Day 2. Where the F-shot is our luggage?

Day 2

Chris, the owner of the establishment, in one of the many anecdotes he told us last night talked about the myth of jungle wood. He explained that after hiring some villagers to build him a deck things took a little long. A week after he had given them the assignment they still hadn’t started. He asked them what the problem was, and the leader kindly informed him that they were waiting for the moon to finish waxing. He told Chris that by tradition, jungle wood was not to be cut before a full moon, for if it was the wood would rot in 3 weeks. If it was cut after, it would keep. He slashed some bamboo as a demonstration, and three weeks later, as per the fable, it rotted. That which he cut for the deck after the full moon was not. This morning I was awoken by the crow of a wayward rooster. Steep hills dressed in gnarly jungle trees surrounded our building and its satellite shacks. The valleys supported tall swaying palms, bows drooping luxuriously, tops teetering ominously with coconuts – especially over our rental car. Note to self. In the distance the atlantic, green and frothy, crashes into bouldery cliffs which rise into cloud shrouded mountains. Our first mission today was to retrieve our bags from the airport. Uris, chris’ ebullient pony tailed son, informed us that he had called ahead and the airport representative maintained that they’d arrived last night. Fat Chance. A daring trek (this time in daylight) to the airport, got us our much missed bags, and provided a real sense of danger as the road is only wide enough to make each confrontation with oncoming traffic a near miss. The highest speed we’ve hit so far is 65km/h. Going any faster here would make us absolute maniacs, what with the blind turns and sketchy rain gutters. After lunch we trekked to the city of Portsmouth, which harbours Ross University; a medical school that apparently boasts students from all over the world. We didn’t see the school, but we did walk through the slummy back streets, friendly natives greeting us all the while. Answers to “How’s it going?” vary from a creolization of “c’est bon” right to the Rastafarian “Ire mun”. A kind and very hungry looking local woman intercepted us and took it upon herself to guide us back to our car. We are white, and therefore we are new, lost, and have money. She did show us the collapse site of a church, and the new marquee tent which now houses the pews so that mass may still be held. It was eerie to see a grass flanked tile floor out in the open sun, surrounded by rubble. Only solid wood pews and a carved stone altar were still devoutly standing. An earthquake swept through the island 2 years ago, our guide told us. We gave her a few EC for her troubles. Our drive home was spiced with frequent stops for pictures of scenery, and gathering of wild fruits. Grapefruit, Oranges and coconuts for the picking reward the attentive eye here, and taste sweeter than storebought produce.