Sa ka fete?
Sa ka fete (which keeps trying to autocorrect to fête) is the ‘What’s up?’ of greetings here in Saint Lucia, and I love it because it sounds like you’re asking everyone if they’re having a party (which is fair here on an island where it seems like each day is some excuse for a celebration).
The party is just getting started here; until last week, all visitors had to quarantine for 14 days, but on May 30th that order was amended to exclude fully vaccinated visitors, who are allowed to roam the island freely—with a mask, of course. So in addition to our emerald green resort bracelets, we have a white hospital-style one courtesy of Customs & Immigration that at once allows us to move around and brands us foreigners. (Not like I was going to blend in anyway, though.)
We had an easy time getting down here thanks to the nonstop flight, and a smooth couple-hour ride from the main airport on the south of the island to our stay on in the northwest. The worst part was probably the hour we waited in line in a converted hangar before our COVID screening—that or the tension just before we walked through customs with our three checked luggage bags’ worth of New Balance sneakers for the fam. So many shoes.
The fact that Matthias’s mom Jacqui is from here paid off immediately as she asked our driver if he knew of that bakery where we could stop for good bread, ‘Good bread and fish cakes, on the way back from the airport, I was told?’ ‘O yes I know,’ he responded, and partway through our journey we pulled over on the side of the road.
Having already established consent to take a million pictures, I hopped out of the van camera in hand to capture this place. As I did a woman said, ‘And the bread! You have to get the bread, too!’ as she proudly pulled back the towel covering the loaves and tiled them for me. From behind her came another voice, that of a young man, ‘What about the baker?’ and he posed while I took his picture.
This bread was so. good. French-style, but a bit lighter and fluffier, and without as crunchy a crust. It wasn’t quite as soft as báhn mì, but I imagine was born of similar influences. When I said I would have just bread, they offered to add cheese as well and slathered the demi baguette in a generous amount of margarine. Just before we left Matthias spotted the hot sauce: bright orange, indicative of lots of habaneros or Trinidad scorpions. I pour a generous amount on my sandwich and Jacqui’s eyes go wide. ‘Girl, I want to watch you eat that!’ I’m fairly certain I have eyeballed the pepper mix and estimated the heat intensity correctly, but now I have a tiny bit of doubt.
The hot sauce is perfect: Bright and citrusy from the peppers, smooth from some stabiliser, a bit of bright acid from some vinegar. It’s hot but not too hot—what I think is the perfect, sweet heat of the habanero types of peppers that builds slightly and stays on your tongue without punching you in the mouth like all the darker red Carolina reapers and ghost peppers. It’s delightful on my simple cheese baguette and when I finish it Jacqui laughs and remarks that she’s never seen a white girl who likes hot pepper so much.
Anyway there’s apparently a brand called Baron’s that people refer to by name and I’ve been putting it on everything.
The next day we take a tourist day to visit Soufrière to see the world’s only drive-in volcano, as well as some mud baths and waterfalls. Jacqui’s cousin knows a guy who has a friend who will take us, or something like that. As you would have anywhere, there’s a network of family and friends to help out.
We ride for a few hours in the world’s greatest truck, a Toyota Hilux, and stop along the way at various vistas for pictures, or watering holes for food. Ram knows where to go for island fried chicken, or tide cold Piton, the local lager named after the volcanic spires, Petit Piton and Gros Piton, that feature prominently on the island’s topography.
We make our way to the Sulphur Springs on island time, stopping to take pictures, grab a cold one that we can take in the car as long as we don’t spill, have lunch, and take more pictures along the way. By the time we make it to the waterfalls four hours later they’ve just closed, but the Sulphur Springs are still open for a tour.
Tip: Bring an old bathing suit you don’t mind staining, as the water is black and the mud is full of sulphur.
The volcano is indeed the world’s only drive-in volcano, and our guide comes with us, putting us one over the seating capacity of the Hilux. I ask Matthias if he’ll sit in the bed with me.
He likes it so much we sit in the bed for the two-hour drive back.
‘How are you?’ he asks me. ‘I’m relaxed,’ I answer, reflecting on how vacations are a concentration of self-care for me: A change of scene, meals out, different languages and cultures, photography, writing. I’m so grateful to be able to do this again; it’s been too long.