Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Serge laughed politely. “'Ey, why don't you join us for coffee at this little place I know? I
am waiting for dis one guy I work for. He will pick me up at around seven thirty.”
“Yeah, I've got to start work at seven thirty as well. I am starting work today, and I'm also
being picked up outside then.”
“Don't tell me, you are also a carpenter?” asked Serge.
“Yes, I just got a job working on an old minesweeper in Simpson's lagoon. Are you also
working for Allen?”
“I am. I 'ave been there only for a few days; wait till you see the boat we are working on.
Some rich American woman bought it as scrap after it was damaged in the last hurricane.”
We had arrived at a little pavement café close to where I had eaten on Saturday evening.
Already seated was a friend of Serge's who waved and nodded politely. A waiter appeared
shortly, and Serge held up two fingers for coffee. We both sat down, and Serge introduced
his friend.
“This is Saban, another carpenter,” he chortled. I shook hands.
“Do you also live on a boat?”
“Saban doesn't speak English; he is from France, and he lives in town but not on a boat.
He is one of the lucky ones.” Serge smiled easily again. Saban looked decidedly gay with
a little ring in his young ear and his feminine, blonde hair, and he seemed very friendly and
easy-going.
We sat chatting for a while watching the morning people go by. It was an endless parade
of pretty women out walking their dogs and people on their way to work. Some were on
holiday, others not, one could always tell. I was struck by the fashion of the young, French
women. They had a way about them and seemed so different, so cool. I felt quite gauche
around them. I drew heavily on my first morning cigarette and commented on the great
tasting, hot coffee. Serge asked me a bunch of questions about where I had been and where
I was from. He was a cool customer, that's for sure, but he was a nice guy and smart as a
whip too! Soon enough, Allen met up with us, and we set off for work.
Looking back, I remember St. Maarten as the place and time in my life where I felt freedom
for the first time. There was very little repression felt here among the locals and authorit-
ies. The visitors were here for a fun time and reveled in the freedom as well. There were
cheating spouses, underhanded business men, and the inevitable party crowd that foamed
around society with their shallow, drunken celebrations, harmless, clean fun, and good
looks. There were also the usual local suspects feeding off this crowd in some form or
another. Big, strapping, Negro plantation workers were in demand from the thrill-seeking
