Ups

Am I a vampire? No, I know what you are thinking, this isn’t the introduction to another vampire saga. Sleep just hasn’t been as regular. I guess it makes sense. As I examine my body, the list of injuries increases daily. At the age of twenty-three, my bruised up legs, cut up feet, weakened knee, throbbing headache, and urinary tract infection have me feeling like an eighty year old woman. At least the bugs and lizards don’t bother me anymore. It may sound like I am complaining but I will not accept your pity, for I am exactly where I want to be.

Let’s rewind a little bit. About two months ago, I left Arcata. A small town in Northern California, Arcata, it sits perfectly nestled between the giant Redwoods and the North Pacific coast. I am convinced that I have and will not ever live in a more beautiful place for the rest of my life, that is, until I settle there for good someday. Aside from the spiritual connection I felt with the geographic location of Arcata, the community I lived in was amazing.

The beautiful family I left makes traveling hard and easy. It’s difficult being away from my beloved friends. I am jealous of their playful shenanigans that I know are still in full action despite my absence. Yet, at the same time, I have their full support and anytime I need anything, they are a mere phone call away. And their encouragement has been invaluable.

As I fall asleep at night I think about how I might live my life differently. And my only conclusion is that I wouldn’t. Even though it’s hard here, feeling very isolated and alone. I really am having the time of my life. I snorkel beautiful reefs, see amazing sunsets, mastered the art of mosquito hunting, made friends with the lizards and bush cats, learned that a gallon of water weighs 8.34 lbs, began to enjoy reading for both pleasure and knowledge, started paying attention to the news again, appreciate my parents more, the list goes on and on. I guess I’m just saying, maybe more for my own benefit than yours, even though I am sitting alone on my futon, in a little pain, I am happy and grateful to be right where I am.

Sleep When You're Dead

As I stand at the bottom of the hill at Secret Harbor, I hear the sound of “Genius of Love” blaring from someone’s car. Surprised that someone else on the island loves the song that Zoe and I always hula hoop to, I look up to see it’s Roy, my taxi driver. It makes perfect sense because I had just given him a CD with the Tom Tom Club finishing the mix.

At nighttime on St. Thomas, you have a car, catch a lift with a local or friend, hitch hike with sketch balls or rely on the taxis—of which, most are “gypsy taxis.” A lot of the gypsy drivers double as full time drug dealers and thieves as well. So getting into a cab here can be just as risky as walking the dark street. My drivers are TJ, Heartbeat and my favorite—Roy. Roy drives the only yellow taxi on the island and is literally available anytime night or day. Once I asked him when he finds time to sleep. “Sleeping is for when you are dead, I am a business man,” he replied with a smile.

Roy and I did not start off on the best foot of friendship. I constantly thought he was trying to rip me off. And ironically, a girl wearing a pink shirt stood him up for a ride five minutes before I called him for a ride. Wearing a pink shirt, I hopped into the car only to receive a lecture about not wasting his time. We were both bitter at each other for a while.

A couple weeks later, I decided to give Roy another chance, and he had forgotten me altogether. After four or five rides of him not remembering my name, our conversations or where I lived, with some sass I told him I was offended. He apologized and promised he would never forget my name was Liz. Roy stayed true to his word. Now whenever I see him, he stops, calls me baby, tells me he loves me, and pounds my fist.

As a retired drummer, Roy loves music. His dream is to visit New York City to buy an electric drum kit, so he can resume his drumming. He hasn’t been to NYC since the 70’s. Roy listens to a lot of repetitive electronic music because as he says it keeps him going. He turns up the music really loud and says, “There, that drummer is a professional. Professional, I tell you.” I told him that, although I appreciated his music, I had to burn him a CD. He got so excited. My goal is to get him to appreciate true bluegrass music.

Gathering Food, Safari Style

($63.96 later...)

Like everything here in St. Thomas, getting groceries involves quite the process. Granite, living in Humboldt County California spoiled me in this regard. My best friend/neighbor in Arcata, a farmer, gave me free fresh organic produce whenever I wanted. During harvest season, arguably the best farmer’s market in the country occurs five minutes from my old house. And even though I thought the groceries there were expensive, at least the products quality was top-shelf.

Here, four grocery stores appear on my radar. The most conveniently located, Marina Market, sports the highest prices. A small package of bacon runs $9.99; a loaf of store-brand wheat bread sets the wallet back $6; and the produce, priced comparably high, would fail all FDA regulations stateside any day. The owner justifies prices with a poster-sized version of the monthly electric bill of $26,000 displayed for all to see when exiting Marina Market. After shopping at Marina Market on several occasions, I went in search of a more reasonably priced grocer.

Luckily a five-minute Safari bus ride down the road toward town (Charlotte Amalie) leads to Food Center. The locals who do not own cars get around by the Safari bus system, which costs $1/in country and $2/to town. Usually, I am the only white person riding. The route loops one direction from Red Hook (east end) through Bovoni to Charlotte Amalie (central) through Smith Bay back to Red Hook. Along the loop unmarked “bus stops” exist, locals know their locations. The driver will stop for passengers to hop on if they just point. Hitch hiking works the same, no thumbs used here. Made by retrofitting typical pickup trucks into Safari busses, passengers enter one of 4 rows of seats from the left side of the vehicle. Once climbing up the 3 steps, I usually scoot over to the right side if no other passengers occupy the bench. This can make exiting a little tricky, but I prefer to look out than be squished in between two other sweaty people. The benches hold 4-5 people, depending on passenger and bench size. Contrary to what I practice, proper etiquette includes first come first serve policy. Meaning it is totally legit to sit on the edge seat, forcing people to crawl over you and your prime real estate seat.

But getting back to groceries. Offering lower prices than Marina Market for most products, I became a dedicated Food Center customer. Their produce wasn’t even rotten! Unfortunately, the Safari bus route only travels one direction. This means, I must hoof it up a steep scary road with no sidewalk, call a five-dollar cab, or hitch. With the risk of death by car, an expensive taxi, or a guaranteed pervert picking me up, Food Center lost two stars on my Best Grocers of St. Thomas rating.

With my bagel supply dwindling, I decided I needed to further explore options this time around. I deemed today grocery day. After a morning nap from 11-12, I scrambled out of the house and down the hill by 12:15, feeling guilty for wasting precious daylight hours asleep. I took the Safari bus to town where Miss J had taken me to The Fruit Bowl. Manageable prices, organic produce and plenty of options make it my favorite grocery store. Unfortunately, before I went to Fruit Bowl, I thought it a good idea to check out Pueblo, another store down the street. They have all right prices too but not the same quality as Fruit Bowl.

The only problem—the ride back to Red Hook on the Safari bus is cramped even without a backpack full of groceries and a plastic bag of eggs and juice. Not to mention some of the Safari busses are smaller than others, like the one I had on the ride back today. Squished between a sweaty West Indie lady and a creepy guy with an extra long pinky fingernail and reeking of marijuana, I prayed for the moment I could crawl out of the bus and hike up the hill to Lloyd’s Place.

The Mosquito Hunter

One word. Mosquitoes.

Honestly, they haven’t really bothered me much more than the occasional annoyance when I am trying to sleep. But this sentiment is far less dramatic, and this, my friends, is a dramatic entry, so prepare yourselves…

(Not suitable for young children or the weak of heart)

The presence of mosquitoes helped passed many lonely times at Miss J’s house. I found myself stalking the little beasts on more than one occasion. It was hunter-gatherer style, minus the gathering. Like many other Caribbean homes, every room in Miss J’s house was outfitted with the Excalibur of mosquito slaying. This fiercest of weapons, known to most as The Jolt, resembles a mere tennis racket. But camouflaged as the webbing of the racket, thin electric bars immediately shock unsuspecting mosquitoes at the push of a button. Powered only by two AA batteries, Miss J says that she only needs replace them once every 2 years, making The Jolt a very practical weapon.

Taking a few days to perfect my technique, my highest record by the end of the 2 weeks was 32 mosquitoes in one day. I was hunting them for sport, leaving no pests behind. Anytime the buzz was in the air, I would grab the nearest Jolt, and stand, sit or lie still until I had the target within sight. Against all intuition, mosquito hunting does not rely on speed. Rather an inner channeling, as if to call them to their death as would a siren to sailors. Using myself as prey, I would wait until the mosquito approached me; tricking it into thinking it was in for a tasty treat, my A- blood is as sweet as it comes. I would raise my Jolt, wave it calmly through the air, then ZAP, it was over. The most gratifying part of the kill came not at the time of death, but a few seconds later when the crisp burnt air of their tiny bodies hit my nostrils.

I am not as lucky here at Lloyd’s Place, even though The Jolt only costs $10.95 at Chelsea’s Drugstore, I can’t justify buying something I won’t take with me on my next adventure. I already have too many possessions for my current lifestyle. Luckily, the presence of Lloyd the lizards keep mosquitoes to a minimum. I hardly have as many bites as my first week here.

If you can’t tell, mosquitoes were a popular discussion along my St. Thomas adventures today. Kevin, the grounds keeper of the East End Plaza educated me on their numbing venom. Apparently, when mosquitoes feed off of their host, they inject numbing venom so their meal is more discreet. It is the venom that irritates most humans to produce the red bump we call a bug bite. Over time humans can become more tolerant to the venom, avoiding irritation from injection. So even though I do not have physical itchy bug bites, I am still getting bitten as much as when I first arrived.

When I consulted Karlsson’s The Wild Life in an Island House, I was disappointed to merely find the history of Malaria and a brief explanation of DDT. Malaria does not exist in the Virgin Islands anymore due to the extensive use of DDT prior to 1970. DDT is not used anymore thanks to Rachel Carson’s publication of Silent Spring. Karlsson did mention in this section the usage of bleach in her water cistern to prevent mosquito breeding grounds. I need to ask Sandra if our cistern is treated with anything since I’ve been using it to cook my rice and pasta. Ugh. Cancer.

Leaping

Photo by Aylea Maxwell-Miller

To get a job, pride cannot be an issue. Job hunting might as well be considered the same as cliff jumping. The longer wait causes more stress and chance of backing out. When rock jumping into California rivers, I learned this lesson the hard way. One experience of this fear remains a vivid memory. It was a lovely day at the river spot Yellow Tractor, in Humboldt Co. The secluded beach attracted many of my friends despite the 30 minute dirt mountain road we had to forgo in order to relax for a day at the river. Sitting for a half an hour on top of the 30-foot jump that thousands had jumped safely before me did not do miracles for my morale or pride. As I sat watching all my friends swimming and playing at the bottom, my heart raced. I contemplated climbing down, but the embarrassment, also overwhelming, kept me staring down at what I knew would be the jump to my death. Finally, I did it. The rush invigorating, the time in the air long, and the landing--painless, what was I worried about? The stress of the whole situation could have been easily avoided. I’ve decided I will approach my job hunt in the same manner, not to say I won't need to give myself the routine pep talk before diving in, but I won't linger. St. Thomas, watch out, I’m ready to dive in.

A Friend in a Fury

Oh dear! I’ve found the nightlife of the Virgin Islands.

During one of my pre-departure pep talks back in Humboldt Co, one of my friends encouraged me that I would be experiencing new things around every corner. At the time of her support, this notion of seeing new things intrigued me tremendously. If I had only known how accurate her statement had been…

As I stole Wi-Fi signals from Molly Malone’s last night at the American Yacht Harbor (AYH), I raced the sunset to ensure I could walk up de hill to Lloyd’s Place (my apartment) without the fear of getting jumped for my laptop. In an effort to navigate the Verizon Wireless website to see if my parents (and friend’s parents) would actually be charged too much money for phone calls to me (despite what the AT&T representative assured me), I found myself still sitting at AYH past dark. Damn Verizon customer service! Anyway, I nervously walked past the dumpster and through the sketchy back parking lot. With heightened senses, and frustration left over from my still unanswered phone dilemma, I noticed a car of West Indies rolling down the hill. I slowed my pace and waited to decide if I wanted to proceed. The men in the junkie car blasting loud rap music spotted me and one hopped out. Trying to keep my cool I immediately turned around and headed back towards the ever-busy Duffy’s Loveshack. The man caught up with me and asked me what I was doing turning around so fast. “I forgot my jacket at the bar”—great lie since I haven’t considered wearing a jacket since my arrival on November 7^th. He suggestively replied, “Good thing I was here to remind you.” Feeling mixed emotions of guilt for stereotyping and relief to still possess my computer, I found myself at the bar of The Big Bambooze for a rum, pineapple, and lime.

The bartender, Joel, also a summer-seasonal bartender from Ocean City, MD convinced me to take a drink for the road—that’s legal here, and I headed to Marina Market Grocery Store in search of Roy, my only trusted on-duty cabby. He was nowhere to be found and since there was no way I was walking up the hill now, I was stranded, at the bars. Not wanting to go back to Big Bambooze because of the old drunk property manager that insisted on buying me drinks at the higher cost of listening to his life story, I headed up to Fat Boys to check out the live music I had been listening to the past week from Lloyd’s Place until 2 a.m. At least I knew the line-up.

Feeling depressed, stranded, and annoyed with humanity, I sat silently by myself sipping the pineapple juice and avoiding eye contact with everyone. Then I saw some Boaty kid wearing a Fury charter t-shirt. In my job searching efforts earlier in the day, I had come across Fury’s website and chatted with the owner Capt. Mike. He, like everyone else, was not hiring but accepted my resume. I got the kid’s attention and asked him if he was crew for Fury. He was. I told him I talked to Capt. Mike earlier in the day and wanted to steal his job.

He sat down and we started chatting. It was actually nice because Donny was the first male in my age group that hasn’t immediately tried hitting on me. Excited to have a new friend we shot the shit for an hour or two since he was avoiding some girl at the bar next-door and waiting to meet up with a friend. I told him he had to talk me up to Capt. Mike. To further prove how small this island really is, Capt. Mike called him immediately after this remark, to give him the heads up that a girl (me) had talked to him earlier and Donny was to wear his work shirt in case I was out. Ready to go home, I asked if he had a car and would be willing to take me home. He said yeah, but it was Friday night, and everyone that is anyone goes to Charlotte Amalie to dance at Fat Turtle and end the night at Hubbly Bubbly. I told him I didn’t want to get shot, or more importantly deal with the ride situation at the end of the night. He assured me a ride home and said I probably wouldn’t get shot. This was enough for me.

As I climbed into the car, the smell of old fish immediately hit my nostrils. “Eww, what is that smell?” He had just spent the whole day successfully lobster diving and the bugs, as he called them, had sat in the car for a half an hour. I looked over and realized the broken latch on the driver’s side door was replaced with an eye–bolt and metal clip. Safe. We made it to the Yacht Haven Grand, a strip of designer stores and bars lining the waterfront.

It was 10pm and dead. Donny assured me things got rowdier, questioning my rush since we were going to be there until 4 am. What? No, I’ve been up since 6:30 am, we are not staying out that late. Donny retorted that he had been awake since 5:30 am. Damnnit. What did I get myself into? We ordered drinks. Apparently, I’ve been doing it wrong. “Another thing, it’s a dark and pineapple, not dark rum, they just know,” Donny had taken on the role as tour guide and enjoying it a little too much. The night turned out to be really fun, despite the lousy club music. And boy it got rowdy.

I immediately felt at home once a poi fire dancer did his routine. The crazy hippies live places other than Humboldt Co. California. Nice. After making a few more local friends, another dark and pineapple, chatting with some European yachtys and checking out Hubbly Bubbly hookah bar, I looked at my watch. 3:30! It was time to go, I gave Donny the look, and we said goodbye to our new English stewardess friend Becky, and headed back to the car.

Donny, playing on my admitted uneasiness about driving on the left side of the road decided now was a good time for me to try it out. Gauging his level of intoxication, I begrudgingly agreed. I climbed into the driver seat, clipped my door in, buckled, and like many situations since my arrival here, took a deep breath. We pulled out of the parking lot and he encouraged me “Alright remember shoulder to shoulder.” Got it. We made it safely back after one wrong turn, too many potholes, a close call around a sharp left turn and a truck speeding past. “That’s the first time this car has been passed since I’ve owned it.” I’m glad I drove.

Lloyd's Place

I knew this day would come.

Whenever I walk up my wooden stairs to get to the driveway to ultimately descend Red Hook Mountain Road, I see at least 5 tiny lizards. Liking alliteration, they have all become named Lloyd Lizard. Anytime one of these little guys scurries around, I greet him “hey Lloyd,” “sup Lloyd?,” “Lord Lloyd, pleasure.” Their presence does not bother me too much but you will not find me going out of my way to touch or get near the delicate dinos.

In addition to all the essentials my landlord also furnished me with a nearly full bookcase. Amongst the collection of trashy romance novels three books jumped off the shelf (pun intended), and now reside on my futon-side table. The Collected Fat, “dozens of new sea stories from the most outrageous marine journalist in the Caribbean”; Saving Fish from Drowning, by Amy Tan; and The Wild Life in an Island Home, by Gail Karlsson. Karlsson views all the creatures in her book as interesting roommates rather than pests. She tells a funny little story of various bugs, rodents and lizards complimenting them with practical ways of safely living with them.

I’ll read one section every now and then. When I first picked up the book, I flipped right to the section on Lizards. This, I would later learn, was an omen. She begins:

Lizards are a pleasure to have in the house because they like to eat mosquitoes and other bugs but are not creepy like scorpions and spiders. It is especially gratifying to sit at dinner on the deck and see a lizard eating up the bugs that are attracted to the outside light. They sit around and wait for their prey to come near, and then quickly lunge at them.

Way to go Lloyd! Eating all those terrible mosquitoes. Although overall agreeing with Karlsson, I had a few problems with this opening paragraph. Since I have not actually witnessed Lloyd eating any mosquitoes, I would not describe our interaction as a “pleasure.” Also, note to self—there are scorpions and spiders. After reading the remainder of the lizard section, I immediately read up on scorpions and spiders. I’m a little worried.

Karlsson continues to describe the difference between the various species and sexes of Lizards or anoles, their scientific name. Being very territorial, anoles will stake out specific corners of a house and stick to them. She even tells a story of one of her son’s playmates carrying a pet anole around, wearing it as an earring. He had trained it to bite onto his earlobe and hang for extended periods of time.

After reading this section I felt more knowledgeable and even eager to see more lizards to determine their sex and notice their different colorings. In my naivety, I misread the title of her book, The Wild Life in an Island House, as The Wild Life Near, Around and Outside an Island Home. I hadn’t seen any Lloyds residing in my house, that is, until today. I opened my door, and there on my pillow Lloyd was, just sitting. A little unnerved, I lunged at Lloyd. Scared, she (all signs pointed to her femininity) scurried away. But my heart dropped, I knew whose territory I was in. That’s when the Lacoco Nest was more appropriately dubbed Lloyd’s Place.