Mariella Frostrup: Why the relentlessly positive Caribbean will weather the storms
The devastation wreaked in recent weeks by hurricanes Irma and Katya across the Caribbean seems barely believable to those of us more familiar with the balmy climate, swaying palms and warm welcome for which the area is famed.
The picture-postcard attributes of this group of island nations has been hard to reconcile with the images of flattened homes, abandoned resort hotels and raging seas. From slavery to colonialism they’ve endured and thrived and now their resilience is being tested still further. Yet these islanders remain the most positive, naturally happy people – their rich musical, cultural, sporting and, more recently, literary traditions offer an inspiring legacy to good times and bad.
My own love affair with the Caribbean began long distance in 1979, the summer I moved to the UK from Norway. It was impossible not to be seduced by the way the drab streets of west London burst into colour during the Notting Hill Carnival. To the soundtrack of the steel bands and the exuberant and risqué Soca hits of the day, I joined jubilant crowds following the garishly coloured floats through the streets and dreamed of visiting the birthplace of such life-affirming celebrations.
My visits to the islands began soon after and have been some of the most memorable of my life, although not without the occasional mishap. I was sent on assignment to the then barely developed island of Bequia – an old whaling station, a favourite among sailors and unfairly eclipsed by its star-studded neighbour, Mustique. Today there’s a tiny airport, but back then the journey from the Grenadines capital of St Vincent took four hours on an old cargo boat, the Friendship Rose. It was an authentic introduction; scrambling for deck space between tethered goats, crates of fresh produce, squawking chickens and amiable locals visiting family and friends. The legendary blue sea was breathtakingly clear and virtually body temperature, which lured me into learning to scuba dive, an experience that transformed me into a lifelong, passionate underwater visitor and, more recently, saw my children follow suit.
Ironically, in the face of the desperate events of recent weeks, I still have a T-shirt printed with the words “I survived Christmas ’87”. That was the year our “unsinkable” dive boat capsized, having been hit by a run of big waves, and 12 fellow divers and I spent 45 minutes dangling on the anchor chain, playing noughts and crosses on our waterproof pads and awaiting rescue. A flotilla of local fishing boats, mainly oar-powered, responded to our SOS, which had been picked up by a St Vincent taxi-driver who telephoned to Bequia to raise the alarm. On dry land our small adventure grew into a tall tale over complimentary rum punches at The Plantation House bar.
I do seem to have a nasty habit of capsizing. A few years later on a sailing trip with a boyfriend, cooped up with his two best friends in a 30ft fibreglass prison, I mutinied off the coast of Barbuda and demanded we put to shore for a dinner à deux. Having successfully argued my case, we left his two pals drinking beer, playing cards and sneering at their browbeaten buddy, and set off for the nearest hotel. Perched triumphantly on the edge of the dingy in a little black dress (packed among my shorts and vests in the hope of such an occasion) I proved less elegant swan than sitting duck when a large breaker appeared out of nowhere, tipping me, shoes and dry-clean-only dress, into the ocean. I emerged dripping with seaweed, hair plastered to my scalp and my dress reduced to the size of a Fifties bathing costume. In the distance, my makeup bag and scuppered shoes floated towards the horizon. We split up shortly afterwards!
Such anecdotal moments are a far cry from the experiences of those who’ve found themselves in the eye of those terrifying storms. My happy memories are eclipsed by thoughts of the thousands of beleaguered Caribbean islanders whose homes and livelihoods have been wiped out. It will take years to rebuild in some of the worst spots like Anguilla and Barbuda and funds to do so will be hard to come by.
I’m hoping that elaborating on my escapades might spur other lucky souls who’ve shared the nirvana-like experience of holidaying in those isles to be as generous with rebuilding donations as with past holiday budgets.
To help the Caribbean relief effort, you can donate at westindiacommittee.org/donate
