by Ashley Ladlie
(Or Three Things Not to Expect from your VI Taxi Drivers)
Prefer to avoid disappointment on vacation? Then might I suggest you do not expect VI taxi drivers to exhibit the following qualities. With this in mind, you may actually experience pleasant surprises when encountering the few cab drivers who meet your stateside standards.
1. They’ll take you wherever you’d like to go.
This is especially true on St. John. Want to take a taxi across the island from Cruz Bay to Coral Bay? Sorry, not gon’ do it. Need to get to your villa in Fish Bay? They’ll take you to the Westin, and you can hitch it from there. Even though taxi rates do exist for places all over the island, the likelihood that a driver will take you from the ferry dock to Skinny Legs— even if you’re willing to pay the premium— is slim. Most go as far as they deem convenient.
2. They will share the road with courtesy and professionalism.
A few weeks ago on the busiest day of the year, a taxi driver threw a tantrum outside the condos I manage. I was in my office, vainly trying to make progress on a growing pile of paperwork, when a guest entered and told me, “You have an angry taxi driver up there.”
“That’s nothing new,” I said, not bothering to look up from the computer. This was no day for bullshit.
Then his wife came in and said, “Is that your little silver car parked on the side of the road? Because that’s one of the things he’s complaining about.”
I let out a deep, dramatic sigh, rubbing my forehead in the universal gesture of managerial stress.
Or not…
“I am not feeling diplomatic today,” I said flatly. It was one of those days when smiling, something usually quite natural to me, was impossible without valiant effort.
I walked up the stairs to the parking lot and found a safari bus stopped in the 1.5 lane road behind our buildings, thereby blocking traffic in both directions. I gathered that his vexation was due to my little Corolla, and a larger SUV parked on the side of the road. They kept him from passing, the driver claimed.
Of the many problems on my docket, this was certainly not one of them. My patience was running on fumes.
About a dozen guests who’d been on island to participate in a week-long meditation retreat were checking out that morning. A couple of them were peacefully trying to reason with the taxi driver, who probably could have passed by pulling in his mirror. My car wasn’t the problem, this being my regular parking space. The SUV might have been in the way, but it wasn’t a rental car, judging from the dents, scratches, and Positive is How I Live bumper sticker. It didn’t belong to any of my guests and was therefore not my responsibility.
“I don’t know whose car that is. It looks local to me so it doesn’t belong to any of my guests,” I said to the taxi driver, “Can you just go the other way around the loop?” I’ve taken this four minute detour on several occasions when the road had been blocked.
“I ain’t movin’. My home up da hill, jus right d’eh. I no move.” He shook his head violently.
“Okay. Well, then… Can I get you something to drink while you wait?” I asked in the fake pleasant tone that comes out when I’m seething inside. It generally fools no one, the rage in my eyes belying the exaggerated smile.
“No, Miss. I close to my home now. I live jus up da hill.” He said, his voice now bordering on plaintive.
By this time cars waited in both directions for him to move.
“Okay, enjoy your wait then!” I said, heading back down to the office.
Fortunately for the neighborhood, a couple of blissed-out meditators managed to convince him to back into the neighbor’s driveway so the waiting cars could pass. I guess he figured that after backing up, he was halfway to turning around, so he did, indeed, head the other direction, presumably the short detour that would take him home.
Of course, if he’d taken the detour in the first place, he’d have been there already.
A couple days later, I was at the bustling ferry dock picking up a massive collection of luggage from our most loyal guests. This was a two person job, and my friend had already filled his jeep. I needed to get my Corolla over to the loading space for the rest of their bags, which were far too heavy and numerous to roll and carry down the block to my car. There was little time to waste.
Except that there was.
Because a cab driver— the only one on island, in fact, who has his very own parking space in Cruz Bay— decided that before departing with his full load of passengers, he must wash his windshield.
His private parking spot is apparently not the windshield-washing place, because that place belonged to the bit of roadway directly behind my legally-parked car. Double-parking is common downtown. Most people usually come running when they see me waiting to get out. Not this guy.
He saw me walk briskly to my car, get in, turn on the engine, and swivel my head expectently, waiting for him to move so I could reverse. I could tell he knew I was there, but acknowledge me, he did not.
So I did something I rarely do. I honked.
He glanced briefly in my direction, holding up his hand to let me know I could wait. When the windshield was spotless, rather than taking the paper towels with him, he did something I rarely see locals do. He sauntered twenty paces over to the dumpster and threw them away. The walk back to his safari was a leisurely one.
It’s okay. It’s not like I was doing anything all that important, anyway.
3. They will transport you to your final destination, as agreed upon when entering the vehicle.
One unfortunate evening a couple years ago when living on St. Thomas, I managed to lose my keys at an outdoor restaurant. I had a spare car key at my home du jour about a 20 minute drive away. The loser accompanying me (the person who actually lost the keys) called a cab. Someone he’d used before. This, I suppose, should have been an indication that more trouble lie ahead.
A large van arrived. I told the driver where I was headed and we agreed to a fare of $15. On the way, he received a few phone calls. Allow me to remind you that talking on your phone while driving is expressly prohibited in the VI. You are, in fact, far more likely to get pulled over for talking on your phone behind the wheel than for taking a swig from your Heineken at a red light. No matter for this driver, he answered the phone each time, chatting briefly. This didn’t bother me so much.
What bothered me was that three quarters of the way to my destination, he decided to pick up his girlfriend from work, which required abandoning me. She, evidently, was the one calling. The matter was non-negotiable. He intended to drop me, the paying customer, at a location other than my final destination to keep his girlfriend from waiting.
And where did he choose to drop this white girl at 9pm on a Thursday evening? Why, at Market Square, of course! A historical plaza in the heart of downtown Charlotte Amalie, it used to be the site for slave auctions. It now serves as a gathering spot where even most grown (law-abiding) men make a point of avoiding after sundown.
He couldn’t have been in a bigger hurry to discard me. He’d actually started up Solberg hill, just minutes from my home, when he did a quick u-turn, and took me back downtown.
“Don’t worry,” he told me, “My frien’ take you res’ da way. I not gon charge you.”
“Oh, how kind, thank you,” I said.
He pointed at a guy leaning against a brown beater.
“Hey! Take de gyal up da hill fah me!”
The guy jumped into action, ushering me toward his obviously unlicensed gypsy cab.
Too bewildered and mildly amused to be frightened, I got into the backseat, told him where I was going, and up the hill we went. It took 5 minutes to get there, and he charged me the full $15 I’d negotiated with the first driver.
But I got home in one piece. And the first driver got his piece too.
–
If I’ve learned anything in the VI, it’s that the needs and desires of your taxi driver far outweigh your own. Paying customer or not.
by Chrissann Nickel
I have a confession to make: for the most part, I have stopped cleaning my own house. I’ll still keep the kitchen from getting unsightly and straighten up here and there (clutter, in particular, makes me feel unhinged), but I have since outsourced* the heavy lifting to a fastidious housekeeper named Edwina.
~
*Side note: Can I just take a moment and say how much I love using the word “outsourced”? I got the word slash concept from a book I read recently, 168 Hours: You Have More Time Than You Think, and have since begun to implement its ingenious time management tactics in my life. To say I am outsourcing my cleaning duties makes me feel disproportionately important, like I’m some high-tech corporation who has decided their bottom line is better off having workers in a small village in Beijing deal with their wretched complain-y customers. Though in my case, I have determined it is a better use of my time to have a lovely woman who is a much more skilled cleaner than I deal with my dust and grime.
~
In the beginning, Edwina used to scare me. A short, yet sturdy, militant woman with a scowl that can melt faces, I always tried to stay out of her way and made sure I didn’t do anything to piss her off. She works part-time for the resort we live at and was born and raised in the Caribbean. She grew up on one of the rougher islands – the kind that has yet to be refined for tourism and where people, until very recently, used to get hacked with machetes at the bus stop (or so I’ve been told).
Our first real encounter, or “meet cute” as they say in show business, really set the tone for the rest of our relationship. She was cleaning our louvered windows and had been going in and out of the front door to dust them from both sides. I was doing the dishes when I suddenly felt her presence directly behind me as she yelled, “Pussy Lady!”. I dropped the pot I was scrubbing and turned to face her with trepidation, shaking when I saw her finger pointed at my face.
“Why you need so much pussy?!” she growled and abruptly stalked off.
As I stood in my kitchen, frozen with soap suds dripping off my hands, I racked my brain for what she could possibly be referring to. Were there rumors being spread at the resort about me having lesbian tendencies? Was she under the impression that I was not only a lesbian, but a slutty one at that? Seeing as how I reside with my boyfriend/her boss, it seemed unlikely that she would draw this conclusion. I later cornered her niece for an explanation and it turns out Edwina was admonishing me not for my supposed sexual escapades, but for my contemptible life choice in having not just one, but two cats. Either way, I was hooked. Anyone who can scream borderline offensive decrees laced with sexual innuendos at a relative stranger is a friend of mine.
Edwina now comes to clean every other week or so. David and I aren’t super messy, we just need the detritus of everyday life smoothed over from time to time. It’s really a win-win for everyone: I have more time to spend on the work that is really important to me without feeling guilty or lazy for neglecting our house and Edwina gets to make some extra cash and do what she loves most – cleaning. Early on, she told me her favorite things are cleaning, ironing, and cooking; so much so that even after working as a housekeeper all day she still doesn’t mind going home and cleaning her own house. And because I hate those things, I knew we would complement each other immensely. Yin and yang.
I cherish the days Edwina comes; not only is my house magically clean at the end of the day thanks to zero effort on my part, but she is also fantastic company. Always ready to dispense her own personal brand of wisdom, I sit at the computer working and she goes about her cleaning, interjecting from time to time as though we were already in the midst of a conversation. Some of her most recent gems include:
Edwina on Dust
When Edwina first began cleaning our house, she was appalled at the state of my screens, blinds, and ceiling fan blades. I agree that they had a fair amount of dust coating their surfaces, but I didn’t feel it was out of control. And in my defense, I tried to clean them all once and it ended up being a 3-day tedious affair so, of course, I never did it again. To her, this was a potentially lethal mistake:
“You know wha’ happen when all ‘dis dust get in you lungs? You get sick. An’ ‘den you die. D’is dust, it kills.”
Edwina on Diseases
I enjoy a house with a jungle-y feel and tend to decorate with a lot of houseplants. While I am proud of my ability to keep them alive and green, Edwina has nothing but disdain for my reckless decision to keep them in my home. Each time she mops the floors, she moves the plants around and warns me of their inherent danger:
“D’ese plants – you water ‘dem – that’s when de mosquitoes come. You know wha’ mosquitoes do? D’ey lay egg in de water. Dem baby hatch. D’en they bite you and you get dengue fever. And you die.”
Edwina on Children
In the Caribbean, for a woman my age to not have her own gaggle of children is a bit of an anomaly. Edwina frequently inquires about my future child-bearing plans and when I remind her that I don’t like kids and have never wanted any, she tries to change my mind with a numbers game:
“You tink you don’ like dem kids? No matter. Jus’ have one anyway. You never know if you like dem til you try. Me – I have 5 chil’ren. I only hate one.”
On her her most recent visit, she asked if she could warm her lunch in my microwave before she left. I ran over to the kitchen, embarrassed for her to open it, remembering the cupcake frosting meltdown that David and I were too tired to clean up the previous night. I began apologizing in advance for the bright red, sugary state of affairs that was my microwave when she grabbed my arm to stop me.
“Listen,” she said, “don’ try to impress me. Don’ try to be perfect. D’ere no such ting.”
So wise. And my fan blades are so shiny, I can see myself in them. Yup, she’s a keeper.
by Melissa Rogati
Back when my husband and I first got married, we lived on a somewhat small and very sparsely populated island in the southern Bahamas. All the Bahamian locals were friendly and welcoming. A lot of them remain good friends today that I still keep in touch with. We were asked to dinner often and while it was always delicious, it was always “local”: Jamaican curry goat, fish and grits, and all the lobster a girl could dream of (steamed, boiled, grilled, baked, sautéed). Lobster was plentiful there because everyone, including me, speared it themselves.
But these dinners were always out of my comfort zone as well. As fun as they were, they were never quite “comfortable”. I had to explain over and over again why, because of my suburban Atlanta upbringing, I didn’t mind one bit giving up the eyeballs out of my fish to someone more excited about the treat. Or why I wasn’t “finishing” my chicken by sucking every last bit of gristle and tendon off and even removing the marrow from the bone. Or that I really would rather let the home’s resident nine-year-old finish my Vita Malt (I could never figure out exactly what the thick, warm, heavily-malted beverage was good with). No one was ever rude about my finicky nature and I wouldn’t give up the years I lived among those friends for anything, but due to my polite Southern upbringing (you finish what the host serves you, say thank you, and possibly take another helping), I always left feeling like I had been somewhat rude for leaving the fins of the fish on my plate. And no one likes to constantly leave dinner parties feeling rude.
Toward the end of our time on that island, a couple from Key West moved in a few dirt roads down from ours. They had spent many many years of their life living on their sailboat and decided it was time to settle down (for at least half the year) and build a permanent structure they could spend winters in. It was so nice to have people moving in near us because our home was so remote. Maybe 3-4 other people lived out on our long road in our sparsely populated settlement. Multiple days could go by without another car driving down our road. So here we were, with new potential friends right in the “neighborhood.” They invited us over one night for a little dinner party, and the thought was so comforting and familiar (steak fajitas! margaritas! guacamole!) that I could barely stand the wait. When you live and eat outside of your comfort zone for long stretches at a time, the thought of a brief encounter with the familiar really lifts your spirits. They even invited us to bring my dog over instead of leaving her home alone. New friends (not easy to come by in such a small place). Familiar food. An evening I had no way of failing at.
You see where this is going, don’t you…
On the highly anticipated evening of our little gathering, Seth and I loaded ourselves, our appetizer contribution, a bottle of wine, and my dog, Saylor, up into our truck for the 1/2 mile dirt road drive to their place. Once there, Saylor bounded out of the truck and tore furiously around the yard. Because I didn’t have a fence at our house, she didn’t get a lot of free time outside. I decided to let her run while I carried the appetizer inside. About three minutes later, I came out and called her name. Nothing. I wandered down the driveway a bit a called again. Nothing. Annoyed that she might have run into the dense island bush surrounding their yard, I called louder. Then I wandered out into the road, and there she was. I could see her shape lit up under a lonely street lamp on the little dirt road, not moving, lying on her side. None of us had heard the car. Maybe one, two at most, would drive down our road in a day’s time. But in the three minutes I had carried our appetizer inside for our glorious, long-anticipated dinner party (steak! on our island! completely unheard of!) with our new potential friends, someone had driven by and hit her without stopping.
I stood in the road, crying, and yelled for Seth. He came out with our new friends following behind him. They were now confronted with us: two people they had just met for a total of ten minutes, invited into their home, now standing and crying in the road with my dead dog lying ten feet away. (Clarification: I was distraught. Saylor, named after a very dear friend, had been my dog prior to marriage and Seth’s arrival on the island. She had kept me company as I lived there alone for a few years. Seth didn’t have much of a problem holding himself together.) There were no vets on our island. One would come from a bigger island once every few months. If you had a dog you needed spayed or neutered, he’d do it for you then. In your driveway. Or on a back patio table. So there was nowhere to take her. I was so thankful that we were able to determine that she was, in fact, dead because on that island when you had an animal that was suffering, the only option was to call a police officer and have them shoot it. You think having your dog hit by a car can ruin a dinner party? Imagine having the police come over to shoot it in the head. That’s pretty much the definition of party foul. But fortunately, that wasn’t necessary.
Our new friends offered to help us bury her. So with our fajitas and fresh guac waiting inside, we loaded my dead dog into the truck and drove her home as I continued to cry. Seth and our brand new friends took turns and dug a big hole in our side yard, wrapped her up in an empty dog food bag (as a deterrent to other dogs thinking they’d dig her up), covered her with rocks (also a deterrent), and buried her. They even brought a palm tree to plant on top of her (another deterrent – though this was a long way from home where my family buried hamsters wrapped up in pretty cloth and planted azaleas on top of them). After burying our dog, our new potential friends said something along the lines of, “Well, we still have fajitas…”
Remember when I said I was so excited about this dinner party because I knew it would be comfortable and familiar? Almost like I was home again? That there was no way I could mess it up? No fish heads to leave on my plate? Or bits of a goat’s leg bone chips to spit out? Well, yeah, having my dog die and then allowing practical strangers to help us bury her within the first 30 minutes of our dinner party topped all of those. So I drank margaritas and cried all the way through the next few hours. And they made sure my glass stayed full.
I don’t remember much about the rest of the night, but we must have made a good impression because we’re still friends with this couple today. (Meaning, Seth must have made a good impression because I lost count of my margaritas and the tears only increased per drink.) We went beaching with them. They gave us plants for our yard and helped me learn about gardening. We exchanged recipes that were possible with the limited ingredients available on island. When we needed it months later, they helped us out with some of the moving process as we prepared to move our life to another island. But, I can’t say I remember being invited to any other dinner parties at their house.
by Ashley Ladlie
Island life is not hermetically sealed. Excluding those wealthy enough to blast the AC year round, most island residents live with windows open most of the time. Life here has a campy, indoor/outdoor vibe. Generally speaking, people who choose to live on a rock appreciate this aspect of island life. Myself included. Oh, how I longed for open windows and fresh breezes during the upper Midwest’s annual six month hibernation. Always the holdout among roommates over closing windows and turning on the stuffy AC, I only shutter-up now when desperate for some privacy from my home/work.
The screened-in-bubble room
This means I’m subject to all neighborhood noises. In addition to the sound-scape of birds and tree frogs that you might expect to enjoy in the tropics, the following make up the discordant symphony of life surrounding my Love City abode:
Roosters Crowing. My recent bout with insomnia allowed the opportunity to log the day’s first crow. Yesterday was 3:17 am. This morning a bit earlier at 3. Crowing continues in surround sound, growing more boisterous until somewhere between 8 and 9 am. Then they lay off for a few hours until mid-afternoon. Not that there is any official schedule. My mom listened to a cock doodle-doo all night once and swore that by dawn it was hoarse.
Hens Laying. Have I yet mentioned that families of free-range chickens roam the island? Despite growing up in farm country, I somehow managed to avoid familiarizing myself with the sound of a hen laying an egg. Now that I live on a Caribbean island, I experience this wretched ear-pollution at least once a week. It’s probably not so dissimilar to what you or I would sound like mid egg-lay, except that the horrific bawwwks of pain are separated with clucks instead of curses.
Hen with hatchlings in tow.
Heavy Equipment. Two houses and one resort monstrosity are being built up the hill, bringing all sorts of loud construction machines to the ‘hood. During excavation, we’re tortured with the percussion of jackhammers throughout the entire work day. One guest suggested they might refrain from jack-hammering until 9am, so as not to disturb those on vacation. It would be nice, indeed, but I chose not to march my white ass up the hill and ask the construction crew to postpone their workday by an hour.
Cat Yowls. I can never tell if I’m overhearing a stand-off or a sex-off. Either way, I’m disturbed and embarrassed.
West Indian Neighbor’s Soundtrack. Up the hill lives a local gentleman whose taste in music vacillates between two extremes. He mostly favors Calypso and its sub-genre, Soca. With song titles like,”Big Banana,” “Bring de Kitty,” and “Cherry Garden”, it’s some of the raunchiest, most innuendo-filled music I’ve encountered. But a good chunk of the time he’s in a more pious state, favoring Christian and Gospel. For the first year, I could stomach the Jesus songs only because they were in the calypso style, so I could extract some charm from their uninvited presence in my home. But then came the Lenten mix. Played over and over again. Daily. And songs like,”He Liivvveess….He Liiivvveesss…..He Lives Inside My Heart!,” started to loop in my head. The seasonal nadir being the day a guest returned from church singing the same song. It was like having the black version coming out of my right speaker while the inferior white version blared from the left.
*Click for photo credit
White Neighbor’s Love Mix. I know when the white neighbors up the hill are feeling amorous because I am suddenly assaulted with early 90’s ballads from the likes of Celine Dionne and Whitney Houston.
Neighbor Sneezes. Different neighbor? Same one? Not sure. But someone sneezes so violently and in such rapid succession that I was initially concerned a vital blood vessel might rupture. I’m told by a predecessor that this sneezing has gone on for over a decade, which tells me there are no immediate health concerns.
Sunday Funday, Santo Style. Maybe the least annoying track on this tape is the Spanish music played by the Santos down the hill. (Santo is local nomenclature for people from Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic.) I learned immediately upon arrival that Sunday is their day to relax with the family, have fun, and party. Their music adds exotic spice to the neighborhood. Their laughter adds zest for life. The few times it has devolved into fighting, I could do without.
THUMP.
Iguana Falls. Iguanas are known for falling out of trees. Especially during summer when the flamboyants are in bloom. Sometimes they’ve fallen asleep. Sometimes they’re clumsily trying to reach a precarious bloom. But it’s a frequent occurrence to hear a loud THUMP in the yard, followed a few seconds later by the crunch of twigs and leaves as the iguana works its way back to the base of the tree. Twice I’ve been startled awake from the sound of one hitting my bedroom roof. Last year, I came upon a dead one inches from the building. It gave me quite a start. My only guess as to how he found this fate was by hitting his head during a fall from the roof. Most of the time, however, these prehistoric critters are amazingly resilient.
Car Barge. Some communities have clock or bell towers marking the hours. I have the screeching car barge ramps. Whenever I hear the nails-on-chalkboard sound of the gate going up, I know it’s either the top or bottom of the hour. A good friend who works on one of the barges was shocked to hear it from my house. I asked if bringing a can of WD-40 down the hill and offering to oil the hinges might help, but he claims the problem requires more than a routine lube job.
*click for photo credit
Tarzan Calls. I can’t be certain, but I think this is the same fellow with the schizophrenic music mix. At least once, but sometimes several times a day, he emits what I can honestly best describe as a Tarzan yell. At first, I thought I was hearing an orgasm noise, and was again, a bit embarrassed. Then someone told me they thought he was a Calypso singer, and maybe these were vocal exercises. This made sense, especially considering his predilection for the genre. But then a few weeks ago, I was at a group meditation where we were taught how to scream into towels as a means of releasing stress and other negative emotions. There were several pros at this group, and once the meditation began and the towel-screaming commenced around me, I couldn’t help but think this sounds exactly like my neighbor. So maybe it’s just a primal scream sort of activity to purge frustrations.
Property Noises. And so I can always be reminded that I’m at work even when I’m at home, I am intimate with all of the property’s noises: gravel crunching in parking lots and on paths, the distinct sound of each condo’s door, the pool pump turning on and off, guests talking and sliding lounge chairs. I’m most grateful for being keenly in touch with the slam of the gate closing when someone approaches my cottage. The only time I’ve stood watching the clock, waiting for it to chime 10pm so I could enforce the noise rule, was when a lovely, extended Korean family visited for a wedding. And brought along, all the way from Canada, their karoake machine. Even my AC and headphones couldn’t drown out the sound of my favorite Elvis ballad, “I Can’t Help Farring in Rove with You.”
*Click for image credit
No surprise then, that I burn through a couple pairs of padded ear-encompassing headphones a year. If anyone is planning to get me a 30th birthday present in June, I’d love a set of the Bose noise-cancelling variety. Thanks.
by Ashley Ladlie
An Abridged Guide to Slowly Going Mad via Caribbean Red Tape
Decided it’s time to abandon mainland life and head to the Caribbean? Best of luck to you. Think you’d also like to bring along your trusty mode of transport? Read this first.
1. If in addition to your car, you wish to transport personal goods to the island, fill your trunk until it’s questionable as to whether it will close.
But perhaps you’re moving to an island to simplify…
2. Drop your vehicle at Tropical Shipping somewhere in Florida.
3. Once rock-side, wait for a call to inform that your car is here but waiting for a Customs inspection. You’ll ask when to expect this, and your question will be politely ignored. They will call when it’s complete.
4. Two days later with call received, it’s time to go to Tropical Shipping. While you may expect to leave behind the wheel of your vehicle, in reality you’ll wait another four to twenty-four hours. What you will actually pick up is your Bill of Lading (BoL) and an incorrect list of instructions for the treasure hunt needed to reclaim your car. You intend to mention the mistake upon return, but by then, you’ll have lost the will.
5. To further proceed, your car must be insured. Few people purchase comprehensive coverage because for an “island vehicle” it’s not worth the money.
6. Next, per your instructions, go to the VI Revenue Bureau. After standing in line for 15 minutes, the lady behind the plastic window will mouth, “Road tax at inspections,” to which you will reply, “What?” and she will again whisper, “Road tax at the inspection lane.”
7. Since it’s on the way, you might as well stop by the Excise Tax station behind the junior high school that looks abandoned but isn’t. Here an old woman will appear to be sleeping, chin on chest. Upon realizing you’ve entered the office, she’ll look at you with contempt in her glazed eyes and grunt something in your general direction. Tell her you’re here to take care of the excise tax for your car, and hand over your BoL. “No excise,” she’ll say with hostility. Your paper will be stamped, and you’re dismissed.
Empty Road. Car Soon Come.
8. The inspection lane, where you supposedly pay road tax, is at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles (BMV). However, the inspection lane is NOT where you presently need to go. You actually must go inside the BMV. You will probably enter the first door where many will be assembled in a long, narrow corridor. You’ll observe multiple windows with multiple purposes, none that seem to be yours. Look perplexed for several minutes until a skinny youth wearing his weight in gold graciously shares that road tax is paid next door. Later, you will discover that he’s a professional who navigates the process for hire.
9. Next door is a spacious room with far fewer people and windows. Road tax is paid at the furthest one from the door. After sliding your growing pile of documents under the ubiquitous plastic window, the clerk will turn up the radio and sing along. Then she will charge you sixteen cents per pound of your vehicle.
10. Take a short trip to the next window for the $5 permit required to move your car from Tropical Shipping to the BMV. You may expect to receive said permit at this window. You would be wrong. In order to retrieve the $5 permit to move your car one-half mile, it’s necessary to return to the other BMV office, the one you mistakenly entered in the first place.
11. The same bling-laden fellow points you to a window, with no sign designating the permit-fetching place. You’ll wait for five minutes while the clerk talks on the phone. When she notices you, tell her you’re here for the permit you purchased next door, and thrust your papers through the hole. (At any given time, you have no idea which one they need.) When she returns them, you’ll go on hope that your permit is included.
12. Now on to Customs. Behind another plastic window, two men sit astride a woman. A sign advises you to stay seated until acknowledged by an officer. When the woman looks at you and snarls, it’s time to advance toward the window, where she may be reading the newspaper. Hand her your documents. She’ll look through them, muttering,
“…What is this?…I’m sure you don’t have what you need. What is this stuff…?”
She may sound like she’s having a stroke. Perhaps English is her second language, a fact for which you may usually have patience. But since she’s grumbling about your stupidity after all you’ve accomplished to get this far, you’re quickly arriving at a state in which you almost hope she is, indeed, having a stroke. Because, at this point, you’d really enjoy seeing someone trapped in the clutches of excruciating pain.
Assure her you’ve completed the appropriate steps. She’ll hand you a form with items circled, which you assume are the important bits. After filling in the blanks, you’ll return to find her wholly engaged in the newspaper. Fortunately, the man next to her will point out the errors on your form. After you fix them, he’ll ask a few questions, stamp your BoL, and you’re free.
13. By now you may realize that no more will be accomplished today. The next step is returning to Tropical, but they close at 3pm, and Inspections closes at 2:45. It’s 2:15. You will try again tomorrow. After beers and sleep.
Lonely Parking Spots Await Corolla
14. Back to Tropical Shipping. They’ll verify that your documents are correctly stamped and signed, then charge you by weight for shipping your car across the ocean. You will meet a nice man in the parking lot to inspect for damages. Which you really don’t care about because you just want to get behind the wheel and drive the damn thing away. Sign another paper, and the car is again yours.
15. Return to the BMV. Pull behind the building to the inspection lanes. Many will be gathered, armed officer included. None will appear to be working. A dread-locked man will beckon for your paperwork, and sign it without so much as glancing at your car. This is your inspection. He’s nice enough to tell you which window to approach inside.
16. Wait patiently in line. Not that others will be. Many locals will loudly complain, banging on the windows, and asking if the clerks have gone to lunch. Meanwhile, the security guard will instruct those waiting to form a straight line, to which one man may reply, “Make them go faster,” to which the guard will say, “The are moving fast.”
17. When you advance to the window, the lady will put up her hand, communicating that she’s not ready for you. Eventually, you’ll be handed another form and a laminated number, which you’re instructed to sit with while waiting to be called.
18. If you’re lucky, you’ll hear your number and window. You arrive, and the clerk will be discussing lunch with her co-worker. When she makes something akin to eye contact, give her your items. She’ll leisurely calculate your fees and collect your new plates and sticker. Then tell you a sum twice what you expect, given the amount posted.
19. After multiple hours, thousands of dollars, and with a stack of more than 20 papers, your new VI plates and registration sticker are in your hands. Hopefully, you brought a screwdriver. No, not to inflict pain. Rather, to change your plates in the lot.
Victory, at last.
20. It’s time for a Presidenté. Or a Painkiller. You’ve earned it.
21. And for Jah sake, after all this, remember to stay left!
