(b) in Parenthesis: "Caribbean Vacation" (not starring Chevy Chase). Part 12

The road leading out from the airport was more of a dirt road that was riddled with pocked ruts reminiscent of a WW2 bombing run. What little suspension that remained attached to the bottom of the car emitted all types of rattling and metal-upon-metal grinding sounds; the clatter only occasionally drowned out by the full attention you had to pay while holding onto your seat to avoid smacking your head on the roof, backside of the front seats, or the sidewalls. All of the aforementioned acrobatics were delivered by a nonstop assault of jarring swerves and road bumps that would launch us skyward. And yes, there was no air-conditioning. The only thing that might have been worse would be admitting defeat, giving in to the urge to vomit and weeping openly while begging for Valerie’s unwarranted forgiveness…who, for the next forty-five minutes would not look at me, assuming her stoic demeanor staring out the open window, the stifling breeze whipping her hair and clothes into a frenzied tangle of fiber. But that “guy thing” would not allow me to surrender.

OK, it would not be fair to the Tortola Bureau of Tourism for me not to highlight a few of the sights, sounds and scents we were able to experience en route to Long Bay, with the final thread of hope that I still clutched to with a primal death grip. Along the way:

We saw an un-tethered long-horned ox, about the size of Rhode Island, walking along the road, which prompted a sudden stop when he decided to cross to the other side of the road;
We came into a quaint village-like area peppered with palm trees that twisted in all directions, framing a flower-adorned intersection faintly resembling a town square;
At the intersection of the quaint village-like area peppered with palm trees, our driver stopped and called out to a man standing nearby on the left side of the road, triggering his coming to and getting into the car to join us for a ride;
Our new quartet moved on, the rattling and heaving car movements now adorned with the addition of dual body odor and conversation vaguely sounding like the English language. The words I could decipher pieced together to reveal that the entire island had, just the day before, ended their annual festival; seven days of non-stop dancing, partying, eating and the consumption of volumes of rum;
Every so often, our driver would slow down as we passed through areas of partial habitation, all the structures built from concrete blocks, corrugated metal roofs and doors, glassless windows, and adorned by a mangy dog sleeping against the wall…likely Tortola’s national mascot. Shuddering fear raced through my body each time he slowed, thinking at any moment he might turn around with that wide, rummy smile and say something that bore a resemblance to, “Welcome to paradise, luxury and escape: Long Bay Beach Resort.”

Not long after dropping off our added commuter at an unmarked place along the road, there was a gradual shift in the scenery. On our left side was a series of harbor-like coves with sail masts bobbing in the water and waving to us as we hurtled past. A vista of increasing elevation and lush greenery exploded with new colors as the car veered to the right and began a climb towards what was apparently a mountain pass. It was exquisite and offered some unfamiliar encouragement that we had possibly escaped tropical purgatory and were headed to the “other side.” The pass spilled us out into an opening to behold a fresh landscape of small hut-like structures and what felt like a more pristine lifestyle. The view featured colorfully painted fences, a few upscale residences and the distant aquamarine shoreline. I would have loved to share my newfound encouragement with Valerie, but she was still looking out the window.

The road coiled around a bit and ended, arriving at what appeared to be a beachside town. The connected buildings on either side of the narrow road were what you might imagine of a Caribbean town by the ocean: sandaled feet, lightweight attire, sea-weathered structures of tropical colored paints and the incomparable sound of waves cheering onto the silken beaches. I thought we might be close to our destination, but instead of turning into any of the openings cut through the buildings, we continued past the town and began climbing again. We had travelled only a short distance, when the car rounded a corner opening to a breathtaking view; the exact panoramic scene that adorned the front of the travel brochure. The shoreline bent to the left, then made an unhurried rightward sweeping arc of linen sands and palm trees that ran almost out of sight. Above us to the left emerged architecturally fabulous homes that were built right into the side of the mountain and hoarding their cherished view.