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
I appreciate a thorough investigation. A good ‘ole fashioned puzzler requiring some research and critical analysis is even sorta fun for me. This has been helpful while managing ten 60’s-era condos on a small, secondary island. I’m often required to balance my Sherlock Holmes cap atop all the other hats I don to get the job done. And while I’ve rarely shied away from a challenge attached to a paycheck, solving mechanical and maintenance issues will never be one of my many talents.
Mystery: Why is the water pump running without guests in the building?
Answer: Because a leak has gone undetected in a storage closet for weeks.
Mystery: Why did the utility bill triple despite less use of the AC?
Answer: Because the water pump ran continually to keep up with the leak.
Mystery: Why do I smell mildew in the entryway of one particular condo?
Answer: Because there’s a hole in the roof, and it’s raining on the ceiling tiles.
Last week brought two mysteries. I suspected a common link, but couldn’t be sure.
A strange noise had presented itself on a few different occasions. A splatter splat splat pitter pat of liquid hitting my roof, deck and sometimes the ground behind my cottage. It sounded like Sally, the housekeeper, dumping mop water onto my roof. But she hadn’t done this for several months, ever since I told her my bedroom ceiling leaked in the exact place she dumped the water. Besides, she wouldn’t have been mopping at the time of the splatters.
I hoped it was just the guests staying above my cottage dumping out cooler water from their veranda. This made the most sense.
It made the most sense, that is, except for my worst fear as property manager: the dreaded sewer backup.
Which brings me to the second mystery of the week.
I had also just noticed — when walking across the deck toward my front door — a pissy smell. So. There was also a sneaking suspicion that raw sewage was spilling under my deck after every flush due to a burst pipe. Or something equally unfortunate. This could explain the sporadic splatter splat splat pitter pat that I’d heard on the deck. Maybe it only sounded like it was on the roof. A ventriloquist sound effect. But if it was raw sewage, wouldn’t I be smelling #2 in addition to #1?
It worried me enough to put the mystery sound/smell combo at the top of the next day’s maintenance list. The handyman validated my concern the following morning. Upon reaching the top deck stair, he did not offer the usual salutation. Instead, he asked through my kitchen window, “Why I smellin’ piss?”
He determined that it was cat piss— a tom must be spraying. It wasn’t possible, he assured, for a pipe to have broken in the place I smelled urine. So it must be a cat.
click for photo credit
Since I had definitely caught more than one acrid whiff of cat piss, and since this is not a rare thing to smell on the property, I let it go at that. Although, I must admit that part of me knew I’d also smelled the separate and distinct odor of human piss in the area directly outside my kitchen window. But having many other things to fret over, I de-esclated the sound/smell mystery for the day.
Fortunately, the truth emerged (as it often does) quite organically later that evening. Or should I say, very early the next morning.
I woke up at 2:30 am to splatter splat splat pitter pat on the deck outside my kitchen window. Checking my phone for the time, I saw a text sent 15 minutes earlier from my across-the-street neighbor. She apologized for bothering me so late, but said there was a guest locked out of his condo making quite a racket trying to get back in. Yelling for Mom and throwing rocks at windows for upwards of 30 minutes, I later discovered.
This was perplexing. The condo she mentioned was currently vacant.
But then I remembered another text received earlier that evening from the guests staying two stories above my cottage. They wanted to know which bars in Cruz Bay I recommended for a younger crowd, asking on behalf of their 19-year-old son. Being a helpful host, I suggested four, and passed along the message to have fun and be safe.
It occurred to me that the teenager must be confused as to which condo is his. While he harassed the empty condo at the top of the stairs in the lower building, his family slept at the top of the stairs in the upper building. I pulled on some clothes and went outside prepared to guide his drunkity butt home. Stepping onto the deck, I noticed some fresh puddles on the otherwise dry wood directly below my kitchen window. That is, the spot from which I’d heard the splatter splat splat that had woke me just now. I bent down and sniffed. Sure enough. Piss.
Now I understood. First, the kid must have made it home, seeing as he’d just pissed off of his veranda and onto my deck. To be clear, this is right between my kitchen window and front door. Furthermore, not only did he do this while trashed in the middle of the night just now, he’s been doing it all week during the day. Presumably, in the presence of his parents. Even waving the stream about, it seems, if I’m to trust my ears as regards variety in splatter locale.
This is the splatter splat splat pitter pat noise! This is the piss smell!
Though he’d clearly made it home, I thought to check for good measure. No sooner did I reach the deck stairs when I from above, heard from the kid’s veranda,
“Hi Ashley!”
I spun around, looking up. He smiled down at me from the veranda, swaying a bit. Involuntarily. Like a skyscraper.
“Yeah, a neighbor just texted me complaining about someone banging on a door.”
“Oh, I had the wrong door at first. I’m sorry. Ashley, I’m really really sorry.”
I pointed my index finger at him in classic scolding fashion.
“Go to bed.”
“I’m so so sorry…”
“Go to bed… Go to bed and stop pissing off the veranda.”
“I’m so so sorry…”
I walked toward my door, returning every apology with the directive for bed, accenting it with the finger scold.
“Ashley, I’m so so sorry.”
“Go to bed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And stop pissing off of the veranda.”
*Click.*
*Lock.*
Case closed.
by Melissa Rogati
Caribbean islands are beautiful. Inspiring. Breathtaking. But all of that becomes secondary and quickly fades away when you realize one thing: they want to kill you. Yes, you heard me correctly. The islands are out to get you. Hurricanes. Mudslides. Flash floods. Sharks. Tropical diseases. High surf advisories. It’s like looming death wrapped up with a sparkly 82-degree-and-breezy bow. Last summer, our island attacked us with dual force. Here’s how it went down…
After some lovely time spent outdoors enjoying the beauty that is the Caribbean, my husband, Seth, got hit hard with dengue fever. It’s one of those wonderfully fun tropical diseases passed on by mosquitoes that ranges from “Hate-your-Life-and-the-Fact-that-you’re-Alive-for-a-Week” to “Kill You” levels. Fortunately, the strain he caught was in the former category.
Dengue hits you with a whole firestorm of symptoms that you never realized could go together. It’s basically every terrible thing about the full-blown flu, plus,on top of that, everything hurts – your bones, your back, even your eyes. Don’t try to look side to side without turning your head. Trust me. Oh, how your eyes hurt. Oh, yeah – and there’s a rash. A full-body red, itchy rash. Then there’s vomiting, dehydration, and the inability to keep food down. All from a mosquito bite. And if you think you have dengue, whatever you do, do not take ibuprofen no matter how much your cramping and aching muscles call out for relief. There is some bizarre stuff going on inside of you right now and ibuprofen can apparently make your red blood cells explode or something similarly scientific. Take Tylenol. That’s it. Tylenol and sleep until it all goes away.
So here I am, home on a summer day and Seth is fortunately in the middle of a marathon nap back in the bedroom. Falling asleep isn’t easy when you have dengue because you’re in so much pain, so the relief of sleeping and not feeling that pain for a few hours is glorious. And that’s when it happened. My internal monologue went something like this:
What is that? A truck?
That’s a really loud truck.
Why hasn’t it passed by yet?
Wait – is this an earthquake?
Crap, it’s an earthquake.
Wow, it’s still going.
This is a really long one.
Maybe I should go outside.
Yeah, I’m going to go outside now.
– *Stops* halfway between the living room and front door –
Wait…do I wake Seth up?
Our house could slide down the side of the mountain and he’d die.
But – he’s finally napping and getting some dengue relief.
If he’s still napping through this, then that means he’s really out.
Which is more likely to kill him – the earthquake or the dengue?
And then it stopped.
Yep, that’s me. Emergency responder to the rescue.
In actuality, we get earthquakes here pretty regularly. In fact, there were three in quick succession just this morning. Usually you barely notice them, or don’t even feel them at all. Sometimes they’re bad enough to loosen rocks that fall down the mountain onto the road. The one we got during Seth’s bout with dengue was the longest enduring earthquake that I’ve ever experienced here. Obviously, long enough for me to have an entire conversation in my head. Yet what it all boiled down to for me was – which was going to inflict the most pain and suffering on Seth? I went with the dengue (or “The Dengus” as a friend’s child calls it).
In the earthquake vs. Dengue Fever scenario, I was right. Me – 1, Island – 0. But it’s just a matter of time. This island has it out for us, I’m sure of it. For you. For everyone. Throwing death blows at every turn. I mean, beauty without adventure is pretty boring, don’t you think? Where’s the fun in that?
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.
by Chrissann Nickel
We humans are incredibly adaptable creatures. No matter how wonderful (or awful) a change is in our lives, we quickly grow accustomed to it and often forget what life was like before the change occurred. The same is true of island living. Things that were once novel to you become old hat before you know it.
Take, for example, the pervasive presence of lizards. I am reminded of a few years ago when I was moving into my first apartment on St Thomas. In an attempt to offset the kitschy white wicker lounge décor in my new living room, I went to remove an especially hideous painting of the landlord’s from the wall. As I lifted the seashell monstrosity off its nail, three little lizards burst out from their hiding spot behind the frame and were sent scurrying in different directions – one particularly bold soul dashed up my forearm at a concerning clip. The island-newbie that I was dropped the picture with a crash and flailed my arms wildly, screaming in a manner that can only be described as “someone poured acid on my face and now I’ll never be a teen model”.
My relationship with the lizards has since transitioned from fear, to novelty (I spent 3 years naming each and every one that crossed my path), to aggravation (their tiny poops on the walls are a never-ending cleaning nuisance), to a commonplace backdrop of my island life. Now, I am loathe to admit that I only tend to take notice of their existence when they happen to fall from a tree and land with a smack on my forehead. Even then, I snatch them up with an all-too-blasé sigh, removing them lest they make a home in my hair.
I do try to make an effort to not take advantage of the beauty that surrounds me though, as it’s easier than you’d imagine to allow the tropical wonderland slip away when you’re in the midst of the mundane detritus of daily life. I find that the best reminders always come when spending time with people who don’t live on an island. You get a peek into your world from their fresh perspective and can enjoy the reminder of how you once thought it all magical, when your brain was sharp and had yet to be rusted from the omnipotently corrosive sea salted air.
I was recently in the states attending a workshop attended by mostly stateside people. As per usual in these types of situations, it will be revealed in those initial getting-to-know-you conversations that I live on an island and my life is not normal. From there, the inevitable string of follow-up questions ensues. Among them, one of the most frequently asked has to do with transportation. It seems to blow people’s minds that I haven’t driven a car with regularity in years and instead, have to drive a boat anytime I go anywhere off my rock of residence. The way their eyes light up at the mention of a boat, I inherently know exactly what they’re picturing:
Okay, fine – so they’re most likely not picturing me as Angelina Jolie (although, it sure would be charitable of them if they could) but their minds are definitely conjuring up a similarly fantastical image. Windswept hair, shiny boat, sparkly ocean, French-stripey sailor girl shirt – the works. I know, because that is exactly how I pictured myself before I began riding around in boats all the time in real life.
But more often, arriving by boat is not as glamorous as it sounds. Unless of course by “boat” you mean mega-yacht and in that case, I’m certain it is exactly as glamorous as it sounds. Otherwise, in the average island girl’s life, you ride in a boat much like you ride in a car, except you don’t have the protection of the wind-free, climate-controlled interior. In a boat, you’re out in the elements and on your way somewhere with the hopes of arriving dry, sweat-free, and with a minimal amount of rat’s nest tangles in your hair. Sometimes it works out. Other times, the boating elements get the better of you.
On a recent trip to the big island, one of my main errand goals was a haircut. The thing I love most about getting my hair cut is that someone else who isn’t me puts in the muscle to wash, dry, and straighten the untamable curly beast that is my hair. Then, if I’m lucky, I can enjoy a salon blowout for a couple of days before I have to go back to doing it myself. As I left the salon that fateful day feeling fresh out of a Pantene commercial, I carefully swept my hair back in a loose bun and covered it with a scarf in hopes that it wouldn’t frizz on the boat ride home.
All went according to plan for about 20 minutes before the boat began to hiss and groan. I nervously adjusted my scarf as my captain/boyfriend David went to investigate. But before he could diagnose the inevitable, the starboard engine went out with a bang, jerking us to a halt. I could give you mechanical reasons for why the motor quit that day, but why don’t we just call it like it is – that boat can be a spiteful bitch and she was set on sabotaging my hair.
For the next 3 hours, we chugged home on one engine, all the while being blasted with black diesel exhaust. The wind had changed its course to just the right direction conducive for creating a vortex of smoke at the helm station, enveloping us in its sooty embrace. Not to be outdone, the choppy sea splashed over our side rail intermittently, soaking me in the face with the accuracy of a direct water gun assault.
David medicated my fury with what remained in our cooler – a tonic of sauvignon blanc and Red Stripe, when the former ran dry. This explains the only possible reason I allowed him to snap these pictures of me before I got in the shower to scrub my skin furiously in an effort to remove the heavy coating of soot that was now covering every exposed piece of my flesh.
So there you have it. When traveling by boat, some days you get to be Angelina and some days you end up looking like a pitiful Dickensonian character who moonlights as a chimney sweep. Sometimes it’s glamorous and sometimes you end up blowing a worrisome amount of black liquid out of your nose for a week. Either way, I’d prefer it if you could still picture me as Angelina Jolie.
