by Dillinger
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.
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?
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.
by Dillinger
I was talking to someone recently about how frustrating it is that everything over here is constantly breaking. But then I began to wonder whether things actually did disproportionately break on this rock or whether the truth was that it simply took a disproportionately long time to repair anything, hence giving the impression that everything is constantly breaking.
It’s a double edged sword of gloom and doom. When something breaks, your first hurdle is that everyone moves in slow motion and tradesmen tend to address most issues “in about a year”. The second hurdle is that “you need a part”.
My car has needed a new radiator for quite some time but I quite simply couldn’t be arsed to deal with it. So I diligently drove around with a gallon jug of water in the car at all times for topping up. Sadly, I eventually reached the point that I couldn’t actually complete my 5 minute slide down the hill to work without the radiator completely emptying. I was still in denial until the boys at the dock in the morning starting talking about gaskets blowing and $$$$$$ being spent. They drove the point home – I had to buy a freaking radiator.
With car repairs here you have three options: they have it in BVI; they have it in the USVI (and will put it on the ferry – a truly exhausting experience); or you have to ship the part in from Miami (which takes so long you have lost the receipt by the time the shipping agent needs it). Fortunately for me, I drive the car of the islands – a Suzuki – so parts can normally be found over here. The Rastaman drives a Dodge, which might as well be a spaceship for the teeth sucking and head shaking that goes on when that thing needs a part.
So I got lucky. Not only did they have a radiator over on Tortola, but one of my boys volunteered to pick it up for me. I felt like a princess. Add to this the fact that my next-door neighbour is one of the best mechanics on the island and he volunteered to fit the bloody thing. For the first time in many months, I felt like a winner.
The radiator was duly delivered to my house by my boy. The Rastaman duly opened it. So near, yet so far….. a beautiful radiator without a radiator cap – ergo, totally freaking useless.
How long could it possibly take to buy a radiator cap on a Saturday, you ask? Nine hours, my friend. NINE HOURS for a $13 cap.
From previous experience, I decided that the safest thing to do was to take the radiator with me to ensure that by the end of the day I had the right cap. So the radiator and I left home at about 9 am and spent about an hour on the corner trying to hitch a ride. We made it to the car parts shop at the other end of the island, only to discover that it is closed on Saturdays. The helpful man that I hitched a ride with told me that he assumed I knew that the shop was closed on Saturdays and that I had other reasons for carrying a car radiator to this destination. Arsehole! This detour meant that I missed the ferry to Tortola. So, at 10:15 am, I cracked my first Heineken. Bring it on. If this is the way this day is going, I’m going through it half-cut.
By 12:15 pm (only three and a quarter hours since I left home), I arrived at the car shop on the next island that had sold my boy the radiator.
Me: “My boy bought this radiator yesterday but it doesn’t have a cap.”
Salesman: “Of course it doesn’t have a cap. New radiators never come with caps.”
Sweet baby Jesus. I am not sure if I was more annoyed with radiator maunfacturers for selling their products without the only vital part or with this charming assistant who had failed to share his in-house knowledge when we bought the radiator in the first place. Would it not be helpful to have a large sign on the box like “batteries not included”, as they do for kids toys? Men/Kids, Cars/Toys, you get me?!
Approximately one minute later, I am the proud owner of a natty cap for my radiator.
Now, because I am a self-confessed idiot, I thought I should try to make this pointless morning more worthwhile by squeezing in a much needed haircut. I figured the next ferry was at 2:30 pm, so I had enough time. Sadly, the hairdresser was fully booked – it was Saturday afterall. So I mooched off to the nearest bar and hit the liquor to drown the sorrows of my pointless day off. I drank another Heineken, a couple glasses of wine, a piña colada, and a shot of cinnamon whiskey. I felt a bit ill.
Suddenly alarmed by the time, I staggered/ran to the ferry dock, clutching my now very cumbersome radiator and was delighted to find that I had arrived ahead of time. Yet 2:30 pm came and went with no ferry in sight. I had an overwhelming desire to sleep now or simply lie down and possibly pass out. I mustered the energy to enquire as to the whereabouts of the 2:30 pm ferry. It transpires that the 2:30 pm ferry is a figment of my imagination. I was now looking down the barrel of a two hour wait for the 4:30 pm boat.
I sat under the pathetic shade of a dying tree and felt the sun burning my pasty white skin with the knowledge that my lunchtime hangover was in the post, guaranteed delivery before nightfall.
When I finally made it back to my island, some poor blind man who couldn’t swim managed to step off the ferry into the gap between the ferry and dock. The ferry workers reacted as if someone had dropped a piece a paper. The next man to disembark reacted like a normal human and dove into the water after him. I, on the other hand, could only focus on one thing – HOME. I was half-cut, sweaty, dirty, sunburnt, and clutching an uncomfortably large box.
I hiked up the road and waited at the prime hitch-hiking corner. The wind blew my radiator into the road. I left it there. I figured I would pick it up when I got a ride. I finally arrived at home after 6:00 pm.
The Rastaman was sinking a cold one on the porch.
“Hello, Princess. Have you had a nice day off?”
by Dillinger
I’m not a big fan of spa treatments. It’s all a bit too touchy-feely for me. A decent pedicure is pretty much my limit. Typically, I will only get a spa treatment if I am on holiday or overwhelmed by guilt. The main reason being that unnecessary expenses can always be justified with the tag ‘I’m on holiday’ and also because most touristy places have spas on every corner, advertising their life changing treatments and you get sucked in by it all after awhile. Living in a country which is effectively one big tourist resort messes with my head a bit. As for the guilt, I will get to that shortly.
I visit a spa here for one reason and one reason only: the essential bikini wax. It’s the downside of living by the sea – you need to be bikini ready everyday. Imagine being a porn star and needing to be sex ready all the time, the mind boggles. Finding someone who would wax properly over here was a struggle and a situation that I have had to compromise on. There were trial and error attempts with those who wouldn’t take enough off and those who had no sense of symmetry. Admit it – there is nothing worse or more infuriating than a wonky wax. I finally settled on a woman who, quite valiantly, simply takes the lot off. Like I said, a compromise situation.
But this is where the guilt comes in. Being a beautician is pretty low on my list of jobs I could tolerate doing, but if that is what you enjoy, I commend you. However, I always think that waxing must be the job that every beautician hates the most. I presume they enjoy the rest of it, but they must surely release a deep sigh when they look down their list of appointments and see a wax job in there. Whenever you go for a wax, beauticians always try to up-sell. They constantly tell you about all the other pointless crap they do which is going to change your life and make you feel rejuvenated and born again. So there comes a point when I feel so overwhelmed by guilt that this poor women, month in and month out, waxes my VJ, that I say ‘yes’ and agree to have one of her ‘treatments’. I’m not even Catholic. I shouldn’t give in to guilt, but damn it, every time I fall for it…….and every time I regret it, almost instantaneously.
Last week, in a moment of weakness, I agreed to a massage. It is my opinion that the only person who should massage me is a lover. I really don’t want anyone else to touch me anymore than is absolutely necessary. But, like I said, the guilt makes me commit to stupid things. On this occasion, I convinced myself that at the very least, the oil would smell nice and my back did need some moisturiser, so I really had nothing to lose.
From the first minute, I started to wonder how long it would last – when would it end? I soon realised that I was in for the long haul. She did each leg, she did each arm, she did my back, she did my feet, she did my hands. She kept making happy comments and asking me to confirm how great it was. I was counting seconds, I was counting sheep, I was making lists, anything to take my mind of this horrible experience. I hate being touched. How had I walked into this situation with open eyes? Am I really that thick? Why did I agree to this? She’s a beautician, waxing is her job, you don’t need to punish yourself, she chose her career, maybe she even likes waxing? To make matters worse, the oil did not smell good. It was a familiar smell, but one I couldn’t place. She then poured it in my hair, with the belated question, “Oil in your hair? It’s ok?”. I’m English, so out of my mouth spilled forth the words, “Sure, it’s ok, it’s great!” while inside, I was screaming for the experience to end and fighting the urge to bolt. With the oil now running down my forehead, I could finally place the smell. It smelled like barbecued beef, ergo, I now smelled like barbecued beef. Would this never end?
Finally she stopped and I was free to go. She was all smiles and totally delighted with herself. I was struggling to maintain my fake smile.
“I use special Ayurvedic Indian massage oil, you like?”
“I loved it, it was great!” I replied, while inwardly contemplating the fact that as cows are sacred in Hindu culture, whether this was the reason to have a massage oil that was eau de vache?
“Leave it on for 1 hour and then have a cool shower and you will feel great.”
I never discovered if I would feel great. Coated in beef drippings, I drove home as fast as possible and dove into a steaming hot shower and scrubbed and soaped up until the entire experience was a distant memory, to all but my bank balance.
6 months of guilt-free waxing now lie ahead before my next sensational spa treatment. Hot stones or exfoliating scrub?
by Dillinger
1 – FREAKING SLOW DOWNLOAD SPEED
I’ve just bought an album on iTunes and the download time is currently 3 hours 25 minutes. Jesus, I’m premenstrual. By the time it downloads, I won’t even want the album anymore. I only bought it because Miriam Makeba was the Google doodle the other day. I have no idea who she is, except that she is dead.
2 – FRESH PRODUCE IS ON SALE ON TUESDAY
…and my day off is Saturday. Picture a hot, humid climate that manages to grow mold on your clean, dry clothes in your closet. Now you do the math to predict the state of affairs at the shop by the time I get there.
3 – WHEN EVERYONE WEARS A WIG, THERE’S NO MARKET FOR SHAMPOO
In a country where the majority of the population has a new wig or weave every week, no one cares about shampoo – least of all shampoo for blondes. The last time I bought off the shelf, I was overwhelmed by the most foul smell the first and only time I used it. It sure as hell wasn’t grapefruit. Oh wait – silly me, it was garlic infused shampoo. What genius came up with that splendid idea? Needless to say, I’m currently using conditioner to wash my hair. Next week, I predict I’ll be on to bar soap…or perhaps a black wig.
4 – THE ONLY PETROL STATION IS AT THE OTHER END OF THE ISLAND
Roughly 14 km away. I have nothing further to add.
5 – THE COCKEREL WHO’S MOVED IN DOWN THE STREET
Dawn is currently breaking over here at about 5:45 am. I would accept the cock-a-doodle-do-ing at that hour; I’d even take 5 am, but the crazy bastard starts up at 2 am. It is only a matter of time before one of the stray dogs, who seem to be equally irritated by this new comer on the block, eats him. Please God, the cockerel must die or you may have to hold me responsible for a massacre.
6 – THE FACT THAT I KEEP FORGETTING TO BUY TONIC OR TING (AN ISLAND VERSION OF LILT, BUT WITHOUT THE PINEAPPLE) TO MIX WITH MY GIN
Sigh.
7 – WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE… YET NOT A FRESH FISH TO BE FOUND
How is it possible that I am surrounded by water and there isn’t a fish market nearby? Everything comes in frozen and more often than not, all the way from Thailand (apparently, one of the world’s largest fish exporters). Can it really be because everyone here is too busy eating fried chicken wings? The Rastaman has promised to fill my fridge/freezer with fish next time he goes fishing, but I am beginning to think that he will finally win the Puerto Rican Lottery before he goes fishing again….in which case we’ll just go straight to the source and move to Thailand.
8 – MY ADDICTION TO GUINESS
I have recently discovered that I am anemic. So, much against my wishes, I have taken to drinking Guinness everyday for medicinal reasons. Except it isn’t lovely, velvety draught Guinness – it is paint-stripping Guinness Export, 7% alc/vol. I might as well be a bag lady drinking special brew out of a brown paper bag on a bench. Oh, how the sophisticated have fallen.
9 – I LIVE ON AN ISLAND YET HAVE TO DRIVE 15 MINUTES TO GET TO A BEACH
Shouldn’t that be the perk of living on an island? That a beach is never more than a 5 minute walk away? Alas, no. It perpetually taunts me: all that blue water sparkling and winking at me, just out of reach.
10 – I HAVE AN OVERWHELMING NEED TO BUY SHOES
Right now, I would pay good money to be teleported to Kurt Geiger to browse the shelves. I don’t want a platform, I don’t want a chunky heel, and I don’t want diamante studs. I just want a pure, unadulterated stiletto. Don’t ask me where I’d wear them. I just need them. Now.
Anyway, on to the gin.
by Dillinger
Before I inadvertently arrived on the rock, I was living in a predominately Muslim country in Central Asia. I say Muslim, but it was really Muslim with a Soviet twist. This can best be explained by the fact that the men would diligently attend Friday afternoon prayers, then stand around in their Lada’s drinking shots of the purest vodka. In my mind, this is a fine example of evolution. As a blonde Caucasian, the most frequently asked questions (or accusations) of me were:
Are you American?
Answer: No fucking way! (in future, to be abbreviated as NFW)
and
Are you Catholic?
Answer: NFW!
Although I’m European, I have never lived in an overtly Christian country. This all changed when I arrived on the rock. Jesus…they love him, he’s the man. They are on their knees every night of the week. Methodists, Baptists, 7th Day Adventists, you name it, they’re here. I have absolutely no idea what the difference is between these sects. Nevertheless, it came as quite a shock when I was asked in my first week if I was Methodist or Muslim. Quite possibly the most bizarre question I have ever been asked. I responded that I was “nothing”. This resulted in a long silence then the usual follow-up interrogation questions. In hindsight, I wish I would have just said Muslim. It would certainly have resulted in a more interesting interrogation, or at the very least, a longer silence.
I don’t have anything against religion but if I’m pushed to believe in something, I have always leaned towards Father Christmas / Santa Claus. Fact: he does not exist, but the mythology or ideology of him certainly seems to bring more joy to the world than most other Christian sects. Did Father Christmas ever start a war? Not to my knowledge. Does he make children behave? Yes. See? Win-win.
Sadly, despite the high number of people over here claiming to follow the Christian creed, there still seem to be the same number of arseholes per square meter as anywhere else in the world. This statistic excludes tourists who, 95% of the time, are, in my misanthropic British opinion, Grade A arseholes, which definitely differs from your everyday arsehole.
