I’D BARELY RECOVERED from Bodmin Moor when word came down from Granny. She wanted me to go to the Caribbean. A two-week tour to
commemorate her sixtieth year on the throne, my first official royal tour representing her.
It was strange to be called away so suddenly, with a finger snap, from my Army duties, especially so close to deployment.
But then I realized it wasn’t strange at all. She was, after all, my commander.
March 2012. I flew to Belize, drove from the airport to my first event along roads thronged with people, all waving signs and flags. At my first
stop, and every stop thereafter, I drank toasts to Granny and my hosts with homemade alcohol, and performed many rounds of a local dance called the punta.
I also had my first taste of cow-foot soup, which had more of a kick than the homemade alcohol.
At one stop I told a crowd: Unu come, mek we goo paati. In Creole that means: Come on, let’s party. The crowd lost it.
People cheered my name, and shouted my name, but many shouted my mother’s name. At one stop a lady hugged me and cried: Diana’s baby! Then fainted.
I visited a lost city called Xunantunich. Thriving Mayan metropolis, centuries ago, a guide told me. I climbed a stone temple, El Castillo, which was intricately carved with hieroglyphs, friezes, faces. At the top someone said this was the highest point in the whole nation. The view was stunning, but I couldn’t help looking down at my feet. Below were the bones of untold numbers of dead Mayan royals. A Mayan Westminster Abbey.
In the Bahamas I met ministers, musicians, journalists, athletes, priests. I attended church services, street festivals, a state dinner, and drank more toasts. I rode out to Harbour Island in a speedboat that broke down and began to sink. As we took on water, along came the press boat. I wanted to say no thanks, never, but it was either join them or swim for it.
I met India Hicks, Pa’s goddaughter, one of Mummy’s bridesmaids. She took me along the Harbour Island beach. The sand was bright pink. Pink sand? It made me feel stoned. Not altogether unpleasant. She told me why the sand was pink, a scientific explanation, which I didn’t understand.
At some point I visited a stadium full of children. They lived in abject poverty, faced daily challenges, and yet they greeted me with jubilant cheers and laughter. We played, danced, did a little boxing. I’d always loved children, but I felt an even keener connection to this group because I’d just become a godfather—to Marko’s son Jasper. Deep honor. And an important signpost, I thought, I hoped, in my evolution as a man.
Towards the end of the visit the Bahamian children gathered around me and presented me with a gift. A gigantic silver crown and an enormous red
cape.
One of them said: For Her Majesty. I’ll see that she gets it.
I hugged many of them on my way out of the stadium, and on the plane to the next stop I donned their crown proudly. It was the size of an Easter basket and my staff dissolved into fits of hysterical laughter.
You look a perfect idiot, sir.
That may be. But I’m going to wear it at the next stop. Oh, sir, no, sir, please!
I still don’t know how they talked me out of it.
I went to Jamaica, bonded with the prime minister, ran a footrace with Usain Bolt. (I won, but cheated.) I danced with a woman to Bob Marley’s “One Love.”
Let’s get together to fight this holy Armagiddyon (one love)
At every stop, it seemed, I planted a tree, or several. Royal tradition— though I added a twist. Normally, when you arrive at a tree planting, the tree is already in the ground, and you just throw a ceremonial bit of soil into the hole. I insisted on actually planting the tree, covering the roots, giving it some water. People seemed shocked by this break with protocol. They treated it as radical.
I told them: I just want to make sure the tree will live.
