As you probably know, Uncle Dave’s real job sends him to exciting locales like the middle of Iowa corn fields and soon, the banks of Lake Erie in winter where he installs and trains casinos on his company’s software. He has also seen the recovering Katrina victim, Gulfport, MS, and now has ventured for two week to a vacation paradise a couple of hundred miles Southeast of Puerto Rico that is known as St. Martin or Sint Maarten, depending on which side of the island you’re on.
That’s right. Split crosswise, the Northern half is governed by the French, while the Southern half (also called Netherland Antilles) is Dutch. Euros is the currency of the North, Dutch florin or guilder of the South. 220v power North, 120v power South. French spoken North, English, Dutch and I at least one other language I couldn’t recognize, South. Of course, this is touristville so US dollars and English are welcome everywhere.
The split isn’t only between countries. Resorts, plantation style mansions in the picturesque hills, and multi-million dollar, multi-story yachts in the harbors bespeak of a wealthy lifestyle that can only be waited on by dark skinned natives who live in old, rundown houses scattered everywhere, often with piles of junk surrounding them. Unfortunately, I didn’t get any really good photos of the latter because they are usually in locations where there’s literally no place to stop the car or good places to stand that aren’t obscured by foliage.
The resorts (I was ensconced in a timeshare/hotel/resort on the Western border, Dutch side) are washed down daily by smiling staff, everyone of which say “good morning” as they pass. As one talkative worker stated, everything is for the guest. Most likely she, along with other staff, got to work on foot. A certain we-are-all-in-this-together mentality makes hitchhiking and picking up strangers a common practice in a place where few can afford a car.
I witnessed a telling event at my hotel. There’s a gate at the entrance. Returning one afternoon, a line had formed both ways. Turns out the guard was calling someone regarding a nice car attempting to leave contained four blacks. If they had been white, the gate would have gone up after a glance from the guard. Once it was ascertained they were guests, the gate went up and we all could pass. Everything for the guests.
For the seamier-side adventurers, there are strip clubs stocked with staggeringly gorgeous Eastern European women who are there on three month “contracts” (visas to the US are impossible for them to get while places like St. Maarten are easy) and are kept as virtual prisoners to prevent them escaping. If you want more than a hands-on lapdance, there are brothels in the hills stocked with Spanish speaking women. Or so I’m told. 
Front Street in Philipsburg has got to be a mile long and has shops selling everything from T-shirts to fine, expensive jewelry. No tax and all at unusually low prices. Ah, the joys of no import barriers. And then there’s the food! Two weeks and not one bad meal.
I did get a case of the touristas Christmas day that lasted somewhat until I got home, but don’t know if it was something I ate or if the constant feeding frenzy my legs provided the bugs had finally caught up with me. Yes, this is a tropical island with humidity, bugs, humidity, narrow, twisting roadways, humidity, underpowered, tiny, tiny cars, humidity, a herd of goats running through downtown and (if I forgot to mention) it’s hot and humid.
But then there are the beaches, the food, rum based concoctions, the shopping, the slow pace (“things happen on ‘island time’”) and everything else a Caribbean island should be. Yes, there are times Uncle Dave loves his job!
