We were the only boaters in Fox Town
yesterday. The only visitors in fact. We nearly outnumbered the locals in Fox
Town yesterday.
This is our seventh month in the Bahamas.
The cruising season ended nearly two months ago. In droves, they hoisted sails
and headed south to the relative safety of Grenada or north to the marinas and
boatyards of Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas as the hurricane season
approached and insurance companies demanded.
The tourist season in the Abacos ended just
over a week ago with a bang. The annual Cheeseburger in Paradise party, on the
tiny sliver of land called Fiddle Cay, overrun by vendors and signs and
t-shirts and caps and winding lines for free burgers, hot dogs, margaritas,
beers, rum etc etc etc… with the bikini clad model types writhing to trap rap
aboard the slew of rafted Trump-flag-waving candy coloured speedboats with
matching hunks of glistening horsepower. Giant blow up unicorns and pink
flamingos and blow up dolls literally, are spotted across the water. Bodies meander,
gyrate, fluorescent plastic cups overflow with libation to the gods of excess
and indulgence… This spectacle of a
party is unmatched in the Bahamas and no doubt far beyond.
It is everything that Fox Town is not. We
are less than 15 miles and a week away, and we are in another world. The small
town life of the real Bahamas. Minus the American glitz and glamour. There are
no looming buildings of Atlantis hanging over us here.
Just a couple of 10 year old local boys
with dusty scratched knees and a bucket of stinking conch chunks and a fishing
line, standing on the end of a dock with a friendly hello. They’ve caught three
mutton snappers. Two tiny ones and a decent sized one too. That will be supper
for the family. It’s enough.
A walk down the main and only street of Fox
Town reveals what many small towns here do – of the 20 or so buildings, many
boarded up, at least three are churches. And they are in the best shape. A
recent paint job, a welcoming sign. It’s the hope that keeps the few remaining
residents around.
The residents are industrious. What looks
like a gas station, promising us a refill of diesel for our jugs, turns out to
be everything but. The diesel hose, like a dead snake, lies curled on the
ground, unused, with it’s fate unknown. They don’t have the ‘Take Away’ food
promised on the sign in the yard either. However the shop inside has a working
fridge with cold drinks and beers, melted chocolate bars, a 20 lb jar of
pickles… in the other half of the shop, Nautica brand clothing and some seriously
un-church-like ladies outfits. When I turn around in the tight space, I’m
greeted by a barber’s chair complete with a full price list on the wall. A hair
salon too!!! Too bad about the diesel though…
The residents are friendly. Genuinely. Out
front of the non-diesel-carrying gas station we meet the son of the proprietor.
He says, ‘let me make a call’. A few minutes later we’ve handed over our empty
jugs and some cash and he disappears down the road in his old red pick up.
We are not worried in the least. We’ve
forgotten to get his name but we know where he lives!
An hour later we are at Da Valley – Fox
Town’s claim to fame – the only restaurant here. It’s known in cruising and
local circles for it’s cracked conch. Not for it’s décor. We are sipping cold
beers and eating burgers and such when who should appear but red pick up man
with diesel filled and here.
This is the real Bahamas. It’s nothing like
the brochures. It’s definitely not what friends and family imagine when we say
we are ‘living on our boat in the Bahamas’. There is zero glamour here. No
tourism, no beach, no umbrellas in the cocktails. No cruise ships dock here. But
it’s where Bahamians come from. It’s where they are ferried home to after a
hard day’s work at a tourist resort, watching the revelers frolick on the best
beaches and eating the most expensive lobster dishes. This is home.
For us it’s a lesson in contrast. In
humility. It allows us a glimpse of life beyond the brochure.
We feel the contrast too in our small way.
Looked for a vegetable or two, just to tide us over the couple weeks before we
sail back to the land of plenty. Only one working store here. She had a box of
non-rotting tomatoes. That was it. Perhaps an onion or two. It’ll have to do.
We will have to open cans of mushy over salted vegetable remnants. But we can
leave. We can move, we can experience it all. From Fox Town to Atlantis to
nature’s wonders like Conception Island. We get to experience the whole
Bahamas. And here, anchored off quiet Fox Town, there is plenty of time to
contemplate our luck.
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