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Protecting your wicket
The previous description of island life being slow somewhat overstated the pace in the customs section of the central post office in Bridgetown, everything is done at so far less than a dawdle it is hard at times to discern life at all. That was aside from the woman who summonsed Marty, or rather barked at him, from down one end of the counter to the other and then unceremoniously branded him a law-breaker in front of everyone there. “It is illegal,” she said, “to wear any sort of camouflage clothing in a government building, you cannot stay,” the offending dress being a pair of rip-off Billabong shorts brought from the markets in Phuket. Shamefaced we left the empty-handed, but not before they told us they wouldn’t hand over the packages we came to collect because they were addressed to Fleur, not us.
No such disrespect was shown, however, by Cory, the nice young man who delivered the sewing machine with wheels we hired instead of a car so we could get about Barbados. Braithwaite, he told us, was an island name but he did not seem to appreciate our exceedingly witty retort, that it seemed the most common surname of those reported in the daily newspaper, The Nation, as appearing before the local magistrate. Sensing that we were on a different humour wavelength, we applauded Ryan Braithwaite’s (actually it turns out he is probably spelled Brathwaite, the newspapers use both versions) recent gold medal athletic efforts, and then impressed Cory further by telling him that when at home we live, or is it lived, in Christchurch New Zealand while home here is the parish of Christ Church Barbados. The name similarities actually go further, Fleur’s father Vic lives in Bridgetown, Western Australia.
The sewing machine, a Chevrolet Spark (and who would have thought they make Chevrolets so small they fit into cornflakes packets) has a dual purpose, to let us explore some of the nooks and crannys of Barbados and to fetch and cart stuff as Fleur settles into her new home and school. Barbados is not big, 21 miles long by 14 miles wide, shaped something like an upside down comma, the Atlantic Ocean on the east and the Caribbean Sea on the west. The population is less than 300,000 and possession of narcotics, including cannabis, carries a penalty of up to twenty years in prison. On that basis, it is hard to see how half the population is not imprisoned but we think it is down to the fact that the use of cannabis is an accepted part of the Rastafarian way of life.
So, while the drug laws do not appear to be enforced, neither does it seem there are any particular road rules aside from a $B10 (around $NZ7.50) charge for a local driver’s license. We aren’t sure whether there is a speed limit, but that may be because most roads are so rough that speeds of more than about 30kph are impossible, anything faster resulting in an almost certain and violent bone-shaking death. Notwithstanding the roads, we drove almost the full 21 miles from the south, up the west coast to St Lucy in the north. Between Bridgetown and Holetown, the beachside comprises a strip of luxury resorts and golf clubs, no doubt occupying the most idyllic shores, places with alluring names such as Paradise beach, Golden Palm, Great Escape, Malibu Beach Club, and then, for good measure, Glitter Bay with its appropriately named retail outlet, Diamonds International. This tourist ghetto is perhaps the only part of the island, aside from St Lawrence Gap and Rockley Beach on the south coast, which has been despoiled by “progress” and where white faces outnumber black. It is an unfortunate reminder of the world-wide practice whereby multi-national hospitality chains build huge, often hideous, luxury resorts which effectively dispossess local communities. A feature in the weekend paper revealed that, as a result of property prices and consequentially high local authority rates booming, locals, dependent on the sea for their livelihoods, were being forced from coastal properties to relocate inland.
One thing that has not been spoiled or dampened, fortunately, is the locals’ passion for cricket; there are grounds everywhere full of men at weekends dressed in white hitting and chasing the traditional five and a half ounce red ball. And on the topic of passion, cricketers are being used to spearhead the campaign for safe sex and Aids education Oddly enough, it is a woman cricketer (a famous one no doubt) who uses the sexual middle stump analogy. “It’s your wicket, protect it”, she says, holding a condom aloft the billboard.