Nassau

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Nassau Harbour

We’ve come to the hub of the Bahamas: Nassau Harbour. It’s not a circular harbour in the traditional sense, but rather a strait or slender channel 200 yards wide. It’s bordered to the south by New Providence Island and the historic city itself, and to the north by Paradise Island. Marinas line either side of the channel, which are connected by two toll bridges with 80 feet of clearance. We decided to do what’s for free: anchor in the middle.
It’s an oddly quiet and calm place to anchor, which must be why a dozen or so sailboats surround us. The only noises come from passing boats, a variety of which are represented here. Besides the yachts anchored nearby, one finds catamarans, smaller dinghies, local watercraft and docked fishing boats. To the west is the Prince George Wharf, where some of the world’s largest cruise ships unload their passengers onto a dock equipped with rows of payphones bearing “Call Home to the US” signs. From there, the passengers purchase a ride on one of the tourist boats that cruise the strip. They are usually two-deck jobs with many seats and signs like “Dolphin Encounters”, “Glass Bottom Boat”, “Bahama Divers” or “Harbour Tours and Snorkeling Adventures.”
My favorite was seen yesterday in the twilight: “Booze and Cruise.” This one is equipped with a deck-top dance floor packed with bikini-clad and buff beer-gut types shaking to DJ music blasting through the harbour. They came for this? It’s an odd sight to see youths swept away in the fantasy of paradise and inebriation to the point that they don’t seem to notice that they’re in a dingy city harbour.
One of these boats will often be followed in its wake by an extremely humble local variety. Some of these are nothing more than planks of wood and an outboard motor, rotting and rusting with age, but still going. Last night a rather long fishing boat passed through the channel, being pushed by an accompanied dinghy. The sail and rigging was as rudimentary as possible: bare ropes running the mast and boom, wooden pulleys to hoist the sail, a fabric sail and no sign of anything electronic, or modern for that matter. Its crew were locals, or perhaps some of the unwelcome Haitians currently infiltrating the country.
The shipping yard is nearby with those familiar rusty storage containers and ugly cranes. An odd sight is the neighboring set of "cute" pastel shops and a belltower, contrasting with the varicolored storage containers. As for antiquity, there are signs: a church steeple among a few palm trees, and colonial mansions peeking out from the hilltop of the old town. These almost go unnoticed, blending in with the ubiquitous commotion, industry and visual noise.
Yet, the quintessential figure of what Nassau has come to embody is on the north bank of the channel. It seems that some South African decided to construct a fantasy of tourism so blatantly fake, that it works. Its name, Atlantis. At the foot of the two bridges arriving on Paradise Island (one of the world’s great misnomers), next to more saltwater taffy houses, rises a pink palatial construction twenty-four stories high, dwarfing every other construction within eyeshot of the harbour. The body of the hotel is divided into five segments of different elevations rising from the extremities and culminating in the central highest tower. For added effect, a seventeenth story span supported by seahorse telemons arches across the sky between the two highest segments, not unlike Venice’s Ponte Dei Sospiri. (It’s known as the Michael Jackson Suite, $25,000 a night for a four night minimum and booked for the next five years.) The aquamarine fenestration climbing up the edifice matches the hue of the water near its foot and the decorative swordfish adorning the upper edges of the architectural tableau seem to have leaped from the windows. Freeport Des had dubbed it “a sad monstrosity.”
But its construction spearheaded a movement of sorts, and thus has generated a massive amount of income far and above the 1.8 billion already invested in Atlantis. Any property on Paradise Island has a name like Nicolas Cage or Charlie Chaplin attached to it. Its lucrative potential pardons the shameless kitsch quality of the entire undertaking.
Take, for example, a beach nearby. It’s stuck in random spots with palm trees like birthday cake candles, and bordered by a tennis court. Yet, as the eye passes a few hundred feet to the right, one sees the sand piles and twin silos of a cement plant, blatantly conveying the message: “that beach over there is probably not real!” In all, there’s this redeeming value to the Nassau harbour because it’s not quite Epcot Center. It’s the cocktail of disney fantasy and bare reality, a crossroads of wealth and poverty packed into a strip of water. (I do mean "disney" with a lower-case d.)
The best place to glimpse this is under one of the bridges itself. Potter’s Cay stretches below both spans and is connected to the mainland by a causeway running underneath the southbound bridge. This thin road is lined with colorful food shacks, selling produce, conch dishes, deep-fried takeaway and plenty of any-o'clock Kaliks It teems with locals, but seems to ward off the tourists. As you walk down the street, the bridge rises steadily overhead transporting its Paradise Island tourist freight over the "uncomfortable" or "dodgy" or "uninteresting" scene below. Down here a white man has to earn respect by not comporting himself like dollar-laden ignorant white-trash. It helps to look unkempt, smile when it counts, and admit the fact that you too are struggling through life to make ends meet, whether those ends are financial, rational, emotional or meaningful.

Meanwhile, the tourists parade overhead, if they haven't already hailed a taxi or taken the tourguided ferry to Paradise Island. Once on the island, one is likely drawn to the hotel to the left, or the luxury marina and its upscale shopping lane. When taking a fifteen minute walk to the east of the hotel complex, one comes to what is known as Versailles Gardens. It is simply a landscaped promenade, nowhere close to the scale of Versailles, lined with statues of a sundial, a woman and child, Herakles, and Teddy Roosevelt. Adding to this strange assortment of characters is the crown at the pinnacle of the sloping garden: the Cloisters. In 1962, Randolph Hearst organized the purchase and transplant of a thirteenth century cloister from a Pyrenean village named Montréjeau. The four arcades of Early Gothic arches are half covered in sea green ivy and bordered by hedges of violet flora. In the center is a white statue of an angelic woman in peaceful contemplation. On top of each column is a capital depicting some medieval allegory or symbol. On one, fruits of the harvest and a personified sun; on another, a smiling theatre mask in foliage. The most bizarre, but not uncommon in medieval imagery, is of a grotesque demon bent over, doing something to his rectum. The well-preserved quality of the entire cloister seems too good to be true. And given the nature of Paradise Island, one would almost expect some cosmetic manipulation to create such a result. Nevertheless, the passage through transports me to memorable times traveling around in France, perusing all the village churches possible. I now have forgotten that I am on Paradise Island!
The promenade continues down southwards to a gazebo overlooking the harbour and main island. It is said to be an idyllic location for weddings, but not today. In fact, proposals and weddings fit in nicely into the Atlantis mystique. The hotel itself looks like one gigantic pink wedding cake, or even the ornament on top underneath which the newlywed figurines stand. It contributes to this vision of an otherworldly experience that jumpstarts the whimsical fantasy of the typical nuptial agreement. It seems to be inherent in not only marriage but also tourism, two entities largely based on ideals, hopes and dreams, i.e. the dream of a life you will one day live, and the dream of a life you could lead in this place.
I met one twentysomething brooding over a brew who had planned to propose to his girlfriend of two years on Paradise Island, if only she hadn’t dumped him last month. With the vacation booked and paid for by her parents, he now found himself stuck here in the cruel fantasy of a vision that would not be the cornerstone of this marriage. He saw the disappointing façade of the whole place, now that it did not fit in with his paradisiatic plans for the future endeavor of marriage. In fact, the place was boring for him!
As one walks along the beach and on the poolsides, the carnival of leisure unfolds. There seems to be more vendors than sunbathers, shouting advertisements for their goods and services. “Time to smoke it! Get your Cuban cigars here!” or “Coconut Beverages!” or “Get your hair braided here!” As for the sunbathers themselves, most are freshly-wed couples or obese family types lying inactively on their towels. The beach slopes remarkably to the ocean’s crashing waves, which are unusually large. In fact, a flag pole further down indicates that it is forbidden to swim on this beautiful day.
To swim, folks flock up to the network of pools and slides. They’re laid out in between salmon block-house hotel-wings that would remind you of the low-rent immigrant housing on the outskirts of Paris if they weren’t pink. The pools themselves slope like the seashore and flirt closely with other wildlife pools and aquariums, giving the impression of being in the sea.
If the pools are not a suitable ersatz for the rough coastline on the beach, one can find a saltwater swim in the lagoon. Ideally located at the base of the Atlantis resort itself, these calm and shallow waters attract kids and parents.
Nearby is one of the more successful ideas in the complex: the Predator’s Tunnel. Entering beneath a gigantic portabella mushroom style restaurant awning, one descends into a glass tunnel beneath one of the pools. Varieties of fish, sharks, sting rays and barracuda swim overhead and alongside the observer, magnified by the glass and water. Walking through, one does get the sensation of being underwater, perfect for those who don’t actually want to be in the same water with those creatures.
Back in the hotel lobby the vacationers have just arrived in the airport taxis and are busy finding out where their rooms are. The porters unload and lug their large suitcases behind them. From the lobby, one walks along what is basically a mall. Jewelry boutiques, specialty shops, a tourist information desk, a perfumery, a tobacconist, a watch salesman and any other business selling luxury items line the fluorescent hall leading to the casino. By now, I have forgotten that I am in the Bahamas because the place exudes that vision of commercial wealth that defies and muffles culture.
As for the casino itself, it’s an eyesore. It’s actually my first time in a casino, and many of the sights and sounds retain a quality of fascination to me. First of all, there’s a strange tune in the air, one composed of the hundreds of beeps, all in tune with one another. Some actually change notes repetitively, creating an overtone that gives the music a Philip Glass feel to it. It's the sound of thought, establishing a dreamy backdrop to the equally mesmerizing light display flickering through the bulbs, mirrors and jewels scattered about the scene. As I walk along the rows of slot machines, I gawk at the hundred or so blank faces staring into the dials and displays as if it were an engaging television show. At the tables, the local dealers adorn their poker faces and play their game with ease. I struggle to find the urge to bet even a dollar.
Stepping out of the hotel, one comes to the exclusive marina. Ironically, at $3.50 a foot per night only the largest boats dock here. Most measure 60 to 70 feet; some reach up to over 100 feet in length. On these boats the crew wear uniforms, polo shirts with the boat's name or insignia, and clean a majority of the time. White and chrome seem to be the dominant color scheme. With such a glisten, it's no wonder everyone is wearing sunglasses.
I walk up to one such boat, on the bow of which two young folks are sitting and chatting.
"Afternoon. Have you heard about boats looking for extra crew?" I ask. It never hurts to simply keep an ear out for other crewing possibilities.
The male and female look at one another and laugh.
"Sorry. We're laughing because that is exactly what we were talking about."
"Really?"
The guy continues. "Yeah, the captain is thinking of selling the boat. Some sort of financial issues that we aren't supposed to know about. So things are kinda up in the air now."
I take a look at the dwarfing hull of the boat, which must be some 80 ft long. I've already decided that I wouldn't have accepted a spot on it anyhow. I try to imagine the cost. At least several hundred thousand, maybe a million.
"It's reassuring to find out that things can be up in the air on any boat. "
They agree.
"Where will you go?"
"I think we'll head back to Ft Lauderdale, maybe Hilton Head Island, where we're from."
We leave it at that. I wish them the best and walk on, back over the bridge to the boat.

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Photos

Gales in Nassau!
One morning, a strong cold front swept in from the west followed by 35 knot winds. Our anchors barely held, but it was the other boats we had to worry about. The winds continued into the night and subsided the next morning

Crepuscule de Michel
Michel, the quebecois in the dinghy, gave me a lift to the boat one night and returned before the arrival of a storm.