Soon after returning from my recent Caribbean vacation, I began reading Jamaica Kincaid’s novel “The Autobiography of My Mother.” Kincaid is from Antigua, and in this book, the Caribbean is a backdrop for the poverty, enslavement and defeat of its native people. After finishing my essay about the life-affirming beauty of the British Virgin Islands, I came across Kincaid’s description of a similar locale. Through her eyes, these mountainous islands look entirely different.
I couldn’t help thinking our trip was doomed.
We arrived in the British Virgin Islands after 10 grueling hours of travel to searing heat and dead still air. The steady cooling tradewinds, the whole reason we had come here to spend a week on a sailboat, were mysteriously absent.
Once inside the un-airconditioned airport, we retrieved our duffel bag and found it sopping wet.