This time we find ourselves in the heart of the Caribbean, the tropical idyll that is St Lucia.

Why is 13th December such a significant date in St Lucia’s year? Legend has it that a shipload of French sailors had been, once upon a time, shipwrecked on the shores of this hitherto unknown island, although this is, quite frankly, a little flaky.

There is a globe housed in the Vatican, dating from the mid-1500s, depicting Sancta Lucia as already being in the then-known world. This was during a time when the Spaniards curried favour in Rome and had carte blanche to claim whatever they liked.

Given that the Spanish had a propensity for naming places after the saints’ days on which they were discovered, endearing them further to the Pope, it is not a giant leap of faith to assume the island was first discovered on 13th December.

That discovery would have been a long time before any Frenchman was cast away here.
St Lucia’s previous inhabitants, the Arawaks in about 200, and the Caribs 600 years later, named the place Louanalao and Hewanorra respectively.

Both names have their origins in the iguanas that populated the natural habitat. European settlement has certainly left its mark.

Castries is the capital here. It is mega busy, seemingly more so than Barbados last time.

Money wasn’t quite so easy to find, the story of my life. We came across two machines that were out of order within the immediate port area before taking the bull by the horns and venturing into the city centre.

Yeah, that old conundrum again: what constitutes a city? This one is smaller than some market towns in England.

Speaking of markets, as I was, it was clearly market day here. Our little stroll took us through an incredible display of fresh tropical fruits, vegetables and spices.

There is nothing more delightful to the nose than the all-pervading scent of fresh produce bombarding the nostrils in a heady mix, slightly tarnished by the odour of drains or latrines nearby.

After some searching, and waving away of tour-guide suitors, we discovered an ATM… out of order.

This was not the best start to our time on the island.

In the end we found one in working condition, but so had loads of others. We joined the line and waited our turn.

What is it with people when you are in desperate need to get cash?

Why can’t they have their credit cards ready to insert, instead waiting until they are face-to-face with the machine?

Then they look in their wallets, pat down their pockets, look around, mouth a “Sorry,” before repeating the process all over again.

They find it somewhere obscure, having already removed it from its usual storage place and tucked it up their sleeve.

Card inserted, PIN punched, nothing happens.

Then they scratch their head, dig in their pockets for a piece of paper, clearly unable to remember a four-digit number.

When you think we might finally see some cash ejected, nothing.

More head scratching, pressing of more buttons, a shake of the head. Clearly there is no money left.

They turn away to head forlornly off. As they pass the line they mutter something like, “The machine has no cash.”

One or two follow in their wake and leave the scene, at least speeding the procedure up for the rest of us.

Eventually, replete with Eastern Caribbean dollars, and feeling no need to restrict the withdrawal as they would crop up again in later countries, we went in search of a tour to the Diamond Botanic Gardens and Waterfalls in Soufrière.

Cash, Haggling and Clement

Not sure what makes us stand out as tourists in the tropics. Just maybe it has something to do with our lily-white colour as we mingle with locals.

We knew we would not need to go in search of a tour guide. We were pretty sure they would come in search of us.

And it proved to be thus.

While minding our own business, up pops Clement.

“Hey, man. You want a tour of the island for $300?”

“US or Eastern Caribbean?” I ask, suspecting I already know the answer.
“US.”

“We’ll think about it,” said Jane, a little more curtly than intended, I think.
We strode off.

It wasn’t long before Clement fell into step again beside us and the haggling started. I love haggling. Jane isn’t so sure.

I felt we had him when he chased us down the street in a bid to secure a deal.
In the end, in a matter of seconds, we settled for $300 but in EC, about a third of the asking price.

We shook.

To be fair, we only wanted to go to one place. Clement handed us over to, allegedly, his brother Brian.

We didn’t really know the geography of the island, not realising the attraction was about as far as you could go without dropping off the edge.

How much adventure can one man give you? Wait and see.

We complimented Brian on the effectiveness of his brother, which he waved away, pointing out that Clem had too much of an ardour for the ladies.

Talk about pot and kettle, bear with me.

We battled our way through the permanent traffic jam that is downtown Castries before we hit the road out of town.

Every now and again a bit of road would break out among the potholes. Even the Norfolk country lanes would put our host’s main highway network to shame.

It is every tour guide’s obligation to squeeze as many dollars, euros or pounds out of each and every visitor.

After all, it was us who would be putting food on their tables that night.

Or, as we were soon to discover, would be paying his bed-warming bills.

First stop was a roadside pull-in that afforded us a spectacular view of our ship tied up alongside the pier.

Jane was enjoying the view. Brian insisted on me staying in the car as he didn’t want me to get run over.

Wasn’t his concern touching?

Up pops another brother to take a picture.

He also managed to sell Jane a bracelet.

By the time I had run the currency conversion in my head it was less than £5. We were on holiday after all.

Next stop was a roadside clothing vendor. Honestly, they spring up out of nowhere.
This time it must have been one of his sisters.

If I remember he was one of twelve, so it was not beyond the realms of realism that they might all have been siblings operating a family racket — whoops, I mean business.

I bought a St Lucia baseball cap.

Jane said my Singapore one was getting a bit tired.

Couldn’t see what was wrong with it personally. I’d only had it for about three years.

Okay, it might have been sweat-stained and faded, but it wasn’t yet falling apart.

I’ve still got it. I refuse to throw it out until it starts to come apart.

The last stop on the way was in a remote village.

He had spotted a woman sheltering in another roadside shop. He whistled.

She noticed him and came over.

He wound down the window and handed over a roll of cash. Pleasantries were exchanged and we were on our way.

We did not get invited out to purchase her wares.

There is a reason for that, and we didn’t have to ask.

“Oh man, she a hard woman!” he said.

“How so?” asked Jane.

“Oh man! She the mother of my baby. I give her a son and now she want my money.”

“So full of herself. It ought to be her honour to have my babies, man.”

“Does seem a little unreasonable,” I agreed. “Are you married?”

“Yes, but not to her, man. I don’t share bed with her.”

“I still sleep with wife who has my main five children.”

“She not know and I never tell her. She kill me if she find out!”

Maybe she has justification, I thought, but it stayed in my head. I said nothing more.

“I have many kids with different women. Just can’t help myself.”

“They all so pretty. And me, well, me so good lookin’ as well.”

“You have this problem, man?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

And Brian said that his brother was too much of a womaniser.

I can only flinch at the issue he must have with his love life.

We now pushed on to the final stretch.

Hairpin followed switchback before another hairpin followed another switchback, and so it went on.

There were a couple of moments where the roads performed a passing impression of roads.

In the end we got there: Diamond Botanic Gardens and Waterfall.

We joined a small queue.

In fact, I am not sure how many people you need to make a queue.

There were only two people in front of us.

They were a husband and wife, Richard and Rachel, as it happens, from our ship.
They had fallen foul of the Caribbean currency lottery, finding themselves holding the wrong tickets.

They had learned from somewhere — really not sure where — that if they bought Barbadian Dollars they would be able to use them throughout the West Indies.

I have to say, there is fake news and there is fake news.

I suspect they received this pearl of wisdom from a Barbadian Dollar seller in Bridgetown, clearly not the most trustworthy of sources.

Diamond was steadfast in not accepting the foreign money.

Only Eastern Caribbean or American dollars would pass muster here.

In addition, credit cards could not be used to gain entry.

Where is the knight in shining armour when you need one?

Boy, did they need one.

They were facing a two-hour trip back to Castries with no immediate prospect of paying their driver.

It was looking bleak.

Then a clanking of steel and rustling of chainmail behind them alerted the pair to the presence of their saviours.

We agreed to pay for the entry, feeling sure they would find us on the ship later.
I think it was the equivalent of £11 only.

I had never willingly handed money over to a woman named Rachel before.

My only previous experience of passing money over to a Rachel has not ended well.
One thing’s for sure — you will never see it again.

You must never judge all Rachels by the standards of the lowest denominator, although once bitten, twice shy.

We said to them to pay it forward if they never found us aboard the good QV.

Does anyone actually do that?

For the record, we were paid back in full.

No idea what they did with their excess of Barbadian dollars.

Brian’s Upcoming Manchester Problem

I have just realised that I probably need two episodes to deal with St Lucia.

With that, before I go, I shall just tell you another tale about Brian.

We were in his car on the Friday before the Sunday on which he was due to depart for Manchester to visit family.

I think it is safe to assume that Brian’s brains are kept in an area away from his head. In his trousers rather than under his hat. Well, if not stored remotely, operated remotely.
Female flesh, rum punch and ganja make a heady cocktail that appears to render logic a sought-after commodity.

Jane asked, “Have you got winter clothing?”

“What do you mean, man?” said Brian.

“Coats, jumpers, that sort of thing.”

“Why I need them, man?”

“To keep warm. I think I saw it was minus five at home yesterday.”

“Oh, man! No one tell me this.”

I think it is safe to say that we hadn’t made his day.

Under-preparedness comes to mind. He was in a spot of trouble.

I don’t suppose there is a plethora of shops selling winter clothing in the Caribbean.
I think he was coming over for three months so, as far as I am aware, he will still be here.
Manchester might be improving at this time of year, but Soufrière it most certainly is not.

Until next time.

White Cane Ratings

Downtown Castries: poor, overwhelming and not easily accessible - 🦯 (1)
Diamond Botanic Garden and Waterfall: good, some tricky steps - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)