Home again after what I guess they call the “south Caribbean” cruise — from Puerto Rico to Barbados, St. Lucia, Antigua, Sint Maarten and St. Thomas. These are the kinds of places made for amateur photographers, because every snapshot looks like a postcard.

And these are the kind of people that the brochures all say “They’re a proud people.” And so they are. And friendly and contented. But I don’t understand why they’re proud or friendly or contented, and I think I spent a lot of the trip being confused about that.

Now, to be sure, the weather and the beaches are all you’ve heard. It’s sun-kissed all day and balmy at night. The tropical jungle grows up through every crevice like crabgrass does where we live. In Puerto Rico, tree frogs called “Coqui’s” (for the ko-KEE sound they make) chirrup away in every palm tree when the sun goes down. All the islands were places where a loud print shirts, steel drum music and rum cake suddenly made a lot of sense. And all the natives I encountered were at least receptive — and sometimes almost exuberant — to the silly tourists invading their turf.

The problem is what I didn’t photograph, what I suspect tourists generally don’t photograph. When I got home and started going through the 90-some photos we took, I realized we didn’t have any of the cities and villages — at least none that were very close. I had some that I’d taken from scenic viewpoints where you could look down on many multi-colored roofs. But that didn’t show the troubling aspect that was common to all the human habitation of the islands — crowded clusters of dilapidated cement shacks, tiny hovels that were almost all in a state of hapless decay. Roofs of corrugated tin were nailed together, rusted through in places, falling in sometimes. Tiny yards were full of automobile bodies that plants and palm trees had grown up in. Chickens, goats, horses and cattle wandered about aimlessly in the street. And junk was everywhere — piled up, falling down, strewn around, speckling the landscape. Bars were on every window and door and covered the few window air conditioning units that I saw.

In short, the villages and cities all looked like slums. In Puerto Rico, we stayed at a really beautiful hotel in San Juan, but when we drove around, we found conditions ten minutes from the resort area were just the same — dirty, unmanaged and depressing.

The odd thing is that the people don’t seem to mind. The conditions depressed me, but they didn’t seem to find them depressing. I don’t say they were bouncing around doing the happy dance constantly, but here in the states, a neighborhood like that means just one thing if you look like you don’t belong — keep out; beware of the angry disenfranchised people. That kind of hostility wasn’t there as far as I could tell. In fact, as I said, I could see where the brochures come up with that “proud people” line. They did seem proud. I just couldn’t quite figure out what they were proud of, and I couldn’t think of any polite way to ask.

I don’t mention it now as if I have an answer even yet. Looking into the history of the assorted Caribbean islands is enough to make anyone of European descent blush. All these lush, beautiful islands were plundered and fought over, their resources and people exploited by one power after another (the island of Antigua changed hands from French to English 14 times). With every shift in the market, every faddish product of the tropical climes, the ecologies and people were directed into mass production — tobacco, spices, sugar, slaves. Those fads have all gone now. Tourism is the latest product they have to sell, but I sense that even that money may be altered from what it once was. The economy seems sluggish — the attractions we visited were scantily attended and barely kept up.

So I wouldn’t have been surprised if the island folk had snarled at us tourists, but then it might be a luxury they can’t afford. And — to put a brighter face on it — it really just might not be in their nature. As I alighted from out of the air-conditioned environs of the cruise ship into each tropical port, I would quickly wilt and become torporous. Great plans to go here and there would quickly seem ambitious and irrelevant. And any urge to hurry and fuss seemed remote and ridiculous. What was the point? Why hurry? Why not nap?

I have to wonder how the Europeans managed when they came here from colder climates. Did it seem like an ideal environment in which to get busy and be productive? And did they then wonder after a year or so what had happened to all those good plans, or did they just find themselves getting more tan and less worried and more content with sleeping during the day?

It could be a good thing. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt any of us to worry less and have a more pleasant outlook. I don’t know where letting your house fall down around you fits into all that, but maybe that just matters more to me than it does to them. These are lovely lands that fill the eye and the ear and the nose. If the towns and cities are more trouble than they’re worth, maybe that lack of concern is just part of a bigger outlook that takes in the past and the present together and sees that bricks and walls just aren’t the things that really last.