“...We helped ourselves, to these green islands like olives from a saucer,
munched on the pith, then spat their sucked stones on a plate...
What the white manager mean
to say was she was too rude, cause she dint take no shit
from white people and some of them tourist- the men
only out to touch local girls; every minute-
was brushing their hand from her backside so one day
she get fed up with all their nastiness so she tell
the cashier that wasn’t part of her focking pay”
Derek Walcott, Omeros.
Time has moved on since Walcott wrote about dear Helen. Now, the bulging flights arrive from Sweden, the UK and Germany, depositing sediments of middle aged tourists, but they are not the brute male Lancashire clods of yesterday but instead, economically liberated, independent women. Caribbean female sex tourism is in full bloom. Hordes of financially generous Western women flock to the Caribbean in droves to assume Stella personas, hoping to get their grooves back. They are non apologetic: they are seeking island boys. However, it is never that simple and there is often no HBO special ending as Terry McMillan would testify.
It is a fact that on many of our island’s beaches, transient sexual relationships are courted by young men hoping to begin a liaison with a woman looking for a good time. Many of the women are invariably older, sometimes overweight (but not all the time) and are open to anonymous, casual relationships. A few openly state that they wish to overcome the taboo of dating black and to experience the appeal of what they call “The Big Bamboo” but I would say that the vast majority are lonely and unhappy and come to the Caribbean to seek love and romance. These women are more than grateful for the regular sex and constant attention and to a certain extent, they are happy to pay for it. They prize the young mysterious loafers and blissfully ignore signs of latent intent. They overlook signs that some of these men are prepared to missell their motivations and to peddle lies in order to land a profit. Many of these women delude themselves that they are falling in love, not knowing that many of their island boys are in search of any opening, any opportunity, and any plane ticket.
The sensibilities and sensitivities in this sex trade tourism have never really been explored. It is often presented as merely a form of reverse sex tourism. In the Caribbean, the reputation of the English in this new world trade precedes them. For example, in Tobago, there has been a marked decrease in the idler population since Virgin Atlantic began its frequent flights to the island- many previously wandering loafers have migrated abroad after phallic sojourns that have gone extremely well. My 20 year old friend in Grenada pleads with me to introduce him to an English girl, commonly seen as the easiest prey. Canadians spend the most, Swedish are the prettiest and the English are the neediest. “Desperation Days” is the disdainful term awarded to the days when BA and Virgin make weekly flights to the islands, so eager and willing are these female barterers. In Jamaica they are crudely known as Milk Bottles (white and in need of filling); those of the black variety known as Stellas. The men amusingly refer to themselves as working for the Foreign Service. In Martinique, it is telling that locals refer to incoming flights of Air Canada as "Air Coucoune" — French for "Air Pussy."
Sometimes this reputation is deserved but contrary to the casual liaison stereotype that is often presented in the press, I am not sure that a lot of these women know what they are letting themselves in for. I recently met a friend in the departures queue for a flight back to London. As I languished in the Economy class line, he whisked past with his “Sugar Mommy” to Upper Class, after having spent two weeks in the finest resort in the island at $2500 a night. Only last year he was selling craft on the beach. He fully intends to divorce his wife after the now compulsory two year period set by the Home Office and to take steps to bring his Grenadian girlfriend and child to the UK.
His story is representative of the fact that local liaisons can be bought in the currency of the latest gadgets, promises of a better life overseas and of course, cold, hard cash. Michael Seyfert attempts to explore this in his Jamaican documentary- Rent a Rasta. These exchanges are never express, however. They are set in the context of a romance. The transactions have no fixed prices- they are shrouded in the language of pretence- the locals feign undying love, a tourist provides the goods. The cyclical holiday season means that there are often repeat customers. The men in question, who hang around amidst the sea gliders and power surfers, are the beneficiaries to a very base contract. The offer is no strings sex , intimacy and companionship which may or may not come with expensive restaurants, an Ipod, Nike Airs and a mobile phone. Who would not accept? A Sex on the Beach liaision is very strong security in the international market; it can lead to marriage, permanent immigration status in the West, in short, a better life.
The Montreal Gazette ran a very interesting piece on the topic. They reported that by some estimates “ 600,000 Western women have engaged in travel sex sometime over the last 25 years, many of them as repeat customers, returning to the tropics every winter for some sun and some action” . Dr Joan Phillips, a researcher, who was quoted in Annan’s Boodram’s piece on Sex Tourism, argues that female sex tourism is based on romance, remuneration and entrepreneurship. She goes on to say that “it is based on racialised sexual fantasies of the black man...it's the new commodity on sale for the tourist dollar and the newly liberated in search of the post-colonial Mandingo."
I am not sure that I agree fully with Joan Phillips’ assessment. It is very easy to paint Westerners as exploitative and locals as innocents but not all women are out to fulfil a post cultural stereotype. Some are lonely and unhappy and are genuinely seeking love. For others, it is a simple economic trade off. It is very easy to denounce the parties who engage in this trade, perching from our pseudo moral pedestals, but if both individuals are of age, disengaged and involved in a symbiotic exchange of mutual benefit, and they both feel happy with the arrangements, then who am I to judge? Will the market not balance out itself without my interference? Should we then not be concerned and write it off as just a bit of fun? Or is this a new saga in sexploitation which should be stamped on his head? Who then is the real victim? Who is really taking advantage of who?
On one hand, I empathise with the locals who make dying declarations of love. They are merely seeking their own interests, because circumstances force their hands- they live on islands that do not offer much in terms of prospects and where there is no welfare state to cushion the blow of poverty. However, I also feel sorry for those women who are often manipulated into providing expensive holidays and who offer a life abroad, only to find that they do not feature in the long term plans of their lovers. It is always a pity when a woman feels that she needs to travel to another country to feel affirmed and loved.
(Photo from media.canada.com- all rights reserved).
