9. Jost Van Dyke (Clare)

The heat and the paleness of our skin makes a holiday in the tropics something of an obstacle course. We cannot go out unless a good slathering of sun cream has been applied and anything that you are likely to do washes off the sun cream. By the time you’ve applied sufficient sun cream, you are either exhausted by the heat or it is now the middle of the day and the fear is that the sun will break through, no matter how many tubes of factor 50 have been applied. Consequently, achieving a whole day out is quite an undertaking, but for our last day on Tortola, I thought that it was worth a try. When I presented my plan, Ciaran cried out “but why would we spend our last day in Tortola on another island?” I had no answer for this, so I just did what I always do when faced with children that are too clever – stick to the plan!

The plan was a 10 o’clock ferry from Soper’s Hole to Jost Van Dyke, the island that we had been looking at for the last week from our villa. Then we could have a swim, a snorkel, a leisurely lunch and back on an afternoon ferry.

The island has less than 200 inhabitants, so we were prepared for a different vibe to Tortola, but we were presented with the sleepiest town we had seen yet, the only thing moving in it was us. Having walked the length of it in less than 15 minutes, even at our heat of the day snail’s pace, we selected a bit of shady beach and sat down to contemplate how early we could get the ferry back. I could sense the serious dissension growing amongst the family.

Then our day changed with the arrival of Caesar. The family, with skin that glows like the moon, had obviously fascinated the locals sitting on the town beach amongst the thistles. He recommended that we get down to White Beach where we could start enjoying ourselves. He could even organise a taxi and get us a good rate. Oh God, we were going to die! The open taxi was summoned and we rattled over the hill to the other side of the island. Oliver offered us a deal whereby if we paid in advance for the return journey, we would get a discount. With some misgivings, the money was handed over; we were also committed now to the last ferry at 5 o’clock.

We were dropped at the back of the famous Soggy Dollar Bar, so named because the sailors would swim ashore from their ships and pay for their rum with wet money. The White Bay Beach is a beautiful gently curved beach covered with eye scorching white sand and lined with palm trees. The beach is a very popular day-sail venue, so the bay was dotted with sailboats, catamarans and dinghies. The people alighting from these boats were almost exclusively white, twenty-something, beautiful, loud and American. We headed to the part of the beach furthest from them, but after some snorkelling & swimming, the most entertaining activity became the people watching. Without exception, they rolled off the boats into the water (pronounced war–der) and proceeded to the bar for iced drinks. This part of the process was completed without wetting any part of their bodies above the waist. Drinks purchased, they than stood around in the shallows ribbing each other. One man looked irritated when Ciaran swam quite close to him, he held his drink higher lest any seawater should splash in. My favourite conversation piece, which drifted over, was from a girl with improbably large breasts “Oh my Gawd, I have never seen waves this big in the Caribbean (pronounced with emphasis on the Car), it’s like totally ruined my day.” I think that maybe her hair had got wet.

After a while, a conch is blown from the boat to call the partygoers back. This was my favourite part of the afternoon, rather than abandon their iced drinks or knock it back in one, they would all complete a complicated manoeuvre of walking, then swimming, then paddling on their backs to the boat with the drink held above the waves. It was like watching the culmination of some strange evolutionary process.

The English in the Caribbean are just as much a type but they are quieter and therefore less entertaining. Typically, they are older sailing types. The Dad is playing the experienced weather-worn captain, but overall he’s pretty pleased with himself – he is rich enough to take his whole family sailing in the Caribbean after all. Mum is practical, hair slicked back with seawater, absolutely no make-up. The children (two) are gorgeous, tanned and with that self-assurance that comes with a life of privilege. They always have the right gear on. They have never come ashore to party; they just have to get provisions, so that they can sail off into unchartered territory again, probably to a little private beach that even the locals don’t know about.

The third group of tourists that is completely separate is the black Americans. Some beaches appear to be completely one colour. At White Bay, one end was black, the other white. The degree of self-segregation is surprising and discomforting.


Caesar suddenly popped up on the beach, to tell us how right he was to send us over this way. He clearly saw us as the strangest group on the beach; 5 people laying in the shade, reading. He thought that we were forcing the children to read against their desire to party. More reassuringly, Oliver the taxi driver did come back for us and we were able to escape from this crazy island. The day wasn’t quite what I’d plan, but I think my family were grateful?!?