Clifton Pier, the Bahamas

Its been quite some time since I've backpacked. Lugging an overweight samsonite around Heathrow and O'Hare isnt exactly what can be classified as a backpacking run. That outing to the beach in Clifton Pier in the Bahamas is probably the closest I've come to a real backpacking trip. Here is how things happened...

After Aruba and Jamaica, I came to be a salty old salt when it came to the rest of the Caribbean Islands. Those pre-concieved notions are largely true- with so much commercial boulstering, the islands assumed almost artificial proportions. Over the course of a few months, one tended to get a wee bit cynical. Beyond marketing mumbo-jumbo there seemed so little substance behind the smokescreen. Is there nothing sacred left anymore? Say it aint so! Well, as it turns out, it was'nt. When we docked in the little known port(?) of Clifton Pier in the Bahaman Islands,all was the usual seagulls and sunshine. Getting beach-worthy and taking a perilous hop onto an aged tug boat to land, we seemed on our way! An aged once-rasta watchman checked our anti terrorist credentials and wished us well. The ultimate responsibility of seeing that a ragtag bunch of sailors dont blow up his decripit poverty stricken palm beach of a country lay solely on his marijuana sagged shoulders. The very realisation of this was almost enough to bring me to the point of light headedness. Almost, but not quite.

The walk to the beach was interesting, to say the least. SUV's and big-rigs whizzed past as we trundled down the narrow road, smoking twisted marlboros in the too bright sun, making us feel that sickish inside feeling. We lost our lighter on the way back, thank god for small mercies, till we found it halfway there and restarted our puffing in right earnest. On the way we passed by what we were told was the Bacardi distillery. Peering in from behind the high fence (was it electrified? my memory fails me.), it looked nothing like the heaven I'd pictured it to be. No huge vats of limon and citrus , in just the right proportion, with little taps shouting out to us "come hither noble honest sailors, O ye sons of the sea, quench thy thirsty tongues, we await thee!". Damn.Don't you hate it when that happens? Shattered dreams? no? oh well.

The beach was beautiful, I'll give them that much. Man, was that beach beautiful. The typical carribbean island beach, but so atypical in so many ways. Deserted on a weekday, strangely enough that was the way I wanted it. Such divine loveliness had to be left unspoiled by God's spoiled spoilers- However bikini clad and hot they might have been. Quick to splashy-run into the water, the salt water stinging the eyes did nothing that would even make me blink. It was that awesomely superb! And I wasnt gonna miss even a second of it. Celestial bodies in microbial bathing suits enjoyed magnums of iced champagne in their speedboats as they cut through the deliciously clear, cool caribbean to make their way into the marina. A sun-toasted fisherman dove in, reappearing with a lobster from the briny deep.

No trip to the beach is complete without the customary sand castle. And this we capped off with a crenellation,everwatching its enemies with light from a solitary marlboro. Walking back to the ship, sunburned and no worse for wear from our beach shenanigans, we happened to come across something of a strange shrine. Low wooden columns ending in well carved spheres. Cordoned off. Very out of the Caribbean ordinary. A local tells us this is a sacred site, symbolising the women of the island, waiting patiently, but vigilantly for the men to come home from sea. Its times like this you think of home, and its never pretty.

Chilled heinikens welcomed us back onboard, with the promise of hard labour the next day. Hell, for shore leaves like this one, it would be totally worth it.