I'm sitting on a beach in Barbados. I'd give you my precise whereabouts, but I have no idea where Barbados is. All I know is, about a year and a half ago, my wife and I entered a contest to win a free trip to Barbados, sponsored by one of the gazillion wedding magazines that had swallowed our bedroom apartment. And we won.
The good news was delivered over the phone by a very enthusiastic woman named Jane who spoke in very short, enthusiastic sentences.
Jane: Mr. Bloom!
Me: Yes.
Jane: This is Jane! From the Barbados Tourism Authority! You've won a trip for two! To Barbados!
Me: Where's Barbados?
Our big win couldn’t have come at a better time. Months of agonizing over such monumental wedding decisions like invitation fonts (“serifs are best”), program ribbon color (“it needs to say loooove”), and the weight of the ring pillow (“did I really just write that?”) had turned my brain into a plate of soggy canapés, which, as any civilized wedding planner will tell you, is positively dreadful. Point being, I needed to relax.
We received our itinerary a few days before we left and it was clear that Jane tried to cut costs wherever possible. Not that I blame her. After all, her company was giving away a free trip to a tropical island to some schlub who didn't even know where that island was. So to save pennies Jane booked us on three different flights, the last of which would be on Air Jamaica, a friendly enterprise where air sickness is treated with complimentary rum. It’s also the only airline where every question and/or concern can be addressed with two words: Relax, mon!
Your flight is delayed and you're worried about missing your connection? RELAX, MON!
The vomit bag you’ve been provided isn’t large enough? RELAX, MON!
The pilot had a bit too much rum punch and is sitting on all fours with his head sticking out the cockpit window? RELAX, MON!
Six hours or ‘four months in Nausea Time’ later, we landed at the Barbados airport, a building that fails to see the usefulness in silly things like doors and walls. After waiting only two hours for our bags (“Sean, the bag unloader, is at lunch. Relax, mon!”), we left the airport and stepped onto Barbados soil.
First impressions? Hot. Really hot. Even the mosquitoes were sweating. Hotter than it was five seconds ago. And what's with that smell?!?
We enlisted the services of a taxi driver named Barnes to take us to our hotel. Barnes had lived on the island his entire life and was quite the source of helpful insider information.
Me: Can you recommend any restaurants?
Barnes: Oh yes! Many good restaurants, mon.
Me: Which ones?
Barnes: All of them, mon. You be welcome at them all.
Me: OK. Any places we should avoid?
Barnes: They all good, mon.
My wife and I agreed that Zagats could use a guy like Barnes. Soon, we arrived at our hotel room, which had a gorgeous view of the beach. Unfortunately that was from the painting hanging over the bed. The view from the window, on the other hand, was of an abandoned fort that had been occupied by British soldiers in the 1800s and was now being utilized by a several nice young ladies in tight mini-skirts and a few dozen of their male friends.
Finally we hit the beach, where I curled up with a guidebook to learn more about the island. Keeping one eye on the crab that was trying to mate with our Dasani bottle, I read about Machineel (pronounced: “extremely dangerous”) trees. For those of you who don't know, Machineel trees are found all over the island and apparently contain a funky and dangerous poison. Apparently, when exposed to this oozing goo, people break out in gigantic pus-filled boils. It’s not nearly as hideous as it sounds, bearing you keep a minimum distance from the trees of 5,000 feet, you avoid making direct eye contact with the trees, and most of all, you refrain from reading any articles about the trees. Failure to do these things may result in either itching or flaking or, if you’re really infected, a good 45 minutes in your doctor’s waiting room and meds that aren’t covered by your insurance.
After our beach time, we decided to partake in one of the many fine restaurants Barnes told us about. Without a car, we relied on public transportation, which in this case were Matatus, which is Swahili for “taxi vans” or layman for “vehicles o' death.” Matatus can fit eight people comfortably so obviously the drivers squeeze in a minimum of 40. If you're the type of person who enjoys a stranger's underarm sweat slowly dripping on you while your ear drums explode from the very, very, very, very loud reggae music that's blasting throughout the van, then this has your name written all over it. Just underneath the spray paint graffiti reference on where to find a good time — which evidently is right beside our hotel.
After dinner, we explored the Barbados nightlife where I discovered the real heart of the island. I’m talking about the passion, the burning desire, the very essence of what makes Barbados the tropical paradise it is…karaoke. Now I’m no music critic, but there's something about hearing a drunken rendition of “Build me ahp, buttahcup, bay-bee. Don't break me heart, mon!” that makes me smile.
The next day featured an authentic island safari where our tour guide promised a full six hours of “roughing it.” And was he ever right! We stopped a measly ten times for bathroom breaks, the beer they served on our “booze breaks” was mildly cold at best and there were only two choices for lunch: grilled chicken or freshly caught fish. Honestly.
We did, however, see some breathtaking views, as well as some really interesting sights. But because of a bad microphone, our guide's accent, and other miscellaneous noises one hears when driving 85 mph in an open Land Rover, I couldn't understand our guide as he described the sights. A typical passage sounded like this:
“And over here, you see the world famous SCHMIELSCHMATZELMON. Look over here, mon, you'll see something very special! This is a BIDDITYGOOGLINESSITNESS. You can recognize it from the giant MUMBLYDUMBLYGURGLE on its SOMETHINGOROTHERMON. Whatever you do, stay far away. It be poisonous, mon!”
That night, my wife and I wandered into a cozy bistro where we ate a delicious meal of undercooked and overpriced meat before going to the pub next door to sing along with a local named Jerry as he belted out “Sweet Caroline, mon.” After dinner, we crammed into another Matatu where I sweated off five pounds and had a lovely conversation with a 300 lb. Rastafarian woman who pressed me against the van door. Unable to understand her over the very, very, very, very loud reggae music, I politely smiled and nodded a lot. I think we're now engaged to be married. Back at the hotel, we fell asleep listening to the sweet sounds of crickets chirping. And a karaoke version of “Ice Ice Bay-bee” from the hotel bar.
That brings me to today. We spent the morning sitting on the beach, avoiding poisonous trees and European men in waaaaaaay too small bathing suits. After inhaling a plate of fried calamari, we returned to our wooden lounge chairs to soak up more of the Caribbean sun. Now it might be the heat or maybe it's just the effects of undercooked calamari, but I'm starting to feel a little strange.
A weird sensation is creeping over me. Oh good, the crab is quietly humping our Dasani bottle so it must be something else. Hmmm...tightness in chest? Check. Strained breathing? Check. Racing heartbeat? Check. Oh, no. Not that. It can't be. Stress! Somehow it found me, all the way out here in…well, wherever Barbados is.
Stressful thoughts are filling my brain: fighting rush hour traffic; meeting deadlines; the leader of the free world trying to produce a coherent sentence. STOP THE MADNESS.
(Breathe in and out)
(In and out)
(In and out)
(Ignore the crab)
(In and out)
Wait a minute, I am still on vacation here. That other stuff can wait. For now, I'll relax, mon.
Now hand me that microphone. It's karaoke time.
This article originally appeared on Fresh Yarn, the online home of some damn fine writers.
© 2005 robbloom.com.
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