The Resort Pt. 03

As the rumbling of the wheels across corrugated bitumen transitioned into a smooth rolling across level pavement, I knew that we were back in town. But then we veered right onto a dirt road. When we came to a halt, Daniel tapped me on the shoulder and I climbed out. He uncuffed us and removed our blindfolds. As I adjusted my eyes, massaged my wrists, stretched my arms and rubbed my shoulders, I looked about. We had stopped near a small cluster of weather-beaten, whitewashed timber structures which I had seen a few times from a distance and assumed were just the old, rundown parts of the resort that had not yet been renovated. Camilla set us straight. This is the core of the historical settlement which has been preserved in its original condition. We pulled up outside a building signposted "Courthouse" and disembarked. (Okay, it's since occurred to me how unlikely it is that in the island's pre-resort days the population was anywhere near large enough to warrant its own courthouse and jail. Dramatic licence for the tourists, I guess.)

We were met by a man dressed in an old-time police uniform and a woman in a short and shabby grey tunic labelled "Trustee" across her chest. Of course, she wore the ubiquitous collar, bracelets and anklets, which was fitting for her character.

As soon as we alighted we were (no surprise) arrested on the spot, except for Camilla. (She must be a stool pigeon!) The real surprise was that Daniel was taken into custody as well. We were handcuffed, with antique iron manacles, and marched off to the cells. My cousin was still in a state of mild shock as we were incarcerated, being for once on the receiving end. Nevertheless, as a concession to his gender he got off lightly. His hands were shackled in front, while for the rest of us it was behind the back. This became a nuisance because there were flies buzzing about, being irksome and irritating, as is their wont. Daniel was kind enough to drive them away from us, at first. Eventually, however, he wearied of being so gallant and left us to fend for ourselves as best we could.

The cell had barely enough room to accommodate the five of us, seated on tatty mattresses on two bare metal bunks set against opposite walls, close enough that Daniel could perform his fly-shooing task (while it lasted) without having to get up. I should add that he had a ball and chain attached to one ankle. Afterwards, I was a little disconcerted to find out that this wasn't locked; he could have reached down at any time to free himself; but one must concede that safety should always take precedence over authenticity. (That's probably why we gals were spared the ball and chain -- not out of consideration for our tender natures but because it was harder, with our hands secured behind our backs, to release the ankle restraint in an emergency.)

We spent about half an hour behind bars, sufficient for tedium to set in but not long enough for excruciating boredom. We learned that you can sign up for an overnight stay, with the complete tin bucket latrine, straw pallet, bread and water experience. You can even join a chain gang, like what we saw on our first day. Not my cup of tea, but whatever floats your boat. (Splendid mixed metaphor, there.)

As soon as our sentence expired, Daniel bound us again, but only the wrists. He even gave us the choice of a blindfold or gag, and all except Camilla chose the gag, as we didn't want to miss any of the sights. Our guide didn't need to see where we were headed and needed to give directions to our driver. The dried drool on the red ball as it entered my mouth had a bitter taste, but that may have been my imagination and the yuck factor. After all, when I've shared saliva with a guy it's been sweet and I'm sure that's illusion.

The mystery tour was far from over. It was still just early afternoon. Back in our buggy, we skirted the Village, taking a circuitous route that ultimately had us heading due north, up the island's west coast. I had a suspicion of where we were going, confirmed as we crested the ridge above the Oasis. On the road about halfway to our destination, we encountered a ragged line of some twenty or so women and girls, bound and tethered by neck ropes and escorted by about a dozen buccaneer types who were striding up and down the column, urging their prisoners forward with a dastardly fervent zeal. Following behind them at about ten paces' distance, a crowd of spectators was laughing and joking and calling out words of encouragement (whether to the captives or their captors it was hard to tell). Both groups moved to the side of the roadway to let us pass. Some of the hostages got into the spirit of the game by calling plaintively for rescue. We just shrugged sympathetically and drove on.

Pirates' Cove is a small deep-water harbour on the south-west coast, enclosed by sheer cliffs and shielded from the open sea by the broken remnants of a wave-shattered prehistoric shoreline. According to local lore, Aranea Island was once a haven for the buccaneer fraternity; but frankly I don't believe a word of it. I don't recall ever reading about pirates operating in this part of the Pacific Ocean, at least those of the Blackbeard or Captain Kidd variety. Still, it's a romantic legend, and the rugged terrain provides an apposite setting.

Upon arrival we were confronted by a fantastic but slightly ludicrous spectacle, a fully rigged brigantine drawn up on the narrow beach, next to the façade of a taller sailing ship and enclosed on three sides by tiers of bleacher seating. Camilla flashed her guide's pass that she whisked out of who knows where, and ushered us through the entrance, past two cutlass-wielding sentries, just as a show was reaching its climax with a salvo of musketry, a thunder of cannons, the clash of steel blades, a barrage of salty language, the shrieks of kidnapped maidens, whistles and cheers from the audience.

Instead of showing us to the stands, to my delight Camilla took us backstage, where amidst frenetic activity we gals were bustled into a dressing room. We were squeezed and laced into period costumes, magnificently ornate gowns with gorgeous trimmings and abundant décolletage and cleavage, as the producer gave us a quick briefing. Rachel, with her showgirl looks, was given the lead role as Lady Claudia, a beautiful Irish noblewoman who really did exist, or so we're led to believe. She had been carried off by pirates during a voyage to the colonies sometime in the seventeenth century (albeit in the Caribbean, not the South Pacific) along with her handmaidens. The latter were to be played by Charlotte and me. Emily was cast as one of the picaroon crew's busty serving wenches.

And so we got to star in a rip-roaring, eye-popping, hair-raising, heart-stirring, chest-thumping, bodice-ripping buccaneer saga. Daniel had a part too, more a walk-on, as Corky the cabin boy (or whatever -- I didn't pay much attention). The first scene that we played was the requisite boarding battle, replete with shouting, screaming and loud explosions. The boat from which we fair maidens were abducted to meet our fate worse than death was a prop, but the re-enactment was rather terrifying because we were slung, kicking and squealing, over the shoulders of our lusty captors, who leapt down onto the pirate ship's deck which was the main stage. With our hands bound behind our backs, we had no way of protecting ourselves if the guys had lost their grip and we'd fallen; but they were well-trained, brawny and experienced, so there was no real danger.

At the opening of the second act, Charlotte and I were lashed to the mast while Rachel, after the customary mauling and molesting by her wicked abductors, was forced to walk the plank. She really did. I could hear the splash when she disappeared over the side; but of course it was into a shallow pool just out of sight of the cheering audience. (Applause as the tragic heroine is fed to the sharks? Charming!) Charlotte and I were then taken offstage, not to appear again. Apparently the ill-fated handmaidens were tossed overboard to join their wretched mistress. I was glad that little drama took place backstage. I had no desire for a dunking.

We watched the rest of the show from the sidelines. Looking out into the stands, I recognized several of the captive women and girls we had seen being herded down the road toward the cove. Camilla explained that they were given free admission and their menfolk got tickets at half-price (which, of course, was labelled ransom). Rachel joined us, sodden and bedraggled, before we went below to change out of our costumes.

It was now nearing three o'clock, still quite early, but we were all tired, and the last leg of our mystery tour was something of an anticlimax, which was fine by me. We stopped in at one of the bistros in the Village for afternoon tea. We went behind the scenes to visit the kitchen and got to sample the various dishes as guests of the chef de cuisine. Dining is, typically, sans vue for the ladies, and all the food and drink is prepared with this in mind. Anyway, the most interesting aspect of the visit was that we tasted each dish both with and without our blindfolds, in order to experience the contrast. It is illuminating to discover (or at least have confirmed) the extent to which sight is involved in one's appreciation of food, because it was like eating completely different stuff -- not necessarily better but different. Daniel took part in the experiment as well, but he just shut his eyes for the dining-in-the-dark, refusing to wear the blindfold. (Oh, how much I love the young male ego! Okay, that's unfair. Daniel is very likely an outlier.)

It was closing in on five o'clock when we returned to our starting point, picked up our things and said thanks and good-bye to Camilla. It had been a fascinating day. Charlotte and Emily accompanied us to the bottom of the hill and, incredibly, Emily allowed Daniel to tie her hands behind her back and blindfold her for the (admittedly brief) walk. I guess it was her way of saying "no hard feelings" for her attitude during the day.

I have really only become conscious of their little pantomime in retrospect. Even when she was gagged Emily had managed to complain and criticize. Such remonstrations were pointless and more than a little ridiculous, but it's funny how some girls like the sound of their own voice even when muffled and garbled by a squishy silicone ball. (As for me, if I cannot say it loud and clear, I keep it to myself... mostly.) But she and my cousin each played their part in a drama with a predestined outcome -- his triumph and her vanquishment.

Once we'd parted company with them, my cousin nudged my arm.

"Not in the mood," I deflated him.

"Don't even think about it," Rachel pre-empted him.

Back in the suite, we described our adventures to Richard, showed him our lovely new collars, and explained to him what he'd missed.

"Oh, and Rachel got ravished by pirates."

"Really? And how was that?"

"Wet," my aunt replied. My uncle just blinked.

We had dinner in the downstairs restaurant, followed by another night in. Rachel and Richard went straight to bed. Daniel watched TV while I retired to write up this journal entry. And so, as day three on Aranea Island draws to a close, I wonder what other mysteries and further adventures await us.