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.