Dominica - chapter 1 - God's Day
I can never remember which car service I like and which I hate, so I go with instinct and dial the sixes, 666-6666. A friendly voice reassures me, later confirmed at 4am by a cheery Indian driver, go with the six, seven is weaksauce.
Falling asleep thinking of how to waterproof my underwear. 4 hours later I awake unprovoked, 45 minutes early. Thinking of waterfalls.
1st song on the iPod (shuffle all songs) is Road Trippin.’ Second song is PYT.
I did everything in my power to avoid American Airlines, short of swimming to the Caribbean, but they seem to have a monopoly on this route. So I’m stuck in a terminal at 5am that has locked down any outlet or internet signal in order to make $5 each 15 min. It's like my dad cutting the cable feed after being sent to my room. Checking out a website of monkeys doing it is almost worth the quid, but I pass.
Flight.
I meet a Dominican guy, his sister, and his friend (whom I later realize is his “friend”). He is about 32 with braces and his family lives in Grand Bay; maybe give him a call for some photos on Friday.
Martin Tavernier’s name sounds classier than the man himself looks, but the quasi-rasta turns out to be a cool brother. When the Ministry’s driver doesn't show up at the airport it commences a bidding war among the cabbies. “Someone wants to speak to you,” announces the fattest of the gang as he shovels his cell my way.
“Ello mon, you da one 'aitin for da Mistry?” I am.
“Well, he ain’t comin’ cauz it’s Sunday, das Gods day.” Silence is usually the best answer if confused.
“So my man will take you and you just gib dem da receipt.”
Nice try chief, I'll go with Martin Tavernier.
It’s an hour drive so I’ll give it about 45 min before easing into the ganja conversation, although it hardly seems like a subject that will be difficult to breach with a guy in an matching jersery outfit that would fit Shaq, two cell phones, dreads tucked into a do-rag, and a song on the stereo chanting “Maa – ri – waaaana, I love it. Maa – ri – waaaana, I miss it. Maa – ri – waaaana, I need it. Shez mine.”
Turns out they have it here too.
At the spectacularly adequate hotel I try and figure out if I like cricket: The match’s focus has been turned to an inflatable object that has drifted onto the field, and tracks it for 47 seconds in silence. On the other hand, it’s tough to dislike a sport where Austrailian commentators say things like, “I bet his first cry, just out of his mother’s womb, and onto dry land, was...”
I order the roti. I guess it’s Domingo Loco here.
Falling asleep thinking of how to waterproof my underwear. 4 hours later I awake unprovoked, 45 minutes early. Thinking of waterfalls.
1st song on the iPod (shuffle all songs) is Road Trippin.’ Second song is PYT.
I did everything in my power to avoid American Airlines, short of swimming to the Caribbean, but they seem to have a monopoly on this route. So I’m stuck in a terminal at 5am that has locked down any outlet or internet signal in order to make $5 each 15 min. It's like my dad cutting the cable feed after being sent to my room. Checking out a website of monkeys doing it is almost worth the quid, but I pass.
Flight.
I meet a Dominican guy, his sister, and his friend (whom I later realize is his “friend”). He is about 32 with braces and his family lives in Grand Bay; maybe give him a call for some photos on Friday.
Martin Tavernier’s name sounds classier than the man himself looks, but the quasi-rasta turns out to be a cool brother. When the Ministry’s driver doesn't show up at the airport it commences a bidding war among the cabbies. “Someone wants to speak to you,” announces the fattest of the gang as he shovels his cell my way.
“Ello mon, you da one 'aitin for da Mistry?” I am.
“Well, he ain’t comin’ cauz it’s Sunday, das Gods day.” Silence is usually the best answer if confused.
“So my man will take you and you just gib dem da receipt.”
Nice try chief, I'll go with Martin Tavernier.
It’s an hour drive so I’ll give it about 45 min before easing into the ganja conversation, although it hardly seems like a subject that will be difficult to breach with a guy in an matching jersery outfit that would fit Shaq, two cell phones, dreads tucked into a do-rag, and a song on the stereo chanting “Maa – ri – waaaana, I love it. Maa – ri – waaaana, I miss it. Maa – ri – waaaana, I need it. Shez mine.”
Turns out they have it here too.
At the spectacularly adequate hotel I try and figure out if I like cricket: The match’s focus has been turned to an inflatable object that has drifted onto the field, and tracks it for 47 seconds in silence. On the other hand, it’s tough to dislike a sport where Austrailian commentators say things like, “I bet his first cry, just out of his mother’s womb, and onto dry land, was...”
I order the roti. I guess it’s Domingo Loco here.
posted by euroskip at 9:30 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home