Voodoo Taboo

The cruise was last minute, and unexpected, but we decided to go. The ship was huge with over a thousand passengers and we were leaving from Miami. When the three couples of Marco Beach Boys and Girls arrived at the Port of Miami and boarded the cruise liner, our last-minute decision to venture into the Caribbean suddenly seemed to harbor a bad omen. The cruise ship captain and the beautiful British cruise director were on the screens of every television on the ship and although they were smiling and cheerful for the newly arrived passengers, they were clearly explaining there was not an exact destination for the upcoming Caribbean vacation.

Hurricane Francis was on the way, and because of the forecast track of the tropical weather system, the captain was promising to keep the ship away from the storm. “We have no idea where we are going,” the captain explained on the television screen, “but we are not going anywhere near the storm.” At this point, the striking cruise director with the English accent also offered “We can also promise we are going to have a lot of fun and adventure on the way.”

The captain kept his promise and as we cruised safely on the southern side of Cuba, Hurricane Francis pounded through the Bermuda Triangle on the northern side of the Greater Antilles. After we saw the southernmost mountains of Cuba sink into the wake behind the ship, the captain and the cruise director continued with their continuous updates. They were always smiling and cheerful as they continued to explain that because of the very recent hurricane damage throughout the Caribbean, most of the traditional ports of call were not open for cruise ship traffic.

After three days at sea, the captain came on the ship’s intercom and made an announcement. We would be docking at a remote island in the Caribbean for a day ashore. The captain explained that our upcoming port of call was an island rarely visited by cruise ships because of the shallow water harbor, but the recent storm swept out the channel and now the harbor was open for deep-water vessels. 

When the island came into view, the bright Caribbean sun was an orange ball shining on the morning horizon. When the ship cruised very slowly past a jagged mountain with the ruins of a crumbling fort, another turn into the new deep-water channel brought us into a little harbor where the ship could turn around with only a few feet of clearance on either side of jungle-covered volcanic hills. A duo of battered and rusting tugboats were cruising alongside and watching the maneuvers of our skillful captain as if observing a miracle.

When the ship was safely at dock alongside a rickety old pier, the passengers began to disembark. All the islanders were out in force as were the cruise ship passengers and soon the two crowds began to merge into the colorful portside town.

Atop the nearest highland, which was more than a hill but not quite a mountain, an old church from the 1700s watched over the town beside a graveyard with above ground crypts. As our group of three couples were drawn to the rising peak and the twin church towers and stone crypts resting beneath a grove of Royal Poinciana, we could not help but notice a great crack in the wall of the church that ran all the way up to one of the ancient bell towers. We could also not fail to observe the strange odyssey that was the ongoing theme for all of the above ground graves.

Apparently asleep on each of the stone vaults that were the colonial tombs of the island, was a Rastafarian man. Each of the men were appearing to be contentedly asleep beneath the shade of the tropical canopy trees with their dreadlocks falling from the stone vaults where they were resting to the grass and the base of the stone sepulchers.

As we crept passed in silence and gained the entrance to the open church, we met a curator who explained in whispers that the Rasta men were guarding the hallowed ground as they slept.

There was a rival, the curator explained with her lovely singsong accent, between the forces of good and evil. The troop of sleeping Rasta’s were on guard against the darkest of the Voodoo, which was indeed Taboo.

After a tour of the old but steadfast church and the peaceful surroundings, our group descended into the portside town in search of a taxi. We learned on previous cruises the best tours often came spontaneously when befriending a local taxi driver and asking for a private tour. This remote and rarely visited island selected by our ship’s captain was no exception.

Once we were merging again into the portside traffic and bustle of passengers and locals, we made the discovery of a charming and wizened islander who was the proud owner of a Chrysler minivan.

After she graciously opened her van to our group, we were soon bouncing over cobblestone streets and heading out of town. Our agreed upon destination was an abandoned sugar mill and harborside fort on the opposite side of the island. Along the route we traversed over little mountains covered in greenery so bright it was breathtaking and then into little valleys flourishing with wild sugarcane.

When we made our arrival into a valley larger than most, we saw an abandoned smokestack and ruined outbuildings of a colonial sugar plantation and rum factory. The rusting tin roofs were picturesque in their lonely wait for visitors but when we stopped to explore and walk around, a strange feeling of dread was so apparent that even our taxi lady nervously suggested we move on to our next destination of the old harbor and fort.

When we climbed aboard the Chrysler, everyone noticed that even though we were away for about half an hour, the engine was still running. When the doors closed and we began again on our island journey, one of the Marco girls who was looking back suddenly spoke. “I saw a man back there. He was watching us as we left. He was dressed so strangely. He was a tall dark man wearing sunglasses. He was also wearing a top hat and an old-style tuxedo with tails. When I saw him, I suddenly had the feeling that he was the island undertaker. He was leaning on a walking stick.”

Before anyone could speak, our gracious lady who was our taxi driver swerved. The Chrysler almost crashed into the ditch and the sugarcane that was rushing by, and suddenly we all knew that whatever our Marco Beach Girl saw; caused a shiver in our driver strong enough to almost wreck our journey and the minivan.

To be continued next week.

Happy October and Halloween Marco, Goodland and Isles of Capri.