We were looking forward to Aruba most of all, and perhaps that’s why we were disappointed: whatever our expectations were, it failed in meeting them. Even the tour guide seemed hard-pushed to find anything of note to point out, so much so that the tour involved a stop at a “natural bridge” that had fallen into the sea, meaning it was now a natural hole in which lay a pile of rock. While the beaches were beautiful and the sand so fine it massaged your toes as it slipped effortlessly between them, the overwhelming sense was one of cold ostentation, the roads lined with gated expat homes and huge, faceless resorts bearing the names of major international chains – Marriott, Hyatt, Ritz-Carlton. The town was hot and crowded with the human contents of the three cruise ships in port that day, and even the iguanas sunning themselves on the edge of the harbour looked jaded.
Much more appealing was its lesser-known sibling island of Bonaire – a place I’m ashamed to admit I’d never even heard of until we booked the cruise. The B of the ABC islands (the C being Curacao), Bonaire is famous amongst the diving community but hardly anyone else. Surrounded by lethal coral beaches that are so sharp they cut your feet if you go in without protection, it doesn’t attract the sunseekers of its neighbour, and as such as unexpectedly peaceful and devastatingly beautiful. Its town is a calmer version of neighbouring Oranjestad, full of brightly-coloured buildings but devoid of the throngs of tourists and the hustlers that follow them.
Our third stop on our relentless southern Caribbean tour, having bypassed Curacao and glided within waving distance of Martinique, was St Lucia. This is somewhere I have always wanted to visit and, visually at least, it didn’t disappoint. Unfortunately our visit coincided with that of Prince Edward and, strangely enough, it turns out minor royals of former colonisers aren’t necessarily all that popular. I briefly flirted with the idea of pretending I was Canadian rather than be linked, however distantly, to this prince normally referred to as “…and the other one” by an accident of nationality.
St Lucia is another country associated with eye-wateringly expensive hotels and well-heeled tourists who tend not to venture far beyond them. It also has some of the most terrifying roads I’ve ever been driven on, making the whole experience a bit like a theme park ride with unexpectedly grand scenery. St Lucia also has poverty that we didn’t see elsewhere on our trip, one of the highest homicide rates in the Caribbean. While the island is so often associated with luxury, that luxury is locked away behind high-security gates and even literal “KEEP OUT: PRIVATE PROPERTY” signs and, as in the past, is the preserve of its modern-day colonial masters from Europe and the US.
The final stop before the Snowbirds could really say they were on the way home was Antigua. Notably more equitable than St Lucia in terms of living standards, and thankfully with considerably better roads, Antigua is a sparkling, quietly confident cornucopia of hidden coves, natural harbours and even rainforests, punctuated by (generally) tasteful manmade additions. St John’s, the capital, was completely closed, it being a Sunday, and seemed reassuringly boring and unnoteworthy. Antigua was also where our uneasy agreement whereby my husband can have consistently comfortable holidays momentarily broke down, because I somehow managed to persuade him to go ziplining through a rainforest. There is photographic evidence of both of us, but his facial expressions in every photo suggest that ziplining is a very serious business, whereas mine are the visual equivalent of shouting “WHEEEEEEEEE!!!!!”, which I’m pretty sure I did several times as I flailed inelegantly through the canopy.
tuesdayinbucharest 