Condor to Cabarete

Finally away from the German autumn! After an almost sleepless night, we take the train to Frankfurt. The train is on time, the plane is not. There are lots of my favourite people scurrying around at the airport: German holidaymakers. They expect only the best, know a lot, see little, like to complain and never think what they experience is the best of the best.

We go through all the checks (How much longer will it take?), off to the gate, out again (Why do we have to wait so long?), back in again (Can you give me the ticket?) and finally onto the Condor to Cabarete. For the first time in 20 flights, my knees don’t hit the seat in front of me. After 16 hours of travelling, the sun sets blood red over the Caribbean clouds.

The kites sleep in the luggage compartment. They dream of strong winds and crystal blue water. The board sleeps restlessly. Once again, despite prior registration at the counter, it was not received too kindly. But at least it’s there. Six months ago, British Airways almost gave us both a heart attack when they smugly told me before the last flight of my round-the-world trip: “Nope, from now on we won’t be carrying any more boards. You’ll have to leave them behind.”

It’s raining in Cabarete. The streets are steaming. Ali’s kite camp is as usual, with just a few more huts and only five guests due to the onset of the rainy season. Off to the beach at night and into the first bar. The beer is cool, the palm trees sway gently and the sea roars beautifully. Midnight here means six o’clock in the morning for us. The bed can cope with the heavy impact with a groan.

The last time I visited Cabarete was about four years ago. New flat blocks were being built everywhere. It was scary. Now they’re all empty. Empty. And the old hotels for sale in the rain. Everything is a bit morbid – except for the prices, which are enjoying excellent health with increases of 50-100% within four years.

Sabine wants to learn kitesurfing. We go to the beach with a trainer kite and she does a good job. After half an hour, the rain drives out all the wind again. I hope that her 12-day stay will be enough for a 6-hour course. The wind is unreliable at this time of year. The rain drips onto the palm roof of our little hut. Somehow I feel like I’ve been thrown from the frying pan into a 25-degree eaves.