Getting to & onto the boat:
I flew overnight from Portland to Houston to Miami and thought I'd landed in a different country already: Miami was warm (mid-seventies), slightly humid, and chock full of people speaking Spanish. Blue sky, blue water, bright sunshine. Insane drivers.
I caught a cab to the dock (the cabbie was a native to Miami and a native Spanish-speaker...he was also wearing a long-sleeved, button-up shirt...evidently mid-seventies is a little chilly in Miami), somehow made it through the nightmare process of boarding the ship: outside with people taking my suitcase and yelling at me where to go, then inside standing in line to check in, then to another line waiting to go upstairs to the boarding area, then upstairs to a room resembling an airport gate where we were herded like cattle to a seat and told firmly to remain there until our row was called, then eventually herded to another line where I waited to have my photo taken in front of a fake sunset backdrop, then inch ahead to another line where they swiped my room card, then onto the gangplank where someone attacked my hands with a spray bottle while yelling, "Washy-washy happy-happy!" then inch forward again--slowly, slowly--onto the ship where I suddenly found myself and about 100 other people crammed into an elevator lobby, the crew first greeting me with a calm "Welcome aboard" and then bellowing over my head into the crowd, "There are more elevators through the casino! No wait through the casino!"
Whew! And once all that was over and I found the stairs and made my way up to Deck 9, where my room was, only to discover that all the doors were shut because the rooms were still being cleaned. Turns out I wasn't allowed to put my stuff in my room until after 2pm. At this point it was only noon. Good thing somebody had wrestled my luggage away from me outside on the dock; all I had to lug around with me for the next two hours were my purse and the winter coat that was necessary in Portland but completely inappropriate in Miami in January.
What to do? I wandered around for a while trying to get oriented. Finally stumbled onto Deck 13 overlooking the pool.
Since I remember far more than I want to write about (and doubtless far more than you want to read about), from here on out I will stick to the highlights.
Samaná, Dominican Republic:
My uncle and I went on the "Waterfall Hike" excursion, which consisted of about 50 cruise passengers piling onto three safari Jeeps and taking a 30-45 minute ride up a curvaceous mountain road, past a mix of tin shacks, brightly-colored villas and half-finished concrete block houses with rebar sticking up into the air. Motor bikes and SUVs sped past us on curves while we dodged pedestrians. Dogs lay in ditches. Children in various states of dishabille paused in their games to stare or wave at us as we passed. Everyone seemed to live in their front yards. Everyone seemed to be smiling.
When we finally reached the top of the mountain, we were advised to take advantage of the free rubber boot rental because, as our guide informed us, "the path is a little muddy." Pshaw, I thought. Who's afraid of a little mud?
We then proceeded to pick, skid and slog our way through ankle-deep wet clay mixed with generous amounts of horse manure for another half hour, leaping to one side or another every so often when a pony or donkey came slipping up the trail at clip, its tourist passenger gritting their teeth and hanging on for dear life as they're bounced along in the manner of a bobble-headed figurine. Eventually we crossed a clear, small stream (no stepping stones) and arrived at our final destination: a 30 foot high waterfall tumbling into a deep, round pool.
50 tourists, three guides, and the 15 or so dominicanos of both sexes, ranging in age from seven to fifty, that had followed us up the trail hoping to make a few bucks by catching us before into the mud-manure mixture all stood alongside this little pool--listening to the rumble of the water, watching the sunlight make rainbows of the spray, breathing in the clean mountain air, drinking in the green of the trees--until somebody gave an unseen signal and about two-thirds of the group stripped down to their bathing suits and jumped into the water.
Being the type of person that prefers to observe rather than interact with nature, I stayed dry and took advantage of the opportunity to chat with one of the guides in Spanish. Ernesto was probably in his late 20s or early 30s, is married and has three children. He works three to four days a week for the tour company, and it's just enough to live on.
As we talked, in his native language, he seemed to relax out of tour-guide mode a bit. He emphasized his points by lightly touching my forearm and began to refer to me as "mi amor," his love. He asked me about my husband or boyfriend, and I was happy to be able to tell him that relationships are too much work. I have my friends, my family, my house and my dog. I am happy. And besides, I joked, men just want to be taken care of, and I have a hard enough time taking care of myself and my dog. He nodded and smiled uncertainly.
After about 20 minutes at the waterfall, during which time two Dominican boys climbed to the top and impressed us by jumping off and not dying, we turned around, crossed the little stream (at which point I made a mis-step and splashed muddy water halfway up my leg) and picked, skidded and slogged back down the trail to our starting point, where the bar owners were happy to sell us a bottle of domestic lager (Presidente) for $3 each. (Hmph.)
On the way back down the mountain, the man who was sitting next to me lost his baseball cap to the wind. When our guide discovered what had happened, he stomped three times on the bed of the truck, which was his method of getting the driver's attention. The driver slowed a little and stuck his head out the window. "What?" "This guy lost his hat. We have to go back."
We came to a full stop. Then we pulled forward into the oncoming traffic lane and started backing up so that we were going in the right direction for that lane, even if we were facing the wrong way. Exciting! But we hadn't backed up 100 ft. when a young guy and his girlfriend came tearing around the corner on their motorbike, baseball cap in hand. The motorbike pulled up to the back of the Jeep. The young guy handed the baseball cap over to the guide. There was a brief moment of stunned silence while we all caught up to what had just happened--not only had they taken the trouble to stop & pick up the cap, but they picked it up in order to give it back to us!--and we all erupted into cheers and clapping. The motorbike guy and his girlfriend smiled and sped away.
The Jeep pulled back into the right-hand lane and carried us past the tin shacks and brightly-painted houses, past the brightly-dressed people waving and flashing their bright white teeth, past the colorful bars and shops, and safely back to the dock where our ship waited to welcome us aboard again.
St. Thomas:
The relatives had a snuba excursion planned and I was to ride in the taxi with them to their departure point and spend the day on the beach. Unfortunately, the water was too rough and their excursion was canceled.
So instead we took a taxi to a beach called Secret Harbor. It was SO BEAUTIFUL. The photo below is the view from my beach towel. My uncle snorkels in the background.
This may not sound like a big deal, but when a 30 pound iguana with a four foot long tail sidles up to within five feet of you and starts shaking his beard at you, you start to feel a little nervous. And when he looks like he might have a mind to sidle up closer, just to make a point, you retreat and turn off your camera. And when you're hiding behind a palm tree and he slither-waddles up to the head of the towel you were just lying on and *shakes his beard at you* even more vigorously and insistently than before, well then you hightail it down to the water's edge and hope he doesn't follow you.
And luckily he doesn't. Luckily he just gives you the stink eye one final time, as if to say, "And don't you forget it!" turns around, and follows his mate up another palm tree.
And so, after a few moments of waiting and watching you decide it's probably safe to return to your towel, but since he and his mate are now up a palm tree directly behind you, you're suddenly finding it difficult to relax into this beautiful day on the beach.
Tortola:
Since my relatives had a snorkeling excursion planned, I decided, rather than get off the boat, to lie in the sun on the deck all day and drink piña coladas. I do not regret this decision one bit.
I believe this is also the day I decided to splurge on a 75-minute spa treatment called 5 Steps to Heaven: dry body scrub, back and shoulder massage, hand massage, exfoliating facial, and foot massage. Whatever remaining tension I'd held in my body up to this point fled like this white girl flees from beard-shaking iguanas.
Great Stirrup Cay, The Bahamas:
This is Norwegian's private island in The Bahamas, still under construction. We had to take a tender from the cruise ship to the island, where we found row upon row upon row of blue lounge chairs set up along the beach. They fed us barbecue, had bands and DJs play music all day, and came around often to know whether we wanted umbrella drinks.
The End
Of course I'm leaving out a lot about this trip--the food on the ship, the entertainment, what we did on the at-sea days, the voyage home, etc.--but this post is long enough. And besides, I'd rather leave you meditating on a warm beach, piña coladas, and beautiful people. =*)
Click here for more photos of this trip.
