Da Flip Side a Paradise

I usually try to keep what I write here positive. I do this, in part, because enough people bitch about this island already. My voice doesn’t need to be among the chorus of complainers. And I love it he’eh. So, I try not to dwell too much on what I dislike. A fundamental life rule these days.

But by the same token, I don’t want to ignore or gloss over the frustrating aspects of living in St. Thomas. If I’m going to be at all realistic about what it’s like to live here, I should describe some of the inconveniences that make up daily island life. Following are some examples of the annoying bits:.

Ex. #1. You may recall the nightmare surrounding my mom’s car, Laverne. I hemmed and hawed about whether or not to take Señor Espina, the loser of a driver, to small claims court for the roughly $3500 he owes my mom, knowing that I would likely have to garnish his wages in order to actually see any money. But both of my she-bosses as well as my lawyer buddy (Da Troof) finally convinced me to just go through the small claims process. Da Troof even stood in line to pick up the police report for me since he spends much of his time at the courthouse anyway. This took two weeks due to the first one being stolen from his car (along with other far more valuable goods). I kid you not. But he was nice enough to pick up another copy of my report while he was picking up his report. 

When I finally did get my hands on the police report, it was useless. Completely. And utterly. Useless. It stated that the cop arrived on the scene after both the driver and the vehicle were gone. This ain’t true. I know it ain’t true because I had a long conversation with the tow truck driver when he delivered Laverne. The cop must have seen the vehicle because he spoke with the tow truck driver. I also know that Espina was still there because the tow truck driver suggested that the cop take it easy on him. And the police obviously took his advice, seeing as that Señor Espina was drunk when the accident happened, yet failed to receive a DUI. But Espina did tell me that he had received a ticket for failure to maintain control of the vehicle. There is no mention of this on the police report. How could the cop have issued a citation if the driver had already left the scene? Either way, since neither the vehicle nor the driver are described in the report, I can’t use it in court. In order to proceed, I would have to subpoena the tow truck driver.

Pursuing the case would result in too much time spent on negative energy-draining crap. I have to stay angry in order to care. And I have to work to stay angry. So, I just gave up. Justice abandoned. 

Ex. #2. My co-worker, Loida, woke up around 4am on the morning of Monday, November 22, to a loud crashing noise outside her apartment. A few minutes later, her boyfriend alerted her to the fact that the racket was the sound of her parked car getting hit. An old man taxi driver from one house up the hill apparently lost control of the vehicle seconds after getting behind the wheel. So her car…it mash up, meh son. Not drivable. In the meantime, she has to get to work by 6:45 am, get her son to school, and her boyfriend needs to go halfway across to the island to his new job. The driver has insurance, which should pay for the cost of a rental. But she can’t get the rental until the police report is complete and turned into the insurance company. You’d think this would be easily done, especially since her landlord happens to be a police. He actually came out the house to assess the scene and write the report. He told Loida that since this falls under his department’s jurisdiction, he should be able to get her the report in a couple of days. Then it turned into Friday. Then it turned into the following Tuesday. Then it was Thanksgiving. Then all the computers in the department crashed.

So, when I returned to work on the 30th, after being in Oklahoma for five days, Loida still had no wheels. Only because she still had no police report. She finally received the report on Thursday the 2nd, two and a half weeks after the incident occurred. It’s now December 10th, and she still has no wheels because of course, the insurance company needs some time to get the paperwork in order. What gets me the most about this one is that she actually had a fucking hook-up in the police department! I just don’t get it.

Ex. #3. And finally, WAPA. Good ‘ol WAPA. For those of you who don’t know, WAPA (pronounced wah-pah) is the Water and Power Authority for the Virgin Islands. And it’s, arguably, the least efficient and progressive utility company in the developed world. Power outages and rolling blackouts are a normal part of life here. Even when the sun is shining and the weather is calm, the power goes out almost daily. An independent assessment of WAPA that came out roughly a year or so ago, reported that our utility bills are 300% over the mainland average. And our service is, by far, the worst I have ever experienced. The frequent power outages wreak havoc on electronic equipment, and of course WAPA is not liable for any of it. You ice machine dies after a power surge? Tough shit. That’s the cost of doing business on the island. WAPA is a large part of why everything is so expensive here. Businesses have no choice but to pass on their gargantuan utility bills to their customers.

So, a specific example of how this affects local business people. The lovely lady who bakes the majority of our sweets at the coffee shop runs her business out of her home. She lives on the West side of the island, which happens to be the least populated area. So, for the last couple of weeks, when WAPA has employed rolling blackouts in order to work on the archaic, sickly equipment that runs our electricity, the West side received more than their fair share of the power losses. Our baker couldn’t bake. She is mostly out of business until the current returns. In order to work around this huge inconvenience, she gets up at 2am to bake because she knows that at least she’ll be able to finish the job. This is a wife and mother of three doing her best to keep a small business going that also allows her freedom to be available to her daughters. And the island infrastructure makes it hella difficult for her to succeed.

There you have it, folks. Some examples of why people flee after moving to what they think is paradise. And it’s the reason why those of us who choose to stay here generally agree with the statement, “We’re all here because we’re not all there.”

Hurricane Virginity, Lost

My first hurricane was truly a splendid affair. Although it probably ruined me for all future hurricanes in that I’m now conditioned to eagerly await their arrival, which could easily result in the complete negligence on my behalf to safeguard all bodily possessions… my body included. Also, all subsequent hurricanes, regardless of severity, will no doubt be dreadfully humdrum in comparison.

Now, I wasn’t really scared of Earl in the first place. Just as I’ve, perhaps naively, never feared tornados or blizzards. No, any apprehension on my part stemmed from the threat of living without electricity for longer than 24 hours. Specifically, I was (and am) concerned with fans and running water. No lights? No problem. Simply rise and retire with the sun. But proper air flow and hygiene are another matter entirely during late summer in St. Thomas.

I’m not asking for AC, which I haven’t had since moving here, anyway. But I’m telling you, the three fans in my room are most essential to comfort. Without them, the only way to prevent sweat from dripping off you like a rapidly melting ice sculpture in Death Valley is to lie motionless and naked on the bed, in which case you will still leave a damp spot on the sheets in the vague shape of your person. And when this amount of organic fluid is involved, it’s important to have a daily shower, at the very least. Unfortunately, this is a difficult, if not impossible, endeavor without electricity to power the water pump. I’m not being paranoid here either; many people lived sans power for months after Hurricane Marilyn. I can only imagine this as comparable to residing in one of the first few circles of hell.

So, I was definitely more worried about the discomforts associated with the aftermath of a hurricane than the hurricane itself. I didn’t fear being sucked into the ether after the roof blew off or anything like that. Although, this scenario wasn’t entirely unlikely either, since...

Upon moving into my palace, I asked Slumlord Dave about hurricane shutters.

“Uh, well, I usda hav’em up but they got all rusted out. And they were heavy and a lot of work to drag out and put up. Lots of times ya pull’em all out and put’em all up and then nothin even happens. Course, the time you don’t do it, that’s when you get hit,” he chuckled in his good ‘ole cracker manner.

“Okay…well, do you board up the windows then?” I was almost scared to ask.

“Um, yeah…we do throw some boards up but they really don’t do no good anyways. I wouldn’t recommend you stay there in the event of a hurricane, girl. I can’t be responsible for any personal injury, ya know…If worse comes to worse you could go in the bathtub…or you being you, I’ll tell ya that the mechanical room in the hall is safe, but I’d really feel better if you found someplace else to go. The house has been through Hugo and Marilyn—my 80-year-old grandmother survived both a them, ha ha, but we lost the roof twice. The roof is built much better now though. We didn’t mess around this time. I really don't think she's goin anywhere, but I'd rather you be safe than sorry, girl.”

As hurricane season came swirling towards us…or us towards hurricane season, it occurred to me that formulating even a loose emergency plan would be to my advantage, so as to not get completely fucked like a damn fool in the event that a strong storm does hit the island.

I had a few offers of places to stay during the storm, but much to my delight, the current object of my desire/flirtation flew back to St. Thomas to be here during Earl in a “supervisory capacity” for the local company in which he is sort of a bigwig. He offered his place as a hurricane shelter for Hershey and I, which I agreed to (internally, at least) immediately. Okay, so there was no promise of a generator, but he still rents a beautiful house kept fully-stocked with alcohol, and I knew we would easily fill the time with entertaining conversation. If a lovelier way to spend a hurricane exists than hunkering down with a crush who amuses you to no end, I simply can’t imagine what it would be.

So, The Meerkat (his sexy alias of choice), having prepared for dozens of hurricanes, advised me via text on safeguarding my belongings. Unsurprisingly, I was most concerned for my CD collection, followed by my journals (needed to write my memoirs, you know), and then my books. And that was basically it. Screw all other possessions. They’re far more easy to replace. I completed the hurricane prep work in true half-ass fashion, which consisted of placing the aforementioned items in a container, wrapping them in garbage bags, and stashing them off the floor in the spider-and-termite-infested cavern that functions as my closet. I stored some food in the two kitchen cupboards, enclosed some items in the interior bathroom, and shut the windows. Not having much really cuts down on the annoying adult responsibilities it requires to take care of material possessions. If you ain’t got nothing, you ain’t got nothing to lose, right?

Around nine in the morning on the day of the hurricane, The Meerkat carried me and Hershey to his house—visible from mine—on the other side of Magen’s Bay. Only slightly less exposed, it at least didn’t come with a warning from the landlord, and it is superlatively more luxurious. Already the wind was blowing far stronger than usual for storm weather. My umbrella reversed itself twice while waiting outside for my ride, making me feel like the non-cheery reject nannies in Mary Poppins. 

Time passed quickly, as it usually does when hanging out with a new crush. Beers were cracked at 9:30. Candles lit around 10. Champagne corked by 11. We ate Fig Newtons and Pepperidge Farm chocolate chip cookies.We drank and smoked and conversed and generally had a debaucherous doozie of a time while the sky darkened, the rain pounded and the wind howled around us. When we walked Hershey outside between rain showers, the air felt sauna thick on my skin and in my lungs. It was like being smothered within the sweaty arms of a fat teenage girl. I would have jumped in the pool had the wind not already filled it with debris. Returning inside, the contrast in climate was jarring, akin to being thrown from the bosom of a freshly-exercised Precious into the bony tight arms of a typical Hollywood cold-as-death anorexic.

Early in the afternoon, we decided to eat something arguably substantial while we still had power. I chose some whole-wheat Velveeta macaroni and cheese, since a hurricane is the only time I could justify eating this particular convenience food. We laughed at the Velveeta folks’ sad attempt to create a healthier image. Pour our sodium-and-calorie-laden fake cheese sauce over these partially whole-grained noodles, and assuage some guilt while still making no measurable reduction to your waistline. But of course, by the time we finally got around to boiling water, the electricity went out and with it, our only chance for hot, real food.

The only excitement (fit for this here blog, anyway) during the actual hurricane was when the downstairs window broke, leading me to a most wondrous and silly fit of giggles. Yes, this could have been partially induced by intoxicants because, really, the window breaking in itself was not funny.

The Meerkat had been absent for longer than what for him usually constitutes a “fidget break.” Upon searching, I found him in the downstairs office trying to hold the wooden window frame in place and not proving very successful at the task, what with the 70+ mph winds outside. My assistance was refused because of the broken glass on the floor. I located my flip flops and returned to help. Soon, I came up with the brilliant idea of putting a garbage bag over the open window to keep excess water out of this very nice home. So, the Meerkat produced a garbage bag and cut it open to more easily fit in the frame.

But as soon as he lifted the plastic to the opening, the negative pressure in the house caused the garbage bag to fly through the window, flapping—violent and useless—in the gale force winds. He tried again with the same futile result, thus inciting a belly laugh I haven’t enjoyed since the night I moved to the island a year ago.

I could just be easily amused.

Sleeping was a bit difficult with absolutely no airflow. AC and fans were out of the question with no power, and since it was still raining and blowing outside, we couldn’t open the windows. I think we both managed to doze a bit. Hershey, on the other hand, slept curled up on the rug through the entire storm.

All was calm in the morning with leaves scattered everywhere, even somehow, in the house. A lot of fallen tree branches littered the sides of the roads, similar to the post-tornado scenes of my youth.

My apartment remained completely unsullied, however with no current (local nomenclature for electricity) until late Wednesday night. The Meerkat’s current didn’t return until early Sunday morning. He stayed in a hotel in the meantime, which also worked to my great advantage. Many people on the island didn’t have power until the weekend, some even didn’t have it when I saw them in the coffee shop Monday morning- a full week later. But two days after the storm, the island was pretty much back to business. Those without current had found a way to work around it or gave in and bought a generator.

So, my first hurricane was nauseatingly pleasant. For sure, the next hurricane won’t be nearly as heady an experience. Granted, Hurricane Earl went relatively easy on St. Thomas. We all lucked out this time. I still can't imagine how much of a trooper I'd be in the event of a stronger, more damaging hurricane. Of course, I am a lazy, spoiled American who has never seriously wanted for anything.  My only comfort in the not-so-unlikely event that I'm not as fortunate next time, is the certainty that the experience will at least build character. 

Fleas and Ticks Jump Everywhere

Never did I expect to be one who de-ticks dogs with ungloved fingers.

I’ve always been the squeamish of the squeam when it comes to creepy crawlies. Well into my twenties, I still cannot kill bugs mainly because the thought of getting that close and feeling their body crushed beneath my fingers makes me flap my hands and fake-gag.

However, I must say that I’m cohabitating with insects better now than at any previous point in my life. (My boyfriend, Mike, doesn’t fully appreciate this fact, never having known me before.)

But now I have two dogs that spend most of their time outdoors. And, as you may have guessed by now, they’ve acquired ticks. And when I say they’ve acquired ticks, I mean that we have a tick infestation. They have ticks between their toes, ticks in their ear folds, ticks on their eyelids, ticks in their armpits, and most concerningly, ticks on their bungholes.

We have ticks on the walls, ticks on our sheets, ticks on our bedroom floor, and ticks in the laundry hamper.

I bemoaned the ticks for a few days, trying unsuccessfully to inspire Mike to take some time out of his legitimately busy schedule to help me exterminate the problem.

I even found ticks crawling up my legs, an event that didn’t phase him in the least. I think, upon complaining, he absently said something along the lines of, “That’s gross, baby.”

And then one evening while lying in bed, Mike discovered a tick crawling on him. Suddenly, he felt boldly determined to fix the tick problem once and for all, declaring,

“We have to figure out this tick problem. Like tomorrow. We can’t live like this. Yuck Ash, this is gross.” He shuddered, as if he had to convince me of something I didn’t already know.

Now, I have been picking at the ticks since their arrival. My ape-like fascination with ridding unwanted items from the body is beneficial in this situation. Ticks, hair follicles, blackheads, ear wax— I easily become obsessed with removal.

But the ticks are thick and getting thicker. Mere picking will not solve this problem.

Spraying does little good, especially since Harley flees from the blue bottle of tick killer. Tweezers work quite well if I catch the dogs while they’re relaxed. I am truly a plucking pro. But mostly the tweezers just make the dogs understandably nervous and squirmy, creating a two-person task out of the deal. Plus, it’s harder to tell the difference between a blood-pregnant tick and a dog- nipple when using a tweezers. I only had to make this unfortunate mistake once…

So, I’ve gotten to the point where if the dogs are near, I’ll pull ticks off with my fingers. I’ll even keep two or three pinched between my index and middle finger until I can walk over to the tick bowl of torture and flick them inside to be squirted with the blue bottle. They can’t avoid my aim, and I can’t hear any cries of misery as they drown in poison.

I’ve observed some interesting things about ticks. For instance, the gray prune-like ones, grotesquely plump with blood, will sink to the bottom of the toilet when thrown into the bowl. But the small black ones will swim nimbly to the water’s edge and climb out if you don’t flush quickly enough. They’re resilient little bastards.

And it’s funny how ticks make fleas seem so benign. When I first arrived on island, I was devastated when Harley caught fleas from a stray dog that hung around for awhile. But since the tick infestation, I barely even notice the fleas. If someone points them out to me, I’ll likely respond, “Oh, it’s just a flea. It won’t hurt anything.”

That I can pick ticks off the dogs and walls with my fingers and hold onto them until discarding in the next room shows the severity of the problem, but more importantly, it shows growth on my part.

A few nights ago Mike and I sat at the dinner table. We were pretty much done eating and sort of lulling about before we went on being productive again. Harley approached, as he often does, and I noticed a fat, juicy tick on his back. I attacked it with zest, easily plucking it off his body.

“Ashley, that’s gross.”

I held up the tick between my fingers, filled to blue plumpness with Harley’s blood. Its legs, which looked comically small and worthless, especially compared to their strength and ability in an un-saturated tick, wriggled about helplessly.

“It reminds me of the blueberry girl from Willy Wonka,” I said, amused.

“Ashley, that’s disgusting,” Mike said with no small amount of revulsion. “You don’t pick ticks at the dinner table! Yuck. I guess I’m done eating tonight.”

And then he performed the same bit of facial drama I’ve always displayed in the presence of bugs.

He fake-gagged.

This, my friends, was a first. I never before have grossed-out another individual by my handling of an insect or any such small and wiggly inhabitant of this earth.

And yes, in my world, this is definitely growth.

A Teeny-Tiny Rock with Lots and Lots of Guns

Five people died as a result of gunshot wounds in the USVI last week.
Four on St. Thomas. One on St. Croix. 

There have been around 15 homicides in the VI so far this year.
Allow me to remind you that the year has just begun.
Average = 2 homicides/week.

Also allow me to remind you that the island of St. Thomas is 13 miles long and 4 miles wide. Its area in square miles is roughly half the size of Minneapolis proper.
We are a mere speck in the ocean.
A speck with around 55,000 human inhabitants.
Inhabitants who have, of late, been increasingly violent and gun-laden.

The week's first death occured when a toddler, the son of a cop, shot himself playing with daddy's gun.

The third person that died was the sister of my co-worker's brother. Two weeks ago, she was in the coffee shop with her kids. Only 25-years-old. Younger than me. Her boyfriend has been arrested for owning the unlicensed gun, and is a suspect in the death, the exact cause of which- accidental or planned- has yet to be officially determined.

We have one of the highest murder per capita rates in the world.

That's all. No soapbox. No musing. I simply thought it necessary to share this major problem in paradise.

Where Where Where Would You Poo?

If you were homeless, that is.

I saw something on Sunday morning that sullied my wholesome Midwest sensibilities. Something that got me thinking about this very question.

I was feeling particularly grateful on this, the second beautiful weekend morn, that I didn’t have to stay inside and work. I had enjoyed coffee at the cyber cafe downtown and was walking up Government Hill to visit Beth at the Galleon House, where she works all weekend as the front desk manager. The job allows her to hang with friends on the verandah overlooking historic downtown Charlotte Amalie. And do fun things like cook vegan dishes and make beaded jewelry.

While climbing 99 Steps, I notice a homeless woman who has, of late, been living in the hillside park within the circular drive on Government Hill. She is stationed on the upper part of the park, relatively close to the road that serves as a driveway for local restaurants, lodgings, and attractions, not to mention the Office of the Governor. She appears to be crouching. It looks rather like a bathroom squat to me, but I don’t think it possible.

I continue up the steps, trying not to stare. But naturally, I can’t help but glance in her direction the closer I get to the top. I am compelled, however disgustingly, to decipher what exactly she is doing. To disprove my suspicions, I hope.

But yes. It certainly seems like she is positioned in a bathroom squat. When I get behind her, I confirm that her pants are, indeed, down and she seems ready to wipe her ass with what looks like paper, and not of the toilet variety.

Oh my. I just witnessed a homeless woman shitting in the park before noon on a Sunday.

I share this with Beth and she seems far less surprised. Perhaps she’s seen more grit than me. (Although, I must add that two of my St. Thomian co-workers assured me they had never seen someone poo in public.)

“I don’t know, Beth,” I say. “Don’t you think she could at least wait until the sun goes down?”

“Could you wait until the sun goes down?”

She had a point.
When you have to go. You have to go.

But I’m privileged to be choosy about where I void my bowels. I used to drive twenty minutes home from work during my lunch hour for the mere comfort of shitting in my own home.

I’ve never before pondered the bathroom habits of the homeless. Does it create anxiety? It certainly would for me.

What has brought this lady to the point of pulling down her britches and squatting in the park under the midday sun, while not even bothering to hide behind a tree? It seems to me, from this and other observations, that she suffers from a debilitating mental illness and lacks access to the medication and resources necessary to keep her functioning more normally. This, of course, is the unfortunate cause behind many instances of homelessness in America.

Knowing this, I still can't help feeling repulsed, but her condition is also heartbreaking.

Thoughts, anyone?

Where would you poo?

Land of Lizards

In Minnesota we had squirrels, raccoons, and apossums. In St. Thomas, we have lizards.
Big lizards like iguanas:

 And little lizards like gekkos:

I actually think there are more lizards in St. Thomas than there are squirrels in Minnesota. You see them everywhere. Gekkos sometimes even make your house their home. A few years ago when I didn't even know where the VI was really located, my brother, who lives on St. Croix, told me he had a gekko living in his bathroom who earned his keep by eating bugs.  I absolutely could not believe he had a lizard living inside his house, and that he was okay with it.

Well, I now have gekkos living in my apartment. Tiny ones we spy escaping from their cracks in the wall from time to time. We also receive a fresh crop of lizard dung in the office/library corner every few days. Mom thinks the tiny ones we see aren't capable of making waste that large, which is to say that we may have a bigger gekko living somewhere in our house too. Surpringingly, sharing my home with gekkos bothers me less than sharing it with centipedes. They're cuter, not nearly as gross. And the mofos will get out of your way a lot faster.

Last week I was spending the afternoon at my boyfriend's house-in-construction. I removed myself from the  hammock to grab my sunglasses, went back outside, realized I'd forgotten my book and went back inside to retrieve it from the "kitchen table". My eye caught something I hadn't noticed the first time I entered the house, among the dog toys on the tiled part of the floor lay half of an iguana. The top half. It's dead head looking directly at me. Harley (a year-old, 90lb Weinereimer)  galloped up to me, his tail wagging joyfully, eyes filled with excited pride as if to say, "Look at the gift I brought you. Doesn't it make you happy?"

It did not make me happy. I screamed and ran into the bedroom, closing both the door to the living space and the door to the porch so Harley couldn't drag either half in for me to admire. I sat on the bed and waited for the boyf to get home from work so he could remove the iguana carcus.

A couple days ago, I'm sitting at the table innocently typing away on the laptop when I look over and see Harley walking through the door with a very large, very whole iguana in his mouth. I screamed. Harley dropped the iguana and it started to run away. I screamed again and ran away to the bedroom and closed the door. I couldn't stay in there all day, however. It was before noon and I was actually supposed to be somewhere. I saw that Harley was back outside so I peeked out of the bedroom and saw no visible creatures in the "great room." I slowly escaped my bedroom prison and closed all the french doors leading outside (there are four).

When I finally mustered up the nerve to leave the house, I found the iguana trying to hide from Harley in the doorway to the garage. The top part of his tail was no longer attached to him, but rather lying on the sidewalk a few feet away. This devastated my squeamish soul. When I walked by him, the poor, scared creature tried to squeeze himself even more into the crack between the door and the wall. I fled. Every lizard I saw on the drive to my apartment made me jump.

I couldn't return until the boyf got home from work and rid the porch of multilated and/or dead iguanas.  He found him in the yard and sent him down the hill. Said the poor guy looked like he'd had a long day. I'm surprised he was still in one piece.

I don't know if I'm cut out for this tropical living...
But I suppose if I lived with Harley in Minnesota he would bring me squirrel heads.
And it would be cold there.