BARBADOS
The Caribbean island is a dream, but its homosexuality law is a nightmare
But are we sharing the same dream? The island of Barbados, though it doesn’t enforce it, is still bound by a colonial- era law that declares homosexuality illegal, with a life sentence for those who practise such things. So, of course, we packed our
bags for Bridgetown…
Some years ago I sat at a table on a bustling back street in Singapore, sharing duck pancakes and shade with the publisher of a digital- only magazine for gay men. Since homosexuality was illegal here, he explained, he and his colleagues couldn’t get the required licence to publish in print, but the government were happy enough to leave them be in the virtual world.
This seemed odd to me, not least because there was a gay bar flying the rainbow flag across from us, and another just down the street. Actual, real- world gays. Bare chests, high spirits and all.
“I know,” said my kindred spirit opposite, “there’s generally no issue here at all, but to expressly grant us a licence to publish would be a very public act, and I was told by a senior official that since a politician’s first job is to get elected, there’s nobody prepared to sign off on that.”
Essentially, in conservative Singaporean society, a low- level presence was deemed acceptable, notwithstanding the potential for a two- year prison sentence or a caning ( seriously) for engaging in sexual activity with someone of the same sex.
I’ve dwelt on that more than once in the intervening years. The editorial policy of this magazine has always been that we travel anywhere and everywhere we want to go
– no boycott, no exclusion. Firstly, because that pulls the rug from under the LGBTQ community in any given country, and they have a story that needs to be told. Secondly, because homophobia is known to diminish substantially within communities that know somebody who is gay.
Hence we travel not only to broaden the mind, but also in the hope that we might do the same for those we encounter.
And so to Barbados, an interesting case in point. Homosexual acts on the Caribbean island ( as with many of its neighbours) are illegal, regardless of whether they are consensual and in private. Technically, the penalty is life imprisonment. And although I’m absolutely certain many travellers may leave Barbados wishing they could stay longer, a lifetime inside – as the Krays would have told you – is a stretch.
Now this, I hasten to add, is not a law that’s enforced. It is, in effect, under review, and as far back as June 2016, the then Attorney General – Adriel Braithwaite – said that gay people should be “left alone” and protected in the eyes of the law. However, Barbados’ constitution, unhelpfully, contains a “savings clause” which protects laws inherited from the British Empire from review, even if they infringe human rights.
Attempts to decriminalise same- sex relations in Barbados are ongoing, though – three activists have a case filed with the InterAmerican Commission on Human Rights ( IACHR) and it’s grinding its way through the courts, with the Bajan government instructed as recently as last summer that they must respond, and repeal, or face a binding decision that mandates them to do so.
But as we step aboard a Virgin Atlantic flight destined for Bridgetown the law remains in situ. And the law, literally and figuratively, is a bit of an ass…
For full disclosure, this isn’t my first Barbados rodeo. I’ve been coming to the island, on and off, for 25 years. The first time was back in the day, when I’d earned decent money for the first time and wanted to see what all of the fuss was about. Lauded by Michael Winner, loved by Cilla Black, home to Sir Cliff Richard and the holiday hideaway of Tony Blair, what’s not to like? The chance of running into those aside.
I’ve been back on half a dozen occasions in between times. And then as now, this place is a jewel. If polished on only half the facets. At 4,200- plus miles from London, it’s a whole world away in terms of identikit international travel – as many of the hotels, especially on the ‘ platinum coast’ on the western ( Caribbean) side of the island, are independent or run by small chains, rather than any of the recognised big brands.
Four Seasons came a cropper with a failed development just north of Bridgetown some years ago, and the remains of that are an unfinished, impenetrable mass on which a number of investors ( Simon Cowell included) have lost money. And Fairmont have the Royal Pavilion just above Holetown, having turned its neighbouring sister property, Glitter Bay, into a residential development. But beyond that, think mostly that smaller or even boutique is beautiful, rather than big, resort- style accommodations. And amen to that.
Although later in our holiday we’ll stay with friends Kay and Martin, up on the ridge behind the main coast road north, to Speightstown, in the first instance, we take up station at Cobblers Cove ( see panel), an approximation of English country house meets white- shuttered plantation paradise on the Caribbean’s edge. Described by Homes & Gardens magazine as
“Two boys in a double room warrants not so much as a first glance, let
alone a second”
among the 20 most beautiful hotels in the world, it’s fair to say – in the best conceivable sense of the suggestion – there’s not much going on. Life is slow here, and if winding down, that’s a rather wonderful thing.
Two boys in a double room warrants not so much as a first glance, let alone a second, and in light of the aforementioned legal situation, that’s reassuring. It subsequently becomes clear, over several evenings and travel hereabouts, that friends of Dorothy abound among tourists and the level of disinterest in such things is real. Would that change with a public display of affection? Maybe. But the same is true of most British high streets.
The famed fine- dining restaurants along this coast – the Cliff, and the Lone Star – are as excellent ( and expensive) as I remember them. Treats that shouldn’t be missed. And to be fair, much of the output of the Cobblers’ kitchen keeps pace. But increasingly what’s more exciting is what we discover when we step away from the obvious.
Barbados is only 21 miles long and 14 miles wide, and covers 167 square miles.
It’s one of the Lesser Antilles, a chain of islands that stretches from Anguilla in the north to Grenada in the south, and has a population of just over 287,000 souls. That’s roughly equivalent to the cities of Newcastle or Southampton, for comparative scale. Gratifyingly, it sits just outside what’s known as ‘ hurricane alley’, and so is often spared the worst of the tropical storms, and has sat alone and untroubled since Hurricane Janet in 1955.
Having done the west coast wind- down for a few days, and subsequently holed up with our mates, we are keen to get out and explore, and though buses run up and down the island cheaply, frequently and far too quickly, you’ll feel more secure and see more in a hire car. Not least because what’s best seen isn’t always easily found.
Imagine the island of Barbados as a clock, if you will, then everything from 12 to 6 faces east and the Atlantic ( rolling breakers and all), everything from 6 to 12 faces west and the Caribbean ( millpond- still warmer waters and daily sunsets). Party- central, and the densest tourist population, can be found at the famed St Lawrence Gap at 7; the capital, Bridgetown, is at 8; Holetown, where the British first landed is at 9, and our base towards Speightstown at 10.
Being contrary types, we want to focus our attention on the path less trodden, and explore everything from 10 through to 4, and the verdant green and mountainous interior. And we are keen to sample the rum- shack culture – the shanty- style, chattel house structures that are the locals’ drinking dens. I can get an over- priced martini anywhere, but the chance to Mount Gay in the sunshine, as it were, and people- watch? Not so much.
We strike lucky first time at the John Moore Bar, two steps from the sand on the coastal highway, next door to the fish market. Friday night is karaoke night ( of course it is) and
the set list appears to be almost exclusively country and western. Me, neither.
But a genial lady is frying chicken at the roadside, rum – sold simply as quarterbottles, half- bottles or full bottles – hits the table alongside Coca- Cola’s finest and bowls of ice, and you free- pour the night away.
We become new best friends with the local handyman, also a fisherman, a man who fixes solar panels and a chap of some advanced years who claimed to be a former test cricketer, but I’m pretty certain wasn’t. Though the void where his teeth once were did suggest he might have done a few sessions in the nets with fast- bowling legend Malcolm Marshall. Didn’t stop him delivering a slightly lispy rendition of Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York.
We, for our part, stagger into the night having delivered Neil Sedaka’s Calendar Girl in a fashion that led a kind local lady to describe us as “just like the Beach Boys”. Who are now 40 per cent dead, I realise later. So she was more right than she knew come the following day’s hangover.
No matter, armed with a ubiquitous Toyota SUV, we’re away the following lunchtime, across the spine of the island through fields of sugar cane and up into rainforest cover where green monkeys watch you pass. From there, down the picture- postcard Cherry
Tree Hill, you enter an area known as New Scotland, as it looks – in part – like, er, Scotland. But with palm trees and without midges. The welcome breeze on this side is stiffer and salt- laden, and the onrushing white horses a pattern you can watch form and reform for hours on end.
We pause at the delightfully named Cattlewash and head beachside to take in the panorama, lost in the roar of wind and waves, then move along the coast to Bathsheba, for lunch at the famedhereabouts Round House. It’s a simple place, but quite beautiful, with a view across the Soup Bowl, Barbados’ surfers’ paradise. Our waitress – with a shock of bleached blond hair, brilliant gold tooth complete with an engraved skull thereon – is Bajan charm personified, and never stops laughing.
Mostly with us. I think.
Palm trees bob on the breeze, dishes of lightly battered flying fish and sweet- andsour homemade meatballs come and go, the local Banks beer slides down, sun- kissed boys with scruffy hair and rolled- down wetsuits wander to and fro. Life’s all right, really.
By chance I fall into conversation with a man who works locally, a non- national, and who dances at our end of the ballroom. He talks freely of the island’s contradictions around the treatment of its LGBTQ community.
“Tourists are never troubled,” he says.
“Sun- kissed boys with scruffy hair and rolled- down wetsuits
wander to and fro”