If you tire of traffic jams or get worn out from rollover debates, try the refreshing side of Cayman.
I am speaking of a part of Cayman that gets lost unless you seek it; experience it.
You cannot take a tour bus or a fleet of jeeps to see it.
The experience is that of life in the East End of the island. A bicycle ride does it for me. The bike ride is quiet, allows you to hear the sounds, take in the smells and allows a chance to say or nod hi to passers by.
I like to start at the police station in Bodden Town where the aggressive drivers seem to have disappeared. Take a left at Frank Sound Road and do a must-stop at the Texaco station in North Side.
My riding buddy Paul Phillips has described it as his favourite place on the island. There is usually a man asleep in the hammock – not sure if he works there or is just a resident. Perhaps the elderly lady is there, with her smiling eyes and a weathered exterior.
She sits in the middle of the island, making a basket out of Silver Palm leaves. No artificial materials or kits for her. I asked her why she still does it the old fashioned way. Her response was ‘I do not do it for money. I want to do it for friends the right way.’ She is no hurry.
I grab a Gatorade. The honest man behind the counter tells me I have given him too much money and he gives me change. No ex-pat hostility here.
You leave the station and proceed around the bend on the northeast shore to a more desolate and rougher road. Right about the cell tower come the dozens and dozens of crabs crossing the road. Their claws are raised to intimidate the rider – scooting sideways. Not being the sharpest species, a few run right underneath a tire. Crruuunch, ccrruunch, ccrunch. The road is littered with the sight and stench of that morning’s casualties.
To your left are an array of remote pristine beaches and the blustery winds in your face. Around the horn past the timeshares you again come upon the historic town of Gun Bay and the rest. This is the prime stretch of ride. This is some of the world’s most beautiful coastline. Quiet. Waves splashing against the iron shore or sand. Small fishing boats are anchored peacefully off the beach.
In these towns you ride by the elderly killing time on the porches. On the quiet bike one can absorb the sounds: the sounds of whiskbroom sweeping sand from the front walk, the wide brimmed woman raking the sandy beach, or the slamming of dominoes by the mend playing by the shore across from the playground in East End. Someone is parked in front of the Texaco, playing some reggae a little bit loud – classic Dennis Brown.
Instead of the smell of exhaust from the city, there are fresher ones. Of course the smell of salt air and dead fish is frequent. At the right time of day you can draw in the pleasant smell of fried fish. I am always tempted to stop at Viviene’s Kitchen; her daily specials always smell so good. But the one time I stopped there I took a nap afterwards in the hammock in the sleep-inducing breeze and lost the intensity to finish the ride.
Past East End you feel the salt spray of what remains of the blowholes, many now plugged up post Ivan. You still see the old stand where the coconut man used to sell tourists drinks and fresh cut coconuts. Then you bike glides down the big hill; Cayman’s version of one. The winds are usually at our back and you feel like Lance Armstrong. At Bodden Town you are back at the car. The hour and a half ride is over. Mmmm. Some jerk pork at the orange restaurant – Chester’s – where you order at the window sounds good. Best $8 deal on the island.
The only bad feeling I get from the ride is knowing deep inside that this part of Cayman, the last of the old Caribbean, will not last forever. How many more of these rides do I have left?
Jeff Cummer
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