Tres Cheap - Page 4

I stepped out of the plane and saw weeds growing up through the carcass of a DC3. Dammit. Wrong airport. With my plane to Antigua taking off in less than an hour from the other side of Kingston, I jumped into the first taxi I saw.

“We might make it,” said the taxi driver. “Roll up de window.”

“But it’s 90 degrees outside.”

“We go through Trenchtown, man. And lock your door too.”

For 30 minutes we cleaved through a teeming mass of poverty-stricken humanity in western Kingston's shantytown. I sat stone-faced in the front seat, visualizing green lights.

An hour later, I was 15,000 feet high, in an air-conditioned fuselage streaking towards Antigua. I always enjoyed these brief airborne interludes from the real world, which allowed me to pursue more leisurely activities; in this case, engaging in an armrest war with the tourist next to me, and pondering the message the airlines insist on posting on the back of every seat. Fasten Seat Belt While Seated. Do they really think we're so stupid that we’ll fasten them while still standing? Out my window, the islands below looked like a vision of perfection, planet earth at its most sublime, a world without poverty or crime or naked people playing tennis.

The resort industry survives on just this sort of illusion-the perfect beach, the endless summer, beautiful people-and many hotels feel it is the travel writer’s duty to sustain this fantasy, even if it’s not grounded in reality. At Jumby Bay, a private islet off Antigua, guests pay some of the highest resort prices in the world in order to stay at a hotel with no pool and no room service. You can’t even watch any adult movies on pay TV.

“People come here to relax,” said the sales manager. “That’s why we allow no distractions from the outside world, no radios, no clocks, no phones.”

“What’d you say?’ I yelled, as a big jumbo jet roared low overhead, having just taken off from the Antigua airport. “Something about no distractions from the outside world?’

Jumby Bay gave Robin Leach a homesite for his promotional efforts. I was lucky to get a brochure before they rushed me to the boat.

Sometimes travel writers get invitations to stay at a hotel for free-getting comped, we call it. I stay away from them as much as possible, mostly because I can't afford the price of a free room. My first night in Antigua, I was comped at a five-star resort for the rich and famous. A fruit basket, a bottle of rum, and a welcome note from the manager awaited me in my room. Within minutes, the phone rang.

“Sir, shall I make a dinner reservation for you this evening?” asked the concierge in a stiff British accent.

“Yeah,” I replied, “A table for one at Taco Bell.”

At resorts like these, I could easily blow my week’s budget on dinner alone. On top of that, there is the unspoken understanding that you are going to gush sweet compliments about the place, which is at cross-purposes with what I’m paid to do.

When I checked out of the hotel the next morning, the general manager came out to bid me farewell.

“Thank you for staying with us,” he said. “And so we can be of better service on your next visit, you should know that we keep detailed guest histories on our computer.”

“Oh great,” I said. I knew how mine would read. Charles Kulander, Room 212: swipes all the toiletries, leaves fast food wrappers in the bathroom, one face cloth missing, empty rum bottle found under bed.