The lady on the port control had clearly been part of the old government. With great accomplishment
she managed to pass a small plastic basket with such malice aforethought that the recipients felt as it
they had been threatened with a Gloch pistol. Camera and bag placed in the bag the obvious question,
"what about my watch and belt, would you like those in there as well?"
No reply was forthcoming instead an expression that would have worked well if she was about to pick
up a particularly smelly dead rat and the word "telephone." For a moment it seems as if this was a
mugging for mobile 'phones. Patting would, if the matter had ever gone to court, be the word she
would have used to describe her next action. Truth would have it that it was a series of slaps on each
pocket to check for the errant (and non-existent) telephone. Modern shorts have many pockets, two at
the hip, two where pockets ought to be and one on either thigh. That made six slaps around the lower
body and upper legs. Disdain accompanied the abrupt gesture that indicated time to walk through the
scanner.
"Beeeeep." How she managed to make the next gesture even less charming than the last was hard to understand although its meaning was clear - come back here.
"Beeeeep," marked the return passage.
"What else you got in your pockets?"
"A bottle of water? My wallet?"
"Gimme the water."
The bottle was duly and hopelessly handed over - it wasn't going to make a difference.
"Beeeeep."
"See the man there." She pointed to a very tall man with reflective sun glasses, a manual scanner- come-probe and a large, menacingly matt gun.
Thankfully he waved the scanner not the gun and magically located the watch which she had refused. "Back - again," he said pointing to the large scanner with the small scanner while his other hand held the watch close to his eye for evaluation.
"Beeeeep."
"Here," the large man barked and repeated the scan with the hand held scanner. It was interesting to discover that this type of scanner clearly had to make contact with the body and particularly against any bony prominences such as elbows and knuckles although these seemed unlikely places to conceal contraband when the smuggler was wearing a short sleeved top.
"Beeeeep." It had found the belt buckle.
"Just a buckle," he announced and indicate that the business was over. The camera and case were recovered from their plastic basket.
"Hey. You forgot something." He held up the watch.
"Thank you."
"No problem - it's just a cheap one."
"What did you do today?" she asked of no one in particular.
"A walk, or should I say assault course in the rain forest."
"Was that good?"
"Yes but very hard going. Some people were really struggling by the end. The description in the brochure understated the rigour of the trip - it certainly made no mention of 1000 plus slippery steps." "Oh but people are so selfish. I mean its wonderful that these people with sticks have a go but really, they hold everyone else up. There were two with sticks on my trip yesterday and they shouldn't have been allowed. How about you, James? Did you go ashore?"
"I did, I went to the gardens of St Lucia. It was very good and I don't think I held anyone up."
Silence ruled the table for a while.
When Lorna had gone James leant forward and winked.
"She lets her hair down a bit when Margaret's not here."
"Beeeeep." How she managed to make the next gesture even less charming than the last was hard to understand although its meaning was clear - come back here.
"Beeeeep," marked the return passage.
"What else you got in your pockets?"
"A bottle of water? My wallet?"
"Gimme the water."
The bottle was duly and hopelessly handed over - it wasn't going to make a difference.
"Beeeeep."
"See the man there." She pointed to a very tall man with reflective sun glasses, a manual scanner- come-probe and a large, menacingly matt gun.
Thankfully he waved the scanner not the gun and magically located the watch which she had refused. "Back - again," he said pointing to the large scanner with the small scanner while his other hand held the watch close to his eye for evaluation.
"Beeeeep."
"Here," the large man barked and repeated the scan with the hand held scanner. It was interesting to discover that this type of scanner clearly had to make contact with the body and particularly against any bony prominences such as elbows and knuckles although these seemed unlikely places to conceal contraband when the smuggler was wearing a short sleeved top.
"Beeeeep." It had found the belt buckle.
"Just a buckle," he announced and indicate that the business was over. The camera and case were recovered from their plastic basket.
"Hey. You forgot something." He held up the watch.
"Thank you."
"No problem - it's just a cheap one."
---OOO---
Margaret did not arrive for dinner that evening and Lorna explained that she was probably eating at
the poolside restaurant."What did you do today?" she asked of no one in particular.
"A walk, or should I say assault course in the rain forest."
"Was that good?"
"Yes but very hard going. Some people were really struggling by the end. The description in the brochure understated the rigour of the trip - it certainly made no mention of 1000 plus slippery steps." "Oh but people are so selfish. I mean its wonderful that these people with sticks have a go but really, they hold everyone else up. There were two with sticks on my trip yesterday and they shouldn't have been allowed. How about you, James? Did you go ashore?"
"I did, I went to the gardens of St Lucia. It was very good and I don't think I held anyone up."
Silence ruled the table for a while.
When Lorna had gone James leant forward and winked.
"She lets her hair down a bit when Margaret's not here."
---OOO---
Two bloated super-cruisers berthed in Bridgetown, Barbados and spewed 6-7,000 Americans ashore.
The cruise terminal was vast as were some of the Americans. Later on it transpired that a number of
passengers from all the ships did not bother going beyond the terminal with its dubious souvenirs,
duty free liqueur and Colombian Emeralds. Excursion organisers vied with each other to shepherd
their charges onto the right coaches - another case of knitting with eels. Perhaps there would be a
place for Passenger Dog Trials.
Eventually the right number of people, if not the right people were on board the coach with a well known Bajan photographer who was due to take 26 passengers on a photographic tour of the island with stops to take snaps and accept advice.
As the coach left the prosperous parts of Bridgetown it passed through areas of fascinating huts and shanties, brilliant colours in every state from new to peeling and flaking. On small porches sat old people with faces that told more stories than Thomas Hardy and had more character than a Chinese lexicon.
"Many of these are chattel houses. The name means possession as in goods and chattels. It harks back to the days when the only thing owned by a plantation worker was his house and if he moved house he literally dismantled his house and moved it. We will be stopping at a good example in a minute or two."
The coach pulled over at a chattel house which was clearly a bourgeoise project. It gleamed and shouted restoration, the light was behind it and offered no colours on photography's palette. "Remember the rule of thirds," offered our leader.
The house exuded success and sterility. "There's no success like failure . . . "
Excursionists limboed, knelt and strained to frame the shot, and the Jostlers persuaded the guide to press the shutter.
All aboard but one, the wife of he who laughs at his own jokes, blocked the steps onto the coach and quizzed the guide.
Eventually the coach moved off and the guide offered some more commentary.
"The lady next to me has asked a question about the percentage of the island's GNP is now attributable to sugar and frankly I don't know. Most of the island is formed by extrusion of the tectonic plates and so it is predominantly an island of ancient coral but in the north east corner there are clays and lias in a part of the country that is constantly slipping and sliding. We will stop there for panoramic shots." The lady next to him was unhappy and mentioned the fact in a stentorian voice.
"I don't want to take pictures of panoramic shots of clays."
The coach pulled up and a fellow walked by with a bag upon his back and then rested beneath a colonnaded porch. Only one lens pointed his way. The lady who had no interest in panoramic views of clays framed shots with thumbs and forefingers and demanded the attention of the guide. After some minutes during which she quizzed him about every aspect of the potential photograph, she stepped forward with her iPhone and clicked away. Her husband had remained on the coach, probably telling himself jokes and funny anecdotes.
Some miles further on the coach slowed alongside a vast Atlantic beach.
"We are going to stop here for shots of the sea and beach. The waters here are very dangerous with rip-tides and currents. No one swims here, not even local people. We will be here for fifteen minutes and then have a short drive to the Atlantis Hotel where we will sample rum punch and have access to rest rooms. There are rest rooms here if you really cannot wait."
Little effort was required to guess who would be first off the coach and leading the way to the 'Ladies'. As ever two queues formed by the toilets while one or two budding Cartier Bressons went straight to the beach. English travellers of a certain age have a pathological need to use every toilet they come across, making their progress around the world like a herd of territorial animals. Perhaps this behaviour related to the growth of the British Empire, a nation wandering the world, urinating and claiming everything for Queen and country. Eventually everyone reached the beach and adopted a range of poses both behind and in front of the camera. Most of the couples asked the guide to take their pictures, arm in arm against the breaking Atlantic background. How many of these pictures would reappear as 'genuine Walton'. The beach was shell-less, the only sign of life being high stepping crabs that scuttled daintily across the sands like so many little machines, disappearing down precisely fashioned holes when a perceived threat approached or freezing and immediately disappearing against the sand. They were completely invisible when still.
Eventually the right number of people, if not the right people were on board the coach with a well known Bajan photographer who was due to take 26 passengers on a photographic tour of the island with stops to take snaps and accept advice.
As the coach left the prosperous parts of Bridgetown it passed through areas of fascinating huts and shanties, brilliant colours in every state from new to peeling and flaking. On small porches sat old people with faces that told more stories than Thomas Hardy and had more character than a Chinese lexicon.
"Many of these are chattel houses. The name means possession as in goods and chattels. It harks back to the days when the only thing owned by a plantation worker was his house and if he moved house he literally dismantled his house and moved it. We will be stopping at a good example in a minute or two."
The coach pulled over at a chattel house which was clearly a bourgeoise project. It gleamed and shouted restoration, the light was behind it and offered no colours on photography's palette. "Remember the rule of thirds," offered our leader.
The house exuded success and sterility. "There's no success like failure . . . "
Excursionists limboed, knelt and strained to frame the shot, and the Jostlers persuaded the guide to press the shutter.
All aboard but one, the wife of he who laughs at his own jokes, blocked the steps onto the coach and quizzed the guide.
Eventually the coach moved off and the guide offered some more commentary.
"The lady next to me has asked a question about the percentage of the island's GNP is now attributable to sugar and frankly I don't know. Most of the island is formed by extrusion of the tectonic plates and so it is predominantly an island of ancient coral but in the north east corner there are clays and lias in a part of the country that is constantly slipping and sliding. We will stop there for panoramic shots." The lady next to him was unhappy and mentioned the fact in a stentorian voice.
"I don't want to take pictures of panoramic shots of clays."
The coach pulled up and a fellow walked by with a bag upon his back and then rested beneath a colonnaded porch. Only one lens pointed his way. The lady who had no interest in panoramic views of clays framed shots with thumbs and forefingers and demanded the attention of the guide. After some minutes during which she quizzed him about every aspect of the potential photograph, she stepped forward with her iPhone and clicked away. Her husband had remained on the coach, probably telling himself jokes and funny anecdotes.
Some miles further on the coach slowed alongside a vast Atlantic beach.
"We are going to stop here for shots of the sea and beach. The waters here are very dangerous with rip-tides and currents. No one swims here, not even local people. We will be here for fifteen minutes and then have a short drive to the Atlantis Hotel where we will sample rum punch and have access to rest rooms. There are rest rooms here if you really cannot wait."
Little effort was required to guess who would be first off the coach and leading the way to the 'Ladies'. As ever two queues formed by the toilets while one or two budding Cartier Bressons went straight to the beach. English travellers of a certain age have a pathological need to use every toilet they come across, making their progress around the world like a herd of territorial animals. Perhaps this behaviour related to the growth of the British Empire, a nation wandering the world, urinating and claiming everything for Queen and country. Eventually everyone reached the beach and adopted a range of poses both behind and in front of the camera. Most of the couples asked the guide to take their pictures, arm in arm against the breaking Atlantic background. How many of these pictures would reappear as 'genuine Walton'. The beach was shell-less, the only sign of life being high stepping crabs that scuttled daintily across the sands like so many little machines, disappearing down precisely fashioned holes when a perceived threat approached or freezing and immediately disappearing against the sand. They were completely invisible when still.
Walton signalled with a wave of the arm that it was time to return to the coach.
Standing by the door to the coach, she lay in wait for Walton ready to ask her questions but he carefully sidestepped and guided her towards the steps which she had no choice but to mount. "Excuse me!"
"I'm sorry?"
"Quite, that's my seat."
"Oh," to Walton, "do we have to keep to the same seats all the time?"
"I really don't mind - it's of no consequence is it?"
"I'll move if you really want this seat."
"No, it's fine don't bother yourself. It doesn't matter." Four statements that were spoken in a tone that reversed their meaning absolutely.
Good as the rum punch was (she of course wanted a soft drink) it was the view from the verandah which was stunning. The sea unfolded itself onto the beach in its own time, unhurriedly and unstoppably, slowly reclaiming that which had been lost, grain by grain, pebble by pebble.
Making its way out of the hotel towards the coach the group followed in the wake of one member who had made an early start, determined to reclaim the seat next to Walton, her rival, point made, happy to have made her point. A final hop along the coast and a final stop at a beach with sea stacks, bases eroded leaving trees of rock with thin trunks and great round crowns.
Click, click, click, shutters blinked and the magnificence of the scene was reduced to an unjust collection of mega-pixels. Behind the beach a loose crowd had gathered at the bus stop. Two young women laughing and joking, a surly man glowering at their liveliness, two young men earnestly chatting nd throwing occasional glances towards the laughing women and at the end, with an eloquent dignity stood an elderly lady. A lifetime's story written across a face of painful beauty. Click, a single impertinent shutter followed after a while by another.
"Now lad, thar's a picture, unlike them folk trying t' take picture postcards," commented the Yorkshire Farmer. "Enjoying it?"
"It's interesting, and the people watching is always fun."
"Aye. Have you seen t' lass trying t' sit on't guides lap? Pushy sort in't she?"
"Not sure why she's on this trip, she's barely taken any pictures and has been complaining that the light isn't right as if the guide could arrange to have the sun moved."
"Aye well she'd expect that seeing as how her husband things the damn thing shines out of his rear end."
It was hot, the bus had collected the beautiful old lady and time was nearly up so the air-conditioned interior of the coach beckoned.
The difficult lady arrived at the bus next carrying a large thing of indeterminate purpose that she had bought from one of the car park stalls. It comprised a number of gaudily coloured coconut shells tied together as a sort of giant mobile or perhaps a wind chime designed to play heavy metal riffs in a hurricane.
"You are sitting by yourself aren't you?" she stated, "I'll just leave this on the spare seat for the journey back to the ship."
Slowly the coach filled up, people shuffled down the aisle and those that passed on their way to the back glanced down at the thing and smirked.
"That's, er, that's um interesting. What is it?"
"Not mine!"
It is now possible to publish the Ten Commandments for the Dedicated Excursionist.
1 Thou shalt covet the seat near the guide.
2 Thou shalt be the first off the coach at every stop by whatever means are necessary, think not that gouging, trampling and elbowing are proscribed.
Standing by the door to the coach, she lay in wait for Walton ready to ask her questions but he carefully sidestepped and guided her towards the steps which she had no choice but to mount. "Excuse me!"
"I'm sorry?"
"Quite, that's my seat."
"Oh," to Walton, "do we have to keep to the same seats all the time?"
"I really don't mind - it's of no consequence is it?"
"I'll move if you really want this seat."
"No, it's fine don't bother yourself. It doesn't matter." Four statements that were spoken in a tone that reversed their meaning absolutely.
Good as the rum punch was (she of course wanted a soft drink) it was the view from the verandah which was stunning. The sea unfolded itself onto the beach in its own time, unhurriedly and unstoppably, slowly reclaiming that which had been lost, grain by grain, pebble by pebble.
Making its way out of the hotel towards the coach the group followed in the wake of one member who had made an early start, determined to reclaim the seat next to Walton, her rival, point made, happy to have made her point. A final hop along the coast and a final stop at a beach with sea stacks, bases eroded leaving trees of rock with thin trunks and great round crowns.
Click, click, click, shutters blinked and the magnificence of the scene was reduced to an unjust collection of mega-pixels. Behind the beach a loose crowd had gathered at the bus stop. Two young women laughing and joking, a surly man glowering at their liveliness, two young men earnestly chatting nd throwing occasional glances towards the laughing women and at the end, with an eloquent dignity stood an elderly lady. A lifetime's story written across a face of painful beauty. Click, a single impertinent shutter followed after a while by another.
"Now lad, thar's a picture, unlike them folk trying t' take picture postcards," commented the Yorkshire Farmer. "Enjoying it?"
"It's interesting, and the people watching is always fun."
"Aye. Have you seen t' lass trying t' sit on't guides lap? Pushy sort in't she?"
"Not sure why she's on this trip, she's barely taken any pictures and has been complaining that the light isn't right as if the guide could arrange to have the sun moved."
"Aye well she'd expect that seeing as how her husband things the damn thing shines out of his rear end."
It was hot, the bus had collected the beautiful old lady and time was nearly up so the air-conditioned interior of the coach beckoned.
The difficult lady arrived at the bus next carrying a large thing of indeterminate purpose that she had bought from one of the car park stalls. It comprised a number of gaudily coloured coconut shells tied together as a sort of giant mobile or perhaps a wind chime designed to play heavy metal riffs in a hurricane.
"You are sitting by yourself aren't you?" she stated, "I'll just leave this on the spare seat for the journey back to the ship."
Slowly the coach filled up, people shuffled down the aisle and those that passed on their way to the back glanced down at the thing and smirked.
"That's, er, that's um interesting. What is it?"
"Not mine!"
It is now possible to publish the Ten Commandments for the Dedicated Excursionist.
1 Thou shalt covet the seat near the guide.
2 Thou shalt be the first off the coach at every stop by whatever means are necessary, think not that gouging, trampling and elbowing are proscribed.
3 Thou shalt remain in the toilets sufficiently long to annoy the other excursionists for their annoyance
is verily the icing on the cake of life.
4 Thou shalt insist that the guide benefits from your eternal ignorance and offer him or her advice, misinformation and fatuous questions at every opportunity.
5 Thou shalt be a Jostler for they are blessed and must trample the meek to ensure that they will not inherit the earth
6 Thou shalt speak slowly and loudly to indigenous peoples even if their first language is English and then insist that the tour guide translates for you rather than address the rest of the group.
7 Thou shalt purchase a souvenir of such proportion that it requires a seat of its own next to the quiet, polite fellow who travels by himself. Such an item must be in the worst of taste and you must encourage people to believe that it belongs to the quiet fellow.
8 Thou shalt not be content with the itinerary and must argue endlessly with the guide and driver that you know a better route which is identical to a different excursion that you could have booked but didn't.
9 Thou shalt steal the seat of thy neighbour after a stop if it is a better seat than your own.
10 Thou shalt bear false witness against the tour guide and swear blind that the rendezvous time was half an hour later than everyone else thought for then the sin of lateness cannot be visited upon you.
4 Thou shalt insist that the guide benefits from your eternal ignorance and offer him or her advice, misinformation and fatuous questions at every opportunity.
5 Thou shalt be a Jostler for they are blessed and must trample the meek to ensure that they will not inherit the earth
6 Thou shalt speak slowly and loudly to indigenous peoples even if their first language is English and then insist that the tour guide translates for you rather than address the rest of the group.
7 Thou shalt purchase a souvenir of such proportion that it requires a seat of its own next to the quiet, polite fellow who travels by himself. Such an item must be in the worst of taste and you must encourage people to believe that it belongs to the quiet fellow.
8 Thou shalt not be content with the itinerary and must argue endlessly with the guide and driver that you know a better route which is identical to a different excursion that you could have booked but didn't.
9 Thou shalt steal the seat of thy neighbour after a stop if it is a better seat than your own.
10 Thou shalt bear false witness against the tour guide and swear blind that the rendezvous time was half an hour later than everyone else thought for then the sin of lateness cannot be visited upon you.
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