Caribbean Delight
You’ve seen the brochures for those all inclusive beach holidays. Pictures of semi-clad hunks carrying anorexic, yet some how well endowed blonde bombshells across white, shimmering sand. In other photos, the same couple are swimming, riding horseback and of course, partying. The subliminal message is always the same. “This could be you. Yes you, Mr. Boring. You could be laughing and partying and having friends. You could be living this dream.”
I am no longer susceptible to this type of advertising as I am well aware that I am past any possibility of being mistaken for a hunk. In my youth, a salesman in London once remarked, while I was trying on a suit, that it made me look like David Bowie, but being slightly over-weight, short and decidedly heterosexual, even then I was able to dismiss the comment as part of a sales routine. What did convince me to take the plunge and book this all-inclusive holiday was the scenery behind the people. I knew I would never be that guy on the beach but I figured that at least, the beach in the picture would be the same beach at my hotel. Besides, inertia had become one of my favourite forces and so the idea of sitting on a beach for a week seemed appealing on both the physical and metaphysical level. So I bit the bullet, paid my fare and booked my all-inclusive vacation on a Caribbean Island.
To my surprise, the beach pictured in the brochure was not the one at my hotel. Yes there were similarities, both had sand, and sun and yes, even water, but at my beach you couldn’t actually run in the water. Or swim in it. At least not like they did in the brochure. To swim or run in my beach, you needed to wear a pair of sneakers because my beach was infested with sea urchins. If you waded in these waters without sneakers, you risked stepping on one of those spiky little devils and skewering your foot on their spiny exoskeleton. Not being a fan of punctured feet or in fact, any of the major foot injuries, I turned my attention to others pursuits. After all there was still the horse back riding. So I signed up.
The itinerary was fairly straight forward, once I had signed up, they bussed myself and every one else who had signed up, to the other side of the island and from there, we were to disembark and then ride horses to a spectacular water falls. It didn’t quite work out that way. We did bus to the other side of the island and as far as bus rides go, this was certainly one of the best I have ever been a part of. The bus was air-conditioned, I had a seat for the entire journey, and best of all, we were not involved in any major traffic mishaps. The ride certainly rated an ‘A+’ in my books.
The excursion started to fall apart with our disembarkation. As we got off, we were greeted by what could loosely be termed as horses. The poor beasts were underfed, overworked and underweight. I am no horse expert, but ‘underfed, overworked and underweight’ are not the attributes I would look for in a horse.
The guilt I felt mounting my thin transport was considerable but being raised a Catholic, guilt was something I faced and overcame daily. So I climbed aboard and began my ride. Unbeknownst to me though, the company had hired scores of young boys whose job it was to run alongside the horses and hurry them along. Some would even jump on the backs of the horses, behind the unsuspecting riders, and whip the horses to go as fast as they could. I refused to let this happen and so my horse and I leisurely strolled to our destination which wasn’t the water falls but instead a clearing in the trees only a short distance away. I felt a bit ripped at the brevity of the ride but I am certain that my horse was pleased to be shed of me so quickly.
Once there, the horses were rounded up and made available to the group that had just seen the waterfall
and was now ready to return to their bus. And once again, the young boys were there to hurry the process along by pushing, yelling and slapping the horses to greater speed. For a moment I stopped, turned and watched the young boys as they herded their posse of pasty, overweight tourists into the late afternoon sun and their ultimate destiny, an air-conditioned bus.
From this point, we had to walk about 20 minutes through the forest to the waterfall. Beautiful? You bet.Would I do it again? Not on your life. Because once there, another team of young boys sprang into action. While several of the boys leapt from the top of the cliff, risking permanent injury, their entrepreneurial friends went amongst the tourists demanding money for the show. Racked with guilt, we coughed up the required cash. By the end of the excursion, I felt lousy about the trip, terrible for the young boys and worse about the horses and their treatment. From here on in, I decided that I was just going to hang around my hotel. Nothing more. Besides there was the big New Year’s bash coming up and the brochure promised great partying, so I figured I’d save my energy for the party.
And what a party it was. It boasted the three main ingredients for any successful party: tepid food, a mediocre dance band and plenty of armed guards. Apparently at Christmas time, so I was told, there is an increase in theft on the island as people try to scrape money together to buy presents. Even with that knowledge, there is something about a plethora of shotguns that puts a damper on any festive occasion for me.
And as the night went on, our guards succumbed to the allure of the dance band, embraced their weapons as dance partners, and sashayed around the periphery of the compound. As I watched them bop and sway to the beat, it became clear to me that these custodians of my safety, were imbibing in a little yuletide spirit. Actually, a lot of yuletide spirit and by the time the last strains of music filtered across the beach, a tangible bond had developed between these men and their implements of death.
So there you have it. The only inclusive holiday that I have ever been a part of. What did I learn? Well, if you are going that route, do some research and ask questions, especially of your travel agent. Questions like “Will I be risking permanent injury if I frolic on the beach?” or “Will you be protecting me with drunken guards who have a fondness to slow dance with their loaded fire arms?” These kinds of questions can go a long way to avoiding trouble. And if you don’t feel you can ask your travel your agent, talk to other people who have been there or buy a travel book to get a few answers. Something. As for me, I go on my own from now on. Sure it’s more work, but at least now when I go to parties, the only thing loaded are the guests.