'Of course you can, old thing. I'll take them up Fig Tree Drive and show them the sights. A guided tour of the best Antigua has to offer in the way of hinterland. Not to mention the drive along the coast to get there. And what a day for it!'
Hardy had to admit I had a point there. The sky was clear deep blue, nothing but a few stray blobs of cotton wool cloud to provide a welcome contrast. The Caribbean Sea would be many shades of lighter and darker blue, broken by little waves and the splash of diving pelicans.
'Are we all going to this here Nelson's Dockyard or are we all going to stand round here all day getting our butts roasted?'
A large woman in a Stetson and hideous clothes loomed over Hardy with an expression of Texan impatience on her face.
'Git goin' or we'll take our money back and find some other crook to take us to the sights.'
'Now, now, milady, dere's no need for dat. Dis here crook'll take you everywhere youse need to go. All aboard for Nelson's Dockyard!'
Hardy indicated a pair of dilapidated buses (did you expect anything but dilapidated by now?) with Kismet Hardy Tours in barely legible letters on the side. He grasped me by the shirtfront and pulled me down to his level.
'Youse hired, Harry Neptune, but youse keep to the straight and narrow, youse hear me?'
I nodded seraphically.
'Come along my dear, I shall treat you to the full guided tour in the company of our new colonial friends here.'
'Not likely! You're not driving me anywhere, Harry Neptune. I'll go in the other bus with Mr. Hardy.'
I managed to look hurt, but it didn't wash. Jay climbed into the lead bus and settled herself down in the front seat next to the driver. Hardy ushered half a dozen Texan historians on board and climbed behind the wheel.
I rounded up the remaining seven or eight tourists, as mixed a bunch of Texan historians as you would care to meet, and started up bus number two. No one sat next to me in the front.
'Wagons roll!'
I thought a little bit of home might have put the Texans' minds at rest, but the effect seemed minimal. They looked doubtfully around them, both inside and outside the bus.
A Caribbean bus has as little in common with Greyhound as a Caribbean taxi has in common with a limousine. They are all Toyotas, modeled on the Volkswagen minibuses popular with hippies a generation ago. A sliding door at the side, seats for six to sixty depending on size and desire to breathe, torn upholstery, holes, and rust. Tire tread is optional.
The buses have names like Dread and Too Fast, which sums up the mentality of their drivers. Hardy had evidently picked up the local ambiance, evidenced by the rate at which he took off through the narrow storm- drained streets of St. John's with horn blaring. I put my bus into gear and followed suit.
A hand-lettered sign on the dash above a red switch proudly announced, 'Air Conditioning.' I flicked the switch and sure enough lukewarm air streamed from various vents.
We shot up St. Mary Street and turned right onto Independence Drive. From there it was a straightforward if hair-raising drive past the Memorial Garden and the new hospital (if it ever gets finished) and out onto the road to Jennings, Bolan's Village and Jolly Harbour. From there our route would take us past Darkwood Beach to Old Road, then up Fig Tree Drive to the interior followed by a leisurely (you must be joking) descent to Falmouth and English Harbors and our destination, Nelson's Dockyard.
'On our right, folks, the road to Five Islands and that delightful nightspot and cocktail bar, Henryk's. We are about to pass over the Chinese Bridge, so called because Beijing built it at minimal cost in exchange for some favor or other in the United Nations.
'Straight ahead, a cow. Notice that the cow has detached its chain from the stake it was attached to and is dragging it along the road in order to trip up cyclists. Hold tight…'
I swerved around the cow and regained the road just in time to avoid a goat.
'Thyat is th' ugliest sheep I ever did see!'
Stetson glared at the goat through the window. It glared back at her. They have acute hearing.
'That, madam, is a goat.'
'How in the hell do yuh tell the difference?'
'Goat tail up, sheep tail down. There is no difference in taste.'
Mutterings from the rear indicated that the Texan historians were not impressed by the bus, the scenery, the wild life, nor the driver. The scenery I could understand – Antigua's hinterland is somewhat scruffy – but we had the beauty of the beaches to come.
I was driving on the wrong side of the road now to take advantage of the less pot-holed side (as opposed to the very pot-holed side) when a tall figure in dreadlocks and cut off jeans appeared out of a bush at the side of the road. He waved a hand vaguely in West Indian hitchhiker style.
I had an empty seat and I was getting fed up with twanging dissension.
'T'anks, mon. Yo goin' Old Road?'
'Certainly we are. Blow the smoke out of the window would you?'
My guest had a large hand-rolled cigarette cupped in his hand. The smoke smelled sweet. He rolled down the window and exhaled.
'Ah do declayuh, we all have paid fo' this excursion and ah see no reason to shayuh our conveyance!'
Stetson drew agreeing murmurs from her companions. I was getting really rather fed up with them, and we weren't half way there yet.
'A courtesy folks, a little Southern hospitality.'
'We are from Texas, not Louisiana!'
There was a smaller switch beside 'Air Conditioning,' to bring in flow of air from outside or to recirculate the air inside the bus. I flicked the switch to 'Recirculate.'
'Exhale into that vent there, would you, old boy?'
Rasta grinned amicably and bent down. Nothing if not generous he reduced the joint by two or three inches and shared his bounty. I stuck my head half way out of the window to catch the draft.
The chatter and complaints in the rear of the bus died down until there was silence broken only by the sounds of the vehicle negotiating an Antiguan road at speed. Hardy and Jay were already way out of sight.
Rasta held up three fingers, then two, then one. As the last finger dropped a giggle came from the rear seat, followed by another, then another.
'Tail up goat, tail down sheep! Tail up goat, tail down sheep!'
Within a mile the passengers had put the words to music, something resembling The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Rasta beat out the rhythm on the dashboard and I punctuated the end of each line with the horn. We hardly noticed the speed bumps in Bolan's Village, but we had reduced speed to ten miles an hour by then.
A skinny man in a Rifle Association t-shirt was telling his third dirty limerick when we turned the corner and beheld Darkwood Beach. The limerick tailed off amid oohs and aahs. The view never fails to amaze me, as well, brilliant white sand and every shade of aquamarine water you can imagine. With the added stimulation my passengers had taken on board the effect was obviously even more magical.
We rolled along the beach in appreciation until we reached a small clump of buildings.
'Anyone thirsty?'
The loud reply was incomprehensible but affirmative. I turned off the road into the yard behind OJ's Beach Bar (Oliver and Jean, not the one you are thinking of).
'Rum punch for my friends and Red Stripe for Rasta and me!'
A hooting horn dragged my attention back from the spectacle on the beach.
Rasta had organized the limbo dancing and Stetson was busy digging a pit under the bar so she could get her substantial bosom under it. The skinny gunman was chatting up the cook, while the rest of the party rumba'd to Bob Marley.
I sat on the deck on a palm-frond decorated throne, with a Red Stripe in one hand and a conch shell in the
