Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Caribbean, South and Central America cruise - part two

The picture below of a bank of cabins on the Brilliance of the Seas offers a useful lesson. At sea, I usually leave the curtains open. After all, there's no one out there but the birds and fish. This day we seemed to be far from land, so, I doffed my duds and went to the washroom, leaving the curtains apart. Having showered, I took my toothbrush and marched into the main cabin in a state of undress, prepared to fend off decay while admiring the waves. What I saw instead was one of the planet's biggest ships and far too many of her passengers who all seemed to be staring back at me. In what seemed agonizingly slow motion, I retreated into the bathroom. The picture was taken a few minutes later when I was clothed and most of the onlookers had disappeared, no doubt horrified by the exhibitionist on the Lirica, which had arrived in port while I was in the shower.

Puerto Limón, Costa Rica. The wreck in the next picture matched my self-esteem when, a bit overdressed, I ventured on deck hoping passengers from the other ship wouldn't recognize me.

To escape possible arrest, I took a 90-year old train into the Costa Rican rain forest.

But I could not avoid the sea. This is a black sand (from lava) beach on the Caribbean side.

Here is the train driver. He seemed friendly, but did he know my terrible secret?

Despite the morning's mishap, I bravely strike an insouciant pose at the back of the caboose, perhaps the only time I'll ever manage to ride one.

Back at sea (having escaped the clutches of the Puerto Limón constabulary), I try to unwind in one of my favourite chairs. Paul, one of the crew, cleans salt off the teak railings.

And, a deck below, a father and son watch the Lirica's wake.

Another day, another island. But this one is Roatan, off the Caribbean coast of Honduras, and it has a special meaning for me. It was here, at the home of one of my dear friends, twenty years ago almost to the month, that I spent a few weeks with a lovely young woman from Toronto. The home is still there. Do you see it just above the church?

Michael Austin was a Methodist minister and we first met in Nottingham where we both worked in radio. He and his wife Jane were later assigned to Central America. Mike was my image of - to use that trite, but, in his case, perfectly accurate phrase - a real Christian. He was also a brilliant magician (member of the prestigious Magic Circle), critically acclaimed author and playwright whose works were performed in many British theatres. One of his books is on my desk as I write. Mike last stayed with me in Canada a few years ago. He died shortly after, still young.

Those idyllic weeks on Roatan have consequently assumed something of importance in my memory. My girlfriend and I strolled in the then one-horse island 'capital', snorkelled along reefs all to ourselves, drank too much rum, and made creative use of an empty beach. Here we are at West Point back in 1987.

There was superb fresh fish in rundown seaside establishments filled with characters out of 'Cannery Row' and, at night, the few electric lights flickered in the wind. Michael took us to his churches, some of which could only be reached by boat, and to his magic show at one of the island's little diving resorts. The divers helped fund church projects. I remember the early, vague, ominous hints of large-scale future development.

This is a better view of the church and the hill up which we all used to walk, singing, after exploring the island or a night on the town. I could see 'our' room. I thought about wandering up to the house, then decided best to let it be.

There's a solitary grave near the church, that of a Methodist minister's child who died in 1868. A vestige of the British Empire, along with the English-speaking, Protestant congregations, which Mike once tended in a largely Spanish-speaking and Catholic country.

Roatan had always hoped for investment. Something to stop the young people from going away. As the Lirica rounded West Point, once achieved only by boat or a very rough, dirt 'road', I stared through my binoculars. The locals had got some of what they had wanted. On the beach we once shared with just a few iguanas, and where the rain forest had begun as the sand ended, there are now hotels and posh homes owned by foreigners, resorts and construction. There's development along what appeared to be the entire north coast. Above all the activity, paved roads curl back and forth along the hillsides. I could have wept.

Back at sea.

In Barbados, we encountered the larger sister of the tall ship I sailed across the Atlantic. It's said that the figurehead is modelled on the owner's daughter. She is much admired.

To drown my sorrows, I bought a bottle of local brew at a shoreside shop. Having filled a glass with ice, I adjourned to a lounge - empty as everyone else was off the ship - and promptly downed two glasses. Wow! It's a good thing they don't sell pre-mixed rum punch at Ontario liquor stores!

In Grenada, the damage from Hurricane Ivan in 2004 is still quite obvious, despite the impressive rebuilding of homes and businesses. This is St. George's, built in 1825.


On a less serious note, I was impressed by Grenada's efficient combination of funeral and shipping industries. It reminded me of a Chinese funeral home in Toronto called 'Wing On', as I'm sure most of its clients hope to do. And that reminds me of a funeral business close to where I lived in Bildeston, a little Suffolk village. It was owned by D'Eath and Sons. I am not kidding ...

Once away from the tourist tat, San Juan, Puerto Rico, is delightful. And I found a second-hand shop with some old swizzle sticks, including one from the Watergate Hotel in Washington.

San Juan seems to specialize in photogenic lanterns.

This is Cayo Levantado, an island off the coast of the Dominican Republic. It and the following picture are good memories for what remains of the winter.


Monday, March 19, 2007

Caribbean, South and Central America cruise - part one

Cruise ships used to make me shudder. But I am getting older and there are times when the modest prospect of a comfortable cabin, swimming pool and Caribbean warmth has appeal. For once, I planned ahead and, last summer, booked passage on the MSC Lirica, attracted by her appealing name and that the line, Mediterranean Shipping, is little known in these parts. For the record, MSC is the world's second largest container shipping company with more than three hundred vessels owned or under charter. Cruises were a second thought. However, I thought, they know how to run ships and, being Italian, the pasta and red wine should be acceptable.

The itinerary offered possibilities. Although I 'rounded the Horn' on the bridge of the old (sadly gone) Palliser Bay, I had never stood on South American soil. There was the chance of seeing some new places and of revisiting ones with memories. The price was right and winter the incentive.

I am not a technical person, but the details of ships interest me. I can happily wander alone, absorbing the design, the curves, the operation. I stand at railings for hours, watching waves and activities in port. When the ship rolls (not easy on cruise ships with such efficient stabilizers), many rush for their pills, while I (as long as the rolling is within reason) appreciate the triumph of physics over technology. But, as much as I am content on my own, the success of any trip is other people. And on this trip, as so often before, I was fortunate to encounter interesting companions.

One couple stand out. He is a charming 91-year old who fought as a gunnery officer on the USS Maryland at the Battle of the Leyte Gulf and later at Okinawa, surviving two kamikaze attacks. One night, discreetly I hope, I sat in the shadows while Dick and his wife, Barbara, took to the floor, making my attempts at 'proper' dancing seem rather pathetic. Barbara lightly kissed Dick on the cheek and I felt an unexpected envy. Far more romantic than starry-eyed couples seventy years younger. Later, when I told them that I was envious. Barbara said, "Don't be envious, be happy for us." So, when my friend Gord and I next walk - with our morning coffees - out onto the dock at Maasin in Southern Leyte, I will look on those waters (on which were fought the biggest naval battle in history) and be happy for Dick and Barbara.

It was a cruise. Didn't ask many probing questions about regional politics or social issues. Did bring along the latest book on the huge cruise industry and concerns about monopolies, pollution and exploitation of Third World workers. However, managed to put most of my guilt to the side while slumped in a deckchair. Drowned some old memories in rum punch and largely enjoyed myself.

Seen through the terminal windows, Toronto's Pearson Airport on a satisfactorily wintry morning.

The Lirica from the Fort Lauderdale terminal. I can even spot my cabin which I was in about five minutes later.

A partial view of my home for more than three weeks. I don't much like some modern art, but the prints by a Danish artist made the cabin quite cheerful.


At sea and a passenger, the deck virtually all to himself, watches the sun come up.

An empty stretch soon to be occupied by a few runners, walkers and me with the day's first coffee.

Different from the normal jogging route ...

I rather liked the morning shadows on these promenade deck doors.

Was a bit surprised to find that my book and I often had entire sections of deck to ourselves. This picture was taken at the stern. Most people tended to gather near the pools which I generally only use when a ship's in port. Everyone else rushes off and I have the pool all to myself and can pretend I'm on a largish private yacht. As I rarely take organized tours, I stay behind and then wander at will.

Hurrah! I'm in South America and stuck in the Cartagena, Colombia, traffic.

This was more what I was hoping for - an archway in Cartagena. The older part of the city reminded me of Havana. Both have a similar Spanish history and architecture.

Taken at noon, usually the worst time for photography, but this worked out nicely.

Next stop, the San Blas Islands off the coast of Panama. A Lirica officer is getting a better view. This was the only time I used a tender (a comforting term for a lifeboat) to get from the ship into a port. It wasn't too bad with a few carefree day-trippers, but, as it's rated for a 150 occupants when the ship's going down, it would be hell in an emergency. Just imagine all those survivors without their travel sickness pills.

When younger, I might have stayed in this San Blas 'hotel', but, this time, decided I preferred my cabin.

However, I did enjoy speaking with Alerdito Ortega Smith, whose name indicates that the English passed through these islands long ago and who is something of an artist. Alerdito makes molas and you can see some in the background. Molas are quite extraordinary textile works of art and have been displayed at some major Western art galleries.

Pull aside the morning curtains and there's the Caribbean entrance to the Panama Canal seen through my salt-streaked window. The building is where canal pilots are based. I've been through the canal by ship, but this time get to watch the process from dry land.

Below is the bulker Crystal Seas going through the Gatun Locks. The last time I came through here was aboard the old Melbourne Star, a container ship bound from Philadelphia to Auckland. It was lunchtime and our captain, Cec Jackson, knew his eight passengers wanted to see as much of the canal as possible, so arrangements had kindly been made to eat on deck. A table was set up, cloth laid down and we clinked glasses and dined as our two stewards hovered. All of this was watched closely by hundreds of cruise ship passengers lining the decks of a neighbouring vessel. We privileged eight sniggered and made silly remarks about ‘cattle boats’. However, there are times when one wants more than seven other people to talk with and container ships don’t spend much time in port, especially warm Caribbean ones. So, this time, I'm on the cruise ship!

I went to Portobelo, Panama. Once, it was said, a third of the world's gold passed through the little town. Gold and slaves. I walked a few steps into the slave cells and the damp and darkness and silence hurried me back out into the welcome light.

I found this cross nearby.

These Portobelo fruit sellers cheered me up.