Bahamavention
According to our cab driver, the original name for Paradise Island in the Bahamas is Boar Island . It was renamed when it was developed as a tourist destination, but in my opinion, it is still chock-full of boars. Only the spelling has changed; it’s now full of boors, and/or bores.
Homonyms aside, fat American tourists on vacation are depressing. I can’t imagine why you’d go to the trouble of traveling to another country to do all the things you could do at home. In the case of my hefty countrymen, that thing is apparently eating.
A lot.
All the time.
With the eating comes the waddling, and the misappropriation of Spandex garments, and more of the eating. These people represent the worst of our culture. They have no curiosity about the country they’re visiting, the people who actually live there, the food they eat, their music, any of it.
No, they seem to want a tropical America with all-you-can-eat buffet, Starbucks, and McDonald’s in a one block radius so as to minimize any unwelcome walking from cruise ship or mega resort to bland and familiar dining establishment. They were all over the monstrosity of a hotel we stayed in, and all over Paradise Island in general, and all over only the main drag in Nassau. Presumably the rest of Nassau had a bit too much ‘native culture’ to make my fellow Americans comfortable.
Fortunately, I was with Reba and Anne, both of whom are great to travel with and go to new places to experience them, not to sit poolside and feed.
We left the morning after my birthday. I had gone out to celebrate, and didn’t get home ‘til about 12:30 AM. I dutifully set my alarm for 5:07, but apparently forgot to actually turn it on, so when Reba called at 5:20 to make sure I was up and moving, I was neither up nor moving.
We dragged in to the airport for our 8 AM flight to Charlotte, where we connected to our Bahamas flight. When we finally got to Nassau, we were delighted to discover a Bacardi stand handing out free Bahama Mamas. We were less delighted to discover the luggage for 50% of the people on our plane had gone missing, including all of our bags.
The Bahamian lifestyle seems to exclude both expeditious thought or action, so we fretted around for over an hour until the palette containing our luggage was finally located and leisurely unloaded on the floor of baggage claim.
The trend continued at the hotel, where we arrived to discover our reservation in no way meant we actually had a room waiting for us. 45 more minutes of us and our American getitdonerightnowforchrist’ssake vs. the Bahamian it’ll get done when it gets done at some point probably today.
A room was finally located for us, and we wearily dropped our bags and flopped down on the rather creepy private beach for a few drinks. By 9:30, we were all dead asleep.
The next day was significantly better. We were up early, grabbed breakfast, then headed out on rented bikes to explore the east side of the island, where we were told there would be fewer tourists. We’d only gone a few miles when we heard loud music coming from a park, so we turned in to investigate. We discovered an amazing local festival/regatta, and we appeared to be the only non-locals there.
Anne spotted some jet-skis, and after some haggling with the owner, the three of us were tearing around on the bay, whooping and hollering and jumping each others’ wakes. For once in my life, I was like, “Hell yes, fossil fuel!”
While we waited for the alleged regatta to start (we were there 4 hours and never saw one damn boat), we met Donnie, a guy selling conch salad that he made with live conch that squirmed as he cut it. To make conch salad, you take one conch, dice it, add onions and tomatoes, two kinds of Bahamian peppers (finger and goat), and lemon, lime and orange juice. It’s like the best ceviche in the universe. Totally fresh, totally healthy, and insanely delicious. Reba bought a big plate of meat from some people who were grilling nearby, which we shared with Donnie and his crowd, including a guy who had pot leaf bling, a pot leaf t-shirt. and jeans with little embroidered pot leaves all over them, which I found hilarious in its total lack of subtlety.
Washed down with a few cans of Kalik, the ubiquitous Bahamian beer, while sitting in bright sun, and smoking a Cuban cigar of dubious provenance, I can safely say that is an ideal way to spend an afternoon.
Cultural reference point: in Bahamian culture, the conch’s ‘jelly tube,’ or penis, is supposed to impart strength and virility to one who ingests it. After the urging of our new friends, I went and ate conch penis. This is the face you make immediately after eating conch penis:
We gave up on the bikes, which had three gears and coaster breaks, after my bike decided it didn’t feel like staying in gear, which means the brakes failed totally. Stopping a moving bike wearing flip flops sucks, in case you had any questions about that. The skin on your toes does serve a purpose, and you miss it when it's gone.
We went out snorkeling on a windy day, so the ocean was wave-tossed and silty. Outbound, I was fine. The divemasters invited Reba, Anne and me to sit up with them in the wheel house, which was fantastic. Once we were at anchor, though, I started to regret eating, anything, ever. I know I get seasick, and had even taken preventative Dramamine, but that was no match for the escape route my breakfast wanted to take. I was sick in the water, sick in the scary marine toilet, sick off the side of the boat, sick in my hand, sick in my hair. I spent the last part of the trip clutching the side of the boat, gazing at the horizon, hoping for death, and cursing the people still in the water for not getting back on the bloody boat so we could go back to shore.
Lots of Bahamian food is fried, which I can’t say I love, but those people know their seafood, and we had a great deal of it. My favorite was still Donnie’s conch salad, but Reba had some damn fine grouper, I had the kick-ass smudder fish, and we all ate really well at Traveller’s Rest, a fantastic restaurant Reba had found and added to her incredibly thorough and well-organized Bahamas travel folder. If I ever have to plan the invasion of a country, I want Reba with me.
All in all, I don’t think I’m a tropical island kind of girl, but it was great to get out of Dodge for a while, and better yet to escape my hideous countrymen. I’m also pretty fired up to have tan lines in March, and even though they’re fading fast, my memories of conch penis and projectile vomit are mine forever.
Homonyms aside, fat American tourists on vacation are depressing. I can’t imagine why you’d go to the trouble of traveling to another country to do all the things you could do at home. In the case of my hefty countrymen, that thing is apparently eating.
A lot.
All the time.
With the eating comes the waddling, and the misappropriation of Spandex garments, and more of the eating. These people represent the worst of our culture. They have no curiosity about the country they’re visiting, the people who actually live there, the food they eat, their music, any of it.
No, they seem to want a tropical America with all-you-can-eat buffet, Starbucks, and McDonald’s in a one block radius so as to minimize any unwelcome walking from cruise ship or mega resort to bland and familiar dining establishment. They were all over the monstrosity of a hotel we stayed in, and all over Paradise Island in general, and all over only the main drag in Nassau. Presumably the rest of Nassau had a bit too much ‘native culture’ to make my fellow Americans comfortable.
Fortunately, I was with Reba and Anne, both of whom are great to travel with and go to new places to experience them, not to sit poolside and feed.
We left the morning after my birthday. I had gone out to celebrate, and didn’t get home ‘til about 12:30 AM. I dutifully set my alarm for 5:07, but apparently forgot to actually turn it on, so when Reba called at 5:20 to make sure I was up and moving, I was neither up nor moving.
We dragged in to the airport for our 8 AM flight to Charlotte, where we connected to our Bahamas flight. When we finally got to Nassau, we were delighted to discover a Bacardi stand handing out free Bahama Mamas. We were less delighted to discover the luggage for 50% of the people on our plane had gone missing, including all of our bags.
The Bahamian lifestyle seems to exclude both expeditious thought or action, so we fretted around for over an hour until the palette containing our luggage was finally located and leisurely unloaded on the floor of baggage claim.
The trend continued at the hotel, where we arrived to discover our reservation in no way meant we actually had a room waiting for us. 45 more minutes of us and our American getitdonerightnowforchrist’ssake vs. the Bahamian it’ll get done when it gets done at some point probably today.
A room was finally located for us, and we wearily dropped our bags and flopped down on the rather creepy private beach for a few drinks. By 9:30, we were all dead asleep.
The next day was significantly better. We were up early, grabbed breakfast, then headed out on rented bikes to explore the east side of the island, where we were told there would be fewer tourists. We’d only gone a few miles when we heard loud music coming from a park, so we turned in to investigate. We discovered an amazing local festival/regatta, and we appeared to be the only non-locals there.
Anne spotted some jet-skis, and after some haggling with the owner, the three of us were tearing around on the bay, whooping and hollering and jumping each others’ wakes. For once in my life, I was like, “Hell yes, fossil fuel!”
While we waited for the alleged regatta to start (we were there 4 hours and never saw one damn boat), we met Donnie, a guy selling conch salad that he made with live conch that squirmed as he cut it. To make conch salad, you take one conch, dice it, add onions and tomatoes, two kinds of Bahamian peppers (finger and goat), and lemon, lime and orange juice. It’s like the best ceviche in the universe. Totally fresh, totally healthy, and insanely delicious. Reba bought a big plate of meat from some people who were grilling nearby, which we shared with Donnie and his crowd, including a guy who had pot leaf bling, a pot leaf t-shirt. and jeans with little embroidered pot leaves all over them, which I found hilarious in its total lack of subtlety.
Washed down with a few cans of Kalik, the ubiquitous Bahamian beer, while sitting in bright sun, and smoking a Cuban cigar of dubious provenance, I can safely say that is an ideal way to spend an afternoon.
Cultural reference point: in Bahamian culture, the conch’s ‘jelly tube,’ or penis, is supposed to impart strength and virility to one who ingests it. After the urging of our new friends, I went and ate conch penis. This is the face you make immediately after eating conch penis:
We gave up on the bikes, which had three gears and coaster breaks, after my bike decided it didn’t feel like staying in gear, which means the brakes failed totally. Stopping a moving bike wearing flip flops sucks, in case you had any questions about that. The skin on your toes does serve a purpose, and you miss it when it's gone.
We went out snorkeling on a windy day, so the ocean was wave-tossed and silty. Outbound, I was fine. The divemasters invited Reba, Anne and me to sit up with them in the wheel house, which was fantastic. Once we were at anchor, though, I started to regret eating, anything, ever. I know I get seasick, and had even taken preventative Dramamine, but that was no match for the escape route my breakfast wanted to take. I was sick in the water, sick in the scary marine toilet, sick off the side of the boat, sick in my hand, sick in my hair. I spent the last part of the trip clutching the side of the boat, gazing at the horizon, hoping for death, and cursing the people still in the water for not getting back on the bloody boat so we could go back to shore.
Lots of Bahamian food is fried, which I can’t say I love, but those people know their seafood, and we had a great deal of it. My favorite was still Donnie’s conch salad, but Reba had some damn fine grouper, I had the kick-ass smudder fish, and we all ate really well at Traveller’s Rest, a fantastic restaurant Reba had found and added to her incredibly thorough and well-organized Bahamas travel folder. If I ever have to plan the invasion of a country, I want Reba with me.
All in all, I don’t think I’m a tropical island kind of girl, but it was great to get out of Dodge for a while, and better yet to escape my hideous countrymen. I’m also pretty fired up to have tan lines in March, and even though they’re fading fast, my memories of conch penis and projectile vomit are mine forever.
Labels: Bahamas, tan lines, vacation
posted by Liz at 11:41 AM
1 Comments:
From now on, I will reference the penis as a "jelly tube".
Glad you had a good time with countryside Donnie instead of having to hang with boring boor boars near the resort.
Last time I road my bike wearing flip-flops, my big toe was cut off (no joke) so your lucky to only have lost a bit of skin. Come to think of it, that's the same toe that recently lost the whole nail and suffered major blisters and calluses from running. Maybe I would have been better off without that damn toe.
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