Kingstown

A trip to town (“tung”) was not up there on my list of favorite things to do, and during my first year in the country I had to go once a month to get a stamp from Immigration. This couldn’t  be done on Bequia, and until my application for temporary residency was approved I was forced to make the tedious trek across the channel to the mainland. Armed with a letter from the Headmaster of the high school affirming that I was indeed a volunteer teacher, and a plastic bag with a change of clothes, I would trudge down to the harbor before 6:30 A.M. to catch the Friendship Rose.

By now you may have realized that I was not a good sailor.  The only time I didn’t get queasy crossing the Bequia channel was when the sea was wild. When it was rough, I would be terrified instead of sick and I honestly can’t say which I preferred!  In bad weather I would crawl under the grimy tarp on top of the empty cargo hatch – I would get dirty, but it beat sitting inside the cabin. On fair days I would sit on one of the wooden benches on deck, but even in calm weather my skin and hair would be stiff with salt by the time we got to “De Big Shitty”.  I wish I had video clips of the passengers disembarking at Kingstown, clothing askew and hair standing on end, at times we were quite a sorry sight!

The only silver lining in the going-to-town cloud was the Heron Hotel, it was something to look forward to during the crossing.  I have never been a big breakfast eater, but made an exception each time I went to Kingstown.  The Heron was truly a haven for passengers such as myself, as well as for those who had to overnight on the mainland before continuing their trip to Bequia.  Conveniently located close to the wharf on Front Street, I would always make it my first stop.  Walking there, I would salivate while trying to decide whether to have poached eggs on toast, a breakfast sandwich or perhaps a cheese omelet?  Just the thought of the food made me walk a little faster!

I would arrive at the Heron with my salt-encrusted skin and head straight for the washroom.  I’d have myself a small bath in the sink, brush my tangled hair and change into fresh dry clothes.  Emerging from the washroom a new woman, I would take a seat in the hotel’s dining room.  It was a nice social time – pretty well everyone having breakfast was either coming from or was en route to Bequia. The staff at the Heron were incredibly fast and efficient, and the food was always excellent.  Mrs. Mackenzie managed the hotel, and was always present with her several dogs.  I learned not to rest my bag on the floor after one of her dogs lifted its leg and squirted straight into it!

After breakfast I would make my obligatory visit to Immigration.  The first time I went, I was accused of working without a permit even though I was a volunteer. The officer reluctantly gave me an extension of one month, and told me to bring a letter from the school the next time.  I took the letter from the Headmaster the following month but it wasn’t good enough because the envelope was not addressed to the Immigration department.  There was ALWAYS something to keep them from giving me more than one month at a time, and having to make the crossing each month was truly onerous.  I finally caught a break with Immigration on about the fifth visit when the Officer invited me to the Policemen’s Ball – it was sweet of him to ask but I had to regretfully decline.  He looked at me, then at my passport, and told me he was sorry I couldn’t attend but I could buy two tickets anyway.

I left Immigration with two tickets to the Policemen’s Ball and a two-month extension in my passport, my lucky day!!