By Fair Grace

When I said that the next posting would be from Cuba via the Dominican republic, I was clearly lying. We’re now in Jamaica, via Haiti....

In truth it’s been a while since writing properly and that’s really a function of the places we’ve been. The islands have been, without exception, scenically beautiful. The people, similarly, have been friendly and happy and each place has had its own particular character.

So.... we’ve really enjoyed working our way up the Windwards. After Trinidad, we bashed up to Grenada, hard on the wind and with the trades blowing freshly and a strong current pushing us westwards. Not an easy sail, but just one night which made it OK. Grenada was very different from Trinny; good housing and a feeling of being financially secure, in spite of having been utterly ravaged by hurricane Ivan only a few years previously. We spent a day or two in Prickly Bay, with maybe 50 other boats then headed 5 miles or so up the coast into Port Egmont, probably the best Hurricane hole in the southern Caribbean. We spent a secluded week or so in there with just Mick and Bee for company, sitting out a spell of even windier than usual trade winds (by all accounts it has been and unusually windy year).

There is poverty there, but (and maybe this is a bit facile) somehow it doesn’t seem quite as bad when there is such abundance of fruits growing everywhere and which apparently seem to be there for the picking. We went on a hash through the jungle at the north end of the island and, by chatting to a local, ended up trying all sorts of fruit from what appeared to be every second or third tree. Spectacularly good were cocoa seeds. After cracking open the bright yellow pods about 8” long, we picked out the chestnut sized nuts and sucked the jelly-like stuff that coated them..... no remote taste of cocoa, just a zesty lemony taste, but slightly sweet.... delicious.

From Grenada, the next stop was Carriacou, which we decided was our favourite Windward island. Seriously chilled out, no hassle from anyone, a lovely busy little boatyard in a well sheltered bay, beavering away repairing traditional wooden boats as well as a few yachts.

We caught up with friends here, Tony and Chris on Shamsuddin, Erik and Heike on Auveq and others. We’d have happily stayed longer, but wanted to spend some time in the Tobago Cays, so headed on north to Union Island to officially check into the St Vincent Grenadines.

Union was a bit of a shock really. For us it was the beginning of charter boat territory. Yeah, I know this is a bit snobbish, but it was truly a bit scary being in the crowded anchorage at Clifton Harbour in a strong wind, with big charter boats tearing through.

On land, the attitude of the locals was consequently quite different, being geared towards people on short holidays with plenty of spending money...... so on again and into the Cays which are famous for their exquisitely coloured water, coral and turtles. So, we swam with turtles, who were happily munching on the sea grass beds in 3-4m of water and not remotely bothered by us, and snorkelled through and finally out of the encompassing reef. Looking over the edge into the depths was one of those spine tingling moments.......

But, the Cays have long been a favourite destination for charterers and I suppose that having them there in quantity makes it more difficult for us to sustain our self image as adventurers rather than the tourists that we really are. So we were content to move on again after a few days to Bequia. The sailing between the islands has been brisk and bouncy, but mostly in daylight and with the destination in sight and hence good fun.

Admiralty Bay in Bequia is a huge, well sheltered bay, with lots of yachts. By any standards it’s a pleasant place to be and we enjoyed our stay, but I guess that by this point we were becoming just a little bored by tourist focussed places. We’d planned to jump off from here to Cuba via the Dominican Republic, but a last minute craving for baguettes and croissant made us divert to the French island of Martinique, skipping St Lucia and St Vincent. It really is, as they say, a little outpost of France in the Caribbean; and the Pain au chocolat were worth every mile of the trip.

So, having stocked up, we decided to give the DR a miss and head off to Cuba, with a stop at Ile A Vache in Haiti. In spite of Haiti’s reputation as one of the most violent and dangerous (and poor) countries in the western hemisphere, we’d heard that this offlying island was safe, and that officials rarely made it out to check on yachts.

This was a delightful 7 day passage of calm seas and following winds pushing us gently along at a steady 4-5 knots. The wind died away for the last day, and we had a swim in 2000m of water. A bit scary, but worth it, if only for the awesome blueness when you look down into the depths.

As we approached Ile A Vache, we began to see the local fishermen. Not a sign of the big outboard engines so ubiquitous in the Windwards, only dugout canoes and little spritsail rigged boats, with sails as often as not made from what looked like old dustbin liners stitched together.

On the last morning we caught a big Wahoo (see the pics!) but had to wait to ask one of the fishermen whether it was safe from ciguatera (a poison that they can accumulate from an algae). In my rusty French we established that it was OK, gave them a big chunk of the fish, and ate sushi for lunch.

Ile A Vache certainly provided the antidote that we had been seeking to the comfortable, largely safe, tourist oriented Windwards. We rounded the last point of the island and nosed our way into Port Morgan, erstwhile base of the pirate Henry Morgan. It can’t have changed much since his time. Still no cars or electricity and the locals apparently surviving by fishing or subsistence farming.

For all our wishes for a change from the creeping complacency of the Windwards, we suddenly began to feel profoundly uncomfortable. Here we were, cruisers on a “small” budget, arriving in a place where we seem impossibly and ostentatiously wealthy.

From the moment we arrived in this utterly tranquil little bay, we were besieged by children in dugout canoes begging or wanting to sell bits of scraggy fruit.....

Well, we dispensed pencils and paper, sweets and bought a few bits and pieces of the fruit and in truth if it had been just the kids then it would have been OK.

What was a very special surprise was to round the last corner to see the twin white tipped masts of Hannah peeping over the little sandy spit which protected the inner basin. They had arrived only a few hours before us from the DR. Having parted in Carriacou, we had thought not to see Mick and Bee again for months.

I find it difficult to describe and explain our collective feeling of unease at being there. I guess it was a combination of factors.

In addition to the children, there were about 10 adults who were determined, in a polite but relentless way, to lever some money out of us. This put us in an awkward position. Having spent the previous 2 years spinning out our meagre (rental) income and trying to get the best deal for everything we spend, we have a strongly established resistance to parting with un-necessary cash, particularly for stuff we actively don’t want. So, a battle of wills ensued.

With the benefit if hindsight, we should probably have relented and paid one of them to be our minder, which might have got rid of the rest, but this ran strongly against the grain and, while we were happy to put money into their economy in some way, these people seemed amongst the least deserving.

So our walk ashore in the little village nestled around the bay was accompanied by a posse of these characters helpfully “showing us around”, turning us into something like a tour of minor royalty. We narrowly managed to avoid the cock fight, which seems to be the main entertainment activity in the island.

Then there was the question of immigration formalities. The island doesn’t have any resident officials who occasionally cross from the mainland port of Les Cayes. The alternative is to cross on the small ferry to see them. This seemed to be one of the ploys of the locals to “guide” us to the mainland, and the story of how much it cost and what happened if they came out to the island was vague and changeable. We tried to play them at their own game and obfuscated. Maybe we’d go over tomorrow, maybe we’d go by sail, maybe we’d depart.....

We decided that we fancied a trip to the local market the following day at Madame Bernard, the main “town” an hour’s walk away. That evening we planned to give the posse a firm talking to in the morning before we set off... and so we did...... “pas d’argent pour vous” and so on. The lads looked at us glumly - and came anyway.

I have to say that I found the trip to the market engrossing (I’m not sure about the others). Haiti is the oldest black republic in the Caribbean and it felt to me to be intensely African in a way that none of the other islands approached.

The walk was scenic, tranquil and interesting. The people greeted us politely and it would have been marvellous if not for the now rather sullen group of lads with us, clearly discussing us at length and regularly slipping in immigration into the stream of patois. There were also insinuations by some that others worked for the immigration department or the secret police.......

We walked through the animal market on the way. This comprised a group of serious looking men gathered under a stand of palm trees with a couple of dozen assorted pigs goats and a cow. One of the animals had clearly just been slaughtered and butchered there on the sand. Various grubby overfilled bowls of entrails were being carried around. Later we saw an image which struck us all; two small boys carrying a freshly slaughtered cow’s head between them by its horns. We were all too self conscious or too slow to take a photograph. The market again felt wonderfully African. Nothing much for us to buy except some fruit and bread, which we did. We started feeling a bit self conscious, being the only white faces we’d seen all day and decided to retreat.

The posse insisted we go on a different, shorter, route home. I started to feel a bit nervous when we left all the settlements and headed off into a more remote feeling part of the island......I suppose the underlying tension was that this was after all part of Haiti, where grizzly violence has been one of the main features of its sad and unsettled history.

Suffice to say that we all got back safely, apart from all being individually asked for money (except me having delivered the morning speech) for bicycles, operations, school fees etc.

So, we arrived back at the bay, feeling satisfied (speaking personally) but pretty tense. We gave each of the gang a couple of beers, which they accepted like sulky children, and then decided that enough was enough. We had lunch and headed out.


Working our way westwards down the Haitian coast was a slow, and slightly eerie business. For 50 miles or so we drifted at 2-3 knots past a hazy mountainous coastline, completely devoid of any signs of life except the lazily drifting smoke of occasional fires. It must have looked virtually identical when Columbus came past 500 years ago. We had just discovered from another cruiser that Santiago de Cuba, our intended port of entry, was closed to yachts and seemed likely to remain that way, so we had taken the decision to head another 300 miles or so down the south coast to Cienfuego. Happily, Mick and Bee had decided to come there as well, so we sailed in company. Both of us were running a little short on diesel and with the prospect of light winds continuing (in spite of the forecast for 20knts!) we were reluctant to motor more than absolutely necessary. This was OK until we cleared the end of Haiti and encountered an unpleasant cross swell coming down the Windward Passage. Combined with very little wind, this was becoming very hard on sails and nerves alike and we started to feel quite glum.

By radio, Mick suggested diverting to Jamaica, and in spite of the slightly unsavoury reputation for crime, we figured it still had to be better than this, and so changed course to the south. Almost as soon as we’d made the decision, the wind picked up and we arrived at Port Antonio late the following evening. We decided to heave-to rather than try a night entry, so made it in to a tranquil, scenic bay early the next morning.

It turns out that Port Antonio area has amongst the lowest crime rates in the Caribbean. The little marina here is smart, well organised, friendly and sensibly priced. The town is scruffy but vibrant, busy and unpretentious, with a wonderful market. If there is a downside, it is that the marina and anchorage area feels a bit segregated from the town and locals. I can imagine them feeling slightly resentful of the idle rich in their secluded compound, but we have to admit to enjoying the showers, swimming pool, WIFI etc, so we aren’t complaining. And to be fair, I’ve felt no hostility at all in the town.

So. We wait here for good winds to head for Cienfuego, recuperate with good nights’ sleep, catch up on emails, and ponder the morality of having the luxury of time and money to wander the earth.