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!
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 Ashley Ladlie
The following may sound ungrateful. Harsh, even. But what I am about to describe is an island reality, a prevailing attitude among many in the hospitality industry. Namely, that working in tourism on a tropical island is far from a permanent vacation. At times, it’s downright draining.
Somewhere between six months to a year of working with the tourist public, you’ve become so weary of telling your island story that you must exert not a small bit of effort to keep from sighing and rolling your eyes when asked for the 378th time,
“So, how did you end up here?”
Or the keen, “You’re not from around here.”
Or the stupefying, “Do you live here?”
During my honeymoon period, I was thrilled to share. Starry-eyed and naive, I gladly recounted my tale of “getting bit by the tropical crazy bug” to anyone who’d listen. This lasted maybe six months – interspersed, I might add, with periods of despair and regret. Certainly, 10 months into my VI residency, after a series of Murphy’s Law life events occurred in rapid succession, I silently groaned every time a well-meaning tourist asked, “How did you get so lucky to live here?”
Some people start to invent backgrounds. I get why they do it. After being asked all day every day the where’s and why’s of your life, you get so tired of repeating your story that rewriting is necessary simply to preserve sanity. Otherwise, it’s akin to spending your days with a dementia patient – you just keep having the same mundane conversation over and over again. Not to mention, we’re often really busy concentrating on our jobs during this impromptu interview. Plus, it’s really nobody’s business. My story includes info that needn’t be shared with every curious visitor. While I don’t make things up, the version I share depends on my time and mood, and their personality.
I’ve watched the honeymoon phase peter out in others too, sometimes with a bit of schadenfreude on my part. I am reminded of a young woman who briefly worked at a bar I frequent. Upon arrival, she was full of pep and sparkle and light. A fresh-faced, all-American girl on a post-collegiate adventure. Smartly dressed, hair swept into a perky pony, she exuded enthusiasm for her new life. On a weekday afternoon not long after she landed, I was venting to another local about some island inconvenience when she piped in,
“But look, honey, you have this to enjoy every day, ” while doing a Vanna White toward the (admittedly) gorgeous turquoise water and white sand mere paces away.
Since I hadn’t been to the beach in several weeks and had spent my recent vacation plugged into work correspondence, I couldn’t help but feel slightly annoyed with this Pollyanna business.
Fast forward a few months. I see the same girl at a neighboring bar, smoking cigarettes, sipping lunch wine from a plastic cup, baseball cap pulled down over her eyes, and well, not looking quite so sparkly.
Hmm. What can I say? Island life catches up with the best of us.
When I’m especially depleted from a lack of true free time in several days, weeks, months, even years, depending on your perspective, I can be downright indignant. But, I do my best to keep a lid on any resentment at work. And at home too, since, ya know…I live at my job. It may not surprise you that I don’t always succeed at this particular endeavor.
Not long ago, a guest offered what he surely felt was a compliment.
“You have my dream retirement job, you know,” he told me, a friendly smile on his broad white face.
“Well, you better expect to work really hard in retirement, then.” I did my best to match his smile.
Fortunately, my mom was visiting so I could bitch immediately to a sympathetic ear about his well-meaning but rather offensive comment. I hear a version of this all the time. That my reaction is so inwardly vitriolic, which I try to outwardly disguise, makes me feel even worse.
Because in reality, I do have a beautiful life. I live on an acre of lush tropical gardens with daily views that astound. I have no commute. Unless, that is, you count the 15 paces from cottage to office during which I watch hummingbirds and butterflies suck nectar from colorful flowers. I understand why my situation appears romantic. In some ways, it is. And in many more ways than I’ll burden you with, it’s not.
Speaking of romance, I’ll give you just one example. I’ve given up all attempts at discretion regarding what little dating life I enjoy. Every guest or owner on-site bears witness to all who leave and enter my cottage. You needn’t even look; footsteps are easily heard on the gravel pathways. Believe me, I know. Part of my job is to be intimate with the property’s noises. I can’t even have a private conversation unless I close the windows and turn on the A/C. So, as you might imagine, this ritual is essential if I’m lucky enough to get laid and want to ensure that my guests won’t hear me. And by my guests, I mean my customers.
Would I trade it for a 9-5 with a 30 minute commute in the city? No.
Would I trade it for a bartending gig on the beach? No.
But do I have a dream job living the easy life? Hell fucking no!
The reality is that those who are not independently wealthy and want to do more than just survive in the VI have to work their asses off. Especially if they have designs on raising a family and providing their children with a quality education. Living in the Virgin Islands is anything BUT a permanent vacation.
The annoying part isn’t so much that island life doesn’t equal a perma-vacay. What irritates is the constant perception that it does. When well-intentioned tourists constantly inquire as to your personal story and insist that you’re “living the dream” (WTF does that mean anyway?!) when you’re actually working harder than ever before, and for less money, and you can’t even recall your last beach day, sometimes it’s hard not to tell them to go fuck themselves. This is especially true if you were under the same impression as them before your big move. Then you want to tell yourself to fuck off too.
When people are unsatisfied and bored with their own lives, they idealize what they see on the outside lives of others. It’s obvious in the way we worship celebrities, even though their lives are just as difficult as ours often seem. But people are so hungry for something more. Something different. Something other than icy commutes, mundane routines, mortgage payments, and asshole bosses…that they’re quick to place more value on the daily experience of others than their own.
It’s just as easy for me to idealize the lives of my married friends back in the states. They’re all so clearly in love with the babies they’re making. Facebook photos show cozy, family-filled scenes. Children filling lives with joy. Had I not moved to an island, this would be me. The solitary posts I offer of tropical vistas and my dog can feel rather lonely in comparison. But I’m not seeing photos of marital strife and honeymoon stitches, intrusive in-laws, and kid puke in the bed.
Celeb mags are photoshopped to the hilt. Reality TV is rife with scripting and manipulative edits.
And paradise does not exist.
Or, perhaps more accurately, paradise is what you make it. Because when you finally bring your fantasy into reality, the inevitable cosmic dog shit of real life will make its way there too.
Where you live matters. What you do matters. But what matters more is the lens through which you view your circumstances.
A lesson it would clearly behoove me to take from myself.
by Melissa Rogati
I did it. This Christmas I entered the modern age of smartphones. Personally, I miss the time when I could exist with a phone that only made phone calls. Living on an island helped me to exist in that world a little bit longer than I think I could in the regular universe. But at some point in the last year, the regular universe found me and group texts sent from certain smartphones began being sent as data. And suddenly my PTWJAP (phone-that-was-just-a-phone) couldn’t receive them. This meant I was regularly having to text my boss with super professional requests like, “Can you resend that? It didn’t come through for some reason.” Which is professional-ish when it happens once in awhile, perhaps. But sending it every two out of three texts? Okay, fine. I’ll get a grown-up phone with a grown-up data plan. But I get a phone case that glows in the dark. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.
Here’s the good news that comes with my new smartphone. Pictures. All the time. Pictures of the cheese I’m eating. Pictures of my dog doing things way cuter than other people’s dogs do. Pictures of my baby nephew stolen from my sister’s Facebook page. And, here’s the one you’ll like (unless I lost you at PTWJAP), pictures of bizarre island happenings. Previously, I could only photograph them when I happened to have my camera with me and handy. Not anymore.
Here are three moments with horses that I could have captured for you if I’d upgraded to a smartphone earlier. Because at the time I only owned a PTWJAP, you get to experience the events through my hand-drawn illustrations instead:
Here is a horse being led down the road by its car-driving owner. I was fortunate enough to get stuck behind this duo in Bovoni near the race track.
And here is a horse waiting for the VITRAN bus. Or at least that’s what I assume he was doing. I’m not sure why else a horse would just be hanging out alone at a bus stop.
And here is horse traveling via truck bed. Just passing time while his chauffeur pumps some gas. You may be outraged, but remember – he’s just happy to have a ride so that he doesn’t have to wait for the bus like his lame-O horse cousin. My guess is that he’s going to reach his destination and jump out of the truck at the corner of the Tutu intersection, inconveniently causing the person behind him to miss the light. But that’s just a guess.
Of course, now that I have my new smartphone I’m sure people will start to be very responsible with their horses, leaving me with no interesting horse picture opportunities. But never fear, there will surely still be many events to document from the local iguanas, chickens, feral cats, tourists…
by Chrissann Nickel
Can we offer you a cocktail?
Before we begin, that’s one thing we should probably make clear from the get-go: we are significantly funnier if you are imbibing in some sort of an adult beverage. Raucously funnier, even, if you’re on your third. The fact of the matter is that here in the islands, we don’t really do coffee. It’s just too hot. Besides, that extra amped energy burst from the java juice monster actually makes it monumentally more difficult to cultivate the patience required for an island lifestyle that has the tendency to move at the speed of a hermit crab. Or seemingly not at all.
Here, rather, we meet for happy hour – which admittedly, has a tendency to too often commence before noon, but… you catch the drift. Please understand that we don’t intend all this cocktail talk to come across in an alcoholic sort of way; it’s more indicative of our way of life – anthropologists will one day look upon island societal remains and attribute Heineken as being one of the official sponsors of our evolution. The fact of the matter is that we simply handle our liquor better than most people handle their caffeine. But, we digress. About this blog.
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to actually
live on a tropical island?
Most of us have allowed that daydream to pull on the kite strings of our minds whilst on holiday at some point in our lives. You find yourself glamorously soaking up the sunshine in your idyllic hammock du jour, gazing out from beneath your over-sized shades upon the turquoise sea and there it is – with a definitive exhale, you think, Yeessss, I could do this forever. It is this stream of consciousness that compels tourists to marvel upon us on an almost daily basis, HOW do you LIVE here? They want the full story – the inside track, some magical formula that will get them from their comparably drearier existence onto the Path to Paradise. But, as women who have actually seen that fantasy all the way through, we’re here to confess:
It’s not all sunshine and umbrella drinks.
At least not all the time.
For this is the essential paradox of paradise. It is freakishly beautiful here, but these postcard-perfect views don’t come for free. It is also freakishly frustrating to live on an island at times. So much so that you will find yourself actually proclaiming phrases you once thought improbable such as screw the beach! and just give me some rain, damn it! in a fit of fury. Perhaps it’s all a part of nature’s delicate balance – if island living didn’t sometimes beat the shit out of you, everyone would live here. And there simply isn’t room for everyone.
So we’re here to give it to you straight up, on the rocks. It may not always be pretty. It may not always be convenient (for us at least), but by God, it will be entertaining. For you. The person living in the Land of Convenience who does not have to wait in line for 3 hours in the sweltering heat only to be told to come back on Thursday because what you need is not available on Wednesdays, only to come back on Thursday, wait in line for 3 more hours, only to be told that the only person authorized to give you what you need will not be back until next Thursday. Seriously, laugh it up.
If we do not celebrate the absurd, we will not survive. At least that’s what we’re hoping. Thanks for joining us, please feel free to LOL unabashedly at our expense.
Cheers!
