When our ship comes in
By Chris Morvan
An open-top sports car speeds around the twisting mountain road with magnificent sea views on the other side and only a metal barrier preventing the driver from taking the bouncing, exploding shortcut to the beach.
The part of yours truly is played by Tony Curtis or perhaps Roger Moore, because the scene is reminiscent of an early 1960s movie set on the French Riviera. In fact the “sports car” is a rented Hyundai sedan which was handed over to me dirty inside and out, and I am heading, not to Nice or Cannes but to Philipsburg, where I do not have a lunch date with Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse and a young Brigitte Bardot. Nor Sophia Loren, I regret to say.
But a man can daydream, and the view is no less splendid as you hurtle around Bel Air and down into the Irma-ravaged entrance to the capital. People must have been gazing in awe at this scene since the dawn of civilization, even if they wouldn’t until recently have been looking at ships the size of Front Street bringing customers in waves of sunburned humanity.
Coastal towns have always got excited when a ship comes in, whether it be a friendly naval vessel or a trader. It means business, money changing hands, and that is as true today as it ever was. The difference now is that the traffic is only going in one direction: inwards. No one is heaving containers of salt or barrels of rum out to the waiting boat.
Philipsburg is at its best when there’s a cruise ship in. It literally comes alive, with all the shops and restaurants and bars open, and all the vendors hustling for a piece of the action. One day they may get used to having me here and stop offering me taxis and dragging me into duty-free booze shops, but for now, despite the fact that I am not wearing a Hawaiian shirt and pink shorts, I’m assumed to be a short-term visitor to be yelled at, smiled at and flirted with.
The lady with a table full of hats is so full of the joys of spring that I think she must always be like this, but she deflates like a Christmas balloon when I tell her I’m just looking and won’t be buying anything from her today. If there’s one thing that switches a salesperson’s light off it’s being told you have no cash or cards on you; they don’t believe you’ll ever be back because, particularly at the moment, if you’re not directly related to them you must be from a ship.
A friend from South America who runs a business in Cole Bay told me the other day that local people are different now from how they were this time last year. Less pleasant, more aggressive. It’s understandable, of course, when everyone you meet had the roof blown off their house a few months ago.
People are struggling to get back on an even keel and even those who still have a job must be sick to death of impatient customers spluttering “Three weeks!” when told how long it will be before they get what they came for.
The roads are still full of cars showing signs of hurricane damage, with plastic sheeting where windows should be and grievous dents showing impact from above rather than the usual directions.
I wasn’t here. We only arrived in December, but I’ve heard enough stories and seen enough lingering evidence. The wackily-designed holiday apartments on stilts at Guana Bay, now with one man’s roof in another’s little garden.
The ghost town that is Grand Case, with internationally loved restaurants battered into submission and out of commission.
And yet… It’s coming back to life. Bit by bit, person by person. There is life and food in Grand Case. The blind optimism that must have existed when the “rebuild” campaigns began has been replaced by a weary plodding-on as the grind of reality gets results while taking its toll.
Will lessons be learned from this shocking experience? There is much talk about concrete roofs, and business must be slow for the purveyors of metal sheeting.
But in addition to the physical rebuilding, will there be changes to the working life of the island? This place is far from alone in its over-reliance on the tourist trade. The whole of the Caribbean is a one-trick pony.
Five years ago, when I was living in the Turks & Caicos Islands I spoke to a dozen local businesspeople: supermarket owners, realtors and entrepreneurs, and not one of them had a suggestion for reviving the economy apart from investing more in the airport and hotels.
But there was more to St Martin/Sint Maarten down the centuries. We all hope and pray the island will rise again, albeit traumatized and chastened. But wiser? Over to you, politicians.
