“What if I’m attacked by a tarantula?” asked my wife Linda as we headed to St. Martin. She had read that St. Martin was one of the few Caribbean islands with enough tropical vegetation to sustain any animal and insect populations. The only tarantula she had ever seen was on her plate at the Explorers Club Annual Dinner at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York. And it was fried and delicious… and not dangerous at all.

Having had extensive experience with spiders of all kinds in Central and South America, I responded with confidence, “Darling, tarantulas are not hostile and never attack humans. If one gets on you, and I guarantee it won’t, don’t panic, don’t scream, and don’t cry. Simply brush it off with the back of your hand. If that doesn’t work, stand up slowly and jump up and down.”

I didn’t tell her, but if she were to get bitten by a tarantula, a little hydrogen peroxide would stop the slight swelling it would cause. Nor did I tell her the natives ate all the tarantulas 200 years ago.

On the small island of St. Martin are two nations, many languages, and many cultures… and they brag about it. St. Martin is actually Saint Martin/Sint Maartin, two colonies with two languages on one small island in the Lesser Antilles. The Dutch control the southern 16 square miles, and the French control the northern 21 square miles based on a 1648 treaty. The total population of the island is 35,000. (For comparison, Richland County has 325,000 people in 756 square miles.)

In our continuing search for Capt. Lightburn, Linda and I decided to take a quick tour of the island, avoiding tarantulas wherever possible, before hitting the libraries and museums. Once again, this meant passing up the usual Caribbean excursions such as catamaran rides, snorkeling, scuba diving, kayaking, and mountain bike riding.

George agreed to take us completely around the island in three hours and give us a historical and cul- tural tour along the way. We started in Philipsburg, the port and the Dutch capital. On one–way Front Street were the hotels, restaurants, cafés, and lots of cars. Peeking down the narrow alleyways, we were able to see pastel–colored cottages, somewhat reminiscent of Holland. Very few Dutch names jumped out at us; most were typical Americanese or French, a disappointment.

Our Toyota taxi circled the salt ponds which used to provide St. Martin with a valuable revenue, passed the Martin Luther King Jr. School, and climbed a mountain dotted with residential development. With no immigration, customs, or flag–waving, we entered the French side. We drove along the crest of the volcanic ridge, the highest mountain (Pic Paradis at 1,300 feet) to our left and the seashore to our right. French beach resorts were splattered along the white sand and brilliant coral waters. Names like Baie Longue, Baie Rouge, and Petite Plage only hinted at the bread, wine, and nude bathers who must be there.

George drove slowly through Grand Case, a quaint fishing village, so we could check out the touted seaside inns and outdoor cafés. This northernmost town was less crowded with cars but full of 20–somethings in thongs and cutoffs.

Around the bend, on the western side of the island we found Marigot, the French capital. This surprisingly modern and modest village had a real Frank flavor.

George parked the car in the main square. Linda and I parked ourselves at La Vie en Rose with café au lait and croissants. I paid our $8 bill and asked for change in Euros, my first of the new coins.

Continued Next Week