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.
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 Dillinger
On arrival, I did what I always do in a new country. I went to the local cellular phone store and bought myself a pay-as-you-go SIM card. It was a simple transaction. As I recall, I handed over $20 and received a SIM with a $10 credit, no questions asked (well, other than, “Are you English?”). Nice.
Phone service here, much like the electricity supply, is erratic. You get good spells and bad spells. By and large, I can’t complain. Typically, I am happier when people can’t contact me than when they can. I am less sympathetic if I am the one wanting to make contact.
Anyway, recently my service went down. At first, I didn’t pay it much attention. 24 hours later, after a few tentative enquiries, it transpired that everyone else had service, it was just my service that was down. I appreciate that I take a dark storm cloud with me wherever I go, but this was adding a new dimension. Was it really possible that my storm cloud was blocking my signal? This was radical stuff.
I finally gave in and contacted my “service provider”. I spent the obligatory 15 minutes on hold, got disconnected, spent another 15 minutes on hold and finally spoke to a human. He was nice except that he concluded that I was a moronic idiot. My number was working fine. It simply wasn’t possible that I couldn’t make or receive calls. So, I went to the phone shop.
After some negotiation, I persuaded someone to look at my phone. 20 minutes later it transpired that as my SIM has never been registered in my name, my phone number had been sold to someone else, which had disabled my service. How is it possible that a phone company has no idea which of its numbers are in service?
I demanded my number back. 18 months of use struck me as a reasonable period for claiming ownership. I politely suggested that we should call “my” number and let the new owner know there was an issue, but my suggestion was dismissed. We simply reclaimed my number and I went home happy.
At about 1 am, my phone began to ring and ring and ring. At 1:05 am, my phone rang and rang and rang. The next time, I answered it.
Yes?
This is my number. How did you get it?
I bought it 18 months ago and then you hijacked it for 48 hours and now I have it back.
But it was my number 5 years ago. I just got back on island, so I took my number back.
But it’s not your number. It’s my number.
But I’ve got credit on that number…
I think you should go back to the shop and get a new number.
But I’ve got credit on that number…
And I’ve got eye bags.
Click.
End of story.
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…
