My first trip out of the country. My first trip to a tropical island. These are my thoughts as we leave the ground at JFK. The only thing I wish I could have changed was that it cost less. I fell asleep after about an hour into the flight and woke up as we approached our destination. “Is it me, or are airlines adding leg room by taking away shoulder space?” I asked myself as I took my turn on the armrest. I briefly thought family togetherness was overrated.
We got there and it was so blue it hurts my eyes. It was hot but not humid. There were iguanas everywhere; pago-pagos (like geckos) and some other lizard with purple scales sat near the pool with the guests. Birds tried to steal the food from the outdoor buffets and swoop in on discarded food left on the tables. The wildlife is kindly tolerated but I found out later that iguanas are eaten like chicken.
I went to the beach while hubby got us the drink of the day, a pink, frothy concoction that would cause brain freeze if swallowed too fast. I drank it slowly because the brain freeze face isn’t attractive.
The sand there is as soft as velvet, free of sharp objects, and feels cool even in the midday sun. The rooms in our hotel were spacious and clean. I tried to buy bottled water but the natives insisted that the water was safe. Not convinced, I drank club soda for a few days, only using the ice to see if I could tolerate it. Amazingly, the clean, clear, desalinated water had no ill effects.
On day two, the mother-in-law (MIL) and I went on a bus tour of the island while hubby and my daughter went on an off-road tour on ATVs. My son, the slug, stayed in the room, sleeping.
Our effervescent bus driver, Stanley, took us on a three-hour tour which actually ended up becoming a six-hour excursion. I whole time I was thinking, “Is this how Ginger and Maryanne felt?” I found out Aruba is only 15 miles from Venezuela, 19.6 miles long and 6 miles wide. It is split up into seven districts. We visited the California lighthouse, named after the merchant ship, California, which ran aground in the early 19th century. On part of the island, forests of cacti and aloe vera spread out to the horizon. It is breathtaking in an Ansel Adams kind of way. The bushy sea grape trees are profuse, as are the little, slanted divi trees (more like bushes) and their larger cousins, according to Stanley, what natives call squigi trees. The latter reminded me of the flat-topped acacia trees in Africa. The palms are the most normal and unremarkable trees on the island. At least that’s what I thought after Stanley stopped by an overgrown cashew tree and plucked off a nut fruit. We passed it around as he chugged up the hill, stopping at another tree, identifying it as the island’s oldest and largest Christmas cactus. It was eight feet tall and just as wide, dense and healthy. I’d never seen one with multiple arms, let alone hundreds of them in full bloom. I thought that it must have been sacred to them. How else could it survive so close to the road if it wasn’t?
Soon after, Stanley drove up the hill to the Chapel of San Christo. He told us that it was erected by Catholic missionaries in 1780-something. As we turned up the drive to the chapel, we passed a white cross festooned with ribbons. The clearing in front of it was littered with remnants of offerings–dried flowers and palm crosses. When we passec the next one, I asked Stanley about them. He said they were the stations, just like in a Catholic church but since the chapel was small, the missionaries erected the stations that way instead. I thought it was unique, yet impractical; What if they are already at the chapel? One would have to walk down the hill, and then back up the hill to stop at each station and pray. Or do it all backwards.
When we got to the chapel, the Hooters girls were there with an entourage, the photographer clicking away. Stanley shook his head, saying, “Only on Aruba.”
We waited outside the gate until they left, then went in to the courtyard. I went to the gate to push it open and I was struck with the thought of how many hands had touched that same gate? Then I saw the whitewashed benches lined up in a semi-circle in front of the chapel. I was told later that Arubans believe worshipping in the open air means they are closer to God. He can hear you better, said Stanley. We looked at the chapel but couldn’t go in–it was being renovated. No matter, one look through the window shows all. The alter was on the porch, anyway. As we crunched our way along the gravel path back through the gate and on to the bus, I thought, “This is very cool, even spiritual in spite of the Hooters gals.” I made my MIL take a snapshot of the gate.
Next, it was time for Baby Beach and snorkeling. Stanley informed us that baby beach was formed during a storm: some wicked tides chewed up the reef spreading the rocks and coral out and, voila! a breakwater and lagoon were born. We waded in, scattering schools of silver bait fish. It was just so beautiful. We didn’t snorkel because it was too crowded but we floated around taking it all in.
As we drove off, Stanley pointed out the local pet cemetery, erected about twenty years ago. As we made our way to the north shore, Stanley told us that only the very rich can have an actual burial. The rest of the island must be content with above ground burials because there simply isn’t space. The most interesting thing about it is that even the rich cannot remain in the ground for more than ten years. Once the burial time is expired, the remains are transferred from a casket to a shoe-box sized container and given back to the family. If one can afford it, the remains can be housed in a family mausoleum, but, Stanley added that most families just store them in the garage. Interesting, I think that a box of bones is certainly more macabre than grandmother’s ashes, not to mention a shoe box has less decorating potential on the mantel.
As we chugged and bounced along the broken track leading to the north shore, Stanley informed us that that part of the island was not habitable because it corrodes metals so fast it doesn’t pay to build there. We got off the bus and viewed the quarter-mile long Natural Bridges, the largest of it’s kind formed by erosion. I though, wow, if the wind, sea, and air do this to the rocks, then I can see why no one lives here.
Back on the bus. Stanley pointed out a narrow track veering off to the right leading down to the end of Ugly beach, named for it’s collection of black volcanic rocks. He said this was where the butchers used to come to dump waste. Stanley added that it is not used any longer but the water is still full of sharks.
We made our way back to the south shore’s hotel district. Stanley took us back through San Nicholas via side streets, pointing out where he was born. I fell asleep somewhere after the Harley Davidson rental shop, awakening when we stopped in front of our resort. As I left the bus, I complimented Stanley on his wealth of knowledge and sense of pride. He smiled, and touched the brim of his hat, saying, “Thank you, mum.” After I added a few dollars to his tipping cup, he mentioned with a smile, “This is one happy island.”