“I may ask you to ship me one of those cows if I can’t find a source for beef down there,” I said to Gary.
“No problem,” he said through a mouthful of noodles. “I’ll deliver it.”
We parted tearfully, and I drove to my friend Pat’s house to spend the night. It was almost midnight by the time I pulled into the yard, and Pat was waiting up for me. I had so much to tell her about Anguilla, but I was falling asleep. We would talk in the morning.
“Can you believe I’m doing this?” I said the next day as we drove south to Logan Airport.
“No, but you do a lot of things I can’t believe.”
“I hope you can visit soon. It really is beautiful. Our house is a little odd, but there is an extra bedroom. I can’t wait to show you the beaches. They’re pure white powder, and there’s never anyone on them. The ocean is the most amazing shade of turquoise, and the water is so warm, it’s like swimming in a bathtub. There’s this one beach that not too many people know about called Captain’s Bay—it’s way up at the eastern tip of the island, far away from any of the hotels. You drive on this bumpy dirt road, which is really more like a goat path, and when you get there, it’s totally deserted—no houses, not a building in sight. Only this perfect beach. The waves are a little rougher, and on either side are these craggy rocks that look like craters on the moon. They go right down to the water. The waves crash against the rocks and roll up onto the beach, and you feel like you’re a million miles from anywhere.”
We drove in silence for a while, and I remembered Bob was getting the bed that afternoon from St. Martin. I pictured him unloading it from the funny green freight boat, the Lady Odessa. I wondered how many goats were napping on my bed.
Chapter 3
The Lady Odessa was tied up alongside the dock in Blowing Point, and Bob spotted the bed leaning against a sizeable wall of Heineken boxes that had apparently been unloaded from the boat. Mac was standing among a group of taxi drivers who congregate, while waiting for a fare, in the shade of a loblolly tree just outside the ferry terminal.
“You goin’ south?” Mac asked.
“No, I’m here to get that bed.” Bob pointed toward the dock. “Do I have to pay duty on a bed?”
Several of the taxi drivers chuckled, and one said, “You gotta pay duty on everything in Anguilla.”
“Customs is right there,” Mac said. “Go see those boys. They’ll take your money.”
“Bed has to go in the warehouse,” said the customs officer.
“But I need to sleep on it tonight,” Bob explained. “I’ve checked out of my hotel. I thought I could just pay the duty and get the bed.”
“No, man,” the officer said sternly. “You gotta put the bed in the warehouse and do an entry. It’ll take two or three days to process the paperwork.”
“Look.” Bob was trying to remain calm. “If I don’t get the bed now, I’ll have to sleep on the floor.”
“Give the man he bed,” said a voice from behind. It was Bennie, and after several minutes of playful arguing and idle threats, he convinced the customs officer to release the bed to Bob.
“Nex’ time it go in the warehouse,” said the officer as he completed the necessary forms, rubber-stamping every page. Then he told Bob that the duty was $537.64.
“That’s over half the cost of the bed,” Bob said, shocked at the amount.
“No, man. That E.C. dollars. You wanna pay in U.S., it two hundred dollars.”
Two hundred dollars was certainly better than $537.64, but it still seemed like a lot. Bob was nonetheless grateful for something to sleep on.
The late-afternoon sun reflected off the tin roof of the terminal, and Bob squinted as he walked down onto the dock toward the Lady Odessa. The boat’s light green hull was nearly camouflaged by the aquamarine water, and it looked like something you might come across in the South China Sea or cruising up the Amazon. Its wooden bow scooped up high to a point, and a boxy cabin covered the rear of the boat. From under the deck, soggy cases of raw chicken parts were being passed up to a man who tossed them to another on the pier, where they were stacked in a dripping pile.
Bob tried to shake the word salmonella from his mind. The cartons of chicken sat defrosting in the sun, surrounded by a growing puddle of water, and were marked KEEP FROZEN.
He waited for someone to stop tossing chicken, but they ignored him. “I’m looking for the captain,” Bob said finally. “I’m here to pick up that bed.”
“Cap’n down in the hole.” The man stacking the chicken pointed to an opening in the deck. “Jus’ wait till he finish countin’ the chicken.”
So Bob sat down on the Heineken boxes and waited. Island time, he told himself. He looked at the ferryboats anchored in the harbor and tried to picture the dugout canoes used by the Arawak Indians who had lived here before the island became a British colony. He envisioned the boatloads of slaves brought in by the English settlers.
The Lady Odessa rose and fell with the waves, softly thudding against the rubber tires that cushioned it from the pier. As it rocked, the bowline creaked like a squeaky floorboard, tightening, falling slack, then tightening again. It was clear how Blowing Point got its name. The soft trade winds from the east funneled down the channel between St. Martin and Anguilla and blew steadily over the small protrusion of land. One of the ferryboats roared into the quiet harbor, leaving a frothy white trail behind. The Lady Odessa rocked wildly in the wake, and Bob watched as the waves calmed and turned into gentle ripples against the shore.
Observing a stream of passengers pour out of the ferry, Bob felt very much a part of Anguilla. Tourists would come and go, but he and I would stay. We were no longer visitors here, but locals. I wonder where we’ll go on vacation, he thought.
A snorkeler swam past the boat and in toward shore, his air tube bobbing above the waves. Once in shallow water, he stood up, holding his bag proudly for Bob to see.
“Lobsters,” he said as Bob got up to take a closer look.
“How’d you catch them?”
“Caught ’em with my lasso.” He held up a stick about four feet long with a piece of wire tied in a loop at one end. “I dives down an’ looks under the rocks where the lobsters live. Then I take my lasso like this.” He held his stick out as if to touch an imaginary lobster. “I slip the noose over his head and then . . . gotcha.” He yanked the stick back, demonstrating how it was done, and handed it to Bob for closer examination.
Bob admired the tool, paying particular attention to the wire at the end.
“How many lobsters do you have in there?” he asked.
“About twenty-five or so, and I shot this snapper with my spear gun.” The lobsters snapped their tails violently, making the bag shake. “Whatcha’ doin’ down here on the freight dock?”
“I’m trying to pick up a bed I bought in St. Martin. I can’t seem to find out how much to pay the captain. He’s busy unloading chicken.”
“Lemme see if I can help.” The man tossed his bag of lobsters onto the pier and pulled himself up out of the water. He was wearing a black wet suit and was built like Arnold Schwarzenegger, his narrow waist expanding upward into a huge chest and massive shoulders. His biceps were bigger than Bob’s legs, and his thighs bulged with muscle, presumably from a life of swimming around the bottom of the sea.
He walked toward the Lady Odessa, leaving a wet trail behind him, and Bob followed, feeling very small.
“Yo, Rupert,” he yelled to the man unloading the chicken. “The man come for he bed. Stop now. How much it tis?”
“Fifty dollar,” came a reply from below as another case of chicken was handed up.
“Fifty too mucha money, man,” he said, jumping down onto the deck of the Lady Odessa and kneeling next to the opening to negotiate the freight bill. “The man say twenty-five.”
“Forty. Nuttin’ less,” the captain answered.
“Come.” The snorkeler motioned for Bob to come aboard. “Pay the cap’n. Leff we go with the bed.”
“No, man,” Bob’s new friend said. “Forty E.C.”
Bob sheepishly put the money back in his wallet and pulled out two E.C. twenties (about $15 U.S.). He wondered how to determine if someone was quoting U.S. dollars or Eastern Caribbean dollars, and would be sure to ask in the future.
“Thanks a lot,” Bob said as the two went for the mattress and box spring. “My name’s Bob.”
“I Shabby,” he replied, offering a strong, wet handshake.
Shabby picked up the box spring as if it were a feather, balanced it on his head, and carried it to the roof of the rented jeep. Bob dragged the mattress along behind, but before he got too far, Shabby returned, lifted it to his head, and carried it off effortlessly.
They tied the bed onto the roof, and Bob offered to give Shabby a ride home.
“You wanna learn how to dive for lobsters?” Shabby asked with a killer white smile.
“I’d love to,” said Bob.
“Meet me here tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock. I got extra snorkeling gear at home, and I’ll make you a lasso tonight.” Bob dropped Shabby at his house and drove away, anxious to tell me he was going to a tropical rodeo the next day to lasso lobsters.
The following afternoon Shabby was sitting in the shade of the taxi driver tree with the usual group, and he sprang up as Bob approached. The two walked down to the beach where Shabby had put the snorkeling gear.
“Leff we go,” Shabby said, and disappeared under the waves, towing the nylon lobster bag by one foot and carrying his spear gun and lasso stick. Bob followed, armed with his new lasso, awed by the silent, colorful world he had just entered. On the way into deeper water, the sandy bottom gradually gave way to outcroppings of coral. Shabby motioned repeatedly for Bob to resurface so he could identify the innumerable kinds of fish. A bright blue and yellow angelfish, a luminous yellow grunt with blue stripes, red hind, needlefish, grouper, parrot fish, and oldwife. A large stingray drifted over Bob’s head, and schools of fish scooted away in unison, darting in and out of the strange and exotic-looking coral. Patches of sea grass danced in the currents, and Shabby swam gracefully through it, gliding along the bottom like a big black fish. He was clearly at home under water and seemed able to hold his breath forever as he peered under every crevice in the reef. He would slip his lasso over a lobster, snap it out in a flurry of sand and bubbles, and add it to his bag.
A decent swimmer and a respectable athlete, Bob tried to keep up. Actually, the hardest part was keeping down. The incredible buoyancy of the salt water made him feel as though he had on a life jacket. He’d fight his way down toward Shabby but often would bounce back to the surface like a submerged beach ball.
After two hours Shabby had filled the lobster bag and Bob had caught one. He was exhausted, and as he stumbled out of the water back by the ferry dock his arms and legs felt like lead. Even the air felt heavy. He collapsed on the beach, wishing he’d put more lotion on the backs of his legs, which were beet red with sunburn.
“You got lobster for dinner tonight,” Shabby said, holding up Bob’s catch.
“I’m not sure I have the energy to cook it.” Bob struggled to his feet.
On the way back Bob told Shabby about the restaurant.
“My brothers and me, we does construction work if you need help,” Shabby offered.
“We definitely need help,” Bob replied.
“Jus’ leave me know and we be down there when you ready.”
The next morning, Cable & Wireless, a British version of AT&T, came to the house to hook up our phone. Anguilla, Bob learned from the installers, has only had telephones since 1971. They had obviously come a long way. Before leaving, they reviewed the available services: call waiting, call forwarding, three-way conference calling, speed dialing, ring back when free, calling name delivery, automatic busy callback, and instant recall. As soon as they drove away, Bob left a message at my hotel saying we might have to attend night school to learn how to run the phones.
My first day in Miami was a fiasco. I wasted five hours in traffic, witnessed a shooting, saw three accidents on I-95, and was rear-ended in a parking lot. Cranes and jackhammers made it impossible to maneuver the city streets, and that night I moved to Boca Raton. It was more civilized, and I quickly learned my way around.
My schedule became routine. I arrived at Home Depot by six-thirty each morning, and after spending several hours with the men in orange aprons, I zoomed up and down the highway, systematically checking off everything on my list: a day designing menu covers, three days working with a plant broker who gave me a crash course in tropical gardening, almost a week scrounging through acres of restaurant equipment (which included the search for Cora Lee’s stove), and repeated visits to Crate & Barrel and Williams-Sonoma.
Dining chairs were the biggest challenge. Finding fifty chairs in stock was difficult. Most required a special order, which would take twelve weeks, but I needed them immediately; on a tight budget, this appeared impossible. I covered every inch of South Florida and finally lucked out with forty-eight chairs someone had ordered and never picked up. They were a very tropical-looking white rattan, sturdy enough to take abuse, and best of all, 30 percent off.
Each night around eight I’d call Bob, who always had changes to make to the list, and then go to the local bookstore until midnight for study time. I spent hundreds of dollars on cookbooks for menu ideas.
Days turned into weeks, and at long last our permits were approved. Bob left a message on my voice mail at the hotel saying we were officially licensed aliens. Our furniture from Vermont had passed through Miami and was on its way to Anguilla. There was no turning back now.
Shabby and his three brothers began demolition with Bob. They arrived daily with sledgehammers and crowbars, gutting the bathrooms and ripping out walls. The old boat that had previously been the bar was removed easily, thanks to the termites and Shabby’s bulk and strength. One kick with his size-fourteen shoe, and it was reduced to a pile of sawdust and rotten boards.
Clinton, the youngest of the brothers, had music in his blood—everything from reggae to gospel. He couldn’t stop humming and singing, and his body had a way of swiveling as if made of rubber. Always eager to jump into any task, he would pay close attention to Bob’s instructions and then dance his way through the project.
At four o’clock each day Clinton prepared his dilapidated minibus for the drive home. He inspected all four bald tires, adding air to at least one with a bicycle pump. His thirsty radiator usually needed some water, and a gentle push started the engine, since the battery often wouldn’t. The little bus appeared to be an extension of Clinton and was blessed with a similar sense of rhythm as it danced and wobbled down the road.
Our furniture arrived, and Bob spent several days unpacking boxes, trying to make the house comfortable. He was knee deep in Styrofoam peanuts when he heard a man in our yard yelling repeatedly, “Inside. Inside.”
Bob opened the front door to investigate. The man stood grinning and barefoot, his bare belly hanging prominently over his tattered plaid shorts.
“Good afternoon. I Rigby. I lives next door,” he said, pointing to a house under construction. Bob would have been surprised to hear that someone lived there had Joshua not explained why so many houses are unfinished in Anguilla.
Locals rarely borrowed money to build their homes. They usually did all the work themselves with the help of brothers, uncles, and cousins, and the project went only as fast as spare money became available. Trickle-down economics was truly visible here. Tourists spent money, and it flowed directly to Anguillian homes.
“Hi, Rigby. I’m Bob. My wife and I just moved in.”
“I done made some fish suup.” He pointed again toward his house where several men were doing the Anguilla sprawl on his porch.
Taking this as a dinner invitation, Bob followed Rigby over his gravelly yard, strewn with debris in various stages of decomposition.
Pieces of plywood, half buried by rocks and sand, lay rotting beneath weeds and an entanglement of vines. The jagged terrain was no threat to Rigby’s leathery feet; he walked nonchalantly over the rubble.
As the two men approached the porch Rigby bent down, picked up a rock, and threw it at a goat standing on the makeshift table next to the Coleman stove used for cooking. The rock missed the goat but connected with a battered aluminum pot, which fell off the table and clattered across the concrete floor. The startled goat jumped off the table and sauntered around the back of the house to lie down in the shade.
If built from stone instead of cement blocks, Rigby’s house could easily have passed for a Roman ruin. Most of the structure had no roof, except the one room where Rigby lived. The rest was nothing but columns holding up blue sky. A rusty cement mixer sat in the middle of the future living room. Next to it, bags of cement were kept dry under a graying piece of plywood covered with overgrown weeds and sea-bean vines. Shovels, trowels, and buckets lay on the floor where they had been dropped at the end of the last building effort—always handy whenever Rigby again became inspired.
“Your house is coming right along,” Bob said.
Rigby grunted. One of the other men lounging on the porch opened his eyes and said, “He ain’ done much after he woman leave.”
“Wife done went back Nevis,” Rigby muttered. “Took all the furniture with she. Kids too.”
“Sorry,” Bob said, wondering where all the furniture had been in a house with no roof.
“Local fish suup,” Rigby said, proudly presenting Bob with a brimming bowl of clear liquid containing a large fish head. Bob stared at his bowl, and a fish eye stared back. Rigby continued ladling soup into various containers, making sure everyone got a head.
Bob sat down on an overturned plastic pail, trying to avoid eye contact with his soup. The man next to Bob sat on the edge of the porch, legs dangling over the side, slurping from the bowl and chewing on his fish head. He intermittently threw the fish bones into Rigby’s yard, where several chickens had appeared and were joining the feast. They clucked and scratched at the ground, picking up bones and other tidbits as they were discarded from the porch.
A Trip to the Beach Page 6
