This afternoon I attended the second Caribbean cookery demonstration. I had assumed that cookery would mean food and (yes honestly) didn’t expect three scrummy cocktails to be mixed and offered for tasting. More rum punch then! I stood and then swayed with Duncan (Sephina), Lena and Kim (Gwendoline) hoping I would remember the ingredients for the delicious raw tuna dish which has to be repeated. I was a little lightheaded when I joined Simon on Voyageur later for Susan and David’s introduction to the World Cruising Club.

  Having crossed an ocean we now qualify to be members but as yet I don’t know the benefits. Si had also been talking to enthusiastic previous participants of ‘ARC Europe’ a much smaller but similarly organised event to ‘THE ARC’, leaving the Caribbean for Bermuda then home via the Azores as we planned. They said it is even better than the ARC so Simon is now considering entering us.

   Tonight Duncan, Lena, Kim and their lovely children Celeste and Oliver met at Brindabella for a quick drink before we walked together to the local ‘Friday Night Jump Up’ at Gros Islet. Duncan led the way as he had been for a walk there yesterday. His descriptions of the area were no exaggeration and as we turned off the main road into a pot holed street edged with ram-shackled homes some no bigger than beach huts I wondered what we were letting ourselves in for; would this really be a night not to be missed? Some way along as music became louder, the road was blocked off for the weekly street party and outside homes, bars and cafes people had set up their picnic sets with BBQs or tables to sell drinks. A few had made ‘make do’ cocktail bars from odd pieces of wood. Giant cool boxes were packed with ice around bottles. There were a few larger, more organised stalls with catering type serving equipment but most looked straight from the back yard.  Dogs sniffed around expectantly at the thought of their weekly feast of chicken bones. Pungent smells of spices and marijuana hit the noses while reggae hit the ears and vibrated through our bodies. There was no way anyone was going home without buying something from the umpteen youngsters modelling angel fish, grasshoppers and hats from palm leaves; at least these youngsters were actually offering something in return for money unlike the beggars or so called minders of dinghies by the supermarket. We gladly bought an assortment. After buying beer with the promise to return the empties so they could get their deposit, we wandered through the crowds to the top of the street, my jaw gaping as we took in the sights.

   Our chosen BBQ sat beside a drum kit. Now this was far from the kit played by my nephew Mitch in his heavy metal band: This looked straight out of a cartoon with pieces of metal nailed to planks of wood and upturned plastic buckets tied together. An elderly Rastafarian beat out his rhythms. I mistakenly told Simon I didn’t mind what he ordered for supper so it was just as well he didn’t buy the kebabs which turned out to be kidneys. No doubt they were offally good, but not my cup of tea. We all ate yummy chicken with spicy sauce and flat bread. We lost count of the number of times Simon was offered marijuana. The lively street was now packed with locals and tourists all in party mood, those at the end near the speakers dancing. We stayed a while then feeling weary headed back to Brindabella.