Monsoon

The Last Twenty-Four Hours (almost)

We awoke to a drumming monsoon while thunder grumbled and rumbled overhead. With the rain, the temperature dropped accordingly and the general vote was to try for Willemstad one last time, hopefully to stroll at leisure instead of flitting in and out of every air-conditioned shop, bar and restaurant in order to breathe.

The big short-fat-white bus practically made the trip on auto-pilot, straight into our favored parking lot in downtown Punda, just like locals.   Okay, like really, really, really WHITE locals.  But still.   We were just a few steps away from the Queen Emma bridge and all of us commented on the friendly temperatures, refreshing breeze and the chance to really enjoy this historic city without the toxicity of 35-40 Celsius heat.  Lah de dah, happy little campers we were.  All except one hyper-vigilant Nana, who cast her wrinkled and worried eyes to the black clouds boiling up over the sea, heading straight for town.  But on we skipped, into a town almost deserted on a Saturday, feeling smug and very much like we had picked the perfect day to complete our exploring of Willemstad.   We shopped and gawked until nearly noon, and at that point, someone suggested lunch at the shoreline next to the floating market.   Perfect.   Nana, whose spidie senses were tingling mightily, shrilly suggested an indoor venue but everyone assured her...don't worry, Nana!  Those clouds are there all the time!  They never do anything!  And it's a perfect day, so nice and cool!  Let's go re-do the circle market, then the floating market!  It's perfect!

As we approached the floating market, Nana's turtle-neck craned skywards and her lips tightened.  "Take cover!" she warned, grimly, as the first drops fell.   "Ha ha ha, Nana, it's just a little light rain!  We'll just duck under this cover here and just in case, put on the stroller's rain cover."  And Nana was mightily glad that they did.  Because.  About one minute later...the sky fell.  All of it.  The whole flippin' sky.   Clouds and birds and big slops of wet and gallons of gushes.  Rarely, the drumming would ease to a deluge.  Nana, who was trying to unleash her superpowers into the heavens, peered over the fruit booths (ten feet away) at the Boulton's, who were hunkered down over bananas, tangerines and watermelon vendors.  Through osmosis and eye contact we mutually agreed to make a run for it to find an indoor restaurant.  And so, much to the delight of the locals, four large, wet, and disgruntled Canadians and one perfectly dry and enchanted, cooing baby made a run for cover, up and down alleys, into doorways and door-jams and overhangs.  Like crabs on a beach, hither and yon.  The water pummeled us without mercy and Nana's bloomers filled to capacity.

We made a run for the outdoor (but covered in tarps) restaurant.  We found a table that was more or less out of the waterfall.   But then, the tarps filled up and over they spilled and they went right down Nana's neck, through her shirt and down into her shorts where they disappeared into places that have no name and should never be thought of.  So, Nana and Peter ordered a beer, Rick ordered a pina colada, and Lisa requested - of all things - a bottle of water.   Out of about a hundred tables, there were perhaps a dozen people (and we counted as 5).   We got our drinks, and we waited.  And waited.  For the sky to stop falling.

Then we became commandos, bustling and hustling along and then finally we did a football-style huddle and decided to make a run for the short-white-fat-bus, on the other side of the Queen Emma bridge.   Lisa's jaw was set with steely determination and Nana, who was afraid of a slip on the bridge and resultant bladder disaster, held fast to Rick's sleeve, who was setting new speed-walking records.

Peter, plodding along behind the rest of the troop, suddenly decided he wanted to buy a Dutch tablecloth.  So, we let him.

It was with indescribable relief that the short-white-fat-bus appeared through the jungle mist and the only thing that could have made it better was if it was equipped with a Port-A-Potty.   (I don't really know why it wasn't... we definitely had the room).   But there was hope, as the Sambal mall was just a few kilometers down the road, and it was on the way home.. and it was DRY.

Yes, dry it was, but it was also air-conditioned.  As the rest of the troop plodded in happily anticipating more shopping and lunch in the Food Court, Nana sourly realized that even her bra was saturated.  That was not as important as the proximity of the washroom, and it seemed that her beloved was also suffering from the same sense of urgency.  (And as an aside, I am pleased to report that nary a broom nor a mop graced my toes on this particular visit.)  The necessities being resolved, we enjoyed a sandwich in the court and a stroll around the mall, all the while listening to some kind of Spanish/Papiamento Christmas carols.  There were a thousand little kids screaming around the mall, obviously this was the place to be during a hurricane.  The walk was brisk, the temperature was too.  Actually it was friggin' freezing, and my wet shorts and shirt clung to my back as it was far too humid to dry.  Cool, wet, clammy, really cranky Nana, with her hair plastered to her head, accentuating her damned cowlick hairline.   All she truly wanted was a shower, preferably with warm, non-rain water.  And a big glass of wine.

She politely, but firmly, insisted that the short-white-fat-van take us all back to Villa Azure, where the shower ran hot and the wine was cold.  Much to her inexpressible relief, the rest of the gang agreed and the short-white-fat bus found the way home.

Thus endeth our last day on Curacao.  Tomorrow, WestJet willing, we will wing our way home to Toronto and then, the following day, back to heavenly Comox.

It has been an adventure, no doubt about it - but we are all ready to come home.   West Coast rain and all.

Still hot hot hot

It's 33 in Willemstad today, and with the humidity it "feels like" 38 or 39.   All I can say is that we can manage about 10 minutes outdoors before we are reduced to melting pools of lava.  Our bodies stick to everything - the bus seats, the sidewalk benches, each other.  True togetherness.  This morning I joined my beloved on the golf course, just as a ride-along, as I wanted to see what the course was like.  This was RJ's fifth game and fortunately he knew where we were going, because the signs on the golf course were about as helpful as the street signs on this island.   The fairway was equivalent to our "rough", the "rough" was basically long jungle grass with nests of biting ants.  The greens kicked sand with every putt.   Having said that, the basically arid nature combined with daily dumps of rain make it possible to have impressive botanical gardens like this:

Not a friendly environment to find an errant golf ball, but definitely lovely to look at!  To set foot into this terrain is to cause a frantic scurrying of the reptilian tenants - big, little, they all looked uniformly insulted and royally pissed off at the intrusion. The cart path, euphemistically speaking, was like a dried mud drag-strip of moguls and wash-outs, deep potholes and anthills.  As always the driver was relaxed and in control, while the passenger held on with a catatonic grip, clenched jaw and muttering a few Hail Mary's as we careened around the high cliff holes.   Fun stuff.  Here's the signature hole.  I think he double-bogied it, but my memory could be faulty (sorry, honey). One in the ocean, right?

We are winding down to our last few days here, and that means mining the fridge of the Must-Go's.  Chef Peter made a zesty Caribbean dish of rice, beans and all bits and pieces of leftover meat - turkey burgers, salami, smoked ham.   It was a culinary melting pot, and delicious!  After lunch we braved the heat again but not for long, for a quick visit to another supposedly air-conditioned shopping centre (it wasn't) with purely Dutch stores.  Lisa disappeared into the European baby supply store, both boys migrated to the candy shoppe, and my thighs remained firmly stuck to the bench under a feeble fan.  For fun I laid out all my Dutch coinage and stuck them to my thigh, then tried to figure out the florin/guilder hierarchy.  I gave up.  Who cares?  I am quite sure the shopkeepers are used to sweaty Canadian women offering a fist full of Antilles coinage for their purchase accompanied by a quizzical and friendly smile (read: please don't rip me off), all with deep bench marks carved across the legs.

You Wanna Talk Rain?

Dearest friends in Courtenay/Comox,

I know it's raining there, and I know it's been raining there for about 45 days straight.  And it's cold and the wind is blowing too.  I feel your pain.  I seriously do.  Especially all you golfers (Dad and Daphne).  But I no longer think that it rains hard in Courtenay.  Rain?  You call that rain?   Pfffffft.   Let me show you what rain looks like in Curacao.  First, this picture is basically a warning from the Gods of Thunder that something is brewing, but you don't get to find out when.  It's all a big celestial secret, maybe something is happening, maybe not.  Not for mortals to know.  So, you go ahead and make your plans and in typical Canadian fashion, you reassure yourself that it probably won't rain on your side of the island.

And that's exactly what Thor Thunder and his buddy Zeus were hoping for.  They will wait until you have completed a pleasant shop in Willemstad, enjoyed a luncheon by the cruise ship terminal, and then, as you pile all your purchases together and put the baby back in his stroller to walk back to the bus, you hear what sounds like a tidal wave hitting the rooftop.    And, by the time you race back to the Big White Bus (never, never look up in the sky in a storm like that - just like the turkeys in Arkansas, you could seriously drown), the roads look like this:

That sort-of white line you see is supposed to be the middle of the road but really it is a divider in a swimming pool.   Two lanes, and all we could do was make that diesel engine roar and be grateful that the Big White Bus has enough ground clearance to prevent it from turning into a Big White Ark.    Rick kept us moving forward steadily, creating a wake that could easily have supported a few water-skiers.   Unbelievably, a few cars actually passed us.  One of them was driven by a myopic-looking Japanese guy and I think he actually wasn't even aware of the torrent, probably just thought his brakes felt a little "soft."

It's only a 20 minute drive from Willemstad back to Blue Bay, but it felt a lot longer.  I think we all breathed a sigh of relief once we pulled back into the driveway.   We hurriedly dragged in our parcels and Benny, stroller, groceries.   And within 5 minutes the sun blinked back on, steam started to rise from the pathways and Peter decided to head out for a snorkel.  Unlike the Comox Valley where grey means "grey to stay",  in this odd little Caribbean island the grey melts to blue and suddenly, the view turns to this. 

So, I am sending you all some sunshine, and I hope it sticks.  In the meantime, meet my pal Iggy, who hangs around at the end of the pier when he is not down pooping by the side of the swimming pool.  He is really such a beauty, but I wish his mother would talk to him about his bathroom habits.