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[[Newspaper article]]
[[very bold print]]
[[Sh?]]rewd Natives Take a Toll
[[?]]s Zoo Ship Reaches Barbados
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[[bold print]]
Even the Cab Drivers Prove
Tourist-Wise in West Indian Port
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[[text in two columns]]
[[left column]]
[[italicized]]
Bearing gifts for South American zoos, Dr. William M. Mann, director of the National Zoological Park, is en route to points in Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay to collect birds, reptiles and animals. Among those on board his ship is William H. Shippen, jr., feature writer of The Star staff, who here presents the [[underlined]] fifth of [[/underlined]] a series of articles about Dr. Mann's expedition.
[[/italicized]]
__________________

[[bold print]]
By William H. Shippen, Jr.,
[[/bold print]]
Star Staff Correspondent.

S. S. URUGUAY. - When the anchor splashed down off Barbados today - five days out of New York - the good boat "Joe Louis Monach"
hove alongside with Capt. "George Roosevelt Washington" in command.
[[image: Black and white 'head shot' photograph of a man]]
[[caption]] W. H. Shippen, Jr. [[/caption]]
     At least, he appeared to be in command. He was wearing the only high hat on board (if little else) and kept giving orders in a loud voice. It presently began to appear, however, that the crew (which consisted of Mrs. George R. Washington at the oars) had independent ideas about navigation.
     To say that the Washingtons received a cordial welcome at the gangway would be overstating the case. The captain, however, managed to leap nimbly by the ship's officer when a wave tossed his craft in reach of the landing stage. He sprinted up the ladder and made his way to the promenade deck, some 60 feet above water.
     He announced that he, George Roosevelt Washington, was about to dive overboard. A few coins rattled at his bare feet. Then a prosperous-looking passenger threw him a half dollar, and demanded:
     "What did you say your middle name was, boy?"
     "Captain, suh, I'm just plain George Washington to you!"
[[bold type]] They Know Their Tourists. [[/bold type]]
     With that, George dived overboard in his opera hat. His black body made a perfect arc, striking clean, with scarcely a splash. The diver went all the way under our ship, which draws some 33 feet. Meanwhile, Mrs. Washington retrieved her husband's hat and dived for the coins that applauded his feat.
     The Joe Louis Monach was only one of a swarm of homemade rowboats manned by George Washingtons. There was the "Mae West," the "Georgia Peach," the "Queen Mary," etc. Many passengers were weary of the old coin-diving stunt, but the swimmers revived their jaded interest with a running fire of repartee.
     "I'm a British subject," called a lady passenger, "why should I toss coins to a lot of George Washingtons?"
     "Me lydy, me lydy," shouted a colored boy, "Ah'm not George Washington - really now. Ah only use the nyme for Amelican tourist. Me proper nyme is Nelson - Lawd Nelson!"
     When the low coast of Barbados came over the horizon this morning it seemed monotonous until details began to emerge - windmills (like those of Holland or Spain) whirling in the trade wind, tall palm trunks with feather duster tops, and, finally, a thriving harbor for scores of sailing and auxiliary craft.
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[[right column]]
[[bold print]] Illusions of the Past. [[/bold print]]
     Our anchorage was almost a mile off shore. Inland a British freighter was taking on a cargo of sugar from lighters. Natives of Barbados on our ship expressed the opinion that the port could have a channel and dock for steamships except that "several influential people own the lighters, you know."
     We went ashore in a launch. It was a bright day, and the channels of the water front were choked with sailing craft - traders from the Caribbean, Trinidad and South America, discharging fruit and all manner of merchandise, and loading sugar, rum, molasses.
     The scene might have been a throw-back on the Golden Age of the Spanish Main. There were two, three and four masted schooners, fishing boats of many types, and a great hum of activity on the wharves. The illusion of Barbados as it was a century ago was created by the fact that steamships anchor off shore and pleasure craft avoid the busy commercial water front.
     In narrow, water front streets were ship chandler shops ancient enough to have outfitted many a buccaneer. One saw such signs as "Sailor's Knives," "Turn-buckles," "Rigging," "Water Casks," etc.
     The port of the island of Barbados is called Bridg, British West Indies. It has its Trafalgar Square, its statue of Nelson, its Government House. The streets and sidewalks, like those of most West Indian ports, are incredibly narrow to bear such dense traffic. Everybody walks on the shady side of the street. One soon leans it's hot, very hot, in the sun - and quite cool in the shade, where the trade wind sends a breeze into the narrowest street.
     Colored women stalked along bearing burdens on their heads. The burden might be a bucket of water or this week's wash, but the dignified bearing of the women was the only sign they were aware of their loads. They turned their heads freely to laugh, shout and gossip in their strange patois.
    One type of woman vender carries a whole dispensary on her head. She sells a non-alcoholic drink brewed from the bitter bark of some tropical tree ... two or three drinks for a penny. She produced a cup, turns the spigot and fills the cup from a stream which descends over her forehead. I saw one do this while gossiping with a party across the street.
[[bold print]] Meal of Flying Fish.  [[/bold print]]
     We had a swim at the Aquatic Club, where the water is clear enough to show the fish in their marine gardens 20 feet or so below the surface, and lunch at the "Ice House" - or so it was known to old-timers. The place recently has been modernized, but thick walls remain from the day when the island's only ice was imported on ships and stored away from the tropical sun.
     We sat on a breezy balcony and ate flying fish newly fried. Having seen these fish swimming over the waves ahead of our ship, I supposed a dish of them would be a light meal. They proved rather substantial, however. I was more than half asleep before I could get back on the ship.
     Incidentally, the taxi driver who brought us back to the wharf was named "Cleveland."
     "What's your full name, boy?" we asked.
     "My name, suh, is Cleveland ... Grover Cleveland Ohio."
     Maybe he was just kidding us for an extra tip.
In any event, he got it.
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