Mosquito Cove

Well, the toilet broke within 10 minutes of checking in, there's no air con, the fridge has seen better days, the shower curtain fell off when Mark tried to hang the shower gel on it and there aren't any other guests. Even the people that own the place sleep elsewhere at night. But when the view from the apartment is as good as this......



Who cares?!!

I've been staying in an apartment on the West of the island since Sunday. The Jamaican guy who runs the bar likes a smoke and Mark keeps telling me that by sitting downwind you can get stoned for free. I was too busy laughing a joke the owner's dog was in the middle of telling to consider whether he had a point or not.

Apart from the price it's pretty basic fare but I'm enjoying being on dry land for a bit. As for the first three nights I stayed on my uncle's boat. More of that in an upcoming post. But since then I've been relaxing on the beach, watching Man Utd beat West Ham on satellite TV, drinking a few Carib beers, catching a few rays and trying to get the West Indies cricket board to answer my calls and emails. They're probably still celebrating.

Tomorrow I move onto a place known to the locals as Mosquito Cove. Would you stay in a resort called Mosquito Cove? No, neither would I. Would you stay in a resort called Jolly Harbour? Why, sure, you'd be mad not to! So, I guess the first thing you would do if you were a multi-billionaire property developer with an eye on building a sprawling tourist complex would be to change the name to something out of The Simpsons. Post up a couple of tasty looking snaps on the internet and then Hey Presto! By the time unsuspecting Brits get here it's too late.

So, I check into Mosquito Cove tomorrow. The day I was originally supposed to fly into Antigua after spending just over a week in Jamaica watching the English cricket team herald in a bright new (false) dawn under Andrew Strauss. Approaching a week into my holiday and like England probably will be I'm 0 for 2.

At least I got here this time. Wednesday morning saw me rise out of my bed at 4.15am and tramp down Lavender Hill in the snow for the second time in three days. This time the buses were running and so, thankfully were the trains.

Although my journey, and Mark's, was not without hiccup. For despite advising Mark (next time I'll issue an order) to book a cab in case his 4.24am train to Clapham Junction failed to turn up he forgot and found himself stranded in Surbiton. It meant I had to go on ahead of him and I felt very alone (and cold) when after making it to the station on time the scheduled 5.08 to Gatwick didn't show.

I'm becoming a bit of an expert on the failures of our British rail system and while I can understand trains struggling to fight their way through 15 centimetres of snow. What I can't fathom is why a station like Clapham Junction only becomes aware that a train has been cancelled when it fails to show up. You'd think that as soon as it fails to leave the station of origin, this time Victoria, a message is sent to the stations on its route to let them know. But no. All that happened was at the time it was due to arrive, two 'seen it all before' type guards popped their heads out their compartment, looked confused, shook their heads, reported over the tannoy what we all now knew, before disappearing back into the warmth.

Immediately the doubts and worries returned. The weather conditions were nothing like the Monday just gone but the thought of going through that particular nightmare again was unbearable. The night before Sinan had assured me that he would drive me to Gatwick if the trains failed and so at just gone five in the morning I put in the call. And once again he attempted to come to my rescue getting to Clapham Junction just as the next scheduled train was supposed to arrive. And this time it did so I boarded and told him I'd text him if I got stuck or when I got to Gatwick. He really is a true friend.

Meanwhile Mark was waiting for his next train to Clapham Junction and wonder upon wonders that too turned up on time. A miracle indeed. It got as far as East Putney before it broke down.

Then while waiting on the street for a replacement bus service Mark felt a vibrating in his pocket and realised he'd taken his friend's mobile phone with him. So had to arrange a time and a place to meet up with her and return it. You couldn't make it up.

But that was an end to the hiccups. As fast forward an hour and a half and we were both through customs, sitting in a bar prior to our scheduled 9.25am take off, me with a double vodka and lemonade in hand and a pint on the go and Mark with a slightly frazzled expression on his face. Finally, things were getting back to normal.

The flight itself was a breeze. Mark has often spoken about how he cannot sleep on planes but still he managed a good four hours. I knocked myself out on valium and alcohol and passed out for a couple of cheeky ones myself for good measure. And within seven and a half hours we were touching down in Antigua. Twentyeight degrees, a guy playing reggae on an old casio keyboard on the tarmac, palm trees swaying and a hassle free walk through immigration. Things were looking up.

We boarded a cab to Dickenson Bay on the West of the Island where we were set to meet my uncle, aunt and cousin. They'd kindly offered to put us up on their chartered boat for a few days until we could find other accomodation. They said they'd sail us around part of the country, dropping anchor at night in various bays, taking us snorkelling and swimming in the Caribbean sea and generally living the kind of lifestyle totally out of reach to anyone on the kind of budget we are. And so we kindly agreed.

But before that we had a date with the cricket and so spent the afternoon drinking beers in a darkened beach bar accompanied by a short, tanned East Ender called Tariq (this is not his real name) (actually, it is!) who was wearing a red England shirt. He'd been out here for eight weeks and had 'been robbed of everything he owned'. Pissed and stoned at 3 in the afternoon he warned me of the dangers. 'They hate us out here' he said as he recounted a tale of vodka being thrown in his eyes whilst walking down a deserted beach in the early hours of the morning. 'I'm owed money for some work I've been doing but the locals have told me to fight them for it'. He then told me to ask him if I was interested in any weed or other stuff and that if I was to buy it off him coz the other guys 'sell you shit'.

An auspicious start it wasn't. But considering the state of him I wasn't surprised he'd been robbed blind. And I certainly didn't let it unsettle me in any way and I felt pretty damn relaxed about things. Although that may have been down to the double dosage of valium still coursing through my veins. And before long we were walking out onto the beach, blinking in the sun, and casting an eye up and down the beach for the first time. A dingy awaited us as we took on board what was to be our home for the next three days and nights. And what a sight it was.



Finally, after the week from hell it was time to relax.