Tourism Caribbean

When in Antigua, do a Wadadli. Here, it's Hairoun. In Barbados, you'd better go for a Banks. St. Lucia pushes Piton. And you really shouldn't belly up to a Bahamian bar without kicking back a Kalick--named for the sound of a local cow bell. Even tiny Dominica, an island nation of 90,000 sandwiched between French Martinique and Guadeloupe with no other major manufacturing, makes its own beloved brew, an obscure little number called Kubuli. Despite markets smaller than those for most U.S.

All around us were long-married couples celebrating anniversaries--25, 35, 50 years. I turned to Trudy and Don, who had joined our table--she, white-haired, comfortably grandmotherly; he, no hair, 80-ish, a bit wobbly on his cane. "And how long are you married?" I asked. Trudy smiled. "We're just friends." OK. We were on the Love Boat, where anything goes.

Our first morning on St. Barts, I woke to blue skies, a sweeping view of the sea and the sound of my friend, Julie, talking to a parrot. The parrot was sitting on the roof of the lanai, pointedly less interested in conversation than in the baguette in Julie's hand. Another friend, Mary-Alice, called to the parrot in French. He perked up but refused to reply. "These Frenchmen are all alike," Mary-Alice laughed.

Taffy and Bonnie Bufton don't live here anymore. Until a few months ago, the aging Welsh couple were the only residents of tiny Guiana Island--447 acres of cactus, thorn bush, mangrove and rocks. Their realm: two ramshackle houses, a 36-volt generator, 70 sheep, about 50 fallow deer, an ancient tractor and Taffy's rusty 1953 British sedan. For more than 30 years, the Buftons drank rainwater filtered through socks. The couple, now in their 70s, tended the deer and the sheep.

It was on Valentine's Day 1990 when I learned about Philistina Butterfield's Hot Rhythm Pills. Also known as "Peanuts," Butterfield is a gregarious woman who emerged that day from her little blue shack on the waterfront of Cockburn Town with a steaming plateful of deliciously browned, deep fried conch fritters she called Hot Rhythm Pills. "Make you irresistible to men," she whispered conspiratorially. What did I have to lose?