Road Houses of the Caribbean

©2018 John P. Hewitt

In the late 1950s in Buffalo, New York, when my high school homework was done, and my parents were safely asleep, I’d tune my radio to 710 AM. If the atmospheric gods were in a good mood, at 11:15PM I’d hear the announcer say, “This is WOR, 710, New York,” and Jean Shepherd would commence one of his philosophical discourses or stories. One of the latter came to mind recently on a cruise to the Caribbean. Somewhere in Indiana, Shep related, there was a town, and a road led out of the town (or maybe into it). A few miles down that road there was a road house, which became a de rigueur “destination” for town residents. After work on Friday, anybody who was anybody, which is to say, everybody, jumped into their cars and drove out to the roadhouse and did the things people do at roadhouses – drink, talk, dance, get into fights, hang around the parking lot, see who’s there and who isn’t, show off their cars. Why? Because the roadhouse was there, Shep would say in his trademark excited voice. It was a place to go, and if there’s one thing Americans need, it’s a place to go.

The Caribbean islands I have visited on cruises – about a dozen at last count -- have much in common with Shep’s road house. Yes, I know, these places – St. Kitts, St. Lucia, Curaçao, Aruba, Jamaica, the Cayman Islands, and all the rest – have a history that precedes the airplanes and ships that now take people there. It’s a history of sugar and the slave trade, exploitation and oppression by European powers, contemporary poverty, and the threat of destruction by hurricanes. But their contemporary economies depend heavily on tourism, which is a polite way of saying they have become roadhouses for those who can afford to reach them by airplane or ship. The cruise ship route is the one I know best.

A cruise to the Caribbean is a joy ride sui generis. I’ve sailed to the Caribbean on Disney Cruise Lines several times, so I write from deep experience. “Abandon the quotidian details of everyday life, all you who enter here” might well be emblazoned over the gangplank. On board, you feel the rush of salt air in your face, find opportunities for making noise and taking liberties, and discover there is no law against cruising under the influence. As you get under way from Port Canaveral, Florida, a crew of professionally excited Mouseketeers works the crowd into a frenzy of dancing and cheering. Drinks are distributed, which is to say, sold, the ship’s horn plays “When you wish upon a star,” and suddenly you are in a convertible on your way to fun. Mickey and the gang do everything they can to keep you in the mood on your way to the islands. And it’s not just boozy excitement. Disney will give you first-fun movies, let you pose for pictures with Mickey and Minnie and Donald and Pluto, and entertain you with polished and hope-inspiring evening shows. Yes, skeptics, it is entirely artificial, made of the best quality plastic, and that is exactly where its authenticity lies. It is one heck of a joy ride to your Caribbean road house!

The first thing cruisers encounter on arriving at their first Caribbean destination is shopping. Almost every Caribbean port has a purpose-built commercial complex of some kind. Sometimes it is a modest structure that provides stalls where local craftspeople sell their handmade goods. Frequently they are genuine, but local artists often must compete with goods falsely advertised as “hand-made” or “local crafts,” things made by somebody somewhere and possibly involving hands. In other ports, an array of shops lines the path tourists must take if they want to pass beyond port security and go into the town itself. Local crafts may be on display, but the balance generally tips toward jewelry, booze, and other imported goods, said to be duty free and thus less costly than back home. Perhaps. Always there is a “Diamonds International” store, the local instantiation of a chain that I suspect may an all-powerful world government that controls all human affairs. Diamonds are a big lure to the islands, but so are watches. I have seen cruisers hotly in pursuit of a new watch go virtually orgasmic when at last they find their prize.

In many ports – Mexico’s Cozumel stands out in this respect – each shop has a barker who tries to lure tourists inside with promises of free gifts and bargain prices for jewelry and clothing. When you walk down Cozumel’s main waterfront everybody is your friend and has something special just for you. In Cartagena, Colombia, efforts to persuade you to buy verge on physical assault. Before you know it there’s a hat on your head or a necklace around your neck. Thankfully my Spanish includes the phrase “No, gracias” and my body speaks the same message. Well, almost. I did once buy a $10 Panama hat in Cartagena.

In addition to the commercial gauntlet there is invariably a selection of bars, and cruisers expect and are expected to patronize them. Visiting Jamaica without having at least one Red Stripe violates the informal norms of travel and might even be illegal. At Charlotte Amalie in the American Virgin Islands, the ubiquitous “Señor Frog” chain restaurant nestles hard against the dock, ready to provide that authentic Caribbean experience, which generally translates to a margarita and a taco. Taco? Oh, wait, “Señor Frog” is a Mexican chain with outlets all over North America and the Caribbean. But it’s all the same, right? You’ll find Jimmy Bufett’s “Margaritaville” in Jamaica, Grand Cayman, and several other places, eager to adjust your attitude to the latitude. There are also liquor stores with an abundance of duty-free booze. Cruise lines would rather you didn’t bring this booze on board and many restrict the number of bottles permitted. And for obvious reasons: every bottle brought on board is lost profit for the cruise line.

Cruise lines arrange what they call “port adventures” with local companies, whose drivers, tour guides, and other helpers are a major part of the local work force. An adventure might be a simple walking tour of, say, Willemstad, the capital of Curaçao – a chance to walk across the famous swinging pontoon bridge, take in the colorful Caribbean-influenced Dutch architecture (brightly painted, tall, slender buildings with peaked roofs and the inevitable hoist protruding from the top), or see Mikveh Israel, the oldest synagogue in the western hemisphere. Or visitors can go to a beach and learn to snorkel, swim with sharks and other sea creatures, or visit a turtle farm. Those sharks and turtles are a key part of the roadhouse experience, something to take pictures of and talk about later. “Did you see the sting rays?” “No, we saw the green sea turtles.” “Well, we swam with sharks.”

You might choose to zip line through the rain forest, kayak through the waves, or be driven through the jungle on a rickety four-by-four. In Montego Bay, Jamaica, I had the dubious thrill of riding on a flimsy seat (with a broken seat belt) bolted to the bed of a diesel-fume-spewing ancient Land Rover pickup truck. The adventure consisted of several miles of traffic jams on two-lane roads, followed by a jaunt through an orange grove, and a brief trip into a “jungle” where the signs of human occupancy were never fully out of sight. And not a single monkey. Some wilderness. It was the port-adventure equivalent of a high-speed jaunt from the roadhouse on a Harley while clinging to the back of a friend you know is a shade over the limit.

Adventures such as the turtle farm I visited on Grand Cayman, can be fun and informative. The green sea turtles themselves are über cute as babies, and moderately attractive even as adults. The farm breeds sea turtles, thus helping to assure the species’ survival. Locals buy turtle meat, a diet staple, from the farm, and thus don’t poach the protected wild creatures. The turtle farm is virtually across the street from “Hell,” a store that sells assorted tchotchkes along with a world-class array of hot sauces and signs urging you to get right with Jesus. It is presided over by its owner, who wears a devil costume. Outside, a patch of rough volcanic rock authenticates the claim that this is “hell.” I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Not everything about Caribbean ports makes you think you are in a giant roadhouse. There are Saturday markets such as the one in St. Lucia, where my wife and I found ourselves the only non-locals (which is to say, the only white people) in streets bustling with everyday items for sale – clothing, infant formula, soft drinks – all of it at bargain (and bargainable) prices. There are towns and villages away from the port where you can see something of real island life, and if you have a good guide, learn something of how people live it. How they acquire land or houses, what they are paid, how they get (or can’t get) medical care, all the mundane but crucial details of life. I have learned, for example, that successful squatting on public land in St. Lucia requires getting the walls of a house up and covered with a roof before you are caught. Once there’s a roof, your house is safe.

There are worse things than being a roadhouse for middle-class North Americans with enough money to take a cruise to the Caribbean, not to mention the truly wealthy with houses up in the hills or resorts on the best beaches. Most of these islands, which have only scenery, weather, and beaches to offer, would undoubtedly be worse off without the jobs and income that tourism delivers. The natives do not know your name, but they are almost always glad you came. If you do, enjoy their hospitality, and spend money.

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