Fearful of growing a set of gills with this winter’s record rainfall has led to an affair with a sunny seductress named Barbados. On this Caribbean island where fish fly and the rum’s not shy, much has changed over the 31 years since our last visit, but fortunately the weather is not one of them. A steady diet of sun-believable daytime highs averaging 30°C year round means it’s always shorts and sandals season!
Another big plus for the country is it happens to be the birthplace of rum; my tranquilizer of choice. Back in the 1600’s a wooden barrel was discovered with fermented sugarcane inside, and the unusual find was all Barbados needed to hit the ground rum-ing! Originally called ‘kill devil’ or ‘rumbullion’ and later shortened to rum, exports of the golden nectar now total more than $57 million BBD each year. Not too shabby for a pipsqueak country a mere 21 miles long and 14 miles wide!
The island is also home to some head-scratching legal legislation in need of a rethink. One khaki-wacky law declares that camouflage coloured clothing is strictly reserved for the Barbados Defense Force, and makes it illegal for anyone else to wear it, including children. The folly of the felony is apparently based on the possibility of it being used to impersonate military personal for criminal purposes.
Man, if the country is that freaked about some kids garbed in ‘camo’ perhaps they should give some consideration to bolstering their Defense force. Either that, or commit to never engaging in conflict with anything more significant than the little banana-swiping green monkeys roaming the island!
One crime surprisingly not illegal quickly becomes apparent when friends collect us at the airport with beers and wine in hand. Likely to put M.A.D.D. into cardiac arrest, Barbados turns a blind eye to drunk driving! Perhaps this is because the cops are too drunk themselves to administer breathalyzer tests? The closest we see to any of the enforcers are road speed bumps that locals refer to as ‘sleeping policemen’.
Leaving the airport our first thought is that all the drivers here are drunk, but as it turns out only about sixty percent really are; the other forty percent are simply swerving around the street’s yawning potholes. The rutted roads are clear evidence of past corrupt governments being keener on using accumulated cash to fill their pockets rather than their potholes.
Barbados sidewalks are as rare as rocking horse droppings, and turn running or walking into activities for only the most courageous. Traffic calamities are further exacerbated by shaky vehicles with even shakier drivers; with many lowbrow locals often driving at night with no headlights, thinking it will drain the car’s battery. Yes, on these roads one must watch out for both assholes and potholes, because if stupid could fly, this place would be a fricking airport.
This morning we’re startled by an eerie and barely ambulatory bat unnaturally crawling about the tiled floor of the townhouse. Using its velvety black wings as a crutch, the bald-eared mammal looks like a crumpled a plane taxing onto a runway; apparently having missed the memo that its ilk are meant to be nocturnal and travel strictly by air!
Being in the early days of the COVID pandemic we are wondering if the bat may be sick, and knowing they can be a potential carrier of weird diseases, I’m taking no chances. Cautiously scooping the mini-mammal up from behind onto a magazine, it promptly does a 180 degree turn and creepily starts crawling towards my hands. Like a Herculean discus-thrower, I instantaneously dispatch his furry ass outside by flinging it across the balcony and out into orbit. Whew, calm returns to our casa.
In the parishes of Barbados many people live in small chattel houses set on loose coral-block foundations. The wooden shacks have corrugated tin roofs and are usually either paint-naked or clothed in bright jellybean colors. Tenants own the homes but not the land, so if told to move, they simply dismantle the abode and gather it up along with the coral foundation to resurrect at a new location.
Being the epicenter of rum, Barbados is awash with small no-frills rum shops which is most ideal for my buddy Richard and me as ‘rumologists’. We venture inside a small bar sporting an Old Brigand Rum logo, a brand that locals refer to as ‘the one-eyed man’ due to the eye-patched pirate on the label. Since rum is not sold by the glass we order a small bottle, and the barman plunks it down in front of us, along with cheap plastic glasses and a bowl of freshly pulverized ice.
Propping up the bar while introducing the Caribbean Kool-Aid to the back of our throats, our ears are tormented by the rapid-fire Bajan dialect. In Bajan vernacular ‘th’ is pronounced as a ‘d‘; meaning ‘the’, ‘this’, and them, becomes ‘dee’, ‘dis’ and ’dem’. Another vagary is she/he becomes her/him; so ‘pass her the drink’ becomes ‘pass de drink to she. With the oddball slang originating from the rum-related gluttony of patrons getting to know the bottom of a bottle, trying to decipher a Bajan conversation in a well-stocked rum shop can certainly be a head-scratcher!
I think back to our cab driver’s previous warning that a rum shop’s clientele may be a bit sketchy. In his exact words, ‘dey heads dey not dey own’! Beside us a couple of sozzled patrons have put a bottle of rum in ‘short pants’, and now slumped on their stools, look as if they implanted their ass on a tranquilizer dart. Time flies when you’re having rum but it’s time to make an exit before our heads too are not our own!
Making up part of the island’s approximately 287,000 people is a healthy Rastafarian population sprouting tentacles of knotted dreadlocks either roping down over their shoulders or tucked up beneath a crocheted ‘rastacap’ that resembles a tea cozy. Recently Barbados legalized marijuana to the Rastas for ‘spiritual purposes’, which has me wondering if the island might have any wigmakers up to the task!
With the island’s 1,500 rum shops, numbers would suggest that one out of every 190 Bajans owns one; leaving the other 189 as designated consumers! Yes, these folks are pretty damn serious about their revered rum, and a sign in our friends kitchen pretty much sums up the island philosophy; “RUM – because no great conversation ever started with a salad“!
During a Hash Harriers run at Black Bess I incur a blur of fur when a fleet footed mongoose explodes out of the underbrush almost colliding with my ankles. Coming as no great revelation, the Hash trail is harder to find than a missing sock, and lost runners are regularly involved in an all-out search to locate it; the large fly in the ointment is that nobody planned on the presence of the dastardly ‘Cow-itch’ vine.
Its toxic stinging hairs leave a fierce burning itch, making it a tall order not to rub our limbs to try and lessen its wrath. However, rubbing the skin only spreads the burn making the damage worse. A Bajan guy tells says to me “don’t touch it, and keep your hands away from your face and jewelry”; referring of course to the below the belt danglers. Heeding his sage advice is imperative, as I cannot imagine the agonizing toxins migrating south of the border onto my ‘crucials’!
Runners are in excruciating discomfort, and with so many eventually throwing in the towel the run has to be abandoned. The only positive of the abbreviated run is the bar will open a sooner than planned. Donned in a judge’s robe and flowing white wig, the Grandmaster doles out penances for alleged offences committed during the run. To our chagrin, the two ‘hares’ responsible for laying out the route and causing the colossal clusterfuckery are not sentenced to be hung by their ‘jewelry’!
Visiting an old buddy residing on the island I introduce myself to his roommate Ray, who is definitely the silent type. The limited communication is because Ray is a pet Tortoise. I pluck a hibiscus flower and watch the terrestrial turtle devour the flower down its ugly wrinkled neck. Then, with running or sprinting definitely not Ray’s consuming passion, he awkwardly clumps off like an ambulatory piece of furniture; making it abundantly clear why a group of tortoises is called a ‘creep’!
A nighttime Barbados annoyance, other than the drivers, is rowdy little adult polliwogs known as tree frogs. Nonstop shrill chirping, as the frogs argue about whatever it is that frogs argue about, sounds not unlike the back-up beepers on an industrial vehicle and leaves us married to our earplugs.
At Oistins fish market we stock up on flying fish, barracuda, and dolphin. Don’t worry, the latter is not Flipper, it’s just a blunt headed mahi-mahi fish that’s so tasty they had to name it twice! No longer pillaging the seas, the Pirates of the Caribbean are now in the restaurant business; charging criminally exorbitant prices for meals majoring in mediocrity with the soup unflavorful, the meat unchewable, the bread unbreakable, and the bill unbelievable!
The island national pastime here is ‘liming’, a Bajan term for lazily mingling with friends while eating, slurping rum, or ‘slamming a dom’. Of course all these activities are just runner-ups to the island’s most popular hobby; the afternoon snooze! In this Caribbean ‘nation of nod’ napping is treated like an Olympic event, reaffirming our opinion that a lackadaisical Bajan’s only form of cardio is running late!
Our favorite spot for liming is Barbados Yacht Club on crescent-shaped Carlisle Bay. The turquoise water is sea turtle habitat, and snorkeling among them is flipping magic. Scrutinizing one underwater I follow it up to the surface, and as our heads simultaneously pop out into the air, I give its back a gentle rub. It dopily gazes directly at me with noncommittal eyes, then taking a big gulp of air the lovely ocean lawnmower descends back to the sea bottom to continue cropping a lunch of sea grass.
In the buoyant blue sea I also encounter an unusual bottom dweller called a Bat Fish. Looking like an alien creature out of a science-fiction film, it has two humanoid ‘feet’ that allow it to walk on the seabed, and huge pectoral fins that morph into wings to escape if threatened. Oh yes, it also has what looks like a human’s nose; and no, I swear I have not been into the fermented cane juice again!
Beach-running with my bare feet imprinting the sandy shores of Carlisle Bay, I stride past lovable little Sandpiper birds comically engaging in a little running of their own. Chasing newly broken waves ebbing back into the sea to peck up tiny bits of breakfast, they then execute a swift turn of tail feathers and frantically sprint back up the shore to avoid a devastating bird bath from the next incoming wave.
Another delightful aspect of Carlisle Bay is watching the muscular race horses enjoy some healthy downtime away from their stables. At dawn, horse handlers bring their lean machines from the nearby Garrison Savannah Race Course down to the beach and lead them into the salty sea for a swim.
Seawater helps soothe the skin and muscles of the sleek thoroughbreds as they playfully prance about in the shallows. The soft sand underfoot offers a low impact, with their joints and muscles supported by the sea. It’s much like professional athletes running in a pool, except these stunning ‘seahorses’ have the luxury of enjoying a little horseplay in one of nature’s finest hydrotherapy pools!
Concluding our Caribbean stay at Barbados Yacht Club under the canopy of aged Mahoe trees, the conversation turns to the awaiting frigidity back in Canada. My island friend reminds me of an old Bajan proverb that states; ‘snow belongs on the mountains and ice belongs in a glass’! As lifelong followers of the yellow star, Christine and I could not agree more, and fingers crossed, by the time we get back to Canada there will be neither of either!
Mark Colegrave February 2020