Bequia and the art of cruising
"Hello beautiful lady! Taste my mango?"
A bit forward aren't we?
I love Bequia. I want to drop anchor and stay for awhile, swim to the beach where they were blasting old Michael Jackson ("Don't matter if you're black or white...") and new dance tunes late into last night. I want to walk down the main street and peruse the bead bracelets and coconut art. I want to hang out at the vegetable market with Jean Claude and the rest of the rastas. I want to sip a coffee at the bakery overlooking the gas station and watch the locals greet one another with song and prayer. I want to let mango juice drip down my arm as I tear orange flesh off the seed with my teeth and wash my body in the clear blue sea lapping up against fishing boats, ferries, and an assortment of jerry jugged sailboats. I want to walk into the hills and find seashelled beaches on the windward side, finding calcified treasures and dried bouquets of seaweed. I want to eavesdrop on the fisherman speaking their patois and signaling with conch shell bellows at the dock. I want to feel the land beneath my feet and smell the earth warming with the rising sun. I want to rock to sleep in the cockpit of my own tiny boat.
"Taste my mango!" I tell Jean Claude I'll take four of his beautiful fruits. I ask for salad and he points to the man with the stall next to him. The competition is stiff at the Bequia fresh market. I try to make my way around the small, chicken-wire-for-windows building, spreading my allotted EC dollars to as many as possible. I am not bargaining, I am not pitting the sellers against one another to strike a deal as I should. I don't have the time. I need to get back to the boat with my bag of melting ice cubes and split open a pumpkin, grate some ginger, chop some coriander for today's lunch. I admire peppers and pineapple, I point to buttery yellow grapefruit and green oblong melons. Aubergines (I love that word for eggplant) purple and plump drop into my bag.
Limes! Always a dire need for limes on the boat. A rum and tonic wouldn't be the same without a chunk floating next to the precious ice. The fresh mahi with pineapple salsa wouldn't be as bright. The bananas on the morning fruit platter wouldn't keep as long. Two bags of green globes sit next to bright red tomatoes and local carrots.
I savor my time at the vegetable and fruit market. This is what I want to be doing: talking with people, inhaling the smells of fruit and fish and salt and herb, getting onto land and exploring, if just for a few minutes, another culture.
"OK beautiful lady, you come back to see me, alright?"
You don't even know, Jean Claude, how much I want to.
But on my own boat, my own time, my own money (gulp- there will be bargaining then- $10 US for two red peppers? No way!)
This is just a taste, like a nibble of bright juicy mango with a squirt of lime...
A bit forward aren't we?
I love Bequia. I want to drop anchor and stay for awhile, swim to the beach where they were blasting old Michael Jackson ("Don't matter if you're black or white...") and new dance tunes late into last night. I want to walk down the main street and peruse the bead bracelets and coconut art. I want to hang out at the vegetable market with Jean Claude and the rest of the rastas. I want to sip a coffee at the bakery overlooking the gas station and watch the locals greet one another with song and prayer. I want to let mango juice drip down my arm as I tear orange flesh off the seed with my teeth and wash my body in the clear blue sea lapping up against fishing boats, ferries, and an assortment of jerry jugged sailboats. I want to walk into the hills and find seashelled beaches on the windward side, finding calcified treasures and dried bouquets of seaweed. I want to eavesdrop on the fisherman speaking their patois and signaling with conch shell bellows at the dock. I want to feel the land beneath my feet and smell the earth warming with the rising sun. I want to rock to sleep in the cockpit of my own tiny boat.
"Taste my mango!" I tell Jean Claude I'll take four of his beautiful fruits. I ask for salad and he points to the man with the stall next to him. The competition is stiff at the Bequia fresh market. I try to make my way around the small, chicken-wire-for-windows building, spreading my allotted EC dollars to as many as possible. I am not bargaining, I am not pitting the sellers against one another to strike a deal as I should. I don't have the time. I need to get back to the boat with my bag of melting ice cubes and split open a pumpkin, grate some ginger, chop some coriander for today's lunch. I admire peppers and pineapple, I point to buttery yellow grapefruit and green oblong melons. Aubergines (I love that word for eggplant) purple and plump drop into my bag.
Limes! Always a dire need for limes on the boat. A rum and tonic wouldn't be the same without a chunk floating next to the precious ice. The fresh mahi with pineapple salsa wouldn't be as bright. The bananas on the morning fruit platter wouldn't keep as long. Two bags of green globes sit next to bright red tomatoes and local carrots.
I savor my time at the vegetable and fruit market. This is what I want to be doing: talking with people, inhaling the smells of fruit and fish and salt and herb, getting onto land and exploring, if just for a few minutes, another culture.
"OK beautiful lady, you come back to see me, alright?"
You don't even know, Jean Claude, how much I want to.
But on my own boat, my own time, my own money (gulp- there will be bargaining then- $10 US for two red peppers? No way!)
This is just a taste, like a nibble of bright juicy mango with a squirt of lime...
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