The Effect of Rain on a Restless Soul
Tit-a-tit-tit Tit-a-tit-tit...
I awoke to the sound of torrential rain beating against our tin roof.
It’s a sound I don’t hear in Brooklyn, one that put me at ease.
It doesn’t matter that I’m on vacation, or that we had planned to explore the highly recommended beaches on the West coast.
It was time to slow down.
Harrison's Cave: Nature's Gallery
Imagine being carried down into the heart of the earth. You are surrounded by humid darkness. A darkness so encompassing, you are lulled into a deep calm. In the distance, you hear the steady rush of a waterfall. This sound reverberates around you, and you are overwhelmed by a sense of peace. Harrison's Cave in the St. Thomas province in Barbados is a magical place where stalagmites and stalactites break open to reveal a naturally occurring gallery of beauty.
I almost didn’t make it to Harrison’s Cave. It was not on my list of things to do. My boyfriend suggested the trek but I was hesitant. My love of nature typically applies only to things green or watery. Having never actually been to a cave, it didn’t sound particularly appealing . The word cave conjured images of a dark underground mass of dirty, slippery rocks. I would have been content to spend the day on the beach, but unable to ignore his enthusiasm, I went with the plan, fighting off images of bats diving into my hair and of rats attacking my flip-flopped feet (for surely all caves were inhabited by evil rats and bats).
Pulling up in our taxi, we were met by tropical gardens and from our vantage point on the top of a hill, a breathtaking view of the ocean. It was not what I had expected. Harrison’s Cave is unique because it exists beneath a tropical forest canopy. It was like entering a small rain forest. In seconds, my camera was out and I began snapping pictures of butterflies, lizards, and and snails. I wasn’t lucky enough to find a Green Monkey but according to the conservationist on site, they were everywhere.
Once we paid for our tour ($30 USD), we were invited to explore a nature trail as we waited for our tour number to be called. The wait was pretty long. The tours are arranged in groups of sixteen. Each tour is about an hour long and on a busy day, you are in for a bit of a wait. Luckily, there is plenty to explore.
Nature trails were abundant. Guides were available to talk about the local habitat, medicinal plants used by locals and to assist you on your search to spot one of the mysterious Green Monkeys. There were also several shops with goods ranging from local artwork and pottery to Cadbury ice cream pops. When our number was called, we were brought into a planetarium-like amphitheatre where we watched a short video on the history of the caves. After our video, we were loaded into an electric tram and were driven through the winding splendor that is Harrison’s Cave. There were two points of disembarkation, but for the most part, we were asked to remain seated with our hands inside the vehicle. As we rode, the guide talked to us about calcium deposits and limestone, pointed out stalagmites and stalactites and stopped in front of various waterfalls and formations expertly backlit, glimpses into another world.
There were no bats, no rats; instead I found peace and an appreciation for nature’s artistic edge. An hour later, we found ourselves at the base of an open canopy forest trail, squinting beneath the afternoon sun. The hike back to the visitor center was a quick ten minutes. The trail was simple, expertly landscaped, and paved with wooden planks.
A changed woman, I exited through the doors of the visitor center, with a new appreciation for caves. No longer would the term cave conjure up dark images of dank festering rocky labyrinths, I had a new image, the image of nature’s elaborate art gallery and the feeling of being blanketed in peace.
Mt. Gay Rum Tour
Barbados is the home of the oldest Rum company, Mt. Gay Rum. The tiny island receives much acclaim for its production of this sweet and intoxicating liquor. This being said, it seemed only proper that we take a Mt. Gay rum tour. Tours of the Mt. Gay Rum plant, last about thirty minutes and are broken down into three parts. The first part of the tour began in an exhibition room and was a formal historical look at Rum production in Barbados. Having just finished “Bury the Chains”, I was haunted by the knowledge of the brutal treatment of slaves on the sugar plantations of the Caribbean Islands. I was particularly disturbed, yet not surprised, when our tour guide skipped entirely over the slave trade, how she failed to mention that slaves in the sugar mills in Barbados fared the worst out of many other groups of slaves, how the life expectancy of a slave working in the sugar cane fields was around thirty and that oftentimes the women were worked so hard that they couldn’t even bear children. Not to be a Debby Downer, but this is truly the bulk of the history of sugar cane production, rum production. But of course, our lovely tour guide skimmed over the hard facts for our mostly British tour group and talked about the prettier glory days of rum. Despite the direct historical omissions, the tour was informative.
For the second part of the tour, we worked our way into the active factory and observed workers on an assembly line, bottling and preparing bottles of rum. I grew bored of this in about two minutes, however many people gaped in awe, so in this respect, take my word with a grain of salt.
The tour culminated with our group being received in a colonial style bar for my favorite part of the adventure, the rum tasting. We sampled two different types of rums that were so strong and aged; they tasted to me like brandy. In fact, that isn’t too surprising since apparently all of the barrels for Mt. Gay rum, are imported from a Brandy company in Tennessee, where they are smoked then used to store rum.
After the tasting, we drank and relaxed in the gardens. I tried to get the authentic recipe for rum punch from the bartender, but he spoke so fast and with such a heavy accent, all I understood was bitters and nutmeg. So it is…
*****
The Mermaid of Black Rock is back. We met a man yesterday at Weiser's restaurant who rents kayaks (everyone here has a side hustle). For twenty American dollars we are going to be allowed to use Steve’s kayak for the entire day (forget the fact that neither Mark or I have an understanding of how to kayak).
We walked back to Brandon’s Beach from the rum factory (a quick 15 minutes) just in time to catch Steve the kayak man.
“You can swim right? You two are sure you can swim?”
“Yes, don’t worry, we can swim.”
“But you can swim I mean…like really swim?”
“Yes…I’m pretty sure.”
His concern was beginning to worry me.
“But you can swim in the ocean?”
“We have been going for swims in the ocean every day. And look, we are still here. Why?”
“No reason, am just wondering. I am just making sure. We don’t need any dead Americans.”
Dead Americans? Immediately my shark radar went off.
“Steve, are there sharks or anything in the water we should know about?”
“Not in the water, on land.” He belted. And with that, we were whisked off into the ocean.
“When you make it back, you pay!”
I would be a liar if I left out the fact that I took a good moment to send up my most earnest prayer.
The kayak was surprisingly svelte. After a few awkward strokes, I found a rhythm. Two strokes to the right and two to the left – balance. It was all about finding balance. The water was gentle, the zephyrs were light, the sun was setting. We took turns rowing and made sure to glide along horizontal to the shore to avoid going out too far. It was lovely. Eyes to the clouds and setting sun, being lulled by the waves, I was so very much at peace.
Two hours at sea, being bounced about by the waves, equals twenty dollars well spent.
*****
After kayaking, we returned to the water to swim. The tide was beginning to come in. What was in the morning placid and clear became foggy and rambunctious. Nevertheless, we splashed and floated amongst the salty waves. The water was so warm and welcoming, having spent the day, soaking in warmth from the sun.
Crowded later in the day, the water was full of teenagers, couples off from work, fathers teaching their sons to swim, mothers and grandmothers simply catching up. It was a beautiful scene.
“Imagine having Brandon’s Beach as your Coney Island.” I said in a brief moment of jealousy.
“Imagine.” Mark replied, gazing towards the glow of the setting sun.
A very long day
I can settle into a place like this. Even the breeze takes its time. I’m not sure if it was the orchestral ensemble of midnight’s creatures from fields near and far, so loud and sweet they drowned out the traffic (I’m on a main road). Perhaps it’s the slow dramatic slip of the sun, which starts at six thirty, becoming a sweet memory by seven, but I can settle into a place like this. For the next week, I shall refer to myself as The Mermaid of Black Rock. It was a tough morning. I rose tired and groggy. Despite the ceiling fan and the oscillating fan by our bed, it was hot. At 7:30, I was in a heat coma and for lack of a better word, rendered lazy and baffled.
Clearly not from the Islands, my virgin palate was sucked dry from last night’s Mt. Gay Rum and coke experiment. I had played bartender. The same rules just don’t apply. What works in Brooklyn with Bacardi, does not work in Barbados with Mt. Gay – lesson #3. I needed to work on my portion control.
Having rented a house right off of the main road in Black Rock, we made our way to the beach, first thing. We were a five-minute walk away.
Barbados is an island 21 miles in length. Everywhere you go seems to lead to the water. The water behind our cottage house was turquoise green bliss. It was like walking back into the womb. Fine feathery sand met my feet, an expense of welcoming ocean before me. I love swimming in the ocean. I list it as one of my hobbies. That being said, I am hyper-aware of the dangers and am proud to report that they were few and far between. Warm clear water for miles, free of jellyfish and sea urchins. This was truly one of the best oceans for swimming that I have ever happened upon minus a particularly refreshing expanse of ocean off the coast of Zanzibar. When I tell you that I spent hours swimming underwater and playing dead man’s float, I am not exaggerating.
We decided to walk further down the stretch of beach since we saw a cruise ship docked in the distance. We made our way barefoot and in the sand to Brandon Beach. It was if we walked a great walk to heaven. Brandon Beach was even more secluded, even clearer, even warmer and pristine than what we had left. Brandon beach was so warm and shallow, that I walked literally 40 feet into the ocean and the water never rose above my 5’5” frame. In fact, my head was fully above water the entire time. This was where the locals came to play. And I say this, with caution, because the expanse was still very secluded. Besides myself (The Mermaid of Black Rock) and Mark, I counted only seven other people.
We swam and floated until sun burnt and hungry we surrendered. Where to go? What to do? We were two people on a vacation having done no research. Having purchased no guide books, possessing not even a map, we followed our noses to a locally owned restaurants on the beach and ordered two lunch specials. My fresh catch of the day, fried in local spices was AMAZING! And let’s take a moment here please to pay homage to the gods of rum punch. The rum punch was phenomenal. The punch was strong, but it was sweet, it was fruity, but it was spicy and was adorned with freshly ground nutmeg. Oh man, I could truly settle into this place.
Day one and I don’t want to return. I’m reminded of my days in Mozambique. There is something so appealing about this life, something so sacred. A voice inside tells me I am a fool to be living in Brooklyn.
After lunch, we take a nap, because when in the Islands, do as the islanders do….
Restless after twenty minutes, I took an hour to work on my writing before waking Mark to explore the capital Bridgetown.
Bridgetown was a quick ride away in the ever-familiar converted cargo van for public transportation vehicles I have learned to love from my many adventures in the developing world. The van was crowded, but well ventilated. We sped along the road, music blasting, taking in the sights and sounds of our home for the next ten days.
Downtown Bridgetown too was familiar. There is something very uniform about colonial cities, the lush gardens, the fountains and surrounded compounds. In Bridgetown, it was charming how the ocean appeared always to be just in the distance.
Unfortunately everything closed early. We walked around downtown, happened upon a group of people practicing steel pan, found a cricket game, wandered into an open gallery to check out the work of a local painter and became familiar with what is honored as the oldest tree in Barbados, an enormous Baobab. It was a beautiful tree.
We wandered aimlessly, noting things that we would come back to do in the following days. We wandered and wandered until we found ourselves at the docks, a touristy yacht infested part of town. Cruise ships dropped passengers off here where they could buy diamond jewelry at a reduced price and shop till they dropped at pricey chain stores. We passed malls that felt like Macy’s and passed restaurants bearing tacky titles like “Barbados Bills” and “Slow Grind Café”.
Out of curiosity, we stopped in one of the restaurants “Slow Wine” for a sample of rum punch. Would it be better or worse that the punch we had earlier at the bungalow restaurant? No. The punch was terrible. It tasted like Hawaiian Punch sans rum and all.
After Mark questioned the waitress as to where to go for some good local fish, we were off, to navigate our way to dinner.
It seems everyone here has a Brooklyn story. Collin lived in Brooklyn for fourteen years and recalled each and every one of his former addresses to us while speaking of his glory years as a tennis instructor at Queens College. We took our fish to go and set off in search of a bus or cargo van to take us back. “Spitesville” we learned, was the name of our stop thanks to the kind waitress who had taken the time to orient us back at “Slow Wine.”
We scuttled back to our house and anxiously ripped into our flying fish with chips. I wish I could say it was an amazing and defining meal, but it just wasn’t. It was, to be honest sub-par. But hey, you win some, you lose some, but you keep on tasting and smelling and listening and touching and looking because you’re bound to discover something amazing – eventually.
Journey to Barbados
I am jolted awake. Crickets sing to me from the alarm clock on my phone. It’s four am and I’m not impressed. Clicking snooze, I roll over and wrap my arm around my sleeping boyfriend. Ten more minutes. Thirty minutes later I’m in the shower grinning to myself. Barbados – I’m on my way to Barbados. Vacation time has finally arrived and I, lucky me, will be in Barbados for ten days.
Twenty minutes later we are walking down the quiet street. Brooklyn is a cool frame before the sunrise. She sends us forth with her blessings; after all, it’s vacation time and we’re going to Barbados. Our belongings are packed into the trunk of the car and we take off breezily down the street.
The plan is to drop the car off with a friend. Leaving a car unattended on the street for ten days is a big no-no, in the world of New York parking. We have arranged to meet Dee at five in front of his brownstone where he will drop us off at the airport and take over car duty until our return.
At five sharp we are in front of the house but there is no Dee. My boyfriend, ever calm and patient in the midst of adversity begins to call his friend repeatedly. When this doesn’t work, he heads to the porch to ring the buzzer. In the passenger seat I began to fill with silent unmoving dread. Our vacation, our beautiful Barbados vacation, I can see it slipping away and I am becoming restless and angry.
Ten minutes, twenty minutes, we are running out of time. Without another moment to spare, the car is parked and the keys are left in the mailbox with a note. With the vigor of Vikings, efficiently and expeditiously we pile our bags on the curb, hail a cab, load our luggage and speed off.
No matter how prepared you are, things just may not work out as planned. I smiled to myself remembering Maputo, Mozambique, two and a half years earlier. It had been around the same hour. The southern African sky was an intricate web of constellations and flashes. Bats swooped around us as crickets sang an alto melody. Being feasted on by mosquitoes, my friend Sergio and I waited in the empty courtyard by the gate. We had been in Maputo for a week and were headed further North, I to Inhambane, he to Namantanda. A taxi had been called to pick us up at precisely four am to take us to the bus terminal.
Eager for our journey we made our way through looming eucalyptus groves and fragrant magnolia blossoms, towards the large white gates near the sleeping guard, where our taxi was scheduled to arrive. Leaning against each other’s backs for support, we made ourselves comfortable in the tall grass and waited. I didn’t mind the wait at first, neither did Sergio, the night was stunning. It represented the magnificence of Mozambique, fragrant, breathtaking, calm, melodic and mysterious.
One hour turned into two, then three. The guard ensured us that our taxi was coming. “Patienca.” He reprimanded us like children – patience. Watching the sky expand and welcome the hazy pale morning we weren’t so certain.
The mosquitoes had vanished and the sun was scorching by the time our taxi slid to a stop in front of the gate. We had missed our busses.
I hate to rush when I’m traveling. I need to be calm and balanced to get the most out of the experience. I’m easily frazzled and prefer to arrive early, take my time, have a nice breakfast, perhaps settle down with a magazine or two before boarding. My boyfriend Mark is more of an improviser. With minutes before the final boarding call, we are rushing towards the only food vendor in sight. The order is placed in my sweaty palms the moment our names are called over the loudspeaker for the final boarding call warning. We sprint to the terminal and board the plane in time to learn that we have an hour and a half wait on the runway before we will be cleared for departure.
We settled in our seats to devour our breakfasts. Two hours later, finally in the air, exhausted by four hours of sleep the night before, I drifted in and out of consciousness.
The Bajan breeze greets us around three pm. We are looking for Mark’s cousin Michael. Mark has never met this cousin, and we find ourselves in the middle of an interesting game of “Where’s Michael”. According to Mark’s grandfather, the facilitator of the arrangement, Michael would be holding a sign to identify himself. We walk back and forth to the amusement of a crowd of taxi drivers for about an hour. There is no Michael.
Mark calls home, to get Michael’s contact information. His grandfather, well into his nineties, accidentally gave Michael the wrong information, leading him to believe that our flight would come in tomorrow and not today.
After more confusion, Michael himself is contacted. At work and not expecting us, we are told to sit tight until he or his son is able to pick us up.
My mood went from pure enthusiasm to dismal. Welcome to Barbados. We sat, on a curb in front of the arrivals terminal. Eager to move, I petitioned to take a cab but Mark was content to sit and wait, naively certain our ride would come any minute.
Creating a beach chair out of our luggage I resigned myself. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine I was by the ocean, but the sound of car engines and the light smell of exhaust quickly ruined that illusion.
Three traffic humps adorn the street before the arrivals gate. Literally eye-to-eye with car tires, I am amazed. Every single car slows to a near stop easing the front tires then the back tires over the obstacle before continuing. Was this a lesson? Easy does it?
I couldn’t spot a single cross walk yet pedestrians seemed to have the right of way. If someone appeared as though they were even thinking of crossing the street, cars, slowed to a near stop to allow them safe passage.
In New York, people sped and clamored over humps as if they were things to be conquered. Here, people eased over the humps as if they were helping hands, friends to wish them a safe journey. I can’t help but relax a little.
At six thirty, the sun begins to cast a tangerine glow across the sky as it sinks down to eventually to disappear into an indigo twilight. While this magnificent show is taking place, our ride pulls up. Michael’s son, also named Michael, friendly and easy going, helps us into the car before sweeping us off to the guest-house we are renting. Cruising past fertile sugar cane plantations, the sweet breeze kissing my cheeks in welcome, I am possessed with the feeling, one that assures me everything is going to be alright.
Montreal Photo Gallery
The Notre-Dame Basilica
In the heart of downtown Montreal, the Notre-Dame Basilica is a beautiful haven of peace.
Modeled after Notre-Dame in Paris, the Basilica is an ornate wonder.
The energy inside was very positive. I love the overwhelming sense of peace that strikes while inside a holy place.
Lynne and I opted to guide ourselves, but tours are also available for a small price.
Don't forget to light a candle or two before you leave.
Buy Local, shop in St. Sauveur
In the mood to shop. Take a day trip via highway 15, up North to St. Sauveur in the Laurentians. You'll find a cozy ski resort town full of quaint local shops. Montreal has a unique fashion scene. Clothes, unlike the gray, frozen landscape, are brightly colored and full of texture. I was in winter sweater heaven.
And a bit of good news. The American dollar converts in our favor in Canada (for now ; ) ).
Balnea Spa
In the Southern countryside of Quebec, past long stretches of snowy valleys and ice-covered lakes lies a magical experience. When Lynne told me to bring my bathing suit because we’d be going to a spa I did as I was told expecting nothing more than the typical gym amenities such as a hot tub and sauna.
I was surprised our spa visit was planned out as a day trip. My questions were all met with "you'll see", so I sat back, and didn't think much of it. The drive to Balnea Bromont-Sur-Le-Lac was a picturesque two hours outside of downtown Montreal.
When we finally arrived, it was as if I was staring at medieval castle at the top of a very large hill. The building was impressive and imposing. Walking through the doors, we were greeted by the calming scent of eucalyptus, then placid "bonjours", before being presented with a locker key, bottle of water, bath robe and a towel. After locking up our goods and changing into our suits Lynne dropped the bomb. I was informed that the hot tubs were outside (in the 15 degree weather) and that part of our spa circuit would include a dip in freezing cold water (also outside). Enter apprehension. Montreal is gray and frozen in the winter. We just drove through feet of snow. It was too late for me to request that we do something else to pass our time. I was not excited about being in my swim suit in the fifteen degree weather.
The spa was set up in a round of circuits. The first stop was a hot tub (we had several to choose from, each with it’s own theme/concept), the second stop was a steam room/sauna (once again, there were several to choose from), the third stop was a dip for at least thirty seconds in a vat of ice-cold water, the fourth stop was a twenty-minute rest in one of the many relaxation rooms.
The moment our flip-flopped feet began trudging through the snow (there was about five inches on the ground and it was actively snowing outside) I began to shiver. Taking my robe off and slipping out of my shoes, I began an internal dialogue of curses. However, the moment I slid into the outdoor hot tub overlooking a chain of mountains, I was at ease. It was so peaceful in the water. Soothing nature sounds were on loop from a speaker system nearby, aromatherapy was released into the air. It was great. I could have relaxed out there for the entire day (unfortunately, we were on a circuit and that was not in the cards). After thirty minutes, we were ready for the second circuit. Getting out of the water from one station to the next was painful. Our second station was a eucalyptus scented steam room. We steamed our pores clean for about twenty minutes, before diving into an ice-cold outdoor waterfall. Surprisingly the outdoor cold waterfall wasn’t too terrible. The moment I got out, I was hyper-aware of my circulatory system and limbs. It is hard to describe, but my veins felt larger, my blood warmer. Our final stop on the first circuit was a peaceful rest room set up with lawn chairs and pillows and panoramic views of the mountains.
The circuit is apparently an extremely healthy way to relax. The heat, steam and cold, remove toxins, improve circulation and improve the clarity of your skin. We did three rounds and stuck around for lunch at the Balnea cafeteria which was another pleasurable experience.
I would recommend this spa to anyone interested in a getaway. The saunas and hot tubs are co-ed, so this would make an amazing romantic getaway.
Balnea Spa Bromont-Sur-Le-Lac 319 Chemin du Lac Gale Bromont, Quebec J2L 2S5
www.balnea.ca
Jean-Talon Market
The Jean-Talon Market is the great central market of Montreal. Impressive in the winter, I was told it is even more impressive in the summer when scores of people congregate outside and in to browse the food stands. Be prepared to have your nostrils assaulted by the alluring sweet and savory aromas of French food. Fresh crepes, they’ve got them, fromage (cheese), mais oui, and in an assortment of varieties. Fresh flowers, bread, meat and fish, are also sold out of neat little stalls and mini-shops. Everything is locally produced and tantalizingly fresh.
I walked away with a jar of lavender/violet preserves and a jug of rum infused maple syrup. I love charming little touches.
Also present were several cider vendors. The cider is a local favorite. Mild in alcoholic content, it is used to wash down a good meal, a digestive of sorts I have been told. Vendors are more than happy to provide you with samples if you request one. I'm not going to lie, I'm actually not a fan of cider, it was too reminiscent of beer for my tastes (I am a die-hard wino).
The market is a great place to find goods hailing from the indigenous Inuit population. Most of the Amerindians have been herded onto reservations in the North. This seems to be the sad story of the Americas. I bought some shaman-blessed traditional Inuit tea, promising mental clarity and detoxification. We'll see...
Anyhow, if you want to get into the mix and get a sense of local culture, the Jean-Talon market in downtown Montreal is a must-do!
Poutine
When you visit Montreal, and if you are doing it correctly, prepare to put on pounds. I’m really not sure how the local population stays so thin (one of the secrets of the French I can only imagine). Local food is a rich delight. I didn’t have a single bad meal. Well, I had one, but that’s another story for another post involving a very stubborn and bland fish called Monsieur Lionelle Rouge.
One of my favorite local delicacies was poutine, a fattening bowl of crispy fried potato wedges, large chunks of fresh curdled cheese and a savory gravy sauce. Poutine, I learned, comes in many varieties (such as - with chicken, with pasta sauce, etc.). I opted for the tried and true original.
The portions that I saw were large. Be warned, you may not be able to move afterwards, you may have a heart attack, but it is so, so, good. And at the end of the day, doesn’t that make it worth it?
Montreal
I headed to Montreal to see Lynne. Lynne of Mozambique fame (reference entries way way down....no...keep going...there you go). It has been over a year since I said farewell to Lynne near the dusty Mercado Central in Inhambane and over a decade since I've last set foot in Montreal (I used to go every February in high school with the French teacher).
My main objective during this trip - catch-up with Lynne of course and EAT EAT EAT!
Bumming around the Bahammas
We let our noses and stomachs lead the way. Having been to the Bahamas before, there was nothing touristy that we needed to do. So, we rented a motor bike and created our own excursion.
After biking a loop around the scenic periphery of Nassau, we needed food, but not just any food, something unique, something local. Sustainable tourism tip: Eat local whenever you can!
We were in Nassau, heading into the touristy area of Atlantis. Under the bridge that will bring you to Atlantis, is an amazing array of locally owned restaurants. Featured at most of these establishments was the shining culinary jewel of the Bahamas- conch. We were knew we had to try the conch.
Our meal was delicious. The conch was sweet and tender. The service was super friendly and surprisingly quick. One of the restaurant owners even brought us wine and joined us for a drink and chat. It was fantastic: great food, cultural exchange, money pumped back into the hands of the locals and not some fancy foreign owned restaurant with an overpriced menu.
And memories...
Cahuita: Life on the Caribbean Coast
I turned 30 today right here overlooking the Caribbean Sea. It was the perfect place to welcome my third decade. Happy birthday to me! After staying in San Jose with my friend Liza, my beautiful boyfriend flew out from New York to celebrate with me. Wanting a nice romantic beach location, I scanned my guidebook for ideas. We ended up taking a bus to the town of Cahuita nestled right on the Caribbean coast.
Cahuita, an English-speaking enclave of people, descendants of Jamaicans brought to Costa Rica as laborers, was truly a laid back and cool place. The people were so friendly and chill, I felt like I was in the Caribbean.
We stayed in a little backpackers bungalow right on the beach. A row of hammocks was set up right outside of our door overlooking the ocean. Every night, we were lulled to sleep by the sound of the ocean waves. I opene the door in the morning to an exquisite view of the Caribbean Sea.
In the bungalow next door, is a couple from Australia. We buddied up for a few days playing dominoes like the locals (everywhere we went, men sat out with a bottle of beer and a game of dominoes), eating (I wasn't too impressed with the food), snorkeling (watch out for the sea urchins) and grabbing drinks at local dive establishments.
Cahuita has a reputation for being dangerous. People in San Jose were constantly warning me about the dangers on the other side of the country. I found the exact opposite. People were extremely friendly and welcoming. I believe that common sense is always a persons best guide.
Cahuita Photo Gallery:
Beautiful Arenal
On our way back from Nicaragua ( a very confusing way back due to a bus mix-up and a rain storm) we decided to stop in Arenal before returning to San Jose. Arenal is the lush mountainous region in the north, famous for its volcano.
I'm so glad we made the decision to stop, Arenal was simply stunning.
After walking about forty minutes on foot in the rain, we made our way to a hostel and settled in.
I went on a hike through a rainforest canopy.
I went on a horseback trek through the mountains.
There were so many things to do, all of which were easily arranged at our hostel. Arenal is a major tourist stop in Costa Rica and there is no shortage of hostels and spur of the minute activities to partake in.
The Rich Coast
Costa Rica marked my first trip to Central America. It took me too long to visit. I can't wait to return. "Latin America," my friend Kelley recently described, "is a diverse rainbow."
Her description of the people and the land was dead-on. Like many post-colonial nations, the people are a blend of their unique stories and histories. In the capital of San Jose a lot of the people seemed very Spanish European. Up North, the people had a different way about them, perhaps they had more Amerindian blood? They were very laid back and embodied the "gaucho" style. On the Caribbean Coast, were communities of people of African descent, brought over from Jamaica, and Island Patois was spoken.
Costa Rica was a beautiful blend of cultures, tastes, energy and art. I was acutely aware of one groups sparse numbers however. You are hard pressed to find many indigenous Amerindians, they have been virtually wiped out, the amazing, disappearing people. It is a sad reality, the dirty side of the Americas.
Anyhow, Costa Rica was a beautiful adventure. Pura Vida all the way!
Grenada, Nicaragua: A Photo Journey
Beautiful Grenada
Nicaragua was a last minute, spur of the moment trip. I travelled to Costa Rica for a few weeks, and my friend Liza and I found ourselves with a little extra time on our hands. San Jose was rainy and cool, we needed out. We packed our bags, hopped a bus, set off without much of a plan and led ourselves on a tour of the charming colonial city Grenada.Grenada was only about ten hours away from San Jose. The bus ride was cheap and efficient. The ride was beautiful, I got a really great sense of Costa Rica as we travelled through the countryside. I made a mental note to stop off at Arenal on the way back.
The food in Nicaragua was fantastic. I am a big fan of the plantain and cheese in a banana leaf dish (I have no idea what it is called). The central market was a great place to grab cheap bites. Restaurants were also ubiquitous, boasting a host of local and international cuisines. Grenada stands out in my memory as a wonderful, laid-back, friendly place.
Hammocks were everywhere. The weather was wonderfully warm and humid. Peopole seemed so genuinely happy and were extremely patient about my humble attempts at speaking Spanish.
Zanzibar On a Whim
We arrived in Zanzibar without a concrete plan. We started off in Stone Town because being the capital, it was where the airport was and it was where the bulk of the music festival was. We booked our first night at a hotel and that fell through, so after securing lodging for the first few days, we became drifters, relying on the kindness of and tips from strangers.
We were not led astray. The people that we encountered, locals and ex-pats alike, were so friendly and super-accommodating.
While at dinner in Stone Town one day, we were approached by a South African man in town for the music festival. He joined our table, and happened to mention that he owned a beach front bungalow resort on the other side of the island. One thing led to another, and two days later, we were off to meet our new friend and stay on his resort to experience the ocean for a few days. We got a great discount and we were the only guests since it was off-peak season. It was wonderful.
While out at a bar, one night on the other side of the island, we connected with a friend of a friend of Shaka's who owned a kite-sailing business on yet another exclusive side of the island. One thing led to another and we were invited to stay with them for a few days. We were completely taken care of. He put us up in the spare bedrooms in his house, shared his pet dogs and monkeys with us, introduced us to his friends and took us out to his favorite bars and restaurants.
Had we followed a guidebook, we would not have had this experience. Guidebooks are great, don't get me wrong. I use them all of the time, but sometimes, you just need to follow your gut and soak up an experience.
In addition, while at the music festival, I met a dj from Kenya, Abdul, who also took the time out of his busy schedule to show us around Stone Town and introduce us to friends and family members of ours. We were able to gain an inside perspective on the culture, learn a few words in Swahili and got to see our new surroundings from a beautiful local perspective. The wonderful people you meet when you travel, can truly become some of your most respected friends.
Thank you to everyone who made our trip to Zanzibar a journey to remember.