We ate out on the shaded patio, enjoying the cooler sea breezes that reached over the hills to the restaurant. I spotted our boat down below and was surprised to realize that, at 40 foot length, the largest sailboat I’d ever gone out on, our group had the smallest yachts at anchor. St. Barts, I learned, was one of the pricier islands in the chain, populated with villas owned by wealthy Europeans—particularly the French—and a favorite vacation destination of the jet set.
When we finished lunch, I didn’t want to tarry, so I thanked my shipmates for a lovely time and told them I was going to scout out a place to stay a few days on St. Barts. Their plan was to sail the boats around the island to a hospitable bay on the other side. I bade them a fond farewell, sincerely meant, however on behalf of Jack Philco, no forwarding address. Then I shouldered my pack and strode down the hill to the shopping district. I’d worn desert boots continuously for over a week, and not only were they showing wear and tear, but they weren’t suitable for the kind of traveling I’d been doing. I bought some good running shoes from a boutique, styled in black in case I needed them for night work. At a men’s store, I got a swimsuit and a pair of casual trousers—my khakis were getting reeky from constant wear. I figured that the people pursuing my BCCI stuff had bribed bank personnel throughout the island chain to keep an eye out for “Jake Fonko,” and possibly they could monitor some credit card transactions, though not always instantaneously. But no way could every shop clerk in the Caribbean be on Red Alert. I paid for everything on St. Barts with my MasterCard to conserve my cash. That left some traces behind, but I’d be off the island before the transactions reached the banks, where they might be monitored.
My last purchase was a black canvas duffle bag with a shoulder strap, as by now people would be looking for somebody with a backpack. I stuffed said backpack and my new duds into it, put on my Panama hat, and hiked to the St. Barts airport in my new shoes. It wasn’t far—around the harbor and up over a hill to one of the funkier airstrips I’d seen since the makeshift ones in the Nam boondocks. As I made my way toward the terminal building, a two-engine, high wing Air Antilles commuter plane swooped down low over the brow of the hill, brushed close above cars on the road, and landed on a short, down-sloping runway that ended at a little bay on the other side of the island from Gustavia. According to shop clerks I’d obliquely queried, several local companies ran puddle-jump service around the islands, and I figured to catch one to Martinique.
I was dismayed, therefore, to see a couple of thuggish men loitering in the waiting area, checking out incoming customers. From my sojourn in Iran, I’d bet they hailed from that part of the world. Staying as far away from them as I could, I checked the departures board. It listed no flights to Martinique, but several went to Guadeloupe, one leaving shortly, probably the plane I’d seen just land. Guadeloupe, a French island just north of Martinique, lay in the right direction, and I was in no position to be choosy.
One of the men held a sheet of paper in his hand, and as I studied the departure schedule, he and his pal looked back and forth between the paper and me, showing increasing interest in me. Couldn’t very well knock them out of my way or gun them down, so I tried a different tack. My changling face got me a part-time job as a movie extra when I was a high school kid. Maybe it still worked. I walked directly up to them, and they back-stepped a pace. “You are looking at me, my friends? Is there some way I can help you?” I asked. They looked at each other shiftily. “What do you have there?” I said, reaching for the piece of paper. The fellow drew back further, but I persisted. “You are looking for somebody? Maybe the person on this paper? Let me see it. Perhaps I can help you.”
He passed me the paper, a blow-up of my passport photo. Must have been the same sheet the troops in the Puerto Rico airport were consulting. I studied it carefully. “Hey, this man looks something like me,” I remarked. “How about that! He’s younger, I think (about eight years younger, as I’d gotten the passport in 1975 when I returned from Cambodia)… hmmm, he styles his hair differently. I think he must be a large man, maybe about six feet and one inch, judging from the way he’s built (I’m 5’ 10”, but muscular)… and, look here, he has a scar on his face.” The latter was a little stray line across a cheek, courtesy of the Xerox machine. They were examining the photo more closely, taking doubtful glances at me. “You know what, I think I saw this man over in Gustavia town this very morning.”
That got their attention. “You seen this guy? Where you see him?”
“Now where was it, let me think… it was at a restaurant! The one up on the hillside above the harbor, I didn’t notice the name of it. He was sitting on the balcony with some people. It struck me then, how he looks like me. He had a backpack, I remember. Why do you seek him?”
“Just talk to him, that’s all. How long ago you see him?”
“I came from there only a few minutes ago. You go over to that restaurant, show them your picture, they may recognize this man.” I didn’t doubt they would. I’d left a big tip. The guys looked at one another, each hoping the other would decide the next move. I handed the paper back to the one nearest the door and helped them along by gently guiding him in that direction. “If you hurry, you may find him still there,” I urged. “They were lingering over coffees.”
That got them moving. They scurried out to the taxi stand. I went to the ticket desk whose flight to Guadeloupe was preparing for departure. They had a seat available, and they booked Jack Philco through to Martinique with a twenty minute layover. I boarded the plane, and soon we rolled down the runway and vaulted into the blue sky over the sailboats at anchor and sunbathers laid out on the bright white arc of beach. By now, my shipmates would be back aboard, en route to the exquisite little bay I just left.
8 | Sweet and Dandy
Puddle-jump flights fascinate me. You sit in a small cabin open to the cockpit, so you watch over the pilot’s shoulder where the plane is going, and you visualize yourself taking over the controls and bringing it in when he and the co-pilot collapse. Thank God that opportunity never arises, of course—I can do without white-knucklers. Both legs of my flight to Martinique went without incident. Good weather held—piles of distant cumulus clouds framed blue skies, and bright sunlight drew maximum color from the green islands and indigo sea we flowed over. I’d disclosed my name when I signed travelers cheques for my air ticket, but the first hop was short, too little time for Evil to marshal its Forces, and with luck, perhaps no one would notice right away that I’d be ricocheting off to Martinique. My plane change encountered no resistance, and the connecting flight took off on schedule, bringing me to Martinique by mid afternoon. It was a large island. Our flight path took us over a volcano in the ruggedly mountainous north, then down to a sea level airport toward the southern end.
It had a good-sized terminal, servicing international jet traffic. Commuter flights operated out of one end of it. Five other travelers arrived with me. I hung back after the others had deplaned, sitting in a crouch so as not to be visible from the ground, waiting for the flight crew to wind up their duties. It didn’t take them long, and I left the plane with them. The ground crew had dropped my duffle on the tarmac by the cargo hatch. No one had rushed out to snatch it—my pursuers sought a man with a backpack. I hoisted the strap over my shoulder and ambled along with the pilots, quizzing them about Martinique, their work, their travels, anything to keep them engaged until we were inside the terminal building. They stopped at their airline office to log in. The commuter terminal was clear. I thanked them for a good flight and veered off to the main concourse. I gave it a quick survey, turned up nothing threatening. I came to a waiting area with a crowd, stopped there and took a seat amidst the throng.
And there I sat thinking. Because I’d arrived with no battle plan. What the hell was I doing here? I’d had to butt out of Puerto Rico. Homer suggested the French islands, said they were hospitable, told me I might find my way to a forged passport on Martinique. Bu
t details cried out for attention, like, now that I’m here, where do I go, where do I stay, how do I get there? What do I do next? And how much time do I have? As I sorted through my options a big jet rolled up to a gate on the other side of the concourse. It had American markings. Curious, I went to the arrivals board to see where it originated. I found no listed entry for that time slot, nor at any time near it. An animated horde of passengers streamed out—mostly men and women in their 20s and 30s, some older couples and a few odd strays. They were Americans, all right, numbering about a hundred, noisy and self-absorbed. This was a crowd I could blend into, so I gathered up my duffle bag, put on my baseball cap and joined the parade. Pasty-faced and bewildered, they were soaking up the exotic atmosphere, as exotic as any modern air terminal is likely to be, at any rate. Several women in charge herded them to baggage claim. I fell in by an unattached, pretty-ish 20-something woman. “Where are you all coming from?” I asked her.
“New York City,” she said. She was rubber-necking several directions at once, taking it all in while keeping an eye out for her bag. “Wow, isn’t this something!” she gushed.
“I didn’t see any flights from New York on the arrivals schedule.”
“Well, I don’t know how they do those schedules. It’s a charter flight. Maybe that’s why it isn’t listed.”
“I think you nailed it,” I said. A charter from New York. If anyone hoped to spot me arriving in Martinique, they’d have a hard time, for I’d fallen into perfect cover. It was as if somebody had taken a giant shop-vac, siphoned up several Manhattan singles bars and shaken out the bag into the Martinique Airport arrivals concourse. The crowd congregated around baggage claim as it delivered a mélange of suitcases and carry-ons. They collected their goods, and the guides steered them out to several shiny new buses. What the hell, why not? Wherever they were being taken, it got me out of the air terminal and beyond watchful eyes. I could always get a taxi to somewhere else once we arrived at our destination. I followed the crowd, boarded a bus and took a window seat. A stoked young yuppie took the seat beside me, and his raring-to-go buddies filled seats ahead, behind and across the aisle. They ignored me totally while we waited, while we rode and when we arrived, which was fine by me.
I’d thought maybe we were headed to Fort-de-France, the capital city, or possibly a resort hotel, but the ride took us quite a distance through hills, past local settlements (mostly black, but not as run down as some I’d seen), along tree-shaded and scrub-bordered rural lanes, down the middle of a plantation of some sort (coconut palms?), finally stopping on a parking lot fronting a walkway through a portal set off by palm trees. Inside the portal, a lively gauntlet of saronged and swim-suited, joyful young white people sporting various degrees of sunburn swayed and gyrated. As we trooped in they chorused a silly song and did a kind of cheerleader routine with their hands in time to their song. No, it wasn’t an outpost of some weird religious sect. “Welcome to Club Med!” they enthused as we filed by. “Party time!”
We newcomers trooped into a compound of low-lying, whitewashed buildings, and our greeters lost interest and dispersed to other fun. We were directed to queue up for check-in and room assignments. Not belonging here in the first place, I saw no point to joining that. Instead, I toted my duffle over to a tropic-themed, open-air bar with ceiling fans and laid it down below my stool. A tanned, cute, fit-looking barmaid in short-shorts and a sleeveless top came over. “How does a man get a drink around here?” I asked her.
“He orders one from me. What can I get for you?” She had a European accent.
“What does a Heineken go for?”
“One bead,” she said.
“I just arrived. Beads?”
“Bar beads. You buy them at registration. Wine is free with meals, and the cocktail parties are complimentary, but for other drinks you use bar beads. It saves a lot of trouble, not having to deal with money. Like the doors on the rooms. No keys. Can you imagine what a confusion to issue keys in a beach resort like this? Drunks losing them all over the place?”
“No door locks? Theft isn’t a problem?”
“Everybody deposits their valuables in the company safe room when they check in.”
“I haven’t yet checked in, thought a little thirst-relief would improve my day before I got down to business, so I’m short of beads at the moment,” I said. “You look like a sporting woman. I’ll bet you twenty American dollars you can’t find me a cold Heineken’s.”
“A high roll, my friend,” she said. She went to the taps, expertly drew a big plastic cup of foamy goodness and brought it to me. “You lose,” she declared with a twinkle.
“I never have any luck,” I sighed, slipping a folded bill into her palm. “Thank you.” My first swallow hit the spot after a long, busy, hot journey. As did all the subsequent swallows. As I verged on finishing the brew, the barmaid came by my spot again.
“Here’s a bauble for you to wear,” she said, handing me a little bracelet of brown plastic pop-out beads. “It’s safe to take them in the ocean, they float,” she added.
“Merci,” I said. “That’s correct, isn’t it? Martinique’s a French island?”
“Oui,” she said. “And Club Med’s a French company. Almost all the G O’s are French.”
“G O’s?”
“Gentile Organizers. The guests are G M’s—Gentile Members. Technically, they’re members of the Club. They’ll explain that at orientation. Over there in the theater,” she said, indicating the direction with a toss of her head. My crop of G M’s, having taken possession of their rooms, now gathered and took seats.
“Are these beads good for meals too?” I asked.
“Meals, entertainment and activities are included in the price as clearly stated in your agreement.”
“Oh yes, I forgot,” I said. “I’m a slow learner.” Well, that was good news. All I needed now was a place to sleep. I took my duffle over and seated myself beneath a ceiling fan at the rear of a covered amphitheater, an open-air construction with tiered seats and tables overlooking a stage. Some G O’s, all personable, tanned and photogenic, laid out the program: Activities. Loads of activities. Facilities. Comprehensive facilities. Meals. Lavish buffet meals. Policies. Minimal policies. Anything goes, the sky’s the limit. Once you got in, nobody watched too closely.
I returned to the bar and sidled up to the bartender. “I wonder if I could leave my bag out of sight behind the bar for a little while?” I asked, showing a folded ten dollar bill in my palm. “And perhaps you could keep an eye on it?”
“My pleasure, Monsieur,” he said, accepting my bill with one hand and my duffle with the other. Both promptly vanished from view. “You will reclaim it before we close the bar? I cannot guarantee it after hours.” I assured him I’d be back after dinner and ordered another beer. A good thing the barmaid laid those beads on me—I’d neared the end of my U.S. bills, and attempting to cash a t-cheque here would court complications.
Dinner hour arrived and the G M’s came trooping in. They divided roughly into three groups. Sunburnt singles who’d been here a while arrived in boisterous cliques and headed straight for the buffet lines. Pasty-faced, overwhelmed singles who’d come this afternoon joined a food line where hostesses, er, G O’s, shunted them to tables. And a bunch of older people, mostly couples, gathered at a section of tables they’d staked out. I joined the third group, more my age and demeanor. They welcomed me and made place. Meals were served a la buffet: the selection was wide, the cuisine quality superb, the table wine unlimited. Yay for the French! Tables of younger G M’s got raucous—youth on the make far from home. The people I joined had a different slant on Club Med. They were veteran G M’s, and they came because Club Meds were, like bareboat sailboat charters, a roaring bargain as resorts went. Good food, good settings, good service, good vibes. They filled me in on the routine, and they didn’t ask questions. Most G M’s came for one or two weeks, arr
iving on charter flights from specific, central locations,. So the crowd varied from one week to another, for example sometimes singles out of the New York metro, other times midwestern schoolteachers assembled at Chicago’s O’Hare. Martinique had a reputation as one of the wilder Club Meds, but they told me it was pretty tame. No drugs. No orgies. A nude beach and some hanky panky was as depraved as it got. Family-friendly Club Meds offered organized children’s activities. The G O’s were an impressive bunch, they said, talented athletes and performers, and unexcelled at showing a wide variety of G M’s a good time.
I’d landed in another segment of “real people,” distinct from my erstwhile sailing buddies. Club Med was summer camp for adults, more an East Coast kind of thing. Out in Malibu we’d heard of it, but no one I knew had ever been to one. We lived in our own resort, after all, and should we be struck by a yen to Get Away From It All, we had our favored holiday destinations—Maui, Cabo, Aspen, Tahoe, Taos. The sailing group was active and earnest. Club Med G M’s tended to be passive and hedonistic, into pointless fun and simple games. I knew their tribe well: their Southern California cousins kept the LA singles bar scene going.
Following dinner, I took in some of the floorshow in the amphitheater. Tonight featured amateur night for G M talent, and a Jewish guy from New York did some passable schtick about the new Tehran Club Med. “The hostages are the G M’s and the terrorists are the G O’s” drew a hearty laugh, including from me. The other would-be lounge acts didn’t amount to much. I left and cruised the bar until I found a clutch of obviously two-week people whooping it up with booze-fueled banter, catchphrases and bad jokes. At a lull, I leaned in and said, “Excuse me guys, but maybe you can help. My roommate is entertaining a lady tonight, so I need a place to crash. Anybody know of a spare bed to be had?”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 14
