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?
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.
by Melissa Rogati
On a recent hunt for a local source of essential oils (that did not involve a folding table and a Rasta guy outside of Kmart) several people asked if I’d been to the natural foods store. Yes, of course I’d been there. No, not the orange one between Pueblo and Thai Pro Nails, they’d say. The one across from the post office. The one I thought was a sketchy convenience store that I joked about being people’s source for illegal drugs. I mostly thought that because I judge books by their covers, and this cover had bars on all the doors and four open signs hanging up, lest you think the building is condemned. I also thought you could buy drugs there because over the door in uneven, sticky letters it said “DRUG MART”. I mean, when you go the extra effort of labeling yourself that way, what else is a girl to think?
But on the hunt for essential oils to make my homemade cleaning supplies smell like a spa day, I decided to branch out. To Drug Mart I went. Inside I was confronted with mismatched shelving, missing tiles in the linoleum floor, Five-Hour Energy, and lottery tickets. Suspicions confirmed. But wait. No. A closer look at the mismatched shelving showed rows of natural vitamins and supplements (the legal health food kind). Unexpected. Turning the corner of the long, L-shaped interior, there was organic, unbleached flour and grains. Completely unexpected. And then in the very back, right under a wall of weave, were three shelves of Mrs. Meyer’s cleaning supplies. Score. There was even an eleven-ish year old boy following me around, I’m pretty sure to make sure I didn’t steal anything. But he did also continue to ask if I needed help, so maybe he was just being overly helpful.
I only know of one other place on St Thomas where Mrs. Meyer’s is available. So, in spite of the small boy following me around to make sure I didn’t slip any basil-scented floor cleaner into my purse, I took my time smelling up the goods and settled on a geranium candle to make washing dishes not such a terrible chore. At the register, the very nice owner told me my candle was buy one get one free. Drug Mart even does promotions! I complimented his store and told him I’d never been in before. He asked me if I knew what Whole Foods was. “We’re just like Whole Foods. Without the meat.”
When I left I noticed that above the DRUG MART stickers there was actually a natural foods sign. I guess I had just always been too distracted by the bars to notice it. Drug Mart, I like you and your island ways. I will be back.
