as more customers came in.   Clayton was at another location, and I was certain this guy, Velon, didn’t have the technical savvy to solve the problem.  It’s quite a sophisticated unit, one that was built by David, the German hacker we met in Panama last year.  The range on the antenna is about two miles, sometimes more, so it’s been GREAT – when it works. 

 

During the lunch break, Jeff took me over to a jewelry shop at the mall where they have solar-powered watches.  I have three watches aboard, and not one of them works!  I’ve been looking for someone to replace the batteries everywhere, and have been unsuccessful; I guess Jeff finally got tired of me asking him what time it is. J  I noticed very people on the islands wear wrist watches, and there are rarely clocks on the walls in businesses.  Other cruisers have told me they get used to not wearing a watch, but it’s been driving me crazy!

 

While over there, I popped into the grocery store again, just to see if any shipments came in.  Though I could tell some shelves had been restocked, there were others that were completely wiped out; the dairy aisle showed yards of stainless steel shelves with a few lonely items on them.  I can’t help but wonder how the locals feel about the French folks coming over here and wiping everything out.

 

Jeff said he’d been told the gas station workers/owners went on strike today; the station where he’d purchased fuel was closed.  Evidently, the price of fuel is set by the government, and they charge the owners a set tax on each gallon sold.  With the recent windfall of increased sales, they decided to raise the tax, but didn’t allow an increase in price, effectively cutting the profit of the poor guys on the line.  So now they’re protesting.  What started in the French island of Guadeloupe is now having a major affect on the majority of the island chain, though the rumor is that the strike is now over.

 

While out and about, Jeff had also befriended a thirteen-year-old boy he met at the dinghy dock who was selling fried plantain chips.  Arkeem was a bit of a hustler – I only believed about half of what he said – but Jeff liked him, and even let him drive the dinghy and come onboard to see what a yacht is like.  He politely took off his shoes to come below, but holy cow – I would rather he’d left them on!  I’d forgotten how lethal stinky teen-age boy feet can be!  When it was time for Arkeem to take the bus home, Jeff immediately sprayed lysol in the cabin, trying to dispel the odor.  L

 

Tuesday, March 3, 2009,  Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, 14˚04. 512N, 60˚57.0121W

After spending all day on my antenna, Velon still couldn’t get it to work properly.  I’d even asked him to call Clayton for help, but that got nowhere.  I decided I would just have to set it aside until we get to a port with a more knowledgeable computer repair shop.  The good news was, after an hour, Velon was able to get my back-up antenna running; it only gets about a quarter to half mile range, but it’s better than nothing.  I spent the rest of the day in the internet café, trying to catch up on email and upload the Musetta website.

 

Jeff had hired Vision, a local dock worker to polish Musetta’s hull and clean the teak.  She sparkles now, and is looking beautiful.  Vision is a Rasta, and quite friendly; he sings all day long as he works.  I’m always curious about religious beliefs, and asked him all kinds of questions.  When we got on the subject of homosexuality, he said, “No mon, that’s not good; that’s why God put Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, not Adam and Steve.”   What really got me was the Rasta viewpoint of women; they are the givers of live, and should be cherished, but they are subordinate to men and during their monthly courses they should not do anything, should be secluded.  Holy cow – is that archaic or what???  Shades of the red tents!

 

When I got back from the internet café, Jeff greeted me with,

“I had a little accident.” 

“Are you OKAY?” 

“Yeah, I’m okay, but go below; you’ll see.”

Uh-oh.  That didn’t sound good; I dreaded that climb down the companionway.   There was food stuffs piled everywhere; I could see that he’d emptied the water tank that we use for storage, but I couldn’t tell why.  Turns out, when he went to fill the forward tank, he wasn’t paying attention and had put it in the WRONG filler neck; even though it was marked with red paint, he just wasn’t paying attention.  Well, we’ve all done stupid things, and at least it was the storage tank and not the diesel tank.  Even though everything was wrapped in Ziploc or vacuum-sealed bags, I went through all the items one by one, checking for moisture.  Most of them were fine with the exception of those in Ziplocs – I guess they’re just not waterproof.  Fortunately we didn’t lose much.

 

After that, I’d discovered I’d left my computer power adapter at the internet café. That was my stupid thing for the day!  My battery is shot, so that effectively puts me out of business.  Oh brother, I sure hope it’s still there in the morning – should be because I left right at closing time.

 

This day of mishaps wasn’t finished with us.  As Jeff was changing the filters on the water maker, he broke a support arm.  You should have heard the cursing coming from there – or actually, it’s a good thing you didn’t hear it.  He put some kind of temporary fix on it; we’ll just have to hope it holds until he can get something to replace it.

 

Wednesday, March 4, 2009,  Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, to St. Pierre, Martinique, 14˚44. 418N, 61˚10.6841W

With all that was going on yesterday, we weren’t sure up until late into the night  that we’d be able to leave today.  We rose early to make ready for departure; Jeff went to Customs to be there when they open at 08:00 to check us out, pick up my power adaptor, and pay up at the marina office.  My adaptor was still there – WHEW.  The customs officer was late; instead of waiting, Jeff walked to Island Water World to pick up more parts and something to replace the water maker arm; when he got back to customs, there was a huge line – more delay.  At the marina office, the water meter reading indicated over 300 gallons of water pumped at our slip.  Our tank is only 70 gallons and we only filled it once; even with Jeff’s mishap and washing the boat once, there’s NO WAY we could have used that much water!  Either the dock worker misread the meter to start with, or someone pumped from our slip, which is probably the more likely scenario since we left our hose attached.  Another expensive lesson! L  In customs, the officer told Jeff the strike in the French islands is still going strong.  Those poor people.

 

It wasn’t until about 09:45 that we finally got underway.  When crossing the channel we had big rolling swells on our beam, and were hobby-horsing fore and aft in 20 to 24 knot winds.  Both of us were a little bit queasy in these conditions, but good ol’ soda crackers took care of that.  We maintained between 7 & 8 knot speed, until about three miles from our destination, when the wind died considerably.  By 1630 hours we were securely anchored. 

 

St Pierre is a lovely area, looking very much like remote sections of Hawaii.  The town, with its colorful Caribbean buildings, lies at water’s edge, at the foot of the volcano Pelée.  The graceful slopes of the mountain are checker-boarded with crops; closer to the peak, huge crevasses carve the sides, and the tip itself is shrouded in clouds.  A gentle mist floats off the mountain.  To gaze on it from sea is as relaxing as filling your lungs with cool, refreshing air.  It’s hard to imagine an area of such incredible beauty aflame with molten lava, a torrent of death and destruction.

 

Chris Doyle describes the tragedy in his Sailors Guide to the Windward Islands:

“St. Pierre lies at the foot of Mt. Pelée, not far from where European settlers wiped out the last of the Carib residents in 1658.  It is said that before the last ones died they uttered horrible curses, invoking the mountain to take its revenge.  Mt. Pelée, in true Caribbean fashion, took its own sweet time, until Ascension Day, the 8^th of May in 1902.

 

“At this time, St. Pierre, with a population of 30,000 was known as the Paris of the Caribbean and was the commercial, cultural and social center of Martinique. The wealth of the island lay in the plantations and the richest of these surrounded St. Pierre.  Ships would take on rum, sugar, coffee and cocoa, and enough was sold to make several of the plantation owners multi-millionaires.  There were also enough cheap bars, brothels, and dancing girls to satisfy the sailor.

 

“The volcano gave plenty of warning.  Minor rumbling began early in April and before dawn on the 2^nd of May a major eruption covered the city with enough ash to kill some birds and animals.  Later the same day, Pierre Laveniere, a planter with an estate to the south of St. Pierre, went to inspect his crops with a party of workers and they were swept away by a vast avalanche of boiling volcanic mud.  On the fifth of May, it was the turn of the Guerin Estate, just a couple of miles north of St. Pierre and one of the richest in the area.  A torrent of volcanic effluents, including mud, lava, boiling gasses and rocks, estimated to be a quarter of a mile wide and a hundred feet high, completely buried the estate.

 

“Even before Ascension Day many people had been killed in and around St. Pierre.  So why did people stay? Governor Mouttet, on the island for less than a year, couldn’t cope with the responsibility of evacuating Martinique‘s most important  city.  He desperately wanted the problem to go away and was encouraged to sit tight by most of the planters and business leaders who would have suffered financial losses if the city were evacuated.

 

Evacuation would also have affected the coming elections in which black voters were seriously challenging the status quo for the first time.  A committee was put in place to monitor the volcano and those in charge enlisted the support of the local paper, Les Colonies, to persuade people that there was no danger, despite the deaths.  A few individuals had the sense to leave, but for the rest the destruction of such an important city was unimaginable.

 

“Many were eyewitnesses to the disaster.  People were approaching from Fort de France for the Ascension Day church service when they saw heavy, red smoke from the volcano descended on St. Pierre.  Rather than continue, they climbed the surrounding hills to see what would happen next.  The end came at two minutes past eight in the morning.  The side of the volcano facing St. Pierre glowed red, burst and released a giant fireball of superheated gas which flowed down over the city, releasing more energy than an atomic bomb.  All that remained were smoking ruins.  An estimated 29,933 people burned to death, leaving only two survivors in town, Leon Leandre, a cobbler who was in his cellar, and the famous Cyparis, imprisoned for murder in a stone cell.  Twelve ships in the bay were destroyed at anchor.  One managed to limp away with a few survivors.”

 

It probably would be interesting to see some of the ruins and explore this area; from here it’s a half hour walk to the DePaz rhum distillery, which supposedly has a nice tour, but we’ve squandered enough time in Martinique, and need to move on.

 

We’ve gotten into the habit of watching for The Green Flash at sunset; we saw one again tonight; tonight’s makes five this trip.