Fear & Loathing in Barbados

The sun hadn't heated us up as much as our behavior. The second day was hot. The sun was no joke. But there was no time for fooling around. We had no bathing suits nor toothbrushes and we needed it all, quick. We rented a car, no cadillac. Suzuki Swift; steering column on the right side, preparing you to drive on the other side of the road. He's no longer without a license, but yes, it was in the suitcase. This means me behind the wheel. Though many others may disagree, the enduring amount of alcohol in my system put me on the opposite side at ease. Soon enough, I pulled over, and we had to switch.

Slowly acclamating to the other side of the road, and these shapely roundabouts, we soon persistently and impatiently arrived at the airport, both uneasily hoping that our luggage awaits us. For once, the American Airlines employee was understanding. Perhaps it is their unsincere sense of urgency and unerotic chaos that puts the majority of their panties in a twist.

Astonished, we are no longer without. We'll head back to the hotel after customs turns us loose, but not before stopping for a cooler & booze. Not one, not two, but three Barbadian markets before we can find an industrial styrofoam cooler at $40 Barbados. Fortunately, we have two handles in the suitcase. All we need is coke. No charlie. We packed the cooler, smoked a bit more, and before we'd come conscious of our surroundings, we were driving around the island like lost sheep. Pull yourselves together! Find a beach! And that we did. A nice traquil spot. We make out some shade, white sand, calm water, and a dune to park on. "Be careful," I say. "We don't want to get stuck here."

Hours of romping in the water, drinking rum & cokes, walking east and soaking up sun. He and I are content - even with one another. Our mystique became transparent as the rum bottle emptied. Around 3, the sun moved west,andwe decided to pack up, and involuntarily compose another adventure. The car doesn't reverse 10 feet before I feel it slide down the shallow dune. Now what? "Whatever you do, don't spin those tires any more!"

Before you know it, we'd dug ourselves an even deeper hole, and much to our audience's amusement. A family of 10 or so hovered over us from a porch, entertained as they watch us in dissaray. But soon enough, the light-hearted Christine was offering us her family's help, and delighted they were to do so. First we thought, the car is light, let's try and lift it. Skinned shins later, unsuccessful. Two 2-by-4 hoists later, unsuccessful. In time, a rugged flatbed chugging along by two islanders backs up to us with a rope -- no AAA here, but rather, more astonishing and prevailing with the soul, good samaritans.

Sheltered only by a bikini, I jump over the concrete wall on to the central highway that connects Oistins & Worthing. Traffic stopped, the man hooks a rope from one bumper to another, and jerked us out of that damned sand pit. We thank them all endlessly, and get ourselves out of there quick. It was time for a few more beers.

We head towards Bridgetown-the country's lucid capital. We park the car in some unknown territory in the city-centre and head for the streets of this heavily black populated city. I soon realize I no longer am wearing sandals, which must have been left behind in our great sand debacle. No pictures could be taken of this great mess, for the man behind the wheel would have been furious. We buy a pair of sandals, soon after, some cigarettes, and then persuaded to try this Barbadian Ackee fruit. Don't be hindered by it's hard shell, for the pulpy inside liberates a tart, tasty fruit.

Darkness is upon us and we realize we made no note of where we'd parked. Not smart, for the city, it's people, and surroundings blend together at dusk like the mysterious bat caves in elementary zoo field trips. Which is exactly where we'd begun to feel we were. More panic. We pace around what seems like a large city for almost an hour. Still no car. We give up and battle with one of the taxis to drive us around & find the car for $25 American. 15 minutes later, there it was. Relief came over the taxi, but not for long. The attorney reaches for his wallet, but it's not there. It has slipped away, the driver is mad, gas light is on, and fury comes hovering in a cloud over us. No credit card, no license, no bar card. We assure the man to come by our hotel and we'll pay him.

Our mission to make it back to the gap in time for dinner was just as treacherous. Half of it consisted of my body half out the window yelling, "which way to Worthing?"; the other half was Mat's undisclosed expression of panic to the ever-glowing gas light.

It became obvious we needed to eat something. Sweet Potatoes, authentic Bajan cuisine it was. But only to my disaray, half way through the meal, the man didn't feel well, and off to the bathroom he went. One kind man approaches my table 10 minutes later, suprising me with the fact that Mat's been sick on the bathrooom floor. Hastenly I head in their direction, pick the man up, watch the unlit eyes roll back until the pupils are no longer, splash some water and slap him out of it. Unlucky for him, I had finished all the macaroni pie.

The madness had finally caught up with him. And now, I was tired as well. I pack him in to the passenger's seat, make my second attempt at driving in this silly way, and unload ourselves back to that beautiful bedcover.