From
Syrena Exposed — A Traveller's Guide
Syrena is one of the most picturesque islands of the West Indies. In addition to the idyllic tropical setting — glittering white-sand beaches, gleaming blue-green bays, dramatic rocky headlands, stunning reefs, scenic nature trails with spectacular views of the sea and surrounding isles, and safe anchorages for pleasure yachts, dive boats and ocean liners — the exotic history and unique lifestyle have made Syrena a popular destination for adventurers and romantics, thrill-seekers and pleasure-seekers.
Most of the population lives in the town of Régate, our picture-postcard capital which features colonial-era architecture alongside modern commercial construction, quiet boulevards, luxurious resort complexes and a vibrant downtown district. The airport services the island with a direct daily connection to Jamaica and regular flights from most other parts of the Caribbean.
With no rivers or natural lakes, our island is completely reliant upon rainfall storage for its water supply, so farming is virtually non-existent and almost all foodstuffs must be imported. Syrena does not issue its own money, but most internationally accepted currencies are legal tender, and our banks will exchange cash free of charge.
The main income base is, of course, tourism. Off-shore banking is a growing source of revenue which takes some of the pressure off the local infrastructure. The trickle of travellers which began early last century had become a steady flow by the 1970s, and today visitors heavily outnumber residents. Consequently, limits have had to be placed on the intake, in particular from cruise ship stopovers. To further cope with the demand, expatriate workers have been brought in from other parts of the Caribbean, from North and South America and Europe. As a result, more than three-quarters of all permanent residents are foreign-born, and nearly two-thirds are female.
The municipality of Grandin Bay on the west coast is a special administrative district, with its own by-laws. Here Syrena's families have their homes, and while this area is not out-of-bounds for tourists, visitors are reminded that it is off-limits to the rules and customs that have made our island famous.
Part Two
Syrena's airport commands stunning views, in one direction a cerulean ocean of startling clarity, in the other verdant hillsides dotted with neat, whitewashed houses. Lining the roadside that abuts the landing strip are the low weatherboard buildings which accommodate the travel agencies, vehicle hire operators, duty-free shops, souvenir stores and refreshment kiosks.
According to the brochure, our objective was about halfway along the block. In contrast to the quiet calm of the terminal, the street was bustling, filled with exotic sights, sounds and smells. It was early afternoon, and a fresh breeze wafted off the bay, the salt air mixing with aromas from the coffee shops and fragrances from the gardens. Tourists and locals mingled noisily, haggling, arguing, chumming, relaxing. It could have been any Caribbean resort, with perspiring men in billowing shorts and flamboyant shirts, young men in straw hats peddling knick-knacks, red-faced salesmen in white suits hawking and touting, jaded tour guides shepherding their groups and organizing buses and taxis.
But then there were the women. Single, arm in arm, hanging onto husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends; visitors, vendors, agents, guides; strolling, sightseeing, shopping or plying the crowds outside the storefronts. Dark, pale, black, brown, pink, all were stark naked. Some wore hats and footwear, but in between was nothing but bare skin. Most were collared, many were being led on leashes; about half were, as well, bound or chained or hobbled or otherwise restrained. Here and there was a blindfolded woman being steered along the boulevard.
The local females, unlike what seemed like most of their menfolk, did not spend time lingering, loitering or socializing. They hurried to and fro, focused on their duties. It was easy to distinguish them from the tourists, amongst whom it was also a simple matter to spot the recent arrivals. The newcomers' bodies were slightly hunched, as if against the cold, although it was sunny and hot. They clung to their partners and avoided eye contact with all who passed. Those with at least a few days' experience of public nudity and bondage held themselves with more ease and confidence, but they nevertheless stood out from the locals in the way they moved and how they looked about, not yet accustomed to the extraordinary scenery, and less so to being part of it.
My attention was drawn to a group coming towards us, a dozen women moving in single file. As they approached, I saw that they were linked by chains about their necks and on their ankles. The arms of the first in line were pinioned behind her back and secured to the wrists of the second, whose hands were shackled in front. This pairing pattern was repeated down the column. The chains were heavy, the women were sweating and appeared fatigued. They shuffled languidly along the avenue, escorted by two young men carrying rattan canes, which they used to encourage their captives with light taps on the legs and backsides.
It was impossible to tell if this was a tour group, like the girls on the plane, or a work party of local women; but some of the bodies showed traces of fading tan lines, a sign that they were not yet familiar with open-air nudity. So I guessed they were visitors. Their escorts may have been fellow tourists but were more likely hired guides. Indeed, I had seen such services — "for the complete Syrene experience" — featured in the advertising material.
