Day 1. We make contact

Day 1
We awoke, my parents and I, at 5:30 This morning. Outside it was -10 or less, and snow fell out of a black sky, illuminated by only our driveway lanterns. The Red Car pulled up at 6:35 and our journey had begun. After de-icing we escaped a low-visibility classic snowy Ontario morning, and flew for 4.5 hrs. The first harbinger of hot weather was the frozen de-icing solution finally melting off of the wing as we descended for our approach to Antigua. Clad in our long pants, we felt the weather follow through on the promise off oppressive heat. A promise made by the palm trees slipping past below us as we lost enough altitude to resolve the ground below us. In true Carribean spirit, we simply walked down a wheeled staircase and set foot on the breezy, humid tarmac. Entering the mock adobe building, finally feeling as a minority for once, we had to fend for ourselves to clear customs in a busy, small airport, the interior of which more closely represented a busy cafeteria than a gateway to the rest of the world, with its close, sweaty quarters and its disorganized line ups. There was, however, one major difference from a Canadian cafeteria (okay two): 1) The populace was representative of this island: over 90% African descent. 2) No-one except our family was in a hurry. After another woman accidentally walked away with my mother’s bag at customs (which was safely returned), we followed the directions of the staff’s pointing fingers across the tarmac to our waiting dash-8. The noisy turbulent flight with Carribean Star airlines took the customary half hour. Along with this came the customary landing at an airport smaller than a public library, the customary harassment from every person capable of driving a cab trying to be friends with us for a price, and not to be outdone, the customary “oops, we forgot your bags, and they won’t get here for 12 more hours, see you in the morning.” The people here are unique. They are incredibly friendly, but extremely quick to tell you when you’ve inconvenienced them. They are scathingly honest, and that is a rare quality. We were scolded by airport staff for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. As my mother attempted to calm the budget representative into giving us our car, pap and I walked (under terse advice) to the broom closet labeled “immigration” to appropriate our driving permits. The friendly Carribean lady whose job it is to administer licenses did so without much more than a look at the ones we’d brought with us. Not surprising, but still humorous given I was too young to drive a rental car here. The woman who rented us the car kindly offered to supplant the business of the other cab hustlers by driving us personally to our accommodation, for a fare equivalent to that of a cab. We seized the opportunity to get directions from a local, and so her and my mother rode in front, as pap and I followed in tow. White knuckled but laughing in our 100,000+ mi. Suzuki Escudo, with more than a comfortable delay in steering and brakes we bounced through the night. I gripped the wheel tightly for a few reasons. It was pitch black (such is life at 6:30 in equatorial regions), and the narrow road, big enough for 1.5 cars but built for two, wound through kilometers of jungle, lined by 2 + foot deep and 1 tire wide rain gutters, flanked by overhanging banana leaves waving into the lit field of view. All this compounded by the fact that I had to oversteer just to understeer in this car, and that this was my first time driving on the left hand side. Our night ended with a quiet evening at the restaurant that is part of our lodge. It is owned by a couple from Belgium who came over with their son 9 weeks ago. They, like many others, visited here once, and fell in love with the country. They flew back less than a year later and bought the place. The owner is a slight, spectacled, and trim bearded man with an excited disposition. He has a thick Belgian accent, which makes him sound like a Dutchman with a tint of Swedish. He is remarkably accommodating – the whole family is – lending us his Dominica guide book, and spent 2 hours exchanging stories with us at our dinner table. We are now settled comfortably into our hot, humid, rainstorm-prone jungly abode. Peepers in the banana trees sing us to sleep, our escudo derelict Suzuki waiting faithfully down on the road outside. Tomorrow when the sun rises, we will see what verdant landscape is obscured by the night from our balcony.