Tuesday 20th July
I can’t stop daydreaming about the local woman who looks like Jackie Brown, who has walked past us on the beach a couple of times, and smiled when she caught my eye. I feel like it could be my Shirley Valentine moment, and let’s face it, I could do worse than running off with a lady from Barbados. The thing is, everytime I see her, I can’t help but lapse into my Samuel L. Jackson impression, and Mrs Muck is positively and absolutely fed up hearing how an AK47 will take out every mother fucker in the room…
We were on the beach today, and had a classic example of a tropical shower. There was no warning as within the space of five minutes the blue sky disappeared and we were enveloped by a curtain of hot rain that lashed down and soaked everything to it’s skin. I had been caught out the first day we were here, and today my phone was safely stashed inside a waiting plastic bag, protected from the rain deep in my rucksack. The rain was lovely, and almost euphoric in it’s intensity. The kind of downpour that could have you singing in the rain in fact, although for the sake of Mrs Muck’s blushes I refrained.
We’ve been lucky again with the weather though, and apart from the aforementioned cloudburst, it’s been another full day on the beach.
Tonight we have decided to stay in, and chill on the verandah, with me drinking wine, and Mrs Muck becoming more of a local with every minute that passes, drinking rum. I swear she’s started speaking with a Bajan twang in her accent today… We’ve got a pizza in the fridge for later, to soak up the alcohol, and I’m praying it’s in time before Sandy gets too pissed and fists start flying. I have to say though, that the twins have been bearable over the last couple of days- mostly because Handy has been confined to bed after a nasty bout of sunstroke (the type of cream he rubbed over himself out dogging today doesn’t prevent sunburn), and Sandy is doped up to the eyeballs on a combination of local rum, local ganja, and not-so-local assorted powders. The low, constant groaning from their bedrooms is infinitely preferable to their high pitched slanging matches, and it’s a terrible thing to say, but fingers crossed they stay immobilised for as long as possible.
Sandy is particularly unbearable, as he seems to have swapped his Hispanic accent and look for a Caribbean one, and has now sprouted some faux dreadlocks, a gold tooth (with a tiny red, gold and green Africa embossed in it), and a decidedly dodgy “Caribbean” accent. If I hear one more “yeah marrrn” I swear I won’t be held guilty in law…
I’ve had the pleasure of meeting some local characters, and today it was the neighbourhood tramp. It’s nice to meet genuine local people when you visit far flung places. I say “meet”, but stepping over him as he frothed at the mouth lying prostate on the pavement may involve a slight exaggeration on my part at our making acquaintance. Still, he did wave as he looked up at me, and the grunts that issued from his mouth may well be the local dialect that I just happen to be unfamiliar with.
No wonder this holiday was cheap- trust me to book our accommodation in the only crack riddled ghetto on the island.
Still, once the villa gates are shut, the outside world melts away, and now we are slowly but steadily getting rather intoxicated on local rum, and shockingly expensive imported wine. The cacophony of assorted insects is springing into life as the sun disappears, and deafening chirps, buzzing and squealing surrounds us. Or that just may be the ringing in my ears from too much sun and alcohol- who knows?