7 Things I Look Forward To When I’m Away From My Island

7 Things I Look Forward To When I’m Away From My Island

I’m a hard-core rock woman. I love the island life. I love it so much that it takes work-related travel or family visits for me to leave my base in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.

I don’t know if it’s the humidity that seeps into my pores, my cozy Colonial City neighborhood, or the merengue echoing in the streets, but when I finally settled here as a full-time islander — almost four years ago — I started embracing the mellow Dominican pace of life.

I don’t have that FOMO feeling when I’m on my rock (who would miss all that stress up north?).

 

 

But I’ll be honest: I do look forward to a whole bunch of basic conveniences when I’m traveling away from my island. Next week, for example, I’m flying back to Maryland to visit family. I’m already thinking about what I’ll get to enjoy for a while.

Here are a few of the things I do look forward to enjoying on trips away from my rock:

 

Food variety – but especially: Ethiopian food

Dominican cuisine is tasty – and fattening, if you’re not careful. Aside from the classic plate of rice and beans with stewed chicken, there’s mofongo, mangu, and a host of other Creole-influenced dishes and snacks, including empanadas and quipes. It’s a long list. We’re also lucky to have a large international community, from French to Italian, Japanese, and Chinese.

But after a while, I crave things I simply can’t find cheaply on the regular, like really good cheese or hummus, or delicious breads. Most of all though, I miss my Ethiopian food! I’m originally from Ethiopia and my constant dilemma in the Caribbean is not having access to my country’s spicy, deliciously seasoned dishes. I have one spice in my freezer for the occasional dish I feel like making, but it’s nowhere near enough. I’m salivating thinking that in just a few days, I’ll be pigging out at my mom’s and eating at our favorite Ethiopian restaurant.

 

Peace and quiet

For someone who likes her quiet writing time, I’m amazed that I picked the Dominican Republic as my home. It’s the loudest country and rock I’ve ever experienced in my life. Lively, but loud nonetheless. It’s why I fell in love with it, in hindsight. Dominicans are so full of energy and love of life.

These days it’s quieter because I moved into a loft that’s five floors up. I’m farther from the road. But as I type this on a weekend night, car alarms are going off because of the loud music from a nearby venue.

So when I’m back in the US, I do appreciate the quiet in my Maryland neighborhood – though not for long.

 

Long, hot showers

At home, I have to turn on the water heater to warm up the shower before I jump in. It’s on demand. Turn on the switch, leave it on for about 15 minutes then turn it off and go shower.  If you forget to turn it off, prepare for a sweet surprise on your monthly electricity bill! Water is also a precious resource on the islands, so I do my best to use it responsibly.

In the US, I relish the nonstop, automatic, available-all-day hot water showers I can have, without electric bill surprises.  It’s amazing what we take for granted, isn’t it?

 

Throwing toilet paper… into the toilet

Since we’re on the topic of bathrooms, here’s another detail I used to never think twice about when I lived in the US: flushing toilet paper in the toilet. In most of the DR, you have to throw it in the trash can, even in Santo Domingo. The sewers just can’t handle it otherwise. The price of paradise.

 

Lighting-fast Internet

The Internet functions fine on my rock and I can do my work, but it’s still not as lighting fast as in the US. Not to mention, when there’s a rainstorm or the power goes out temporarily, even for a half-hour: no Wi-Fi. Thankfully it hasn’t happened much lately.

 

Better Netflix

I know, it’s an addiction — Netflix! But seriously, Netflix selections in the DR are not the same as the ones in the US. They fill our library here with drug-related movies (stereotype much?) or foreign language movies from Nigeria, Turkey, and even Sweden. I don’t mind the latter, but can I also have access to US series (like How To Get Away With Murder)? So yes, I’ll be checking when I go home… and enjoying it with my super fast Internet.

 

Shopping with no extra fees

One of the things I love about living in the DR is that we can order online and receive packages from US stores. All you need is an account with one of the courier services. They even deliver your packages to your home for free. But you do have to pay a fee according to the weight of the packages received, and you also have to pay duties for any order over $200 USD.

So sometimes I have to wait to be in the US to order more expensive or heavy duty orders, like a camera lens or a bunch of heavy books. I’ve already pre-ordered what I need so it’s there when I arrive! Also, I can’t wait to walk into a CVS and get lost in the cosmetics aisle – I don’t know why, but its one of the few things I love to do when I’m back in the States.

You know what always strikes me as ironic though? After about a week of all these conveniences, I’m ready to go right back to my rock life.

 

 

What do you look forward to when you take trips away from your rock?

The Rules of Engagement…Does it Matter?

The Rules of Engagement…Does it Matter?

About a decade ago, I crossed paths with a gentleman called Dr. Dolvinsky. He was undeniably screwed up. He was bi-polar, had middle-child syndrome, chronic diabetes, a 50-something German wife, a 20-something Swedish girlfriend, and a fairly heroic cocaine problem. His ancestors were Belorussian Jews who had fled the Pogrums. That said, he was a source of rather sage advice. At a time when my life was in the gutter, he told me that the only question I ever needed to ask myself was, Does it really matter? He assured me that for the most part, it didn’t, and that most people couldn’t come up with a rational reason why it did. Uncertain as to how to evaluate whether something mattered at this point in time, he continued by way of example:

“Does it matter that your husband wakes you in the morning by *insert crude sexual act here* (he didn’t spare me the technicalities, but I will you) in your face?”

“Yes, it really does matter.”

“Does it matter that your husband fails to empty the washing machine?”

“In the scheme of things, no, I suppose it doesn’t.”

And thus I was sent forth into the world.
In the Caribbean, the concept of monogamy is both alien and incomprehensible. Men have wives, girlfriends, mistresses, and one night stands and everyone seems to live in perfect harmony – everyone seems to know their role. At least that’s how it seems to me, who is still, for all intents and purposes, an outsider. I admit that I am not entirely sure whether the women follow the same rules. I suspect that they probably don’t have the time, what with all the working and child-raising they have to do. Yet when the boys come over, there are frequent references to “my girlfriend in New York” or “my girlfriend on St Thomas” floating around. Initially, I rather naively thought they were simply referring to friends who happened to be girls, but I soon realised that a West Indian man would never understand or even contemplate engaging in a platonic relationship with a woman.

On this basis, the Rastaman and I have always had an understanding. I know there are other women, I simply don’t want to know the details and it is his responsibility to ensure that I don’t find out. I am a firm believer that ignorance is bliss. Our system has been flawless for over 2 years. However, recently, an unfortunate sequence of events led to me finding out details about several of his dalliances.

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As my heart exploded in my chest, I staggered backwards across the room, pointing at the door and trying to retain composure as I told him that he needed to leave. The Rastaman remained seated and looked confused. He really had no idea why I was losing my mind.  As my back hit the wall, my body went limp and I slid down to the floor, choking out dislocated nouns, verbs, and fragments of thoughts. At which point, the Rastaman leapt into action, scooping me up into his big arms and delicately placing me into his lap. We sat in silence, my cheeks wet with tears, his eyes wide and alarmed. It was at this point that I remembered the words of Dr. Dolvinsky and took a breath to ask myself in earnest, Does it matter? We are conditioned to think that it does, but does it?

Was I happy with the amount of time I spent with the Rastaman? Yes.

Did I enjoy his company? Yes.

Did we argue? No.

Did he give me sufficient personal space? Yes.

Did he always come over when I was upset? Yes.

Did I wish to hang out with him when he was drinking shots and getting loaded? No.

Did I want to have sex with him when he was loaded? Categorically, no.

Did I wish to be woken up by him when he got home loaded? No.

So did it really matter that he sought the company of other women in circumstances when I had no desire to see him? Was he not, in fact, doing me a favour by taking himself elsewhere? Is it not true that in all other relationships in our lives we allocate certain friends to certain duties? Yes, we have our best friends, who we can more or less do anything with, but for the most part, we select different friends to fulfill our differing social needs. So why are we conditioned to putting our sexual partners in chains?

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My eyes dried. The Rastaman loosened his tight grip on me. As he ruffled my hair, I fell into a deep and blissful sleep. I was onto a winner here, and as it turns out, Dr. Dolvinsky was right. It really didn’t matter.

Mayberry, BVI

Mayberry, BVI

Written by: Melissa B

 

I often compare life on the island to living in a stereotypical small town where everybody knows everyone, everything, and every misstep. If you’ve never experienced what it’s like to live somewhere like Mayberry, allow me give you a briefing so you have an idea of what I’m referring to.

You Know You Live in a Small Town When…

  • You have been in the town parade
  • Loitering isn’t a bad thing, it’s the only thing
  • You refer to THE stoplight
  • You measure distance in minutes

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The similarities here on Tortola to small town living haunt you sometimes – like times when you can’t find anything open on a Sunday, or times when it feels like the sidewalks have rolled up at 5pm, or times when you just want to be anonymous but will inevitably run into someone you know. Generally, I just shrug it off and accept it as a fact of island life, however, there are two situations where it goes beyond basic acceptance and living in a small town setting can either make or break you.

Small Town-Island Survival Tip #1 : Secure a Reliable Gossip Source

When you go away for a couple of weeks, you’re bound by Small Town Code to come back and immediately catch up on all the gossip you missed while you’ve been away. This is critical: you must have a reliable source to come back to! In Tortola, very little changes with the landscape and businesses and what does can usually be summed up in a sentence or two even if you’ve been gone for months; what can’t be summed up in a sentence or two is the bemusings of the people in Tortola… my equation works out to roughly one drink per week you’ve been away. Without a solid source to come back to, you could mistakenly walk into a minefield of foot-in-mouth situations which have the potential to spread like wildfire. I repeat: always have a reliable gossip source to come back to!

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Small Town-Island Survival Tip #2 : When Dating, Hope for the Best – but Prepare for the Worst

If you come to this island single (or single-minded), chances are you are going to end up dating someone and with that, is the chance that you will end up not dating  that someone (read: The Dreaded Ex). When dating in your small town-island, it is wise to hope for the best, but prepare for the very worst. Best case scenario, you fall madly in love, spend your days here in bliss, and maybe even take your love with you beyond the island someday. Second choice best case, you break it off amicably and continue on with your separate lives, saying hello in passing and otherwise being unobtrusive. If only it were always that simple…

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Enter worst case scenario (the best of the worst), which you can expect to play out in several ways:

  • You work in the same office as The Ex and still have to see them everyday
  • You attend the same gym as The Ex and even when you vary your schedule, 9 times out of 10, you run into one another
  • You start dating someone new and, on your first date, end up being served by The Ex (yes, it happens!)

The other worst case (worst of the worst) combines the small town-island inability to not run into the same person over and over with a case of rock fever (read: uncontrollable crazy behavior) – trust me, you will recognize this situation when you see it. It’s when an abrupt spatter of yelling occurs on an otherwise pleasant Friday night out, or when laser beam eyes start burning a hole in the back of someone’s head when they’re chatting with someone new, or when one person is constantly showboating to whoever will watch to appear as though they are the superior being, or, my personal favourite, when all of the above are combined (with multiple drinks) into one giant explosion of WTF ?! All I can say is, always hope for the best but prepare for the VERY worst.

– – –

With a profound positive outlook on life, I can see the the good side of these small town quirks. When the foot-in-mouth situations occur, or the almighty WTF ?! moment just happened, the good news is that at least you’ll never have to repeat the story yourself; Small Town Code dictates that within the hour, the majority of the population will have already caught up with their source and be fully apprised of the scoop!

Out of the Mouths of Tourists

Out of the Mouths of Tourists

Disclaimer: My sincere apologies if this offends anyone but please, use some common sense.

Around 50% of the BVI’s economy is obtained from tourism. That’s right – half of this territory’s money comes from those newly-wed, over-fed, really-red, nearly-dead folks from overseas. Those four categories are typically used to describe cruise ship passengers, but we mustn’t forget the various corporate Vice-Presidents, CEOs, doctors, and other well-placed members of society who grace our shores and our offshores with their presence and put bread on the Government’s table. Those of us who have been here for a long time have taken to grouping all visitors of a certain genus into one subcategory of fauna that we call Tourons.

The word touron is a completely fictitious noun and serves to combine the words “tourist” and “moron” into a jovial juxtaposition of jargon. In terms of expression, it can be used with the same tone of disdain as when using “moron” when witnessing someone doing something idiotic from a distance. Hence, the definition of touron is: a tourist doing (or saying) something idiotic. Sadly, this is most often right under our noses, rather than from at a distance.

While we may still shake our heads, we have long ago forgiven them for their “Caribbean holiday outfits” that they have so carefully chosen for their trip. Hawaiian shirts, socks worn with sandals and pulled up to the knees, fanny packs, bee-keeper type hats, and a raging sunburn are no longer causes for surprise. They’ve given in to the various Caribbean stereotypes acquired subconsciously over time via television shows, advertisements, and movies, and show up looking like weatherman Joey Stevens. All that’s missing is the puppet parrot on their right arm. But it’s fine. They thought this was the Caribbean norm. They thought it was quirky and fun. They didn’t know any better.

Complete and utter ignorance as described above is laughable, and just about forgivable. It’s when some tourists arrive, decidedly devoid of common sense, that we tend to start muttering “touron” under our breath. It’s as though, when faced with the issue of overweight baggage, they decided that removing their brains and leaving them at home would allow more carry-on room for their jelly shoes and zinc. That’s about 8lbs right there, and besides, I won’t be needing this in the blissful waters of the BVI, right?  Wrong. Showing up here without your noggin is far from forgivable…it’s downright inexcusable.

Upon experiencing the words and actions of a touron, stunned silence, widened eyes, raised eyebrows, uncontrollable bursts of laughter, a face-palm or pursed lips (and schtupsing) usually ensue. In hindsight, however annoying they may be at the time, all of them are downright hilarious. I’ve compiled a few of these incidences below, which I have either experienced myself or which have been shared with me by friends and family.

 

THINGS THAT MAKE YOU GO… HUH?

 

  • Walking in the middle of the road.

Ok, not a huge deal, but…why? It’s clearly a road. There are two lanes, with cars going up and down it in either direction. Would you walk in the middle of the road at home? No. I rest my case.

  • Walking around town in a bikini/with their shirt off.

Again…why?! Surely not something that’s encouraged upon the shores of home. I can only assume that this stems from the stereotypical view of “No Shirt. No Shoes. No Problem.” Well, guess what: no shirt? No shoes? Big problem. Walking around half naked for all the world to see is considered culturally offensive in the BVI. You can’t blame the heat either…if I can survive in a work blouse and trousers, you can handle it. Put your Hawaiian shirt back on!

  •  Referring to the locals as “indigenous.”

?!?! Really, I have no words for this one.

  •  When asked to provide picture ID with their online credit card purchase: taking a selfie with their computer webcam and emailing it through.

Hmm looks like sometimes their brain is stored away before they even board the plane.

  •  Asking how long it’s going to take them to get back to the ship from where they are…when they can see the ship, big and bright as day from where they are.

You’d be surprised how often this happens.

SAY WHAT?

Yes, people really said or asked these things.

 

  •  “How do you keep the islands from floating away?”

Magic. We’re not quite sure but it has something to do with mermaids and giant anchors.

  •  “What do you do with the islands in hurricane season? Do you have to tie them down?”

See above. They work overtime.

  •  “How long do you think it would take me to swim under the island?” [Blank stare.] “I’m not stupid; I know I couldn’t do it all in one breath, but hypothetically, how long do you think it would take?”

Why don’t you give it a try and find out? We’ll give the mermaids a heads up on your arrival.

  •  A lady’s response when she was asked why she was carrying multiple small vials with her: “I want to collect the different shades of blue in the ocean.”

Good luck with that.

  •  When sitting on board a sailboat in BVI waters: “What’s the altitude here?”

Seriously? You’re sitting on a boat. On the ocean. You know, the sea?

  •  Having met a crew member on a cruise ship in the middle of a stairwell: “Excuse me, Miss, do these stairs go up or down?”

Erm…what?

  •  How many sunsets do you have?

Just the one. Everyday. About the same time. You see, the Earth revolves around the…oh, never mind.

  •  What are those weird dark patches moving over the mountains?

It’s that same deadly fog that’s in Lost. Yeah, we’re going to be stuck out here for a while. Or at least until the clouds move…

  • After using the head (toilet) on a sailboat: “The colour of the ocean is so blue you can even see it in the toilet bowl!”

It’s fucking Fabuloso.

And on and on it goes. It’s quite scary to think that these types of people are responsible for half of our economy.

Some of these questions are posed by more than one set of tourons (perhaps they go to conventions, or interbreed), but you can guarantee that by the end of the tourist season each year there are a slew of new touron-isms being relayed to us year-rounders for our audible pleasure.

Many of the stories make us laugh so much our bellies ache. All of them make us shake our heads and mutter: “tourons.”

Feel free to share your own experiences in the comments!

My Baby was Bahn Here

My Baby was Bahn Here

Well, okay, not really bahn here (island speak for “born here”), but she’s been here on St. John since she was 2 months old. Her mother – me – is a controlling Virgo and first-time mom. I must say that after watching so many pregnancy/new mother/chick-flick movies, my ideas of what it means to be a mom are a bit on the commercial side. I have idealized motherhood and child-rearing in the context of a city – not an island – and there have been some rude awakenings. I’ll discuss (bitch about) a few…

Pediatricians

I see that there are other infants on St. John. There has actually been a bit of a baby boom of recent with little boys and girls popping out of island gyal’s canals all last year. Unfortunately, regardless of demand, there are no practicing pediatricians on island. BOOO! There are health care providers wandering under the domain of the all-encompassing Myrah Keaton Clinic, but I was frightened off at our last visit when the friendly nurse wanted to give my 3 month old daughter a vaccine made for 6 month olds.

So, being city-minded, I went to the internet and Googled “pediatrician in the US Virgin Islands”. After a few clicks and phone calls to the St. John health care providers listed, I was informed that while the doctors on staff do see children, they are not pediatricians and that I should instead contact the neighboring island of St. Thomas. This was not good news – St. Thomas is huge and it is either expensive to pay the $50 to barge your car over or a pain to take the “dollar safari taxi” over with an infant and mandatory stroller/diaper bag. Fortunately, I found a pretty feasible option (as if there were many) near the ferry terminal in Red Hook that would do, only to find out a few months later that the doctor we were seeing had started her own practice way in town and the distance necessitated further transportation than just a walk across the street from the ferry dock. I guess this means we should stop feeling so special and just go see the general doctor at the St. John clinic.

Childcare and Babysitters

Unfortunately, the nearest blood relative to my daughter and me is about 2,000 miles away, give or take a few hundred miles. So what’s a girl to do when she wants a little rendezvous with her he-for-me, you ask? Wait for the baby to fall asleep and speak sweet nothings very softly  in the living room for the 30-60 minutes she’s out.

Fortunately, I am staying at home with my daughter and her father is supporting us which means we don’t need a regular childcare provider. But out of curiosity, I’ve asked around anyway. Back in Wisconsin, there is a childcare provider on every corner along with a church, liquor store, and bar. I am used to knowing there are many places to bring your kids when you’ve got to play or work. Here in the islands, it is a different story. After several inquiries to neighbors and women I’ve run across holding infants, I have only been told of TWO places on island that provide childcare, both of which close at 5pm sharp. There are a few other loose arrangements I’ve heard of where woman are watching folks’ infants while the mothers work their 9-5. The only babysitting service I’ve seen costs somewhere around $20 an hour and is geared more towards villa services for the tourists here on vacation. I guess three’s not a crowd when there are no other options. “Me time” and a solo shower are overrated indulgences anyway, right?

While motherhood on a rock comes with its adjustments, there have been some major positives. There is nothing more breathtaking or serene than playing in the ocean that surrounds us, watching my baby laugh and taste the salt of the earth. Living here is beautiful and while we may not have a lot of conveniences and the pleasures of material wealth, we are surrounded by beautiful spirits both in the flesh and not. And that is priceless to both mother and child – pediatrician or not.

Women Who Live On Rocks
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