Same Island, Different Beach, New Challenge

As I mentioned in my last article, I’ve been to the Caribbean island of Grenada about a dozen times, and have always stayed at the same hotel near the airport, which effectively enjoyed a private beach, and where everyone from the owner downwards knew me personally. That hotel went bust last year, so this time, I had to find somewhere new. I chose the beautifully-maintained Coyaba Beach Resort, located in the middle of the 2.5km-long Grand Anse Beach, which is the recreational hub for many of the island’s inhabitants.

The beautifully-maintained Coyaba Beach Resort.

Booking this holiday hadn’t been straightforward. My usual courtesy e-mail advising the hotel’s management of my unconventional mode of dress had been met with the Operations Manager’s response: “at this time we would not be able to accommodate your request; we currently have persons working with us in the area of your expertise.” That was unexpected! My request for clarification went unanswered for ten days, so I asked my Virgin Holidays travel agent to follow it up; they raised the issue with a lady named Johanna, an independent excursions organiser on the island who looks after Virgin guests at Coyaba. I’ve known Johanna for many years, as she’d performed a similar function at the previous hotel I’d stayed at; the next thing I knew, I received an e-mail update: “sorry for the misunderstanding, we look forward to welcoming you in November.” I asked Johanna about this sudden change of heart when I subsequently met her again; apparently, the management had expressed concern — presumably based on salacious anecdote and hearsay — but she’d simply told them that I was “a quiet man who’ll be no trouble”.

The majority of the guests at Coyaba were couples of an age at which the topic of discussion frequently centred around grandchildren; they’d get together in fours or sixes and engage in friendly competition about whose progeny were the most talented. That’s not my scene; I struck up a casual conversation with a few guests on my first full day, but didn’t gain access to any of their inner sancta. Fortunately, being alone in a crowd doesn’t bother me — it was an excellent opportunity to do some serious people-watching!

I had dinner early that evening, then went straight to bed — jet lag had caught up with me. However, I awoke just after midnight feeling unwell, and spent the hours until dawn being sick. No, it wasn’t an over-indulgence of alcohol; in fact, the barman — a soft-spoken guy named Stanley — had been “counting my drinks” after I’d arguably had one too many rum punches the evening I arrived … this time, I’d only had a vodka and tonic. Food poisoning, perhaps? I skipped breakfast, and asked at the front desk where I could get some Dioralyte. There was a pharmacy in the shopping mall 200m across the street, and another in a row of shops about the same distance in the opposite direction. Being a Saturday, they both opened at 9 a.m. Apparently.

So at 9:15, I grabbed some money, and wearing my most modest sundress — a red-and-white-striped cotton mini — I left the hotel. A short walk brought me to the mall, and the pharmacy … which was closed! A security guard informed me that it opened at 10 a.m.; he was interrupted by an imposing guy with dreadlocks who advised me to go to the other pharmacy suggested by the front desk. “Is it open?” “Yeah man. I just come from there.” “OK, thank you.”

Five minutes’ walk along a busy street and across a traffic intersection brought me to the second pharmacy, which was indeed open. I found what I was looking for, and had queued up to pay when a voice behind me asked “you too?” I turned to see a young local man, also holding a packet of Dioralyte. “Err, it’s not due to alcohol,” I explained, unconvincingly. “No”, he replied, “there’s a virus going round. Since Carnival.” “Oh.” I had no idea when Carnival was, but he seemed knowledgeable about it. “I thought it was something I ate yesterday.” “Where you stay?” “Coyaba.” He shook his head. “Unlikely, man. Probably the virus. You’ll be better in two days.”

I negotiated a confusion of US and East Caribbean currency, paid for my goods, and returned to the hotel. As I walked back through the entrance, I reflected on the total absence of comments, laughter, or even stares from the locals. Inside the artificial environment of a hotel, the paying guest can expect courtesy … but it’s a different matter in The Real World outside the gate. I felt humbled.

A couple of days later, I narrated this story to Stanley, who was unsurprised. Grenada’s a very friendly island, and the locals are by nature live-and-let-live … and it goes a lot deeper than just being polite in order to secure tourist dollars: had it been necessary to pull the same stunt in Jamaica, for instance, the outcome would most likely have been very different. Stanley also revealed that, while the Operations Manager had briefed the staff on my impending arrival, it had aroused more curiosity than hostility or apprehension. Indeed, by the end of my holiday, I was on “girly talk” terms with many of the younger female members of staff, and the photograph album I carry on such occasions illustrating my glamorous coming-out years was highly sought after!

Being unwell had upset my sleeping pattern, and I continued to wake before 6:00 a.m. until almost the end of the holiday … but for me, this is the best time of day. Breakfast wasn’t until 7:00, so I usually took the opportunity to go for a walk or a swim. One morning, I decided to go further afield, and explore Spice Island Beach Resort, an upmarket hotel a few hundred metres along the beach; several of my friends had recommended this hotel as an alternative to Coyaba, but it was much more expensive, and we were all interested to see how the two compared. So, dressed in a white sports skirt and tee-shirt, I strode out onto the beach just before 6 o’clock and turned westwards. Only the true fitness aficionados were out so early, some running, some swimming … but everyone was very friendly, and we all greeted one another like old acquaintances. I arrived at Spice Island within a few minutes and wandered in, but apart from one woman in the pool, it was deserted. A security guard appeared and greeted me politely, saw my Coyaba wristband, then proceeded to try to convince me that I was staying at the wrong hotel, and that next time I should book Spice Island! After a long chat, we went into the reception, and he handed me a glossy brochure to take away. Beautiful though it is, I shan’t be staying there any time soon unless I come into a significant amount of money!

The early-morning tranquillity of Grand Anse Beach doesn’t last for long … within a couple of hours of sunrise, it’s packed with local craftspeople trying to sell trinkets to the tourists. One such guy took me along the beach one afternoon to introduce me to some of his colleagues, who no doubt also had trinkets to sell. But as we got further from the hotel, I started to feel uncomfortable amidst a number of aggressive comments in patois from groups of local youths … presumably triggered by the fact that I was wearing a lilac dress, and had palm trees painted on my toenails. My guide responded to their comments in like mode; I’m sure he had the best of intentions, but I nevertheless decided to turn back to my hotel. The only word I recognised during these exchanges was “pussy” … one of the guest relations staff in the hotel later confirmed with a grin that, in this context, it means the same in patois as it does in english. And it has nothing to do with cats.

There’s a ritual that’s played out every week at this type of resort — the Manager’s Cocktail Party. This is the chance for the Top Team to meet the guests, and vice versa. I recall complaints some years ago at my previous hotel that the then Manager was too obtrusive … almost to the point where guests felt they were being spied on; by contrast, some guests had criticised the Manager at Coyaba for never showing himself. I guess you can’t please everyone all of the time. Having been attacked relentlessly over the past few evenings by mosquitoes, I put aside the posh dress I’d brought for the occasion in favour of a casual ankle-length skirt and a sleeveless top, then went down to join the party. I identified the Manager from his picture in reception, and wandered over. To the two couples in front of me: “Good evening sir, madam. How are you enjoying your holiday?” Then to me: “Good evening, Mr. Holmes. Glad to have you with us.” After exchanging a few words, I went to get a drink when a man came up to me and exclaimed “You must come here a lot for the Manager to know your name!” “No, it’s my first time.” “Oh …” I explained that I’d probably become known to the entire staff months before even setting foot in the resort. “Famous or infamous,” I added. It turned out that this very unassuming man, Rupert, was a Commodore in the Royal Navy, and had been responsible for driving an LGBT diversity policy through the organisation. Interestingly, he was neither gay nor trans himself, but he knew an impressive number of key players on the LGBT scene. What are the chances of meeting someone like that 6000km from home in a Caribbean holiday resort? As the person who guided the introduction of a trans policy into British Telecom some years earlier, I had something in common with Rupert, and I was very keen to get to know him better. I joined him and his wife Kate for dinner — along with a very nice single woman, Patricia. Patricia was my age; she’d booked with Saga Holidays, but had soon realised that this had been a mistake, and had defected from the group! The four of us had a great evening, and I made sure I secured everyone’s contact details before they went their separate ways the following day.

Just before I left Coyaba, I had a chance to speak to the Operations Manager with whom I’d exchanged e-mails prior to my booking. “Having a man who wears dresses in the resort is something new for us,” she said. “I understand,” I answered, “and you have to be sensitive to the feelings of your guests … but I told you that most of them wouldn’t care!” Apart from one old man who’d consistently ignored my pleasantries, that had turned out to be true, although I’d given this individual no cause to complain to the hotel management. “It’s good for people to learn that we’re just ordinary guys with an unconventional mode of dress; it’s also good for your hotel to be known as a place that doesn’t discriminate, and it’s good for me to know that there’s somewhere else I can go on holiday. Everyone wins.” My well-practised script was responded to with “take care until we see you again.” Job done.

Tags: crossdressing, featured, public interaction, society

Category: Transgender Body & Soul