Hi there folks,
Here is the third (and final!) installment of the Saba post. I once again beg your acceptance that these are my experiences and that your results may vary but I really hope they don't!
With that said, I present for your entertainment and information...
Saba – Part 3
This is the third part of a trip report to Saba and, if you haven’t yet done so and you can manage it and have the time, I’d highly recommend reading the first two, since it will put a lot of this into context. If you’ve already read the other posts, then let’s finish this thing…
With the diving complete and the sudden flurry of goodbyes behind me, I realize that the water-based portion of the trip was now over (unless I became an ejectee-pedestrian during the return to the aircraft carrier-airport). That was way too quick.
I was an Apollo-child. I started elementary school in the 1960’s when the idea was to become an engineer and either build or pilot (we all wanted to pilot) a rocket ship into space. My brother and I built model rockets (Revell, I think and, horrors! …they were French made! Somebody pass me a Freedom-Fry!). We knew all the three letter acronyms that NASA created for the Apollo program and we drove Mom nuts as we wandered around the house saying things like “Hey do you think the TLI will be successful?” “I don’t know, the MEB circuit went low and the number one APU may not provide enough power.” “Wow. I sure hope it burns or they’re SOL.”
Since then we’ve gone through a different set of acronyms from the 90’s period of ROI and RFP to the more recent RPG. …I miss the 60’s. I really think we need a CCB (a course correction burn! – “GUIDO? …Go! RETRO? …Go!...”).
The US Moon landing program was very much on my mind as Garvis and I hopped in to the van and strapped us and the equipment in for the launch. It's a deceptive thing, though, since you actually start out in a horizontal crew attitude and drive a little way to the pad at the crazy corner just past the noisy crew rendering plant that supplies the evil Doctor Strangemuck with the energy for his weapons of doom. You make a right turn onto the launch pad. There's no countdown, though, as Garvis simply opens the valves on the Hypergolic engines and we shoot straight up what has to be the worlds steepest concrete scooter track. There aren't even many switchbacks and we're pressed back into our seats! "Neil?" "Yes Buzz" "...where's Mike?!" "Damn..."
We pass by a sailboat on a trailer about halfway into the launch ascent and I’m left wondering how the owner gets it to the harbor and how he or she actually manages to launch the thing. I’m then immediately struck by just how resourceful the Saban’s are. If the global warming thing turns out to be true, this person’s kids can just launch the boat in their own backyard! Brilliant!
A couple of additional astronauts had joined us for the launch from the harbor and I wasn’t fussed even though I was set to be the exclusive passenger for the day (NASA would call me a “payload specialist”, a term I’ve always associated with “ballast”). The new crew apparently had completed their diving and didn’t want to do any more on an ad hoc basis today so they decided not to do the pedestrian thing. Garvis didn’t levy a fee on these folks and I made a mental note to discuss with him the better aspects of how to succeed in business so one could have a better life. Then I began to realize it wasn’t necessary since it occurred to me that he was already happy with his life and I couldn’t remember the last person in Washington DC I had met who was happy with theirs.
The ancient Sabans developed a defense system on the island that involved placing large quantities of heavy rocks in a pile at the top of one of their steep trails (which is now the road we are presently driving on) and securing the stones with a log. If an enemy tries to invade, they can simply pull the log and rain the stones down on the hapless invading troops. Pretty shrewd. I doubt this technique would have been effective in, say, the North Carolina Outer Banks but here, in vertical-land, it would have been very effective indeed. I wonder though, since Saba is a volcano that’s only considered dormant and not extinct, how often one should look up towards the top of a hill on the scooter track for a protruding log. Given that the island is subject to occasional tremors and all… just a thought.
I knew we had reached the top of first part of the launch ascent phase when we got to The Bottom and we soon came across a particularly Saban-esque situation. Here are two vehicles side by side on the scooter track, the drivers of each car engaged in conversation. I figure Garvis will simply stop and give them a few seconds before perhaps a gentle suggestion that we move on followed, perhaps, by a short sounding of the vehicle horn (what would be known to NASA as the AWU – the Audible Warning Unit) so one of them might move out of our way. In parts of LA this would be accomplished using an NMA (A Nine Millimeter Automatic) with no need for the AWU, but, thankfully, in Southern California they build their roads much wider. In Garvis’ case, he’s a Saban. This sort of thing happens all the time so… he just keeps driving towards them. It’s going to be a catastrophe. They can’t be successfully ejected into the water (not from The Bottom, anyway) so I just grip the dashboard and cringe at the thought of the resulting impact. Almost miraculously, the driver of the vehicle in front of us simply ends the conversation and drives off to scoot into a side driveway and we pass on by. No fuss. No complaints. Just waves and smiles all around. What are these people ON??! A similar exchange in almost any other place I’ve been (with the possible exception of Northern Maine) would at the very least have resulted in raised tempers, if not open hostilities! It was curious indeed.
We continue the ascent stage and, once again, we pass a slower rocket with some road workers (now there’s a job you might want to think carefully about before applying for here on Saba. No matter how many donuts you eat, humans don’t come with a Supplemental Restraining System – an SRS to NASA and an Airbag to you and I), and we continue our streak skyward. I can’t imagine anything more exciting today then the way we race up to that six-inch concrete curb around the edge of one of these cliff-side turns on the track. …unless of course it’s the same experience when going downhill. Like…. When we go to the airport… just a little bit of time from now! Where to I book tickets on the Edge?
But then we arrive safely at our orbital apogee (Windwardside). Garvis stops near the dive shop and an opening in the side of the road magically appears and he drives into it. “You go ahead and settle up with them and come and find me and then we’ll head to the airport… Okay?” I’m a little hesitant to step out of the van since I’m imagining another long pedestrian excursion around town to some location where Garvis will meet me, but I’m beginning to get a feel for how things are done here and I suspect all will be well. There are brief formalities at the dive shop where I had hoped to see some of the bank robbers so I could thank them and tip them for not throwing me out of a plane with only a flimsy buoyancy compensator but they were nowhere in sight. I guessed they were probably in a large warehouse somewhere planning out their next adventure. I spoke briefly with a gentleman behind the counter at the store who made sure to inquire how I had enjoyed my trip (I had indeed) and hoped I would return (I would indeed) and that I would dive with them again (I would without hesitation). I step out of the shop and Garvis is… gone! I have about six seconds of rising anxiety (since I hadn’t inquired as to the next instructions for the mystery walking tour) until I realize he has moved to another nook off of the scooter track a little further down the road. Apparently we had earlier occupied a nook that someone actually needed to use, so he simply moved.
My EVA (Extra-Vehicular Activity) completed successfully (or, “Nominal” in NASA-speak), I rejoined the spaceship and now began perhaps the most interesting part of the whole on-land Saba experience. We head off to the aircraft carrier for my return to Sint Maarten and, by now, Garvis is chatty. I guess he has figured I’m okay if I’ve stuck with it this far and so begins the narrative of an interesting chapter in his life on Saba. He used to raise goats. It was a goal of his to breed perfectly white goats. I’m looking at a picture of one and it is indeed almost perfectly white. It’s kind of cute for a goat. I had noticed goats roaming all over the place as we drove along the island. They were in and out of the townships close by the side of the road and I wondered how well they could swim (given that they must get “Popped” every now and then and find themselves swimming for the harbor – thus “Pop’s Place”). I guess when each goat is born the Nanny takes them to the harbor to let them know where they should swim to if they end up going ballistic as a result of an encounter with a wild-eyed Saban. Garvis had gone to a great deal of trouble to breed the white goats and had achieved considerable success with it over many patient years. Life was good until a dispute with a neighbor eventually grew out of proportion and forced him to stop the activity (it’s was somehow reassuring to know that there were some things that never changed, even here on Saba). We chatted about the island economy, the price of various tourist oriented ventures and he even recommended that I consider buying a hotel we flew over in the van on our way to the airport (who needs an airport? Why not just keep going past Everest to Sint Maarten since we’re already flying?). He must not know what a technology solutions architect with a penchant for public health and foreign aid activism actually earns but I couldn’t hold that against him. After all, he came from a tiny place with limited public funding ability that provides free health care to all and I came from a massively funded financial powerhouse that provides health care like it’s a third world country. Irony upon irony.
We pass a group of men working as a litter crew and several things occur to me as Garvis explains what they’re doing. Firstly, this is the third crew I had seen and each consisted of a different group of smiling men chatting away as they crawled around the ledges like mountain… goats. Second, as we pass, they turn and wave, not just to Garvis, but also to me and with genuine good cheer. Finally, the island is incredibly clean. There isn’t any littler anywhere that I’ve seen so far. In fact, there is very little of the crap and crud just lying around that I’ve seen elsewhere so the litter crew job might not be a bad gig, as long as you didn’t mind working near this damned road!
As he talks about his life and of his fellow islanders I’m struck by just how well this island suits him and the others who call it home. It’s the kind of place you love to find and hope no one ruins. The island is probably sustaining just about the right number of people (a population of around 1500) and it really shouldn’t grow much despite the potential extra income that would bring. They love having tourists, but he makes an interesting point about tourism that was immediately obvious to me only after he’d said it. There is a large push for so-called Eco-Tourism, since it’s popular currently and Saba is a natural for it (if you’ll pardon the pun!). The problem with this is that a lot of typical Eco-tourists are what are derisively termed “back-packers”. They come to a place, and they pay the cheapest possible fee for their accommodations and buy almost nothing of the local offerings since they are often income-challenged. Saba would like fewer tourists, so long as they are more well-heeled and willing to buy local arts and crafts and pay a little more for their accommodations. I thought about this and how it factored in to my feelings for Sint Maarten, just thirty short miles away, but there will be more on that in my post on SXM itself later. For now, we’re approaching Hell’s Gate. Literally. This is Garvis’ home “town” and it’s also the beginning of our trip down to the flight deck… Down… Very down… I’m hoping the township was named a long time ago before the carrier accident and there is no correlation between passing through this place and attempting to leave the island.
Something really odd about driving through a place called Hell’s Gate on a tropical island in the summer was just how cool it was. At least ten degrees cooler then back at our villa in Sint Maarten, which I dearly hoped to see soon. In fact, across a large portion of the island I noticed how lovely the air felt and how much cooler it was than on Sint Maarten (or any other nearby island, I would presume). The various accommodation ads even recommend a sweater for the evening and I can believe some would need it.
Garvis is talking animatedly, smoking, gesturing to various features of the island and driving a taxi-van at a reasonably quick pace along a small concrete scooter track that never quite grew into a road and I’m desperately taking pictures and videos out of the windscreen (again under the assumption that divers would eventually find my body and give the life insurance company assessor proof that I hadn’t committed suicide so they’d pay up and Sonia could afford to live somewhere flat with wide roads – then again, it WAS my decision to get into the van…). It’s just so incredible to me to see us hurtling along this little twisty roller coaster track that I have to get some images of it. I’m not sure if this bugs Garvis so I occasionally just turn and smile at him as I continue to acknowledge the information he’s giving me. He even sells me a book which gives a history of Saba and an interesting guide to how the locals use the various plants on the island for healing various ailments (including, I assume, injuries sustained from spontaneous ad hoc diving caused from being “Popped”) and I buy it on the spot. It turns out to be fascinating and please let me know if you want the title and author information.
I’m desperate to be stopped. To be standing on solid ground and not threatening any living creature that happens to get in our way. I really want to stop the thrill ride and the sudden turns where you seem to actually drive out over the cliff before being yanked around and shot off on the road again. And then… we do stop! But wait! We’re nowhere near the carrier. I know this because I can see it far below me, pointing out to sea in a fruitless attempt to shake off the island it slammed into so long ago. Have I offended Garvis? Is the final irony that tourists have to walk from here, wet dive gear and all? Garvis… Come on my friend! I didn’t mean it. Whatever it was…
“Good for photo’s” he says and I start snapping away, much relieved. We’re off again and, just as suddenly, we stop again as we pull up adjacent a truck that had been heading up the road. There was a coded exchange between Garvis and the other driver and then Garvis handed him a sum of money (60 NAF) . I figured that Garvis was paying out on the bet that I would have given up during my earlier walk to the Tropics Café at Juliana’s hotel during the morning that now seemed so long ago. I’m kind of glad he lost the bet and I think he was too. We talk animatedly all the way down the many switchbacks from Hell’s Gate to the little airfield and, as we approach the flight deck, a WINAR Otter begins its take-off run. This will be the second to last flight out of Saba for the day. Mine will be the last. It’s pretty sobering to watch the tiny little plane run the complete length of the runway, engines howling, and then simply run off the end of it to take flight. It didn’t seem to dip as it left the edge. It just ran off of it and those folks aboard were then on their way to Sint Maarten… I thought about how heavy my dive gear now was and I was glad I hadn’t eaten a large lunch. Perhaps this was why they didn’t feed you on the dive trip. So the plane might be just that much lighter… Garvis and I chatted a little longer and then I happily paid him for what I considered to be simply outstanding service and a thoroughly enjoyable ride and, just like that, he was gone back on his way to Hell’s gate…
Saba airport (“SAB” not “SAD”) can best be described as “compact”. A single moderately sized room houses the departure lounge, the check-in and ticketing desk, a gift shop, the “security” desk, access to the tower and the fire department. This is rounded out by the presence of an outdoor bar, at which the tower controller presently sits, drinking… coffee! Phew! I went to the check-in desk and addressed an efficient young fellow behind the counter. I was expecting him to scribble “SXM” or “St. Maarten” or something like “back home” on a tag and place it on my luggage but, in a scene that struck me as ironic, his computer printer spat out a detailed and formatted luggage tag and he attached it to my bag as though this was a typical airline counter at JFK, Heathrow or Singapore Changi. I had overheard him tell a couple of ladies checking in ahead of me that the flight (he didn’t need to specify the airline – there’s only one) would be arriving at 5:40, or maybe 5:00 or maybe around 6:00, it was kind of up to the pilots. Well… “Who better to make that call?! “ was all I ended up thinking about that! The ladies didn’t seem fazed and neither did I. That struck me as odd. Think about how any of us would feel if we got to the check-in counter at our local airport for a flight to almost anywhere else and we were told “Oh, it’ll leave at 5:40, or maybe 5:00 or, then again, maybe 6:00”. I have a sneaking suspicion most of us would start getting hot under the collar. Not on Saba. It’s just the way of things and I was very definitely enamored of that “way”. In the end, a half hour either way really doesn’t matter that much on a single segment flight and I believe we’d do well to remember that once in a while.
I now had an hour (or maybe less, or maybe more) to wait in the tiny confines of the aircraft carrier conning tower so I approached the bar and bought a drink. I ordered a diet coke and took some looks from the folks around the bar. Perhaps they figured I was a standby flight controller or out-of-uniform pilot and therefore wasn’t drinking alcohol. I paid for my drink and went to the departure “lounge” which is outdoors just across from the arrivals immigration “window”. I was glad it wasn’t raining.
Several passengers arrived and I struck up conversations with some of them. There was a woman who had been on my flight this morning and was now returning. She had come to the island for medical treatment and I wish I could understand her better (she spoke mostly Dutch) since that intrigued me. I then met an older gentleman who simply introduced himself as “Steve”. He was thoroughly enjoyable and we chatted at length. Like Garvis, he was a local and he had lived on the island but had worked on the sea as crew on a ship running freight (and other things I won’t mention) up through the islands from various South American ports. He told me of a trip he had taken to Holland with his uncle who needed medical care (his doctor had determined that the care needed to be provided at a facility in Amsterdam so the government flew him, and Steve, all the way to Holland to give him the care he needed and to allow a family member to be with him, all at no cost to the family – that’s public health in an informed society folks). He was delighted when the immigration official began treating him like “an islander” and then he showed her just how sharp he really was and she was so pleasantly surprised she smiled from ear to ear. I have the feeling he thought she wasn’t too bad looking and was pleased he’d been able to draw a smile but he was also definitely pleased to let people know there was a lot more to him then one might assume from his appearance. That was it! I finally had the answer to something that had been tugging at my mind the whole time I’d been on-island. There was a lot more to almost any local I’d met so far on the trip then was given over by how they looked and I loved that.
At times while waiting I noticed a small dump truck (you certainly couldn’t fit a large one on the roads on Saba) would come to the gate giving access to the ramp, go through it and drive to the far end of the aircraft apron. There they would back up towards the sea and discharge a load of rock and dirt off the edge and then drive off. Perhaps this is how they construct a second, opposing runway or maybe it’s the chief disposal method for tourists who didn’t want to walk to Tropics Café. Either way, it was a scene that struck me.
I don’t know why, but it also struck me as curious that I could simply switch on my trusty Sharon Harris cell phone and call Sonia back at the villa from my perch here at the aircraft carrier. I could see Sint Maarten in the distance (in fact, if I had really good eyes, I could see the villa) so I waved but Sonia was inside and, with the setting sun she had trouble seeing me. There were no extra charges for the call and the reception was perfect for my call to Sonia thirty miles over the ocean from me. I can’t call Sonia from my local Home Depot store just four miles from home but I can call Beacon Hill from Saba no problem. That left an impression on me.
Steve and I chatted animatedly until the plane was due to arrive. You know when this is about to happen because one of the flight controllers wanders out towards the runway with a radio and they open the door to the firehouse and drive the lone fire-truck out about ten feet from its garage. This could be disconcerting to some so don’t worry, it’s perfectly normal. Suddenly, there’s a hive of activity as the little Otter misses impacting Everest and drops onto the deck (“Cougar… call the ball!” “Call the ball” “You’re too low Cougar! YOU’RE TOO LOW!! PULL UP!! WAVE OFF!!”). The plane lands right on the numbers and runs the full length of the deck before describing a 180 degree turn at a point where they can give the passengers a great view over the edge of the cliff at the remains of other aircraft piled up at the bottom. It taxis speedily to the hold area and the security official opens the gate at the departure area and motions some fifteen of us out to the waiting anxious little craft with its starboard engine still turning over. Boarding is quick and everyone is seated and, eleven minutes after landing, the pilots have started the port engine and we’re taxiing out to the base of Mount Everest for our take off run. I guess it’s not a good idea to give the condemned too much time to think about their destiny. It helps avoid a riot that way. Somewhere out there the mean little Edge is leaving no wake as it carves its way between the islands without having to launch its passengers into the air (at least too far). I haven’t thrown up in a long time and wondered briefly if I should have given it a try this evening. And I’ve rarely been seasick!
Without delay, we’re lurching down the runway and gathering pace for our plunge. I saw where they put my bag so, if we go under, I can swim out there, open the hatch, grab my dive gear, put it on, find some air source, swim back into the fuselage and quickly rescue all those folks and bring them to the surface just in time to be struck by the starboard hull of a bitter little speeding catamaran full of people who will soon become violently ill… Sounds like a good movie plot…
We clear the end of the runway having only gained about two feet of altitude. People laugh and clap each other’s backs. I turn and look back at Steve who is giving me a thumbs-up, perhaps implying that this is the way we will be going since he might have thought I was asking. It is one of the most exciting take off runs I’ve had and I’ve flown in some interesting places.
In fifteen minutes we are coming in low over Maho beach where there are a number of folks no doubt standing below us giving us the “Maho salute” (more on this in my island post later) and we are back in the world that is Sint Maarten. We deplane and stroll across the ramp to the terminal and to the lone waiting immigration official. “Where have you been today?” “Saba” “Thanks and have a nice evening” is the sum total of the formalities and I’m through to collect my waiting dive bag. A final wave to Steve and his friends with a heartfelt wish for him to have more pleasant adventures in his life since he’s certainly enriched mine and it’s back to the little hockey puck-on-wheels Tieros which I had placed under a discarded Pandanus leaf in the still free airport car park for the three minute commute home to the villa.
Saba had been incredible and my deepest thanks go out to the TTOL folks that recommended I go. I can’t say enough good things about Lynn Costenaro, Ryan, the lovely Debbie and the rest of the crew at Sea Saba; Juliana’s and the Tropics Café and even WINAIR who I have seen come in for a fair amount of derision on the forum but who treated me professionally, efficiently and with courtesy. My greatest thanks, though, go out to Garvis who has contributed greatly to my life going forward just by being who he is and giving me so much information. I wish him well and recommend all who go to the island and need transport ask for him through whoever they book. I can’t wait for Sonia to meet him on a subsequent trip.
Once again, thank you all for reading and stay tuned for our final reports, on Sint Maarten itself. The villa, the food and simply the island.
James
.
