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AROUND THE WORLD IN 11 YEARS February 10, 2002 She gives me the directions to one of the rooms. My stay costs $10 US. In my room, the bed is sheet-less, the walls are worn, the floor is littered and the toilet is dirty. Since I’m tired and sleepy, I don’t care much. February 11, 2002 At noon, I cycle towards English Harbour. The road is interesting and snakey. No sun. Clouds darken as I cycle and soon it rains. It doesn’t stop, and I find no shelter. The downhill path to English Harbour is difficult, since my brakes aren’t great. At Cobbs Cross, I take another road instead. The rain makes me angry. It doesn’t stop. I rest at Parham Hill, when it assuages into drizzle. The ‘Point of Interest’ as marked on the map is closed— it is an old bungalow— I wonder what’s in it. It starts raining again. I cycle towards the city. February 12, 2002 With a population of approximately 1200, John tells me that everyone in Barbuda knows everyone else. We head southeast and reach Martello Tower; a structure more than 20-metres in height and built during the British rule. We take the sandy trail along the Caribbean Sea and stop at a tourist-infested place called Coco Point. John says he can tell where each tourist hails from by the way he/she dresses and acts; we laugh for a while. 5 km east takes us to Spanish Point – no tourists. It is a channel point between the big rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean and the calm blue Caribbean Sea. The sand is pink, and it makes the beach look fairytale pretty. The sand from White Bay is exported to other islands, John tells me. We cycle down to Castle Bay and then, to the airport to catch the 5:30 flight to Antigua. 17 minutes and back to Antigua again. Antigua Tourism Board booked a room for me at the Heritage Hotel. It’s dark and my cycle light is defunct, I decide to take a taxi. I buy a ticket at the Taxi Counter outside the airport, but the taxi driver starts to charge for my luggage too. I argue with him and the taxi counter person. I get sick of haggling and eventually take my money back and cycle in the dark. February 13, 2002 At the airport, I meet Edna Fortescue, Managing Director of the Liat Islander Magazine. She interviews me paying $250 US. 1:30 PM flight to Dominica. The plane shakes time and again. I hear passengers scream. Two men sitting behind me get a kick out of scaring passengers even more. Sometimes they tell everyone that one side of the plane’s propellers have stopped spinning- at which everyone rushes to one side to look at it. They keep telling everyone to check where the emergency doors are situated, or if the life vests are under their seats. They annoy me. After half an hour, the plane lands, “Dominica!”, they shout. I get off. At Immigration, I’m the last in line. When my turn comes, Officer looks at my ticket and laughs telling me, “This is not Dominica, this is Guadeloupe!” I am shocked. He calls the air traffic controller to take me to the airport ground. He signals the running plane to stop and turn. I know it is too late to stop, but it does. It turns, stops and opens the door for me. I board. Everyone in the plane stares at me. I feel like slapping those two crazy passengers for shouting “Dominica!” I must admit, it is my fault too. How could I not take into consideration that my flight was for 1 hour ten minutes and not half an hour? Soon, it is Canefield Airport, 5 km away from Dominica’s capital city, Roseau, my right destination. Source-Wave magazine,july,2003 |
