Gordon Barlow

I’ve been making the same trip to the supermarket the whole thirty-seven years we’ve lived in Cayman. Well, pretty much. Until 1997 we lived just over the road from a mini-market, which meant there wasn’t much need to patronize the

The poinciana trees are starting to flower now, and Cayman is transformed. I’ve never considered this a pretty island, except at this time of year. The purple and pink bougainvillea shrubs, the “Pride of Barbados” plant, and fifty shades of

Despite its large Public Revenue – US$700 million for a population of 50,000 – Cayman has generally low educational standards – the consequence of a poor educational strategy. Two generations ago, the Islands’ political representatives seem to have been persuaded

It’s an axiom of human-rights theory, that without freedom of speech, no other freedoms can be guaranteed. As an English colony since 1670 (British since 1707, to be pernickety), the Cayman Islands ought to be a model of free speech.

For the first 25 years or so after we left Canada in 1967, Linda & I received our respective salaries free of all deductions. It was a very comfortable feeling, to be so self-reliant. In the three Offshore tax havens

Cayman’s earliest settlers would have come by boat – some time in the early 1600s – from Jamaica or Cuba. There is no evidence of any aboriginal inhabitants, so the first comers would have been European and African refugees from

Our Islands are in trouble, following the latest political upheaval. It seems likely that our most charismatic politician, our recently dismissed Premier, will now push for independence from Britain. He will have his work cut out for him, because all

We who have our own blogsites know how fascinating it is to read the statistics section. Mine is a blogspot.com freebie (a Google service, I think), whose stats are brief, basic and misleading, but even so… All my posts are

The more we (Linda and I) think about an emergency bolthole to escape a worldwide economic collapse, the more we wonder if we’re not already living in it. (The bolthole, that is: not the collapse!) One’s home is always familiar