Sam's Letter Misfortune Bad Bajans! Transportation Housing Fauna Submarine Trip Croton Inn Not-so-good Tour Good Tour		Some Fun, but Bad Bajans!!!! My determined vacation optimism is getting quite a workout here in Barbados. And I can't seem to write about the bits of fun, because the hassles are taking over. So maybe after a brief description of fun, I'll just get the bad experience out of my system. On Friday, after a nice lunch of flying fish (see photo at leaft) and cou cou (polenta tasting stuff but made with okra with other vegetables) on the waterfront in Bridgetown, my grandson, Sam, and his mother and I stopped to salute (the statue of) Lord Nelson, strolled through the fish market and took a bus up the west coast to where they're living in a place called Holetown (named after a tiny harbor). Sam and I went swimming and had fun talking about his time in Barbados and looking at all his pictures. And he caught me an anole and pointed out the toads and a vicious stickery plant, recognizable with black spikes, a kind of cactus. They also have another poison plant here, a tree that will raise blisters if you're under it and the rain passes through its leaves and touches you! They tell you not to touch it, but not how to recognize it. I expect to encounter it next, but not before I finish this entry, since I'm not leaving the room until I'm done. I left Sam's about 8:00 on my way back though Bridgetown and along the South Coast, past Oistins and to my guest house (more about the guest house later). This trip, as far as I can tell, is about 20 miles. And since the busses drive very, very fast, I thought it would be a fairly quick trip. I hadn't figured on a few things. First. There is no central bus station in Bridgetown, there are two—about 10 blocks apart. And whichever one you're at, it's the other one you need. There is a circle bus between them, but even the bus drivers don't know when it comes. And anyway, you never get left off at a bus terminus (their term), but some random place they all seem to agree to by telepathy. And of course, this is the tropics, it's dark, dark by 6:30 pm. So I trudged through town, past the discos and karoke bars (all seem to be on the 2nd floor), stopping anyone in uniform to make sure I was still on the right track. I learned that the "top of the road" means where you have to turn and can't continue on and that white people don't take the bus at night. At least not that night. Second. At the bus terminus, I waited with about 300 Barbadians in 15 or 16 lines for the various busses. Which at this time are apparently running only once an hour. They still only cost 75 cents US to go anywhere you want, though. After consulting with several folks, I got in a line and waited about 45 minutes. When I got on, I decided to verify with the driver that this bus would go to Thornbury Hill where I was staying. Third. Nope. But it did go to Oistins which is only about half a mile away. But that half-mile is up-hill and a little scary in the dark, with no sidewalk most the way and cars rushing past at great speed. Still I did it, the whole trip took about 2 hours to get back and I was tired, but feeling competent. Then, the husband at the guest house (Adrian) scoffed and said I should have just waited for the Oistins bus in Hole Town and I would have been home in 15 minutes. He's kinda that sort of man. I should never have put my laptop in the suitcase, I should never have turned left at the corner where I got lost, I should never eat fried food, I should never eat flying fish any other way, I should buy some proper flip-flops etc. etc. (oh, yeah, haven't mentioned the blisters and falling out of the bus; well, I got some and I did). Yes, well their Guest House is not a guest house at all, but an extra bedroom in Caroline's and Adrian's home. I got there because the Guest House I contacted via the Internet said they were full but she could put me at the next facility down the hill. This was Krista, a German lady just trying to help out Caroline, another German lady, who apparently needed a little extra income. And Hans was a friend of someone's. It wasn't very relaxing. In addition to the family intimacy, it was right on a busy road and right in the jet flight path and surrounded by noisy dogs and chickens. And Adrian is pretty macho. So when I was at Sam's on Friday, I used their phone to call around and try to find something else. I have ended up in the Croton Inn. It's kinda funky. Not very new, but reasonably clean and welcoming in a Singapore kind of way. I'm sure I feel that because of the old mahogany furniture in the common room and the balcony that looks out over someone's clothes line and the slowly whirling overhead fan and the palm trees clacking away in the breeze. They have a five rooms and one suite in what I'm pretty sure was a grand old home. There's a little bar and a little restaurant and they promised me that tonight's dinner will be "Pudding and Souse" which I think is blood pudding and pig snouts so I'm going somewhere else. They seem like good people, but getting here was the pits. I went back to Caroline's and told her I was leaving and asked if she could call me a taxi. "Well, no," she said, "it doesn't work that way, I don't have any taxi numbers, but they pass by all the time, so just wait by the road." She was a little tweaked that I was leaving, because she needed the money to pay the light bill or something. Not my problem. So I took one suitcase and my Puerta Vallarta bag and had on my fanny pack and stood by the road. After about half an hour, a car finally stopped and asked if I needed a ride. It was not a Z plate (taxis), but when I looked questionably a Caroline, she kinda shrugged so I decided to take their offer. Can you see where this is going? They put my large bag, computer and string bag full of books in the trunk and tucked me and my other things in the back seat between a fat woman and a fat man. They made one little side stop--to see if someone was home? The guy next to me kept squirming and shifting and then wanted to hold my bags and I said no, I was fine and then the driver said the door on the fat guy's side was ajar and we pulled over and he got out and tried to fix it. And eventually I managed to pull on the seat belt and get it unstuck and then we continued on to my new hotel. And when I got out and asked how much, they said, "No. no, no money, just being friendly." Are you with me? I said, "Well, just let me give you some beer money." "No, no, we were coming this way anyway." Oh, this was after the fat guy tried to get my room number and asked if I liked black men. "Well, I don't care one way or the other," I said, "but I don't know you." And I was glad the trip was over. But of course it was all distraction because when I checked in to the hotel I discovered I had been made about $300 lighter and had nothing but $120 in travelers' checks and it's after noon on Saturday and the banks are all closed. They didn't steal anything but the money though. So I have enough to take a bus back down to Oistins to see if my policeman is on duty. He isn't. Report the crime, with practically nothing in the way of information and see if anyone knows how to get money. The hotel insisted on $100 deposit and I'm pretty sure I can make it the rest of the weekend on this final remaining $20 travelers check if I can just get it cashed. Then I'll see if any bank will give me money off my debit or credit card. Oh joy. So my advice-- don't get in a back seat with two fat people you don't know, don't take any wooden nickels, and don't cry in the tropics, it just makes you hotter. Next