Designing the Legend
Back on board the Mother Ship following our Roatan excursion, it was apparent that a handful of the 2,000 passengers were becoming familiar with us. Typically the most complete acquaintances occur through the evening ritual of “dinner in the diner,” in this case within the ship’s two-floor dining room called “Truffles”. This may not have been a name in my top-ten list for prestigious dining rooms of cruise ships, but this is what this ship’s designer devised. Staying true to the ship’s theme, the term references the legendary French dessert (if I recall what a truffle is). According to a book about the Legend placed strategically in our cabin, an interesting chapter was devoted to the design concept for this ship. The ship’s designer had seemingly cast a “wide net” for a broad interpretation of the world’s various legends. “Hey, Dan,” I could imagine a Carnival supervisor calling, “We’ve got a new ship in the plans, and we want you to figure out how to throw in all the world’s legends into its design. We’re counting on you Dan, or we’ll have to change the name of the boat again! No pressure or anything (click).” Much of what “Dan” eventually concocted was either intelligent beyond most of our collective intellects, or simply confused from too many midnight coffees in Dan’s office cubicle.
Either way, the ship’s theme seemed centered on the Middle Ages, interestingly also the focus of the Romantic Movement in the nineteenth century. In both cases everything from castles and medieval villages to the legends of Sir Lancelot, Arthur, and friends was featured. Had Dan known that the Legend would be skulking around the Caribbean for much of its seaworthy life, he may have rethought the European theming. What a dirty trick to play on a designer: spend a half year drafting artistic renditions of creative art and imagery based on one part of the world; then, the ship unsuspectingly floats somewhere else and inadvertently messes up the entire theme.
Curiously, though perhaps safely, no religious legends existed on board, as we had been clearly ushered into a carefully secular experience. No Jesus Christ or Muhammad was to be found on board, for instance. Actually, this may not be entirely accurate, as the kids’ playground area was dubbed “Noah’s Ark,” which was presumably safe in more ways than one. In the daily “caper” (schedule of events), more evidence supported this steering away from religion. At 2:00, some version of Bible Study was scheduled for those interested in the Firebird Lounge. It was the disclaimer underneath that provided the evidence, reading something like “This is not a Carnival-sponsored event”. Not that I mind any of this, as I prefer a secular experience. It’s just interesting to note what legends are socially acceptable to large corporations and which ones are not.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Carnival Legend, December 2008: Part 2
A Taste of Honduras: Roatan Island
The fifth day of our cruise began with the sound of Linda’s travel alarm clock, encouraging us to rise by 8:00 for the first time thus far. Our planned “excursion” was to begin at 9:30, which required us to gather our swimming gear, towels, sunscreen, snacks, candles, money, prayers, and other essentials into our red duffel bag. This bag was packed to serve as our “life line” for several hours to come, as we had little notion of what to expect. The packing ritual for the day at Roatan was followed immediately by the more familiar local excursion around Lido deck to acquire breakfast (this experience is more explicitly detailed in a previous story from the Freedom). In turn we negotiated nine decks and an elevator to escape the ship onto land. All of this takes time and planning – and a bit of luck, which means that we had to be well prepared to exit the Legend for our impending inland excursion by 9:30. Having learned to expect the unexpected, we really don’t expect much of anything when “tour time” comes, as these inland excursions can take many forms and approaches. This one would not disappoint.
After locating our tour group as it gradually assembled on the pier, I was immediately approached with a vigorous handshake and introduction by the tour leader, Manuel (a pseudonym), an apparently native Honduran with a thick accent. He set the tone for the day, however, with his enthusiasm and immediate engagement with us less-than-lively tourists. We, as a group, didn’t think much of it until we approached our land vehicle. We would ride that day on a recycled, mid-sized yellow school bus that seemingly required all of its cylinders and diesel-guzzling engine to get us up over the hilly passes of Roatan. This is one of those tours where one might exclaim with a shake of the head and a grin, “This is just classic”. More classic was our encounter with some unexpected companions as we climbed the bus steps to take our places, in the form of several empty liquor bottles decorating our seats. At that point, the jokes began to fly, providing a sort of bonding experience between people who had previously been strangers outside the bus.
The fun was only beginning, however. Our oversized Honduran bus driver closed the door and negotiated our way through the pier traffic and security personnel. Once safely(?) on shore, Manuel attempted to relate the plan for the day, though only those of us in the first three rows could understand much of what he was yelling. My level of amusement increased as he attempted to shout above the growl of the bus engine and the wind blowing through the open windows. With one of my eyes on the narrow road ahead and its opposing traffic, my other eye warily followed our determined tour guide. Manuel barked on about his love of Roatan, displaying an impressively strong attachment to place. He excelled at providing various unconnected bits of information about buildings and real estate developments we whisked past. He apparently had a fondness for the latter, showing us every rich estate and land holding owned by some foreigner with too much money to know what to do with. As we chugged toward our first adventure for the day – a ride aboard a catamaran boat to a snorkel site – it became immediately apparent that this was a nation of economic extremes, with filth and garbage lining the shore underneath thickets of half-dead jungle trees, interrupted by occasional exquisite resort hotels, second homes, and paradise retreats of the world’s elite. It is this extreme of human lifestyles that even Carnival can’t control well beyond the dock. Many of the estates, we were told, were owned by Americans who had moved here permanently, for reasons that we could not quite fathom yet. But this was the reality of Roatan, and we were getting an up-front view of it, despite our “packaged” tour designed to make us all feel good. This was more authentic than anything we had experienced thus far on the cruise. It takes some effort to get beyond the “tourist bubble,” something this tour accomplished in part, even if we weren’t directly interacting with the locals.
With little sense of where we were going, the bus unexpectedly turned onto a narrow dirt road and bumped along through tropical forest to emerge at a small inlet area owned, from what I gathered, by these young men who run the “Jolly Roger Excursion Company” or some such deal. They issued us from the bus to an awaiting pontoon boat (catamaran) which – just like the one we had boarded at Cozumel – was powered by two outboard motors despite a gargantuan sail that the crew of five religiously hoisted each time we left port. I guess it was for effect, as it arguably would not have been the same experience to jet along the coast on the top of a flat-bottomed barge, which is what this would resemble without the requisite sail sticking up in the air. Thus, we jetted along on a pontoon barge with sail.
The launching area facilities were sparse, with intruding vegetation and little more than a few wooden docks and a boat launch. This was not yet a setting designed or scripted to appeal to mass tourism, at least not yet. In this way the place was attractive and somehow untainted. Various building and dredging projects were underway, however, indicating a more tourist-oriented future for this locale. As we pulled away from the shore, two unwitting “tourist attractions” immediately grabbed our attention, away from the dredging operation taking place off the port side. These consisted of two rusting, derelict hulks of old freighter ships that were half sunken in the inlet. Following the barrage of photography and questioning, one of the Jolly Roger crew members explained that they had been freighters carrying lumber and cement blocks some 25 years ago, but had been discovered (quite surprisingly, I’m sure) to be carrying cargos of drugs instead. The government had apparently confiscated the ships, grounded them, and burned them where they floated. Problem solved! More romantic tales of “perfect storms,” plundering pirates, or drunken captains running aground would have to wait for another time.
Though perhaps a rather unconventional touring operation, they were clearly on task and well acquainted with procedures and protocols. The crew of Jolly Roger took us down the coast a bit to the best snorkeling site Linda had seen, ushering people off the boat into the waters below for a swimming tour of the coral reef and legions of tropical fish. This was one of the primary motives for our Caribbean cruise in the first place, which was somewhat bitter-sweet. Linda was determined to see some actual coral reefs before they were all gone. Changing ocean temperatures coupled with pollution have been endangering and killing the world’s best coral reefs. These were still surviving enough to enjoy, and Linda did. I enjoyed watching the eager snorkelers from the comfort of the boat, having learned days earlier that the hubbub surrounding snorkeling really wasn’t worth my trouble. But it was clearly an event that Linda and many others cherished, so I enjoyed watching them have fun while learning from a crew member about the geography of Honduras – and more about the sunken drug ships.
With soggy snorkelers back aboard, we engined our way back to the Jolly Roger inlet to the sound of a “best of the 80s” music compilation, which invariably repeated itself, returning eventually to the previously heard “La Bamba” and “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” songs, among others that I already had on my iPod for occasional entertainment. I only made one crack about this to some other tourists sitting nearby, asking them if this was native local music of Honduras. Cindy Lauper, apparently, was Honduran. We were also reminded of the Jolly Roger’s motto, painted on the interior of the catamaran. Its clever message read, “While the ocean may tip the boat, only passengers can tip the crew”. An oversized jar adorned the boat’s exit, to which Manuel directed our attention. Such a jar, in various guises, was a standard feature on all such tours and bus rides, perhaps signaling that Carnival was not giving a fair enough cut of the profits to these local tour operators. Realizing this, we never minded provided generous tips, as they needed the funds more than we did. A few dollars didn’t mean as much to us as they did to these dedicated folks who likely work seven days a week to put food on their tables. Manuel likely hadn’t accumulated enough wealth yet to purchase his own estate, otherwise I imagine we would have purposely driven past it during the tour. This is the dichotomy of a tourist-based island economy, where the fortunate ones referred to by Cindy Lauper (in Girls Just Want to Have Fun) enjoy rum on their beachfronts while local islanders toil to clean their clothes. We could only hope that Carnival’s contract with these folks was at least somewhat fair.
Jolly Roger wasn’t done with us just yet. After purchasing an authentic Jolly Roger “crew member” T-shirt (actually for a reasonable price), we were ushered from the boat to our converted tour bus for a longer overland escapade to the west end of Roatan Island. As we plundered along the narrow island highway, we continued to barely miss oncoming traffic while tree fronds invaded our open windows. Some of our tour mates expressed their surprise at our apparent close calls. They were clearly not used to traveling along foreign roads of developing countries. I muttered to Linda that they had not taken any Carnival bus tours of southern Italy yet. The close calls in “developed” Europe were much more excruciating to witness than the occasional traffic and curves on this rural island road. I guess we were becoming seasoned travelers after all.
After more salivating by Manuel over private resort properties, we ended up at a privately owned nature park, though the “nature” was a matter of opinion, and perhaps a stretch of the imagination. Somewhat suspicious of the whole affair, I listened as Manuel exclaimed his pride for this entrepreneurial operation. With no end to the surprises, he quickly pointed out the park’s owner sitting on a bench watching the bus arrive. Later as we grouped together to walk through a prescribed (though not intuitive) pathway, one of the bolder members of our group approached the owner himself and asked him in disbelief, “So, you are actually the owner of this park?” I didn’t recall his response, but he was more timid and friendly than I would have guessed. Americans aren’t used to meeting owners of parks, as in our land they tend to be public or controlled by our federal government personnel with wide-brimmed hats and dark green uniforms. Instead, this was a variation on a corporate venture.
Later the pieces of the puzzle came together as some of our inquisitive guests asked our park guide questions like, “How can an individual actually own a park”? I asked if the government of Honduras actually owns national parks on the mainland, to which the answer was “yes”. It was clear that we Americans were used to a government-run, national park system that was outside the jurisdiction of private property. We were suspicious of an individual and his potential motives, which upon further thought was not a little ironic. We are the most capitalistic nation in the world, and yet we get suspicious in another part of the world when we find an individual who owns his own nature preserve. It was explained that he had worked for decades to save endangered species in various other “job descriptions,” and that this was his life dream to “preserve” a bit of Roatan’s flora and fauna. Though the educational component of this tour was non-existent, I believe we came to appreciate the place a bit more as we made our way back to the tour bus. Linda and I had enjoyed parrots climbing on our shoulders, monkeys swinging in the trees and steeling kids’ hats, and cement-lined artificial stream channels meandering across our pathway. Not much was really different between this place and the overdeveloped tourist facilities that we find in our own national parks. The intent is not to preserve “nature” but to preserve “scenery” for tourism development. This guy had apparently figured that out, though hopefully with a shred of his dream still remaining beyond the profits.
The fifth day of our cruise began with the sound of Linda’s travel alarm clock, encouraging us to rise by 8:00 for the first time thus far. Our planned “excursion” was to begin at 9:30, which required us to gather our swimming gear, towels, sunscreen, snacks, candles, money, prayers, and other essentials into our red duffel bag. This bag was packed to serve as our “life line” for several hours to come, as we had little notion of what to expect. The packing ritual for the day at Roatan was followed immediately by the more familiar local excursion around Lido deck to acquire breakfast (this experience is more explicitly detailed in a previous story from the Freedom). In turn we negotiated nine decks and an elevator to escape the ship onto land. All of this takes time and planning – and a bit of luck, which means that we had to be well prepared to exit the Legend for our impending inland excursion by 9:30. Having learned to expect the unexpected, we really don’t expect much of anything when “tour time” comes, as these inland excursions can take many forms and approaches. This one would not disappoint.
After locating our tour group as it gradually assembled on the pier, I was immediately approached with a vigorous handshake and introduction by the tour leader, Manuel (a pseudonym), an apparently native Honduran with a thick accent. He set the tone for the day, however, with his enthusiasm and immediate engagement with us less-than-lively tourists. We, as a group, didn’t think much of it until we approached our land vehicle. We would ride that day on a recycled, mid-sized yellow school bus that seemingly required all of its cylinders and diesel-guzzling engine to get us up over the hilly passes of Roatan. This is one of those tours where one might exclaim with a shake of the head and a grin, “This is just classic”. More classic was our encounter with some unexpected companions as we climbed the bus steps to take our places, in the form of several empty liquor bottles decorating our seats. At that point, the jokes began to fly, providing a sort of bonding experience between people who had previously been strangers outside the bus.
The fun was only beginning, however. Our oversized Honduran bus driver closed the door and negotiated our way through the pier traffic and security personnel. Once safely(?) on shore, Manuel attempted to relate the plan for the day, though only those of us in the first three rows could understand much of what he was yelling. My level of amusement increased as he attempted to shout above the growl of the bus engine and the wind blowing through the open windows. With one of my eyes on the narrow road ahead and its opposing traffic, my other eye warily followed our determined tour guide. Manuel barked on about his love of Roatan, displaying an impressively strong attachment to place. He excelled at providing various unconnected bits of information about buildings and real estate developments we whisked past. He apparently had a fondness for the latter, showing us every rich estate and land holding owned by some foreigner with too much money to know what to do with. As we chugged toward our first adventure for the day – a ride aboard a catamaran boat to a snorkel site – it became immediately apparent that this was a nation of economic extremes, with filth and garbage lining the shore underneath thickets of half-dead jungle trees, interrupted by occasional exquisite resort hotels, second homes, and paradise retreats of the world’s elite. It is this extreme of human lifestyles that even Carnival can’t control well beyond the dock. Many of the estates, we were told, were owned by Americans who had moved here permanently, for reasons that we could not quite fathom yet. But this was the reality of Roatan, and we were getting an up-front view of it, despite our “packaged” tour designed to make us all feel good. This was more authentic than anything we had experienced thus far on the cruise. It takes some effort to get beyond the “tourist bubble,” something this tour accomplished in part, even if we weren’t directly interacting with the locals.
With little sense of where we were going, the bus unexpectedly turned onto a narrow dirt road and bumped along through tropical forest to emerge at a small inlet area owned, from what I gathered, by these young men who run the “Jolly Roger Excursion Company” or some such deal. They issued us from the bus to an awaiting pontoon boat (catamaran) which – just like the one we had boarded at Cozumel – was powered by two outboard motors despite a gargantuan sail that the crew of five religiously hoisted each time we left port. I guess it was for effect, as it arguably would not have been the same experience to jet along the coast on the top of a flat-bottomed barge, which is what this would resemble without the requisite sail sticking up in the air. Thus, we jetted along on a pontoon barge with sail.
The launching area facilities were sparse, with intruding vegetation and little more than a few wooden docks and a boat launch. This was not yet a setting designed or scripted to appeal to mass tourism, at least not yet. In this way the place was attractive and somehow untainted. Various building and dredging projects were underway, however, indicating a more tourist-oriented future for this locale. As we pulled away from the shore, two unwitting “tourist attractions” immediately grabbed our attention, away from the dredging operation taking place off the port side. These consisted of two rusting, derelict hulks of old freighter ships that were half sunken in the inlet. Following the barrage of photography and questioning, one of the Jolly Roger crew members explained that they had been freighters carrying lumber and cement blocks some 25 years ago, but had been discovered (quite surprisingly, I’m sure) to be carrying cargos of drugs instead. The government had apparently confiscated the ships, grounded them, and burned them where they floated. Problem solved! More romantic tales of “perfect storms,” plundering pirates, or drunken captains running aground would have to wait for another time.
Though perhaps a rather unconventional touring operation, they were clearly on task and well acquainted with procedures and protocols. The crew of Jolly Roger took us down the coast a bit to the best snorkeling site Linda had seen, ushering people off the boat into the waters below for a swimming tour of the coral reef and legions of tropical fish. This was one of the primary motives for our Caribbean cruise in the first place, which was somewhat bitter-sweet. Linda was determined to see some actual coral reefs before they were all gone. Changing ocean temperatures coupled with pollution have been endangering and killing the world’s best coral reefs. These were still surviving enough to enjoy, and Linda did. I enjoyed watching the eager snorkelers from the comfort of the boat, having learned days earlier that the hubbub surrounding snorkeling really wasn’t worth my trouble. But it was clearly an event that Linda and many others cherished, so I enjoyed watching them have fun while learning from a crew member about the geography of Honduras – and more about the sunken drug ships.
With soggy snorkelers back aboard, we engined our way back to the Jolly Roger inlet to the sound of a “best of the 80s” music compilation, which invariably repeated itself, returning eventually to the previously heard “La Bamba” and “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” songs, among others that I already had on my iPod for occasional entertainment. I only made one crack about this to some other tourists sitting nearby, asking them if this was native local music of Honduras. Cindy Lauper, apparently, was Honduran. We were also reminded of the Jolly Roger’s motto, painted on the interior of the catamaran. Its clever message read, “While the ocean may tip the boat, only passengers can tip the crew”. An oversized jar adorned the boat’s exit, to which Manuel directed our attention. Such a jar, in various guises, was a standard feature on all such tours and bus rides, perhaps signaling that Carnival was not giving a fair enough cut of the profits to these local tour operators. Realizing this, we never minded provided generous tips, as they needed the funds more than we did. A few dollars didn’t mean as much to us as they did to these dedicated folks who likely work seven days a week to put food on their tables. Manuel likely hadn’t accumulated enough wealth yet to purchase his own estate, otherwise I imagine we would have purposely driven past it during the tour. This is the dichotomy of a tourist-based island economy, where the fortunate ones referred to by Cindy Lauper (in Girls Just Want to Have Fun) enjoy rum on their beachfronts while local islanders toil to clean their clothes. We could only hope that Carnival’s contract with these folks was at least somewhat fair.
Jolly Roger wasn’t done with us just yet. After purchasing an authentic Jolly Roger “crew member” T-shirt (actually for a reasonable price), we were ushered from the boat to our converted tour bus for a longer overland escapade to the west end of Roatan Island. As we plundered along the narrow island highway, we continued to barely miss oncoming traffic while tree fronds invaded our open windows. Some of our tour mates expressed their surprise at our apparent close calls. They were clearly not used to traveling along foreign roads of developing countries. I muttered to Linda that they had not taken any Carnival bus tours of southern Italy yet. The close calls in “developed” Europe were much more excruciating to witness than the occasional traffic and curves on this rural island road. I guess we were becoming seasoned travelers after all.
After more salivating by Manuel over private resort properties, we ended up at a privately owned nature park, though the “nature” was a matter of opinion, and perhaps a stretch of the imagination. Somewhat suspicious of the whole affair, I listened as Manuel exclaimed his pride for this entrepreneurial operation. With no end to the surprises, he quickly pointed out the park’s owner sitting on a bench watching the bus arrive. Later as we grouped together to walk through a prescribed (though not intuitive) pathway, one of the bolder members of our group approached the owner himself and asked him in disbelief, “So, you are actually the owner of this park?” I didn’t recall his response, but he was more timid and friendly than I would have guessed. Americans aren’t used to meeting owners of parks, as in our land they tend to be public or controlled by our federal government personnel with wide-brimmed hats and dark green uniforms. Instead, this was a variation on a corporate venture.
Later the pieces of the puzzle came together as some of our inquisitive guests asked our park guide questions like, “How can an individual actually own a park”? I asked if the government of Honduras actually owns national parks on the mainland, to which the answer was “yes”. It was clear that we Americans were used to a government-run, national park system that was outside the jurisdiction of private property. We were suspicious of an individual and his potential motives, which upon further thought was not a little ironic. We are the most capitalistic nation in the world, and yet we get suspicious in another part of the world when we find an individual who owns his own nature preserve. It was explained that he had worked for decades to save endangered species in various other “job descriptions,” and that this was his life dream to “preserve” a bit of Roatan’s flora and fauna. Though the educational component of this tour was non-existent, I believe we came to appreciate the place a bit more as we made our way back to the tour bus. Linda and I had enjoyed parrots climbing on our shoulders, monkeys swinging in the trees and steeling kids’ hats, and cement-lined artificial stream channels meandering across our pathway. Not much was really different between this place and the overdeveloped tourist facilities that we find in our own national parks. The intent is not to preserve “nature” but to preserve “scenery” for tourism development. This guy had apparently figured that out, though hopefully with a shred of his dream still remaining beyond the profits.
Carnival Legend, December 2008: Part 1
Tender Thoughts on the Legend (adapted from trip stories of December, 2008)
“That’s a GOOD boat!” exclaimed a middle-aged woman as our shuttle van approached the Tampa pier. All she had seen were the top few decks and the recognizable Carnival Cruise Lines exhaust stack of the Legend as we barreled around a corner through downtown. Putting her on the spot, I asked, “So, what makes it good?” My first thought was that she lacked enough evidence to make such a conclusive judgment. It turns out that she felt it was large enough, not some third-rank dingy or, more amusing, the Navy war ship sitting next to our vessel. I was primed to spew my standard joke to the vanload of fellow cruisers – “Hey, that’s probably the boat we actually paid for,” pointing to the war ship. But it never fit in well with all the excited conversation taking place in the seats behind me. Linda had already met two single Mormon men who claimed to be searching for their future wives during the upcoming seven-day adventure. In front of them sat several married couples who readily exchanged detailed information to strangers about where they lived, and what they did for a living – or did prior to early retirement. I decided not to deflate the “Good boat” woman by telling her that the Legend was a mere yacht compared to the magnificent Carnival Freedom which Linda and I employed successfully on two former European adventures. Still, bigger is not necessarily always better.
From what I understand, the poor Freedom has been demoted to circling the Caribbean like the Legend, which I believed was not the most appropriate calling for a boat that can’t fit through the Panama Canal. Indeed, that’s how we got a ride across the Atlantic last October, when they were “repositioning” the Freedom from Europe to the Caribbean. On that two-week excursion we were forced to enjoy nine consecutive “fun days at sea,” whereas this time there would be only two. Such days are so named because the ship remains at sea and does not dock at port. Carnival fully expects, and demands, that its captive guests will experience “fun” on the days when they are not allowed to escape to land.
We did gain an extra “fun day at sea” on the Legend, but not for lack of ports. What should have been our third Caribbean landing, at Belize, was met with surprisingly cool temperatures, cloudy skies, showers on the horizon, and choppy seas. Making Belize even less appealing was our ship’s distance from the actual mainland. There was no natural harbor or inlet that would allow a cruise ship to simply slide up to a dock and distribute its eager passengers. Instead, I climbed the four flights of stairs after 9am to the Lido Deck (AKA the “food-o deck”) as I had done each morning. Ten years ago it would have bothered me to get up so late, but this was apparently vacation, and I have relaxed – alas, there was literally nowhere to go. We had never gotten off of “Arizona time,” as we were going to bed not long before midnight each evening, and waking regularly each morning between 8 and 10 am. The “black-out” curtains did their job, as they tricked me every morning. Thinking it was only 6am, I slept soundly for a few additional hours. My arrival at the Lido breakfast bonanza typically provided my first 360-degree inspection each morning of the ship’s geographical surroundings, and this morning at Belize was no different. It was a veritable “Up periscope!” moment.
What baffled me a bit was that the Legend was ostensibly parked in place, sandwiched by two other cruise ships nearby. We had indeed landed – but where? The nearest land mass seemed 20 miles away, and buildings were barely even visible, let alone recognizable. The skies were gray and potentially stormy, and my first impression was that it would be one hell of a boat ride to access the mysterious Belize. Linda felt the same, upon her emergence from the hold below. We had tentative plans to go “cave tubing” somewhere on Belize, but it would not have been a Carnival-sponsored tour. We had no idea when it was supposed to begin, and it was already approaching noon as Linda enjoyed a late breakfast. We finally declared this our bonus “fun day at sea,” recognizing the obvious conclusion. The thrills of Belize, and the shopping opportunities that certainly awaited us, would have to wait for another trip.
Two of the four planned ports of call actually required the use of so-called “tenders” to ferry the more adventurous sailors among us to the island or mainland. These were Belize and the Cayman Islands, the latter being more British than anything remotely “Caribbean,” and I believe the last British protectorates in the world. The tenders behaved like a regular bus service, shuffling tourists back and forth from the “mother ship” to the pier. Having plenty of time to allow my mind to wander, I leaned over the railing to spy the coming and going of the tenders. I mentally compared these tender boats with the tenders that carry the fuel behind railroad steam locomotives, trying to logically determine the word’s common meaning. Somewhat embarrassed I hadn’t come up with an answer, my mind naturally turned to other matters. Actually, my mind turned more than once to the amount of fuel being consumed by these noisy boats that kept going back and forth all day, just as a Star Trek shuttle would take the “away team” from the Enterprise down to the planet’s surface. But there are dilithium crystals in the 24th century, making these carbon-based engines rather archaic by comparison. This was no different than the Star Trek exercise, except perhaps for the geographic scale of the operation. After all, we really were not all that far from Cuba, or Mexico for that matter. Still, you had to use these damn little boats to move masses of people from the shopping deck on the Legend to the more exotic shopping facilities at the pier. The jewelry at both locations, not just incidentally, was the same. One geography author referred to this behavior as “shopping with a difference,” similar to the synergistic business approach of providing the consuming public with “shopper-tainment”.
Linda and I had known from the outset that this seven-day cruise would be more focused on relaxation than on sight-seeing. I had been less than enthused about a “traditional” Caribbean cruise, given the impression that “everyone does that”. Moreover, I remained concerned about the isolated “tourism bubbles” (a technical term) that exist in the midst of some of the world’s most devastating poverty. Was the tourism economy a help or hindrance to these countries? The answer often depended upon one’s perspective, and who was doing the research. Thus, Linda got her Caribbean cruise, but I helped choose the destination – in this case, the farthest west I could get us by ship before slamming into the east coast of Central America. Thus, the fourth port at Roatan, Honduras, seemed exotic enough for a far-away cultural experience, I believed. And, as it turned out, this was accurate. Roatan proved to be the more geographically educational, as well as the more unscripted of our adventures, given our inland expedition that we had chosen only the night before.
“That’s a GOOD boat!” exclaimed a middle-aged woman as our shuttle van approached the Tampa pier. All she had seen were the top few decks and the recognizable Carnival Cruise Lines exhaust stack of the Legend as we barreled around a corner through downtown. Putting her on the spot, I asked, “So, what makes it good?” My first thought was that she lacked enough evidence to make such a conclusive judgment. It turns out that she felt it was large enough, not some third-rank dingy or, more amusing, the Navy war ship sitting next to our vessel. I was primed to spew my standard joke to the vanload of fellow cruisers – “Hey, that’s probably the boat we actually paid for,” pointing to the war ship. But it never fit in well with all the excited conversation taking place in the seats behind me. Linda had already met two single Mormon men who claimed to be searching for their future wives during the upcoming seven-day adventure. In front of them sat several married couples who readily exchanged detailed information to strangers about where they lived, and what they did for a living – or did prior to early retirement. I decided not to deflate the “Good boat” woman by telling her that the Legend was a mere yacht compared to the magnificent Carnival Freedom which Linda and I employed successfully on two former European adventures. Still, bigger is not necessarily always better.
From what I understand, the poor Freedom has been demoted to circling the Caribbean like the Legend, which I believed was not the most appropriate calling for a boat that can’t fit through the Panama Canal. Indeed, that’s how we got a ride across the Atlantic last October, when they were “repositioning” the Freedom from Europe to the Caribbean. On that two-week excursion we were forced to enjoy nine consecutive “fun days at sea,” whereas this time there would be only two. Such days are so named because the ship remains at sea and does not dock at port. Carnival fully expects, and demands, that its captive guests will experience “fun” on the days when they are not allowed to escape to land.
We did gain an extra “fun day at sea” on the Legend, but not for lack of ports. What should have been our third Caribbean landing, at Belize, was met with surprisingly cool temperatures, cloudy skies, showers on the horizon, and choppy seas. Making Belize even less appealing was our ship’s distance from the actual mainland. There was no natural harbor or inlet that would allow a cruise ship to simply slide up to a dock and distribute its eager passengers. Instead, I climbed the four flights of stairs after 9am to the Lido Deck (AKA the “food-o deck”) as I had done each morning. Ten years ago it would have bothered me to get up so late, but this was apparently vacation, and I have relaxed – alas, there was literally nowhere to go. We had never gotten off of “Arizona time,” as we were going to bed not long before midnight each evening, and waking regularly each morning between 8 and 10 am. The “black-out” curtains did their job, as they tricked me every morning. Thinking it was only 6am, I slept soundly for a few additional hours. My arrival at the Lido breakfast bonanza typically provided my first 360-degree inspection each morning of the ship’s geographical surroundings, and this morning at Belize was no different. It was a veritable “Up periscope!” moment.
What baffled me a bit was that the Legend was ostensibly parked in place, sandwiched by two other cruise ships nearby. We had indeed landed – but where? The nearest land mass seemed 20 miles away, and buildings were barely even visible, let alone recognizable. The skies were gray and potentially stormy, and my first impression was that it would be one hell of a boat ride to access the mysterious Belize. Linda felt the same, upon her emergence from the hold below. We had tentative plans to go “cave tubing” somewhere on Belize, but it would not have been a Carnival-sponsored tour. We had no idea when it was supposed to begin, and it was already approaching noon as Linda enjoyed a late breakfast. We finally declared this our bonus “fun day at sea,” recognizing the obvious conclusion. The thrills of Belize, and the shopping opportunities that certainly awaited us, would have to wait for another trip.
Two of the four planned ports of call actually required the use of so-called “tenders” to ferry the more adventurous sailors among us to the island or mainland. These were Belize and the Cayman Islands, the latter being more British than anything remotely “Caribbean,” and I believe the last British protectorates in the world. The tenders behaved like a regular bus service, shuffling tourists back and forth from the “mother ship” to the pier. Having plenty of time to allow my mind to wander, I leaned over the railing to spy the coming and going of the tenders. I mentally compared these tender boats with the tenders that carry the fuel behind railroad steam locomotives, trying to logically determine the word’s common meaning. Somewhat embarrassed I hadn’t come up with an answer, my mind naturally turned to other matters. Actually, my mind turned more than once to the amount of fuel being consumed by these noisy boats that kept going back and forth all day, just as a Star Trek shuttle would take the “away team” from the Enterprise down to the planet’s surface. But there are dilithium crystals in the 24th century, making these carbon-based engines rather archaic by comparison. This was no different than the Star Trek exercise, except perhaps for the geographic scale of the operation. After all, we really were not all that far from Cuba, or Mexico for that matter. Still, you had to use these damn little boats to move masses of people from the shopping deck on the Legend to the more exotic shopping facilities at the pier. The jewelry at both locations, not just incidentally, was the same. One geography author referred to this behavior as “shopping with a difference,” similar to the synergistic business approach of providing the consuming public with “shopper-tainment”.
Linda and I had known from the outset that this seven-day cruise would be more focused on relaxation than on sight-seeing. I had been less than enthused about a “traditional” Caribbean cruise, given the impression that “everyone does that”. Moreover, I remained concerned about the isolated “tourism bubbles” (a technical term) that exist in the midst of some of the world’s most devastating poverty. Was the tourism economy a help or hindrance to these countries? The answer often depended upon one’s perspective, and who was doing the research. Thus, Linda got her Caribbean cruise, but I helped choose the destination – in this case, the farthest west I could get us by ship before slamming into the east coast of Central America. Thus, the fourth port at Roatan, Honduras, seemed exotic enough for a far-away cultural experience, I believed. And, as it turned out, this was accurate. Roatan proved to be the more geographically educational, as well as the more unscripted of our adventures, given our inland expedition that we had chosen only the night before.
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