Reflections on the trials of airplane travel: A Comedy of Circumstances

"We are going to Aruba!" The date was December 5th in the early 1970's, the day of the Sinterklaas celebration for the Dutch. It meant a seven am flight, which was cancelled that morning due to a: snowstorm in Toronto.

Our flight option entailed being re-routed to another location, first. Thus, we agreed to travel via Jamaica with a three-day stop over in Kingston, to spend another three days in Curacao, and then to have a one-hour stopover in Aruba. It also meant taking the next flight from there back to Curacao, on to Kingston, then Jamaica .and New York, where the flight would then head back to Toronto.

Why not, as airplane travel is fun, isn’t it?

"What do we do with our winter coats?" we asked.

"Take them with you."

Heading into Jamaica, we could see the beautiful, calm, azure waters of the Caribbean and experienced a smooth landing at the Kingston Airport, on what seemed to be a short runway.

"Have your passports ready," the flight attendant instructed us.

The temperature in Jamaica was a balmy, eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit, with bright sunshine. Our first impressions were of a liquor store in the airport, with dozens of bottles of Jamaican rum and then, hundreds of palm trees interspersed with green, tropical vegetation, as we headed into Kingston to the Holiday Inn, via taxi. We were carrying our winter coats and boots.

The taxi driver was a pleasant, English-speaking Jamaican, named Percy.

"I can take you to the Holiday Inn and as far as the market, but not into the city, as it is too dangerous,” he told us.

Why was there a problem, we wondered. The conflict appeared to be between the Jamaicans and the British, but further research later, showed that the Jamaicans had separated from the British with the Jamaica Independence Act, of August 6, 1962. 

To us, seemed strange to see Percy driving on the left side of the road, like the British. Obviously, the British influence was still present in Jamaica.

Kingston proved to be an interesting city, but we could not help but laugh at the goats and cows walking down the street, just outside the hotel.

Percy was doing his best to be polite and helpful to us as tourists.

"I can drive you around Kingston for the next three days and show you the sights, but if you want to go downtown, I will only go as far as the police station and drop you off there."

We agreed that it might be a good idea to be cautious, and let Percy do the driving.

That evening, we had a semi-formal dinner at the hotel and marveled at the wonderful, Jamaican hospitality. They served an excellent dinner with Jamaican coffee. Later, we had our first taste of Jamaican rum, while we listened to Jamaican music in the hotel bar. Somehow, every song had a catchy one-two-three-four rhythm.

The next day, we began our tour of Kingston.

There were no leaves, but Christmas lights and ornaments on all of the bare trees; but no sign of any evergreens either.

While Percy waited in the taxi, we toured the Jamaican market which was busy with dozens of short, plump women and children wearing brightly colored, cotton dresses. What a noisy place that was, but it was fun to look at the handmade straw hats, purses and costume jewelry.

A further tour of Jamaica took us past a construction site.

"Thirty men sitting on the curb; one man working, that's Jamaica," Percy said. "Only two speeds for them. Slow and stop."

I was stunned at what Percy had just said, but realized that being Jamaican, he would be aware of what was happening in his country.

He took us on a tour of several Kingston residential areas, where huge cars stood in front of shanty-like homes, with dozens of Jamaican children of all ages, playing in front of them. It was a stark contrast to the huge, well-manicured mansions of the wealthy, that he showed us later.

"There is no middle class here," Percy said sadly. "There are only the rich and the poor."

Again, I was shocked at his words, but respected his honesty.

"I will show you the Blue Mountains," he said, courteously. 

Seeing some Jamaican countryside seemed like a good idea to us and thus, with Percy as the taxi driver, we headed for the magnificent, mountain range located on the eastern side of the island of Jamaica. From a distance, it did look blue. As we drove along, he pointed out the coffee plantations on the hillsides, visible in the distance. We could see hundreds of trees loaded with bananas through mile after mile of narrow, winding roads, as well as dozens of cows, chickens and goats on the roads along the way. Getting closer to the Blue Mountains, we could see that the huge, banana plantations were intermingled with brilliant, red poinsettia trees in full blossom, all of the rest of the way up the mountain. Not ripe enough to pick yet, the green bananas hung heavily from the trees.

It was time for lunch and Percy pulled into a secluded, but classy restaurant hidden deep in the forest, high up in the Blue Mountains.

"I will wait for you," he said, as he proceeded to polish his old, blue car. Guessing, I’d say it was a 1956 Chevy.

Inside the restaurant, colorful, ceramic tile artwork decorated the entrance way. It was bold to say the least, but definitely picturesque, and the food there was excellent.

Next was the flight to Curacao, where everyone spoke a combination of different, Caribbean dialects combined into the multicultural, Papiamento language.

On the way to the hotel from the airport, we could not help but note the swinging Old Lady Bridge. We decided that we would explore the waterfront area further, once we were comfortable in our hotel.

Dutch guilders were the currency of choice for Curacao, and we were familiar with them, so that was not a problem, but we would have to go to the bank, at some point in time. Traveler’s checks would suffice for the moment.  

The hotel where we had been booked was huge, and at that time, it was hosting a convention for a large number of dentists. They served a wonderful, tropical smorgasbord, which we thoroughly enjoyed.

Our cottage was located off to one side of the main building. There was a full size swimming pool in front of it.

"There might be barracudas in the swimming pool," my spouse cautioned my spouse who was obviously uncomfortable about going swimming at midnight, in a strange place. Persuasion did not work.

“We are only fifty feet from the ocean,” he replied. “Barracuda could swim through the drainage system into the pool.”  

"Not likely," I thought to myself.

The water proved to be refreshingly clean and cool. Of course, there were no barracudas. With the over eighty degree tropical night temperature, swimming was quite appropriate, even if I had to swim alone. As I got out of the swimming pool and walked towards the cottage a little while later, one huge, green lizard blocked the sidewalk. I waited, but he did not move, so I simply walked around him.

Some how, tropical showers on the island of Curacao always seemed wonderfully refreshing.

Rather than hire another taxi, we rented a volkswagon the next morning and ventured into Willemstad, a seaport, famous for its huge, ocean liners and colonial Dutch architecture. The market place was full of vendors, fresh flowers, Polynesian cuisine and crude silver jewelry. The smell of fish was almost overwhelming.

For lunch, we stopped at a street vendor, who sold us what looked and tasted like mini pitas. They were quite tasty and we did not ask what kind of meat we were eating.

Later, we took a drive to the tip of the island. Scrubland cactus fences lined the road all the way. There were few homes and a lot of rocks with huge, volcanic-looking crevices. There was more evidence of previous volcanic activity at the tip of the island, where ocean waves were slapping the rocks and carving out a huge cave beneath the cliff.

At the end of our three days, on our flight to Aruba, the pilot pointed out a mountain range that was visible to the south. We were within forty kilometers of the northern coast of Venezuela, South America.

We finally arrived in Aruba. Flying into the airport, we could see dozens of bright orange, rooftops. We were only there for about an hour, just long enough to visit the airport gift shop filled with traditionally Dutch souvenirs.

Then, we were back on the plane heading homeward. From Jamaica, we were traveling to New York. We sat in the last two seats at the far end of a stretched out DC8. Almost immediately, we encountered inclement weather. The plane was virtually shaking and dishes went flying, finally crashing to the floor. Even the flight attendants turned pale, sat down and put on their seat belts.

Approaching New York in the dark of night, we could see miles and miles of lights from residential areas, through the heavy gray mist.

"You missed your flight. We will put you up for the night at the top of the Howard Johnson Hotel. This is the only place where there is a room available for the night. You will be flying to Toronto at six am tomorrow morning."

It was a relatively uneventful flight, but all in all, the trip proved to be a comedy of circumstances.

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