Thursday 30th April

One of the many ruins of forts protecting the entrance to Fort Liberte

Unfortunately on Wednesday Haiti picked up a blot on her report card, and the scene of the crimes against these fine specimens of humanity was Fort Liberte.

We got up early and left Labadie at first light to make the 18-mile motor-sail east to Fort Liberte to pick up a clearance to exit Haiti that would allow us to enter Dominican Republic on Thursday. The port of Fort Liberte is in an excellent hurricane hole, a deep wide bay with a narrow entrance channel, and the entrance is lined with the ruins of several forts. We arrived at noon just as the wind and waves were starting to pick up, and anchored off the UN’s expansive port complex. A UN skiff met us as we entered the bay to check that we were ok, and one of their officers ashore hailed us on the radio to establish our needs and then offered us the use of their landing ramp for our dinghy. Perhaps we should have read the signals.

The weekly banana boat arriving in Manzanillo to collect another shipment. We made a speedy getaway lest we get run over by the mamma.

Once the anchor was down the first task on the list was to drop the dinghy back in the water as we had stowed it on the bow for the passage. We’ve done this several times, but it’s not yet a slick operation mainly because our winches on the boat are undersized. We clip a spinnaker halyard onto the bow ring of the rib, hoist it in the air to lift the stern up over the lifelines and then gently drop it upside down on the bow. Removing it is the reverse process.

Kel's rope-burned hand after a fight with the halyard hoisting our dinghy

On this occasion I had taken the halyard back to one of our larger cockpit winches to get better leverage, and once of the stern was over the lifelines Kel went back to drop it in the water. At this moment she had a little brain fart and opened the clutch on the line without securing it on the smaller cabintop winch – a fart aided by my new technique of using the cockpit winch which didn’t have enough line wraps to be used for slipping.  Clutches are one-way breaks that allow us to let go of lines as we’re winching them in without the line slipping back. As she let the clutch go the line took off towards the mast burning its way thought Kel’s grip in the process. In a fit of insane bravery Kel closed her grip on the rope again to try and protect me – on the other end of the line holding the dinghy – and got a really bad burn across all four fingers of her left hand. A poor start to our afternoon.

ton first tuna, a Bonite, caught on our trolling line outside Monte Cristi, D.R.

We busted into some first aid boxes to ease Kel’s pain and check that her wounds were not fatal, before fixing a few snacks for lunch. Jokes gradually returned to our conversation after an appropriate time of mourning. It’s actually our first real injury on the boat so far, and we’re grateful it was a minor event, although deserved of much sympathy.

At 2pm I got into the dinghy and headed to shore with our ships papers and passports hoping to engineer a quick clearance and acquire exit documents. En route to the UN slip a few locals called me over to the town pier, a tall concrete monster that wasn’t really for landing a dinghy. I was met by a local ‘translator’ in a cowboy hat and a few officials. Taking one look at my dinghy rolling around in the swell the officials decided they did not need to visit our boat today, but did send me back to get Kel so that we could clear immigration ashore. I duly returned with my wife and we walked to the end of the pier where they assembled to look at the foreigners.

There were 14 people standing around us at this point. Two Haitian police officers, two UN police officers, two UN soldiers from the peace keeping naval base next door, four Haitian immigration officers, three young Haitians which included the Gareth Brooks wannabe, and the guy that held the keys to the compound that housed the pier. There was obvious tension between the UN and the locals who seemed to resent their presence, and some of the UN officials didn’t help themselves by openly talking about the locals in derogatory tones and posturing, but in the moment we couldn’t do anything about that.

The conversation started well, the Chief police officer for the area was very pleasant and began by taking our passports and noting our details. The UN police followed by duplicating everything the Haitian had recorded, although I never fully understood why. The UN soldiers took me aside a few times and warned that Fort Liberte was not particularly safe and that we should be careful sleeping on the boat tonight. Not something that was a big surprise as we’d both felt tinges of concern as we’d stood on the pier for these first few minutes and looked at the shoreline with its many small boats just a few hundred meters from us, but we would take the normal precautions like stowing any valuables out of sight and sleeping with one ear open.

The day’s events then evolved into a multiple good cop bad cop storyline. Chief of police (good) continued to be very helpful and curious as to our arrival in his town. Deputy chief (bad) not so warm. Immigration lady one (good) polite, smiling and pleasant. Immigration lady two (bad) upset that she was born with a full beard and tash and was overheard by Kel to say “don’t tell that to the whites” and was often found with a frown on her face, stubble twitching accordingly. Immigration man one (bad) walked around the circle adding little comments (in Creole/French of course, which I must say I have developed something of an ear for) that questioned our documents or our intentions. Immigration man two (good) who for now was in the background but will play a starring role later. And of course Gareth Brooks (scam artist) and his two young stooges who seemed somewhat out of place, but tagged along for the ride unchallenged.

Stu proudly displaying our sewing handywork - a homemade D.R. courtesy flag

So we’re transported to the immigration office to complete our paperwork. It’s a small simple building with no lighting and one table in a office to which we’re shown in. The immigration ladies get busy with date stamps and exit papers while Gareth Brooks begins to probe about how much we had to pay in Cap Haitien for immigration fees. Kel working in her excellent French is dodging the question adeptly, and Gareth segways into a conversation about his Canadian friend Roger (read child sponsor with good motives and poor information) who sends him money whenever he needs it, and shows us some Venezuelan currency that he would like us to change into US dollars if we could.

Finally the story moves to its conclusion. Kel is handed back our passports with exit documents, but is then asked to pay the immigration fee, an as yet undecided amount that is taking shape through whispers and non-verbals around the room. We have a quick mumble in inperceptable English and decide that we’re not prepared to pay a bribe, we haven’t had to yet on the journey and think that it’s the best policy – one bribe leads to another, and one cruiser paying bribes leads to more cruisers being bribed. Our decision is that we will resist and if necessary stay on the boat without clearing immigration and move on in the morning. International law allows you to take shelter from weather as long as you stay on the boat and don’t go ashore.

Gareth keeps up his line of enquiry on the Cap Haitien fee while Frida Callo, good immigration lady and bad immigration man discuss possible fees. $50 each… $50 total… $20 each… Kel just keeps her head and asks politely to see documentation that outlines a fee structure and evidence that a receipt will be issued for our payment, which of course it wouldn’t. After about 15 minutes of dead ends, during which bad cop arrives to insist that we have to pay the fee and bad immigration choruses that we will be arrested if we don’t have our papers when we leave the office, we hand back our exit papers and walk out.

Arriving in Luperon after five days of early morning commutes across D.R. and Haiti.

We smile to good cop who gives us directions back to the dinghy and say goodbye. We’re then are chased down by bad cop who asks to see our papers, funny how this little racket operates. The 11-member chorus in this musical stand on the porch of the immigration office adding their refrains of ‘arrest them’ and ‘they’re fugitives’. Kel explains to bad cop that we were not prepared to pay a fee that was openly cooked up in the heads of the immigration officials and that would not be documented in any way. Bad cop says we must have our paperwork. Kel says that international law allows us to take shelter on the boat and that we will not be returning to land. Bad cop protests and insists we cough up some dollars.

And in a final moment of very intense and only comedic after the fact drama Kel says to bad cop, who is standing on a kerb towering over us, ‘you’re robbing us’. Bad cop is stiff as a board, both fists clenched, arms tense and by his side, eyes bulging from his scull. “What did you say to me? What did you say to me?” Kel momentarily doubted her French, the verb for robbed is very similar to the verb for raped, but stood her ground. She then continued to state her case as she had before, but bad cop was summonsed by good cop from his truck and left the scene.

A moment later good immigration man stepped up much like Babyface at the conclusion to Busgy Malone to win the hearts of the audience with one final act of ultimate good – although I’m second-guessing my memory now that I’m more acquainted with the myth of redemptive violence theory, I think Babyface wields a baseball bat? He is called to the truck by good cop and then walks over to us to inform us that we’re free to go.

Our security guard protecting our dinghy while we had dinner ashore in Manzanillo, Dominican Republic.

We walk back to the dinghy rehashing the scene together and feeling ultimately happy to have resisted a bribe, and sad for Haiti as this was a sour end to what has been a wonderful two weeks. Gareth Brooks followed us to the dinghy warning that we were illegal and are scheduled for arrest, but after a quick chat with the UN to inform them of the afternoon’s events we jump back onto Beannacht and set sail for D.R. Without exit papers, and motoring into 10 foot seas at the mouth of the entrance to the bay, we made the 2 hour passage to a sheltered anchorage north of Manzanillo and had a nice warm soapy wash in the cockpit before heading to bed. Immigration in Mazanillo would await the next morning, and we’d learn if our gamble had paid off, or whether we were simply exchanging one bribe for another.

The view over Sapadillo Bay at the west end of the island of Provo. Beannacht is anchored behind the catamaran in the foreground.

Wednesday 15th April

The Turks and Caicos islands, a chain of eight large islands south east of Mayaguana, is our first stop outside of the Bahamas and we were both encouraged to arrive in a new country and get the sense that we’re heading south. We dropped anchor on Thursday morning after a smooth passage sailing, and at times racing, alongside Gaia, and went to bed for a while to recover. On Friday morning we cleared customs and learning that it was Good Friday and everywhere was closed – dates get a little lost on us – we spent the day working on the boat and had Mike and Alyssa over for food that evening.

On Saturday morning Kel and I headed into town to explore local life and get our bearings. We called past Gaia on our way as Mike was sitting in the cockpit. After a couple of minutes Alyssa came up also and realising that they were both on board but their dinghy wasn’t tied to their stern I asked if they had lost it. I was actually joking, but they both looked at the back of the boat and it dawned on them, it had been stolen in the middle of the night. Such a nightmare, and could so easily have happened to us as we hadn’t locked ours up either.

Kel and I decided we would attempt to find the marine store to check for dinghies for the guys, and that we’d come back at lunchtime and give them a lift to shore to start a replacement process.

We hitched into town with an American couple that worked on the island. They pointed us in the direction of a good spot for lunch and the main shops and we spent the morning walking around the downtown area. Until very recently T&C had limited infrastructure and only dirt roads across the island. In the last five years very rapid development has seen an increase in immigration, particularly from Haiti, which lies just 100 miles south of the islands.

Aparently the provos have associated as a police force and setup their own sports club. We haven't seen Gerry or Martin as yet.

After lunch I collected Mike and Alyssa and we motored to the pier at the end of the beach to tie up our dinghy. Normally I would just beach it on the sand and throw out an anchor, but after the theft I was feeling anxious about its security. At the pier we met Junior, a Jamaican who has been working in T&C for a few years, and what I expected to be a brief conversation about the dinghy turned into quite the adventure.

After Mike explained that their dinghy had been stolen the night before Junior offered us a couple of options for where we could try to find a new one, one of which walked onto the beach right at that moment, Captain Blood. Originally from Honduras, Captain Blood had been on and off T&C since the early 80s, and at the minute was stuck here due to a drunk driving collision that he was working to repay. The police, if his story is to be believed, had given him a small skiff to fish with in order to earn money to pay the fine, quite the restorative justice programme. Captain Blood knew where we could buy a dinghy, and a minute later the five of us were driving towards Five Cays in a two-seater pickup.

Hollywood started playing films in my mind. 24 hour news channels with ticker tapes stating three abducted in Turks and Caicos rolling across the bottom of the screen. The West Virginia couple who had drove us into town the day before had warned that Five Cays was very dangerous, a shanty town full of illegal immigrants where the police don’t visit often. Perhaps sensing my concern Captain Blood smiled a gold toothed smile and said to both Mike and I ‘you guys wouldn’t be safe coming in here on your own, but you’re ok with me’, and then moved on to describe his direct confrontational approach to conflict management and personal safety. Comforting.

We drove for 20 minutes and arrived at the home of Captain Blood’s ‘boss’, although it wasn’t entirely clear what the business was. Mike and Alyssa looked at the inflatable boat on offer and decided it was unsuitable. Not deterred, our hosts threw out a few new options between each other and we were on the road again, this time driving to the north side of the island. We arrived at a marina and Mike was ushered into an office to talk to another of Captain Blood’s connections. Again we drew a blank, but by this stage the comedy of the day was really starting to unfold and Alyssa and I laughed together about the unlikely source of help and the relative safety of travelling in the back of a pickup at speed, socialising with Captain Blood, or the general political situation in Turks at the minute.

The islands are a British overseas territory, but due to corruption and their prime minister maintaining an estate agency business whilst also being responsible for selling crown land to property developers. At the beginning of this year the UK suspended the government and reinstated direct rule, and according to Junior in the process many government employees, including the police, have not been paid since. Explaining in his view the lack of response from the police when Mike and Alyssa contacted them about the theft.

Mike returned to the pickup again without success and we headed to Kingston, even by Captain Blood’s admission the most dangerous place for us ‘whiteies’ on the island. Junior and the Captain are two very different personalities, and at this point Junior put his foot down and said that he was not prepared to risk our lives by driving into Kingston. He parked at a petrol station just outside the entrance and Captain Blood set off to see a man about a dog, or in this case a dinghy. While he was gone Junior explained a little about Kingston and said that he wouldn’t go in there himself. The majority of the drugs bought and sold, as well as used by the sound of it, on the island of Provo originate from Kingston, and Junior literally thought that even driving down the main street with us in the back of the pickup would have put us at risk.

Again Kingston drew a blank, although Junior explained to Alyssa in the front that he secretly hoped it would as in all likelihood they would have been buying a stolen dinghy from that particular source. On the way across town I asked Captain Blood whether there was any possibility that we could buy Mike and Alyssa’s dinghy back from the thieves, but he thought the dinghy was probably on its way to the Dominican Republic or Haiti already.

Our dinghy hunt took a minor detour by the IGA supermarket so that we could stock up on provisions at this point. There are over 3000 British ex-pats living in T&C and we were all amazed by the quality and cost of the supermarket. Security weren’t so keen on the Captain and requested that he keep watch outside, so Junior and he waited for us to finish up. One of the things that Kel and I have missed most about the Bahamas was fresh fruit, so I took the opportunity to pick up a few mangos and bananas. Maybe it was all those bikini clad Bounty ladies on the tele when I was younger, but I definitely arrived in the Caribbean with the impression of lush island vegetation and loads of fresh fruit. To date the islands we’ve visited have been low lying and barren, and all of the fruit and veg has been flown in from either the states or the Dominican Republic. That should change with our arrival in Haiti and Dominican Republic at the weekend, and we’re both very excited about market shopping.

Groceries in the bag, we jumped back in the truck for three final stops in the search for the boat. Firstly to the marine store where Mike and Alyssa looked at a new sailing dinghy and priced outboard engines. That’s where the reality of their loss started to set in, their dinghy and outboard were probably worth in the region of $5000 to replace, and even a rowing boat without a motor would cost about $1500. If Kel and I suffered a similar fate it would literally come close to finishing our trip immediately. 

Next up was a dodgy beer shop where Mike bought us all a round of drinks for our trouble – although of course it really wasn’t any trouble for me, just an adventure and a free ride to the grocery store – and we drove down the hill back into Five Cays for our last stop. Again Junior was concerned for our wellbeing and took the long road in and out to avoid driving through the middle of the area. Even Captain Blood said that he had to assert himself in order to be safe here, apparently threatening to break someone’s neck on your first visit is the ticket.

After establishing that Junior’s friend’s shop was closed we jumped into the truck for the last time and drove back to the beach where the adventure began. Mike and Alyssa delayed making a decision on whether to buy the boat at the marine store, and we agreed to hook up for dinner that evening on their boat to catch up and laugh about our day.

I was really grateful for this insight into life on Provo. In particular Junior who was both really considerate in terms of our safety, but also very honest about the current social and political situation. One of the really interesting things about the political life of T&C is the percentage of the population who have no right to vote. Of the 30,000 people living in the islands only 3,000 are ‘belongers’ or citizens. The rest are non-voting ex-pats or illegal immigrants. With so few people actually involved in the process of selecting the government it makes it difficult to see how the development of the islands can take account of the needs or desires of the residents.

One final comedy experience at Provo is the morning cruising net at 7.30am on channel 18. Simon, the owner of Southside Marina just round the bay from where we’re anchored, maintains the net, and we’ve come to know him affectionately as Major Simon. He’s an English ex-pat and by his tone and demeanour must have risen to at least the lofty heights of major in the British army. He also appears to have a hearing problem because most communications with Southside elicit a response that includes directions to the marina, an invitation to their weekly BBQ on Thursday evenings and a ‘Southside standing by on 16′ – regardless of what you’re asking for.

Every morning he does a radio tour of the various anchorages and marinas in the area checking who’s tuning into the net – it’s a bit of a name and shame thing. On our first morning I called in and gave our name. Could you spell that please? Roger. Simon then proceeded to call us the ‘other boat’. Yesterday I tried ‘ban sounds like pan oth sounds like cloth’, to which he chuckled ‘Roger, that’s very helpful’, and then proceeded again to call us the ‘other boat’. Today I asked whether any boats in the area had visited Haiti recently and could advise us on the security situation, to which the Major replied ‘great, Vesper Light is in the marina at present and are also heading south at the weekend. Come to the BBQ tomorrow evening and you can plan to travel together’. I decided to give that one a byball and persevere, and this morning I even coaxed a ‘cool’ out of him when he was responding to one of our questions – very funny.

Tuesday 7th April

On Sunday we met our first bugs of the trip, and neither of us slept all night. We pulled into Sumner Point Marina in Rum Cay in the afternoon because our battery bank has been giving us some gip. Over time our battery capacity diminishes because our alternator can’t keep up with the charge that we use without running the engine for several hours a day. The alternator output seems to drop from 55 amps to about 30, and in the last week it’s actually been more like 20. I’ll save you from the electrical boredom, but essentially due to persistent undercharging (thank Nigel Caulder for great terminology) our plates in the batteries are currently coated with lead sulphate, reducing their storage capacity. We’ve put the changer on a conditioning cycle and hopefully we’ll be back to full power before we leave tomorrow.

 

So back to the bugs… we pulled into the marina and were joined by Lynne and Brian from Three Sheets for a snorkelling trip out on the reef. We first met Lynne and Brian in Normans Cay when they were travelling with other friends, and we met up with them again in Georgetown. The guys marvelled at our great spot in the marina and the facilities such as wifi and the nice bar so we invited them back for dinner later in the afternoon after some snorkelling and spear fishing. When we got back to the boat at 5.30pm it was a cloud of no-see-ums (midges in Ireland) and a few mosquitoes as well. We lathered up in insect repellent, courtesy of Lynne and Brian, and got the fish on the stove.

 

Said fish was a matter of personal pride, our first Nassau Grouper which Kel and I tag teamed to spear on the reef just outside Rum Cay. Grouper are very curious fish and really fixate on you if you come to look at them when snorkelling. Kel dove down to investigate one, deciding on whether it was suitable for dinner or not, and in a bid to get more protection he swam back to the other entrance of his cave still paying attention to Kel while I popped him onto the end of our spear. Beautiful. If you’re interested we soaked the fillets in lemon juice for 30 minutes, dipped them in milk and then flour and fried them in butter for 4 minutes each. Then popped them into a buttered tinfoil bag and baked for another 10. Moist and tasty.

 

So back on the boat one of Kel’s amazing boat salads, some fresh baked bread – our current favourite recipe was provided by Natalie on P’tit Louis – and Nassau Grouper, all washed down with some rum and coke and good conversations. The bugs however did not respect our repellent and sat down for a feast of their own. At bedtime there were still millions of them swarming around the boat, and the rest of the night was punctuated with Keli whacking the ceiling, door, wall, and herself as they nibbled at our desirable selves. Brutal. Last night was thankfully better as the wind had picked up a little and we rigged a few primitive mosquito screens to keep at least some of them out.

 

We left Georgetown on Tuesday having had a great night with Mike and Ann on Mojo, and Bonnie and Morgan on Bacchagato. Mojo was the first Irish boat we’ve seen so far and I made a beeline for them to enquire about the rugby on our first day in Georgetown. I had a quick chat with Mike from my dinghy when Ann popped her head out the companionway saying ‘is that a northern Irish voice I hear?’ Turns out they lived on the Woodstock Road years back, a few streets away from Kel and I in Irwin Ave. We spent a couple of nights with them for sundowners and really enjoyed them, nothing like some sarcasm and cutting humour once in a while.

 

Tourism is a very substantial part of Bahaman industry and the cruising community in Georgetown, most of whom stay here for six months at a time, are entertained every day of the week should they wish to be. Texas Holdem tournaments, bridge, art class, beach volleyball, recipe swaps (to which Kel threatened to send me to charm the ladies), you name it. Kel and I, and Mojo and Bacchagato, have tended to keep away from these organised activities preferring a less disciplined social calendar, so having passed on the cruisers trip to Rake and Scrape the week before we thought we’d missed our chance. To go with Mike, Ann, Bonnie and Morgan was a real treat.

 

Travelling by dinghy requires a different way of thinking about both your destination and the conditions. In Georgetown it was blowing like stink for most of the time we were there, so every trip involved a change of clothes, a cloth to wipe the boat down, taking t-shirts off or hitching dresses up. In the end most of the time you get wet no matter what you try. At sunset the six of us got into two boats with our wet weather preparations complete, and motored a couple of miles up the coast to the beach outside Porgy’s bar.

 

Rake and Scrape is traditional Bahamian music that gets its name from the inclusion of a musician playing a saw blade with a knife. Very rhythmic, buoyant melodies and some great bass lines. The band set up in the bar, which is of course really a hut on the beach, and we got down to some dancing – even little old self-conscious on the dance floor me. It was 1am before we new it and tired, sweaty, fed and watered we jumped back into the boats for a customary race home.

 

After Georgetown we’ve hopped to Rum Cay via Long Island and Conception Island, another Land and Sea Park territory about 46 miles northeast of Georgetown. It seemed like a fine place to try for our first child. Skipping that, we got in the water at the northern end of West Cay we settled for a snorkel in 5-8 feet of water through a coral field with large heads interspersed with sandy channels. Not long after we got in we spotted a shark swimming between the coral about 15 meters away, just at the range of our vision in the water. We stuck close together and kept going until the point when we noticed two sharks swimming in opposite directions less than 10 meters away and between us and the beach. At that point we decided it was definitely feeding time and we removed ourselves from the menu.

 

We’ve seen loads of sharks at Rum Cay as well, with some Nurse and Bull Sharks coming into the marina at about 4.30pm every evening to feed on scraps from the fish cleaning tables. I fed the lads some grouper guts on Sunday evening, although my loyalties were divided between the sharks and the two cats rubbing against my legs and purring loudly!

 

Today a cold front is moving through the Bahamas bringing with it a change in the winds from the constant trade winds that blow between northeast and southeast all year round. At 2pm this afternoon we are going to start a 200 mile hop to Provo in the Turks and Caicos catching the north-westerly winds of the front all the way there. The trip should take 36 hours or so and then we’re in a whole new country.