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 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!
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 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?
