The Wheels on the Bus go Round and Round!

The First Twenty-Four Hours

In our usual frenetic style, we have already filled the larder, the bar, gotten lost and walked the boiling hot streets of Willemstad, all before cocktail time.  But, to backtrack -

We landed at Hanto Airport in a tropical deluge.   So, 100% humidity outside, 150% inside.  We tromped off the plane, carrying Canadian coats and wearing Canadian shoes and some of us even wearing compression stockings.  Hot ones.  And into the cavenous airport we tromped along behind a full KLM flight, to line up in with the endless  hot and cranky tourists from all over the world.

Here's a shout-out to Hanto:   Nice Christmas tree.   Now, where the HELL are your luggage carts?  Oh, there aren't any?  After forty-five minutes of shuffling our way through the back-and-forth turnstyles like the bovines that we are, we finally cleared customs.   Then we appeared to have to clear some other official thing again, only this time, after retrieving our luggage.   Which consisted of more baggage, duffles, packages, car seats, strollers and cushions than you can imagine.   Laden down like four Saharian camels, dripping sweat, we completed the last of the lineups and escaped into the main airport looking for our prearranged air-conditioned SUV.

Except it wasn't there, because we didn't reserve that one, and what we did reserve was too small for the five of us, let alone all our luggage.   So while three of us sat and watched Benjamin's heat rash crawl  to new heights on his sweet back and tummy, good old Rick dickered with the agent and got the one vehicle that would fit us all.   Another long trek through the black tarmac of the parking lot, where the steam rose like tar sands after the recent rain, and there it was.  The Bus.  A ten seater diesel with enough room for all of us plus six tourists, should we ever decide to  make a few bucks.  Our very own short bus.   Even better than the floating coach, Boss Hawg, in Maui.   It was fate.

We gratefully piled in and loaded up and headed off in an attempt to follow the Google directions so helpfully provided by our host, RJ at the wheel and all of us passengers infinitely respectful of his previous Westmin bus driving years.  And that's when we found out that Curacao does not believe in street signs, other than a few vague indicators toward major centers.  Written in Dutch.  A quick check of the glove compartment revealed a bottle of water hot enough to make tea.  No map.  They didn't offer - we assumed it would be there.   New Caribbean rule.  No more assumptions.

So, we drove.  And drove.   In that jet-lagged miasma of brain drain until one of us spotted the Pizza Hut and cranked the wheel hard into the parking lot.   Thank heavens for delivery guys, they know how to get everywhere, and with a lot of hand gestures and a good map drawn on a napkin, we were on our way again.   And lo and behold, we finally made it to beautiful Blue Bay resort, gunning the engine over the speed bumps and eventually landing on #8, Villa Azure, with inexpressible relief.