This came sooner than expected when a drunk driver rear-ended my most valuable asset, and when faced with a cash settlement or a new car, I split with the cash to Canada’s hippy haven, Vancouver. With the temperature hovering at freezing under constantly spilling clouds, the free and easy lifestyle had a frigid component my body could not abide.

So, hooking up with some friends who were heading to New Zealand as immigrants, I bought a one-way ticket to Auckland with a stop-off in Fiji. This escape was successful for I count myself still on the lam some 28 years later.

My escape progressed becoming more and more elaborate with my marriage in Jakarta to another escape artist, an American foreign service secretary whose job took her (and me as a dependent spouse) to such exotic and, at times, such dangerous assignments as Tehran, Freetown, Hong Kong, Algiers and, eventually, Caracas. Many were our adventures during those times, but eventually what at first  seemed like the epitome of comfortable evasion became itself a cage of familiar habits which left only one option – another escape. But first a few words about Caracas.

Margarita was no mystery to us as we had already visited the island several times, but this time we came with other things on our mind.

Margarita’s history is filled with colourful escapees of varying degrees of gentleness. Named by Christopher Columbus for an Austrian princess he had the misfortune to love unrequitedly, Margarita soon became a vault of pearls for the Spanish crown. Such riches soon.

Attracted pirates, and it is said that Sir Francis Drake, that most gentlemanly of freebooters, fathered many children here, their blue eyes and blond hair still to be seen in Juan Griego.

And, not to put too harsh a charge on Sir Francis, a squadron of Irish mercenaries was also stationed in the same area during the colonial wars. Many other pirates called Margarita home and a slightly lawless tradition of smuggling was established and flourishes to this day, except now we call it a Free Port.

It soon became obvious to us that despite the allure of any number of isolated natural wonders on the mainland, this island was definitely already on track. Having recently been discovered by Canadian sun seekers, the tourist industry was just starting up, although, Venezuelans had been coming here for years for the pristine beaches and contraband whiskey.

With beers for a quarter and a quart of rum for 50 cents, this beach ringed island seemed like paradise with one small problem. It was a sun up to sun down operation -- nightlife was almost nonexistent except for two glitzy discos that made you wear a jacket and tie. We’d found our nook.

Enthused by the opportunity this somnolent situation presented, we immediately began to plan the caper that would support our escape. A night spot, something attractive to both locals and foreigners, something tropical, t-shirts, shorts and flip-flops allowed.

So was born Mosquito Coast. Conceived as a Jimmy Buffet sort of canteen, Tex-Mex, tequila and cheap beer, we worked for 10 months with Venezuelan artisans to achieve a truly Caribbean decor where the customers would know they were on a tropical holiday.

However, we made an enormous and fateful mistake. Our opening  night party was a huge success and the restaurant tables got pushed aside for Latin America’s most favourite past time, dancing. The next night we quietly opened expecting to serve some food and drinks and generally get down to the job of dragging in the customers. Such solitude. From the 7 o’clock opening to midnight absolutely nothing happened; then people started arriving; the waiters hustled with menus, but the kitchen stayed idle. An air of expectancy hovered about until a brave soul, a veteran of the previous night’s party, asked when the dance music was going to start. Right away, of course, and we scrambled to put something together -- no DJ, a home changer, and my Yamaha amp. Well, we blew up the amp that night, but our reputation as a disco spread far and wide and for ten more years we led the pack.

That’s part of the escape but here’s some more. When you make money here, you get to keep it. Taxes are easy, living is cheap, restaurants are the best in the Caribbean.  Venezuela has had something like 5 winners in the last dozen Miss Universe contests (hybrid vigour), and although Venezuelans come in every colour imaginable, there is a racial harmony so complete that to call someone black, fat and ugly is construed as a compliment, or at worst, a warm and familiar greeting between friends.

Beer has gone up to 35 cents a bottle and you can buy it everywhere. Rum might now cost you $1.50 a bottle and the really good stuff maybe $6 (tastes like cognac). I mentioned the food; we’ve got decent local markets and excellent supermarkets, cinemas, castles and forts.  I did mention the beaches didn’t I? There's wind surfing and boating, and Miami’s only 3 hours away. Land’s still cheap, and foreigners can own it. 

The island still needs just about everything, so there’s lots of opportunities for enterprising escape artists. And, if speaking English is your only marketable talent, there are several sports books that will put you to work which brings to light one little problem lurking in the shadows. If you want to live here you’re going to have to learn at least the rudiments of Spanish.  But that comes easier than you might think, once you're among the natives.

Margarita is a nice combination of modern conveniences with rustic charm. Of all the Caribbean islands, its one of the few to have maintained a cultural identity and an awareness of its rich and varied past. Margariteñans still go far out to sea in small boats to fish for tuna, wahoo, dorado, snapper and sardines. We have South America’s second oldest church (the oldest is in the town of Coro on the Venezuelan mainland) and high rolling casinos, 5 star hotels and mud and wattle posadas.  Mercedes Kompresors share the streets with ‘57 Chevies. There are forts and castles and acres of colonial architecture, as well as the blight of towers and uncontrolled urban sprawl.