February 13, 2002
When the plane door opens, Hazel greets me, screaming excitedly, “you’re the cyclist!” Indeed. And for today, I am the VIP— I don’t need to get my visa, nor pick up my bags, Hazel does everything for me. I give a cabbie directions to Ma Bass Hotel and we drive into Roseau, a lazy city. Everything comes to a halt here after five. Shops are closed, streets are empty and old colonial houses whisper to the uncommon passerby. Along the sea, tourists move slowly into cruise ships. Others are seen making merry with whisky glass in hand heading toward the casino. I meet a few ‘expensive’ beggars. They don’t want anything less than a dollar. I avoid them. Rastafarians are scattered everywhere, sporting Bob Marley t-shirts and dreadlocks, while their stereos serenade the sleeping city.

February 14, 2002
I send postcards to friends from every new place I cycle into. Everyday I add a new postcard-receiving friend on the list. Some of them want postcards from particular places. It is expensive to send postcards, but sometimes, I keep myself hungry just so I can save enough to buy postcards and stamps. These friends helped me a lot and I don’t want to be called selfish for this reason.

Offices start at 8 in the morning, but by five, everything is closed. As British and American cruise ships anchor on the shores of Roseau, the city functions only for tourists. When the tourists leave or lay asleep in their cabins and hotel rooms, Roseau’s lively façade is lifted to expose it as dead and hollow inside. For me, this place is just too expensive; US$ 60 per night, at the city’s cheapest hotel. I think that’s why even beggars don’t value anything less than a dollar. I buy some 12-dollar postcards, stick 55-cent stamps onto each and send them to my friends. Then I cycle towards Portsmouth.

On the way to Portsmouth, I pass by old and identical settlements like Mahaut, Layou, Salisbury and Colihaut; they differ only in the way they each choose to design their churches.

The road that leads to Portsmouth is varied. Sometimes it meets the sea and sometimes it edges the hills. Parts are eroded by seawater, while in some areas it narrows dangerously on the edges of sandy hills. I am wearing a Bob Marley t-shirt, and amongst crazy, screaming Bob Marley fans on the way, the t-shirt is my passport, my identity, with which I am automatically included into their circle of trust. So, pats on the back, free drinks and endless smiles are not out of the ordinary.

The road improves from Portsmouth to Hampstead. Since it is paved inside the rainforest, it is always cool. The dampness, however, makes the path slippery. At Dos Dane, it rains heavily and I stop at a shop. I ask for a Coke while a drunkard makes his way into the shop for shelter. He takes his t-shirt off and throws it over his shoulder, I spot a knife strung around his waist and a tattoo that reads, ‘Vote For Labour’. He must be from the Labour Party. He pays for my drink and casually walks away.

When I reach Hampstead, it is dark. Near a small river, I see four dilapidated houses sitting peacefully. They remind me of ghost stories and scary movies. I stop my cycle, enter into each one and shout out, “Hello?” No answer. Near the river, I start a fire out of coconut shells. I go back into one of the houses and shout out; but no one answers. I get scared and suddenly decided to leave the area. I cycle super fast to Caldishie.

February 15, 2002
Sleeping on the beach after a stormy night and high-rolling waves showering my tent, I wake up to a new sun and the promise of comfort and warmth. I dry my tent, pack it and cycle towards Marigot. The road is not any different from yesterday; up hills and immediate down hills alternate one another. The sun gets hotter, and at reaching Marigot’s Melville Hall Airport, I stop at a shop to hydrate myself. The shopkeeper, Herman James, gives me some packets of biscuits and water. I thank him and cycle to Paguay Bay, from where I take the road leading to Roseau, the expensive lazy city.

On my way to Roseau, I see two children climbing coconut trees and cutting off coconuts. I exchange my packet of biscuits for a coconut. They help me break it and we have a small feast. Decorated with tall coconut and banana trees, various colourful fruit plants, and multi coloured flowers hosting hummingbirds and bees, the road to Roseau is festive. But dark clouds roll in fast and soon it is raining. Finding no other shelter, I stand beneath a tree for an hour. When the rain stops at 1:20, I push my cycle up hill for three long kilometers, until I meet the downhill path to Bells. The road doesn’t stop undulating until Pont Casse. From there, it’s downhill to Old Mill. After a long day of cycling amongst trees and a diet of biscuits, coconut and water, I devour a plate of pork fried rice at a Chinese Restaurant.

February 16, 2002
In my search for a cyber café, I meet Andri. He has heard about me on the local TV news broadcast. He buys me a cup of coffee and pays my Internet bills. He then buys me a Dominican flag and gives it to me, “as a souvenir”, he says.

I then meet a girl from Barbados, who wants to take a picture with me. She pays me US$ 5 for the picture.

At the cruise dock, I don’t see any cruise ship. No tourists, no business, I suppose. I see a lot of souvenir stalls down the pavement and most of the shopkeepers recognise me. One of them gives me a t-shirt and then with the help of his other shopkeeper friends, they collect US$ 15 for me to spend.

At around one, I cycle to Canefield Airport. When I submit my air ticket at the counter, the person informs me that this is not the airport. I am shocked. He tells me that I have to go to Melville Hall Airport, 45 kilometres away. A few days back I had arrived from Antigua into Canefield Airport. Naturally I had assumed that I would also take off from the same airport. No one has informed me of Roseau’s separate airports for arrivals and departures. I tell the airline officer my story and he calls Melville Hall Airport. They tell me that my plane is delayed for another half an hour, so I can still catch it. The same officer calls me a taxi and I am driven to Melville Hall Airport, all for US$ 120! I reach the airport right on time, pay the taxi-driver and stop at the airline’s counter only to be informed that the plane has taken off five minutes ago. Anger and helplessness make me curse the officer at Canefield Airport. But there is nothing I can do. I tell myself that I certainly won’t miss the plane tomorrow, so tonight calls for an airport stay-over. However, airport officials won’t allow me to sleep at the airport. Right then, almost miraculously, I come across a bus going to Springfield. With my air ticket folded and tucked in my back pocket, I hop onto the bus and it’s: Destination Springfield.

source-wave magazine