Caribbean Beginnings by Jim Keeble

I’d never been to the Caribbean. It had always seemed too posh (all those yachting types), too expensive, and I couldn’t spell it. But times change. I hadn’t seen my oldest friend Dr Martin since being best man at his wedding. We both had a spare week and money to spend, but being men of the world we’d already been many places displayed in the brochures. So I suggested the Caribbean.

“Great,” said Dr Martin. “How do you spell it?” The Caribbean Tourist Board were helpful. “One ‘R’, two ‘Bs’,” they said. For our first visit they recommended St.Vincent, a small island 40 minutes flight south of Barbados. “Authentically Caribbean,” they said, which sounded appropriate.

I purchased linen trousers, a new bag (R-Town holdall with wheels -very fancy) and a floppy hat Robbie Williams would be proud of. I felt ready.

First signs were promising. Our hotel, Young Island, took up an entire island, 200 yards from shore. A ferry boat dropped us at a wooden quay to be met by a waiter bearing rum punch. “Happy days,” murmured Dr Martin. The hotel mangeress, Liz Pigott, was gently maternal as she showed us to our cottage on a hill overlooking the sea. “Now boys, both the rum and sun are strong, so be careful ...”

Most of our fellow island-dwellers were honeymooners. “It’s like a James Bond Island,” crooned newly-wed Miranda from Twickenham (I never meet Londoners in London, only 5,000 miles from home). She was right. I expected to see dwarves in white tuxedoes, Christopher Lee and tall skinny girls in conch-shell bikinis. Instead there were freshly-hitched couples twisting their unaccustomed wedding rings, me and Dr Martin. “How’s your wife?” I boomed to Dr Martin over breakfast. “Fine, Jim, how’s your girlfriend?”

We spent a day lazing on white sand, sipping various forms of rum at the floating Coconut Bar (you swim out, sink back) and eyeballing the five foot iguanas that inhabited the rock by our toilet. Offshore the Grenadines Islands shimmered, ghosts of land in the afternoon heat.

But St. Vincent is much more than idle beach idyll. Each day we took the ferry to the main island - there are long white beaches up the east coast, while away from the shore the landscape is steep with thick rain forest, and an active volcano that takes a day to hike to.

It would be a small slice of heaven on earth were it not for one thing - the islanders’ predilection for Country and Western music. Over the past two years Country has overtaken reggae as music of choice amongst younger Vinceys (as St.Vincentians are known). The island’s most popular radio station is the brand-new Cross-Country FM. “I love country music” grinned Sam our driver as we hurtled up the west coast. “It tells such good stories.” Kenny Rogers sang “Coward of the Country”. We passed banana and palm groves while Dolly Parton hollered “Joleen.”

To escape Garth Brookes we hiked up Vermont Valley with a guide, Ellroy, to look for indigenous wild St.Vincent parrots, through thick rain forest of figs, palms, balsa and incongruous pine trees. We paused to scrutinise tree tops for the green, blue and yellow birds, and were rewarded by several pairs of the tubby ungainly fowl. On the way down it took me several minutes to realise Ellroy was humming “Your Cheatin’ Heart”.

One early morning we headed into the ramshackle capital of Kingstown (“Lyin’ in your lovin’ arms again” blared the bus radio) to the fruit and vegetable market teeming with mangoes and bananas, where we were the only tourists. We chatted with Mary who had just returned home from a lifetime in Walthamstow, London. “One thing I’d forgotten,” she sighed. “The sun is bloody hot here.”

On our last night we had a whiteknuckle ride into Kingstown in a mini-bus emblazoned with “Not Guilty Magistrate”. After several rum punches to calm the nerves at Aggie’s (the best beef rotis in town), we headed to the Harbour View which lived up to its name. It was here we encountered a fearful combination - karaoke and Country. Across the road at Veejay’s the crowds were even bigger.

A skinny girl got up and did a Shania Twain number, followed by a fat man singing John Denver. Dr Martin and I escaped at speed, ending up along the bay at Culture Pot - an outdoor club where a vast sound-system pounded out more authentically Caribbean tunes, and numerous stalls offered barbecued pork, and rum at £1 a shot.

As I jigged like a dysfunctional parrot to Black Uhuru, feeling rummily relaxed despite being one of only two white guys there (Dr Martin was the other), I decided I could learn to love the Caribbean - the fantastic beaches, the tropical scenery, the amazing food, the friendly and surprisingly cosmopolitan people (everyone has family in Canada, the US or England). Just next time, I’ll bring a walkman.