Deshaies, Guadeloupe – we have been here often, since its location renders it a convenient temporary stopping-place for over-nighting as we travel from someplace else to someplace else.  But we had never stayed for long, and had spent almost no time ashore.  This year was different, as a matter of choice and a matter of necessity.  We wanted to see some of Guadeloupe, and we wanted to hunker down in a protected anchorage while the Christmas Winds were raging.

We rented an automobile with Hunter and Devi (Arctic Tern) and spent the day of Dec. 21 touring the island.  Guadeloupe is very French; thank goodness Devi remembered enough of her high school lessons to be able to deal with the lady who delivered the auto.  That lady, like almost everyone we interacted with on the island, spoke little or no English.  

It is common knowledge that Guadeloupe is shaped somewhat like a butterfly; the west wing is the larger of the two, much more mountainous, and called Basse-Terre  and the east wing is smaller and flatter, and called, paradoxically enough, Grande-Terre.

Common knowledge not withstanding, I was surprised at how hilly the eastern half was.  As we made our way toward the extreme eastern corner, the traffic became increasing clogged.   Halfway across that eastern wing, we lost patience and turned northward and motored up to the north shore.   I had expected to see flat fields bursting with sugar cane and vegetables; instead we drove up and down forested land marked by deep ravines and high hills.   Not until we were back to the western wing did we see cane fields; this along the NE corner of that wing.

In addition to the interesting scenery, we had some enjoyable stops.  While still in the western side we stopped at a waterfall very near the highway.  Part of a national park, the “path” to the falls was paved with flat stones and protected with impressive rails.  We visited an aquarium in Pointe a Pitre and had a pizza lunch.    And we visited a rum museum, or should I write “musee du rhum”, which not only had an excellent exhibit of rum-making through the centuries, but also had a large wing devoted to insects, if you will pardon the pun, and another to models of boats.  The original rum factory owner must have been a) rich and b) an avid collector.

On another day Barb and I took an extended hike on a trail up over the mountain to the north.  Just as we reached the beach on the other side, it began to rain and we ducked into a small outdoor restaurant, Chez Samy, and said “Parlez-vous anglais?”   “Non”, was the reply, but the gentleman called over a helper/partner/friend (?) who could speak a few words of English.  We ordered a bottle of water, having not taken any with us since we had not intended to walk so far for so long.   Our translator succeeded in asking where we were from, and was pleased to learn that we lived on a boat.  He dashed off to get placemats that featured a picture of a large sailboat, and, as best as we could understand him, explained that he had been the captain/navigator/crew member (?) on the vessel when it won some type of “world championship”.  He pulled out an almost-empty bottle containing a rich red liquid, fetched some glasses and ice, and poured a little into the glasses, indicating that we should pour some of our water into the glasses.   “Sorrel?”, we asked.   “Non”, he replied.  “Groseilles. Boisson du noel.   Noel?”

“Oui”, we enthused. 

Referring to Christmas must have inspired him.  “Bon avec rhum.  Avec rhum.”

“Oui”, we enthused. 

Suddenly he dashes off again, returning with a bottle of rum and more ice.   He pours more red liquid into our glasses, adds a generous amount of rum and some ice, and dashes off to get some slices of lime.

“Mmmmm”, we enthuse.

When we have finished the small glasses, he pours us another round.  “Joyous Noel”, he says, and we respond, “Merry Christmas”.

“Poulet?” he asks, and before we can respond, grabs some paper towels and goes to the charcoal grill and pulls off two large chicken legs with huge thighs.   Then dashes to the kitchen and returns with a large white starchy vegetable, which he cuts in half and presents with the chicken, all wrapped up in the paper toweling.  Another dash, and we are given a week’s supply of baguettes. Recognizing how awkward this would be to pack way, he dashes off again and returns with a plastic bag.   Meanwhile, as all of this is going on, the original gentlemen is making grumbling noises and quietly scolding (we think) our benefactor, who totally ignores him.

“Joyous Noel”, he says repeatedly.   And then, in case we didn’t understand the context of his beneficence, says in English:  “It is Christmas.”

“Oui”, we say.  “Merci beaucoup.  Merci, merci beaucoup.  Merry Christmas.  Merry Christmas”.

As we say our goodbyes and thank him once again, he indicates that we should wait.  He gets the empty Sirop Grosseilles  bottle, dashes off to a refrigerator to get a bladder of punch, and pours punch into the empty bottle – about 2/3 full.   Nice, huh?  But wait!  He then gets the bottle of rum, and tops up our bottle with rum!

Once again we indicate our gratitude, and once again he indicates that it is because it is Christmas.

By this time it is raining pretty hard, but we are embarrassed to stay any longer, and we are very much disinclined to hike back up over the mountain.  Too far, too steep, and in the rain, too muddy and slippery.   So we walked along the road at the base of the mountain in the rain.  Much much shorter, much easier to walk.   For about half of the kilometer-long walk, Barb attempted to hitchhike.  Surprisingly, no one felt the Christmas spirit strongly enough to stop and give us a ride.  Go figure.

(We later confirmed that French “groseilles” is indeed the same as the Trini and Grenadian “sorrel” that is so popular during the holiday season.)

On Christmas eve it was blowing so hard we (the crews of TT2, Arctic Tern, and Sailacious) cancelled our reservation for dinner on shore.  But on Christmas day we hosted Hunter & Devi and Janice & Steve (Sailacious) for dinner on Tusen Takk II.  I cooked a pork loin on the grill and our guests brought side dishes and wine.   After dinner we played Quiddler.   Very fine holiday.

The wind mostly blew like stink while we were in Deshaies.   Except when it didn’t.   Sometimes it got still, and sometimes it even shifted to the west.  (See the picture below of the GPS screen that we leave on while anchored; the unit traces out our location as we swing.   Normally this produces a “smile”, but during our stay in Deshaies we traced out a circle with the center also filled-in.)

On one especially windy day we noticed that a large catamaran was attempting to leave the anchorage, but had something fouling their anchor.  We took the dinghy out to see if we could help.   But we could not make the French captain understand that he should back into the wind so that we could approach the anchor and help untangle it.   The wind was blowing so hard that we could not stay at the anchor so long as the cat was pointing directly into the wind.  After several unsuccessful attempts to help, during which the wind would grab the dinghy and push us under the cat and away from the anchor, we finally gave up.   We think that they gave up as well, and left the anchorage with the fouling chain and concrete block still stuck to the anchor and dangling from their bow pulpit.

C’est la vie!  Non?