Back home and day dreaming

Those long days running around cleaning ashtrays, serving drinks, making beds, ironing seemed to never end. While the owner was around I worked 16 hours on a good day, on a bad day 18 hours. I started feeling rather Cinderella like. Where was that fairy god mother?

Visions of sitting under a palm tree with a book and generally being very unproductive for at least two weeks kept me going. Maybe paint a little, listen to my French tapes . . .

We finally saw the owner off and headed back to St Maarten. The trip was quite restorative. I slept ridiculously long hours, and read a book cover to cover. My excitement grew as I started
seeing St Maarten get closer on the chart. Finally we where anchored in the bay, with the lights on shore beckoning me. Oh what mixed thoughts where going through my mind. Sheer joy at being home. But along came the realization just how much this has become home, and soon I will be giving it all up. But I do confess, along with a bit of melancholy feelings and apprehension about all the changes in progress, the Gypsy girl within me is excited about all the new unknown adventures ahead.

I started thinking back about the owner and his rather unsuccessful attempt to walk off the beaten track a little with his oil down on the beach. The truth is most of my travels over the past two decades have been off the beaten track.

My mind wandered to past travels with Gypsy Boy. A camp outside Chitwan National Park in Nepal. For ten dollars a night we had a basic room with mosquito nets and ceiling fans. The showers and bathroom where outside. In the day we went exploring on rented bicycles, surrounded by endless fields of yellow mustard flowers. We even had an elephant ride in the forest. Quite an experience. The animals in the forest are not aware of you as you are high above them. We came very close to a Rhino with a calf, and deer quietly lying under a bush. I would recommend bringing a pillow along though. At lunch we felt quite extravagant dining on water buffalo steaks that cost more than our room did. And back in the city of Katmandu we stared in awe at the beautifully preserved temples with their elaborate teak carvings. When Marco Polo saw them for the first time centuries ago, he described them as ancient.

Or Dahab in Egypt. The half moon bay is nestled on the Sinai Peninsula. The center of it a back packers haven, the edges for more upscale resorts. In the middle camps with modest rooms that consists of a cement slab with mattress on. Naturally we packed our own sleeping bags for such situations. Colorful paintings of sea critters decorated the walls, the rooms could certainly not be described as dull. And such a room set us back around $4 dollars. For breakfast we sauntered over to the restaurant in front of the camp. You simply sit on the floor on cushions covered with Egyptian weavings around a low table. Breakfast did not cost much more than the room. And unlike western culture, it was considered perfectly acceptable to stretch out with your book and spend the rest of the day there. Each restaurant has a section of beach that is considered part of it, complete with its low tables and woven kelim cusions to sit on. The waiter may even join you for the odd game of back gammon. And if you feel like cooling off, you can rent a pair of flippers and snorkel, wade in and immediately you are snorkeling on a coral reef. The little village is powered by two rather dilapidated generators. In anticipation of the nightly power failures, the restaurants start placing candles in sand filled cut off soda bottles around the beach. When the inevitable power failure does happen, the entire half moon of beach is lit by flickering candles. . .

Now my mind travels to the lofty mountains of North Pakistan. The worlds biggest mountain ranges all converge here. The Himalayas, the Hindu Kush , the Pamirs from Russia and of course the Karakurum mountains. The winding road that starts in Islamabad where it is only a few hundred meters above sea level just keep on creeping up and up. It may be called the great “Karakarum Highway” - but the engineer that was with us on the bus assured us that this narrow two lane road was not carefully engineered – it was simply blasted out of the mountain. He was proved right by the many landslides we came across. The local busses are the most colorful I have seen in the world, perhaps to distract you from their suicidal driving. Particularly disturbing as we race around hairpin bends is the sight of wrecked busses and trucks in the ravines.

But, o, the stunning scenery. First there where soft rolling hills in front of is. Heading around a mountain a village would suddenly be revealed with its beautifully cultivated green terraces. The road just kept on going up and up, and the hills turned into higher and higher mountains. The stark black basalt rock contrasting against the blue sky you now have to look up to to see. At this point they are not infertile, they are simply to steep, to shear for anything to grow on. Until you are once again surprised by a sprawling village. They carve channels out of the sides of the mountain, providing a constant flow of water to the villages from melting snow. Terraces are then carved out of the mountain sides that are intensively cultivated over summer. Because in winter the roads completely get covered by snow – leaving these high elevation villages isolated and needing to fend for themselves. To my amazement ancient apple and apricot trees flourished at these elevations. All the crops are dried and preserved for the harsh winter months.

Our second overnight stop was the village of Gilgit. By now we where more than 3000 meters above sea level. While Gypsy Boy went off the climb mount Abdigar, I sat of the roof terrace of the little guest house admiring the most beautiful view on earth I have ever seen. A grapevine and the overhanging branches of an apple tree provided both shade and delicious fruit. Occasionally a loud bang could be heard in the distance. The glaciers in this region are the biggest outside of the polar regions. Like a living creature they are always moving, sometimes a piece the size of the house would come crashing down. And here too, our room was a modest price. The food was mostly lentils and overcooked spinach, but at this elevation we where so ravenous we wolfed it down. We did try and buy a chicken in the village, but no one was prepared to sell one. Animals are hard to replace here as they, like humans have to get used to the elevation. And in a poor community the hen is needed for her eggs, the yak for its milk, curd and butter and the water buffalo is needed to plow the fields. So they just cannot afford to slaughter them.

I have never had the unlimited financial resources that the boat owner I have been working for has. I could count the times I have slept in a four star hotel on one hand, never been in a five star hotel. But I have am abundantly wealthy in experience and the ability to enjoy life. Weather in a poor village in the highest mountains of the world, bicycling through fields of yellow in Nepal or playing back gammon with a waiter on the Sinai Peninsula.

A billionare's beach party

In the taxi ride from the airport the owner listened to to the description of the local island tradition – an oil down.

Oil downs are basically beach parties where a large pot of food is cooked over the fire while revelers party the night away. Layers of local fruit and veggies, as well as a bewildering array
of meats are packed in the pot, and this is then cooked in coconut cream. It is a poor man's feast. Breadfruit, christophene's, green banana's and calaloo might seem exotic ingredients to the the outsider, but these and most of the other ingredients are staples that would be found in many islanders back garden.

The owner was most intrigued by the description and requested that arrangements be made for his family to have an oil down the next day. He was going to go off the beaten path a little and have a true taste of island life.

All of us where involved in preparation for this event. We carefully planned for all the things he might possibly need for his epic journey. Fine linen table cloth & cutlery and crockery, mosquito spray, all the beverages they might possibly need, candles, lamps, ice and such. And naturally we could not expect the family to be without servers to make sure that the necessary standards are upheld. The captain and myself, his stewardess, went ahead to make preparations.

The oil down was arranged at a spot where such events are regularly held – often for up to a hundred people. We sanitized the tables, created a little bar, and I did the formal table setting they are used to. The jovial if somewhat tipsy local prepared his pot and fire with gusto. He glanced longingly over to the J & B whiskey.

The owner arrived shortly after with his wife and son. They smiled and nodded as they stood around the fire and the chef explained his concoction. This did not hold their interest for long. A quick stride over to the beach for a glance at the view and a few photo ops. A light rain sprinkle sent them fleeing for the table setting that was under cover. We covered the wooden benches with towels, could not have their nice clothes ruined.

I poured everyone their desired drinks and realized this party was pretty stiff. Thus I encouraged
the taxi driver to move his car closer and turn up the volume on the local music he was playing. The volume of course in moderation, we would not want to overwhelm the owner . . .

I finally relented and poured the chef a J & B on the sly. I think he found the concept that the captain and I where working and not touching alcohol a little strange. And the fact that there was no table setting for us.
“You not eating?”
“No, not with the owner. If he invites us to eat now we will, but alternatively we will pack a little left overs for us to take back to the boat.”

I am sure the chef must have been thinking - “Dem rich white folks strange people”. He did become alarmingly well lubricated and to our horror came to chat with the owner waving around the glass of whiskey I poured him. He had no idea that the owner would be mortified to know he was sharing his glassware and whiskey. At least he provided humor to a rather formal occasion as
waved his arms and proudly discussed his prowess as island style chef.

As the captain and I sat on more modest chairs around the fire and tried the cuisine out we had a quiet snicker. We where imagining the same location with a hundred islanders dancing to blaring
music. Perhaps, if they saw the owner and his rather formal beach party, they would envy him his money. But in truth, they have far more quality of life and have a much better idea how to let their hair down and simply have fun.

In the end we asked the owner, did you enjoy you oil down sir?
His reply: “The location was great – the food disgusting.”

O well. I guess back to the five star dinner the chef prepares for him rather than a venture into the unknown for him.