If you are on Bonaire, and you hear these words, or even think them, you should probably take a deep breath, eat some cheese, and shake it off. You are probably not hard core enough to find the golf course. Your car should be thanking me for this recommendation.
Not knowing any better, when my mother declared we should take a look and see what it was alike, we set out. We hadnt really planned for the excursion. We didnt take the directions, supplies, or a sherpa. I vaguely remembered that the website (http://www.piedraso.com) mentioned something about Lagoen and following signs. Not being a regular here, I had no idea what this meant, but my dad thought he knew roughly where the route started.
Indeed, we found a painted rock that said "golf" and had an arrow pointing to a dirt road.
Calling it a road may have been charitable. The unpaved roads here are really just a lot of potholes clustered together in a flat place with some gravel thrown on for texture. This is a typical road. It is in a lot better shape than the one we turned off on.
The golf rocks lead us past a few forks, but then sort of disappeared for a while and my dad decided to wing it. I mentioned that I didnt see any signs leading us out at this point. I also didnt see any golf course.
Eventually we ran into another one, and it pointed us down towards the beach. At this point, we were running out of island. Please excuse the tilt of this photo. It is likely we were bouncing up and down. Many of the roads have a washboard like grating to them that is not unlike the rumble strips on the outside of the fog lines in the States intended to let you know when youre going offroad. In this case, there is no onroad.
Once, i was in a car that drove over a tree stump. I could feel it push against the undercarriage of the car and go under my feet. This road is like driving through a forests worth of those. Thats the ocean straight ahead of us, we are about to turn right.
So where is the course? Yeah, we are still a few minutes out. We follow this road some more, parallel to the ocean, past some goats. I dont know what they live off down here, but I think it is the meat of unsuspecting tourists.
The only way to tell the road from the not-road is faint traces of a previous driver. Here, you try:
After another signless fork and a dead end, we finally found it. If no one is playing apparently this gate is locked. We were in luck, someone was apparently out on the course.
Ladies and gentlemen, i present to you the fairway:
I was skeptical that anyone really golfs here, but i found some archeological evidence. I also found some bones.
Doesnt this place look like fun? No shade, desert sun, hot wind, grainy dirt... My understanding of golf may be somewhat limited, but i am pretty sure this place isnt St Andrews.
I took a lot of pictures because i dont think we are ever going back. After a brief exploration, we got back on the road. It dead ended at the golf course, so we know there was no short cut.
Here we go, back to town! Yay! Civilisation! Pool!
We have a lovely view of the rocks with a view of the ocean from the passenger side as we leave.
But wait, whats that? Further down the deserted beach, near unto nothing...
"Theres a sign there, can you see what it says?"
"No, dad, I dont have my telephoto lens on, and my eyes are full of golf course."
"Lets drive down there."
"Theres no road."
"Im sure theres a road. This is probably a road. I need to know what that sign says."
"It probably says 'haha, white people are suckers. Go home' or 'abandon all hope ye who golf here.'"
Turns out, i was mostly right.
We got out of there as fast as the car and "road" allowed. Which was about 3 mph. Now we had another problem. This was the only sign we saw on the way out. It says "check rearview mirror for panoramic view."
I cannot even begin to describe how poor the signage to the golf course was. Tiny rocks painted to say "golf," only about half of which had directional arrows. The fact that we were alerted to check the mirror for a view we would have had to see through the windscreen to even get this far, to be able to turn around and see it in the rearview... beyond laughable.
Through all this, my mother is sitting in the back of Daktari. She cant see out any windows but the back, and has been mostly ignoring our signage issues in favour of bracing herself and not hitting her head on the bumps. i am getting seriously worried for my camera, and stop taking pictures. The heat, dust, and shaking cant be good for it. I think we are getting those traumatic brain injuries that football players get, brains concussing against our own skulls. i have developped a bruise where my leg is braced on the door, and we are not even close to out yet.
We get lost on the way out, having been more concerned with looking for painted rocks than paying attention to the forks on the way in. We pass a fork and know we are looking at unfamiliar landmarks. There are occasional houses back here, mostly made of cargo containers or thrown together shacks. A few are concrete. They are distinct enough to be somewhat memorable, but similar enough for you to think youve seen them before. Maybe we are going in circles. Maybe "golf" means "hell" in Papiamentu.
Decision making at this point becomes specious: "This fork looks less travelled." "That looks like a rich people house, go that way." "That fork looks more travelled." "Maybe if we always turn left we will get out." These are all reasons we give each other for picking one direction over others.
We pass a sign for some bike trails. Maybe thats what we have actually been on this whole time. We take it as a sign of encroaching civilisation.
Eventually we spot a cruise ship in the far distance, against the cactus horizon. Cruise ships dock in town. If we head towards it, we will get there right? I dont think any of us has ever been quite so happy to see a ship. We emerge 45 minutes after leaving the golf course, in a different neighbourhood than the one we left. It feels like we have been through a food processor. When we arrive at the store to pick up groceries, i am not sure if i will need a minute to get my land-legs back.
Moral of the story: Bonaire golfers are badasses.
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