And it was.
I had picked up a booklet, “Island Walks: A Walking Guide for St Maarten”, months ago but had only had a chance to try one of the hikes – one that starts within walking distance of the ship. With a car I could drive to a trailhead anywhere on the island (it's a small island, only about 65 sq. km.).
Where to go? For some reason I chose a trail in an area for which the book supplied some explicit warnings.
Around and from the area of Pic Paradis several interesting and often strenuous hikes can be undertaken. The trails are supposed to be open and marked, but especially in Pic Paradis, where rains and wind have a strong effect on the condition of the trails, hikers should be aware that circumstances can be unpredictable. It is also one of the most secluded areas of the island, so it might be a good idea to contact the French tourist office in Marigot, next to the museum. They can provide you with the number of an experienced, well equipped and knowledgeable hiking guide.
The author had also mentioned, earlier in the introduction, that it was probably a good idea to not hike alone, due to the rising crime rate (which, she hastend to add, was happening everywhere, not just in St. Maarten). Oh. And watch out for stray dogs that you may encounter.
On the positive side, there are no poisonous snakes or dangerous animals (other than dogs) on St Maarten. I think there must be some spiders, or something, but as far as the author is concerned only dogs and wasps are of any nuisance.
It felt great to be driving around on dry land. Alone. Eva used to love getting away on her own in her car, and I can understand it.
St Maarten is rugged, you might say mountainous, except the hills aren't quite high enough to qualify as full-fledged mountains. As I drove out into the countryside I passed through villages where herds of goats occasionally shared the highway with the cars and trucks. Roosters crowed. It felt good.
In addition to being rugged, St Maarten is also dry, especially when you compare it to islands in the western Caribbean, like Jamaica and Haiti. Here several varieties of cacti (some in flower!) cover the rocky, desert-like hillsides. No dripping jungles on this Caribbean island.
I took the turn to head up to Pic Paradis and soon found myself on a dirt road passing through a dry but grassy valley. There were some great views on the way up. The road ended at a communications tower where the trail begins. I parked the car at the side of the road and got out. I was alone.
I started along the trail and noted that the air was quite different up in the hills. It felt drier than at sea level. It smelled different than the sea air I was used to - the smell of the grass made me think of summertine in rural Ontario.
Before long I came to an area where the grass had been recently burned. The rocks on the ground were still warm from the fire, and a faint smell of smoke hung in the air. There was no sign of an active fire, though, so I continued on.
The grass was tall – about as tall as me – and it frequently overgrew the trail. But I wasn't worried about getting lost. I know, the book said Pic Paradis was 'secluded', but they don't know what secluded is in St Maarten, apparently. Every so often, when the trail presented a view, you could see civilization below. The views of the sea and surrounding islands were spectacular. I wasn't worried.
But then I fell. I sometimes forget that what for a normal person would be a minor injury could be for me (whose blood doesn't easily clot) a serious threat to my longevity.
My fall probably looked worse than it turned out to be (had anybody been around to see it). I initially tripped over a rock and went down on one knee, but realized immediately that the slope was steeper than I thought. Unable to stop the fall with my hands, I tucked my head under and rolled on my shoulder, finally coming to rest in the grass looking up into the sky. I was shakey, rather uncertain of my continuity, and sort of afraid to look. I'm too old for for this!
But my fall was just a warning. No broken bones, and no major bleeding. My artificial heart valve, although operating at high speed, seemed otherwise unperturbed. As my old dad used to say in his 'funny' voice, “I faw down and hurt my knee.” That was the fortunate extent of my injuries.
Lucky again. I was about a half-hour hike away from the car, but I walked slowly and carefully, favouring my bruised and scraped but not profusely bleeding knee, and made it back without further incident. The experience served to keep me from getting too cocky. I won't hike alone next time.
After stopping at a drugstore for bandages and antiseptic, I continued my drive around the island. I passed several beaches and turned in at Oriente Beach, a clothing-optional beach on the Atlantic (French) side I had heard about. Oriente Beach was different, wilder, wavier and windier than the more protected beaches on the Caribbean side. Some people, but not most, were nude or topless. Open-air bars and restaurants lined the beach. It looked like a fun place, but I didn't stay this time.
On my way back to Philipsburg I turned off at Guana Bay. I had heard the name somewhere so I was curious. It appeared to be a housing development in progress. Lots of building going on. There was a nice beach down on the bay, and it was totally empty. Not a soul there. I walked alone along the beach for awhile then headed back.
As I was leaving Guana Bay I noticed a sign pointing down another road to the beach: “The Boardroom Jazz Club Bar and Restaurant”. I had to see what that was about so I followed the direction indicated by the sign. Indeed, I came to a club on the beach, but the parking lot was empty. It was only 2:00 p.m., the club was closed. How odd, I thought. I wonder who plays there? The owner, maybe? They're not going to get a lot of walk-in business there.
One final thing I wanted to see before returning the car was the “Seaman's Club”, an old-fashioned bordello one of the Polish musicians recommended. I didn't want to visit the place though, just see what it looked like. There's a road that goes down to the cargo pier, and that's where this place is supposed to be, so I took it.
I passed warehouses, and containers stacked high at the side of the road, and I was thinking it seemed an unlikely area for a commercial establishment like a bordello. But I was wrong. Soon I came to a gaily painted building, green and purple - it looked like it belonged in a circus or carnival - which I knew had to be the place. And it was. I should have taken a picture, but I drove past slowly, without stopping, because some dockside toughs were eyeing me suspiciously (and malevolently) and I figured I'd already had my share of luck for today.
Even with my sore knee I'm glad I took the day off to get away on my own. I feel refreshed, happier, and readier to stick out the two weeks (and a bit) left on my contract. And I finally got to see a lot of St Maarten/Martin that I hadn't seen before.
One lesson learned: rent a car and drive around near the beginning of the contract. Don't save it for the end.
Sign pointing to jazz club in Guana Bay, St Maarten
