Island Animal Watch: Goats

Back in the heartland, one place we could actually hang out with farm animals (instead of mooing from afar) was at the state fair. Whenever Mom and I attended the fair, we spent most of our time in the livestock barns. Our favorite animal to visit turned out to be goats.

“Goats?” you say. “What’s so appealing about goats?”

I don’t know…there’s just something so cute about their faces. They have these adorably demonic eyes and floppy ears and the most amusing disposition—eager to greet in case you have something yummy for them to nibble. We spent lots of time at the fair petting and talking with goats. For some reason, I was always eager to tell my friends about it afterward. As a teenager, mind you. They didn’t really understand all the fuss...

I’ve retained my affection for goats, and so it was with much delight that I encountered the following herd upon leaving the PriceSmart parking lot last week.

I actually had to stop my car so they could pass. And then I turned around and followed them through the parking lot like a member of the fucking paparazzi to get photos.

The goats just kept on a-comin’. I couldn’t believe their number. The way they run is so charmingly childlike and clumsy that I damn near squealed-- all alone in the car.

They seem to be self-herding, but must belong to someone. I’m told that they’re a common site at PriceSmart. Home Depot too.

Whatever their story, the unexpected goat stampede brightened the end of my shopping experience immensely and gave me a jolt of happy for the rest of the day.

But wait folks, I’m not done yet. I have another St. Thomas goat story for you.

One day, while driving past the Drake’s Seat lookout, a funny- looking dog ran across the road in front of me, his leash trailing behind him. But something about the animal seemed strangely undoglike, and it took my brain a few seconds to recognize that this was, in fact, a small leashed goat. I glanced to my right and saw its presumable owner, a rasta man standing on the right side of the road, near the bench that operates as Drake’s Seat. This must be a favorite hangout of theirs, as I’ve seen them there since.

...Toto, we not in Iowa no mah, ya know.

Island Animal Watch: Livestock

I am really quite fond of animals. I realize that sometimes this makes me look silly. For instance, I can’t help but to invent animal dialog with all manner of stupid voices that usually border on the infantile. I am completely guilty of projecting human qualities onto my pets and other animals. Furry and/or four-legged creatures of nearly every variety bring me joy. And the creatures of St. Thomas have not disappointed.

Of course, in the Midwest, animals were all over the place. The part of Iowa in which I spent my formative years was agriculture central; cows and pigs in fields, grazing their days away, were a staple of the local landscape. It was a bit rarer to see sheep, though they definitely existed. On the occasion that I did pass a field of sheep, it gave me the pleasant sensation of being on holiday in Europe.

When I was a tot, we lived in the country for awhile. Mom and I drove by a pasture of cows daily, and it became ritual for us to moo to them when we passed. This was our way of greeting our bovine neighbors in a way we imagined they could understand. Imagine being the operative word here.

And then, of course, there were squirrels and chipmunks and bunny rabbits scampering through town as well as the usual domestic animals owned by family and friends.

The difference between the American Midwest and the American Caribbean in terms of living with animals is that, like all inhabitants of this island, we seem to live a lot closer to animals here than stateside. There is less space and fewer fences in St. Thomas between the general public and animals, both domestic and wild. And since there is such little room, livestock that used to seem far away and removed in the Midwest, seem extraordinarily up close and personal in St. Thomas.

For example it’s not at all uncommon to see a ram galloping in someone’s front yard or a cow tied up on the side of the road. And when I say on the side of the road, I mean, like right off of the road. A few months ago, I saw a loose cow clomping down Crown Mountain Road like it was her own personal walking trail.

She looks like a wild, smart, and sassy cow to me.

Must be the island-rearing.

Bama-Wha?

Working at the coffee shop with Loida, a born and bred St. Thomian, has been wonderfully enriching in many ways. One thing I particularly enjoy about working together is learning so much about the local lingo.

I am often delightfully surprised by the old world elegance of some of the words she says. She’ll occasionally use a term I haven‘t encountered since my days reading 18th century novels as an English major. This coming from a young woman of Puerto Rican descent—beautiful like a puma, Gangstress tattooed on the inside of her right forearm, and don't fuck with me written on her face.

One day while relaying the details of an argument with her boyfriend, she said,

“Ashley, I was so vexed wit him dat I…”

“Loida, did you just say that you were VEXED with your boyfriend?” I interrupted.

She smiled. ‘Yeah, I was vexed wit him. Why?”

“I just don’t hear that word often. It’s old-fashioned, Loida, I’m so surprised to hear it coming out of your mouth! It’s great though. Okay, go on, you were vexed with your boyfriend, and you…”

Another time we were talking about the food offered downtown for lunch. She said something to the effect of, “I like to get my stew chicken or my salt fish and all of my provisions…”

Again, I interrupted her. “Did you just say ‘provisions’?”

“Yeah, my provisions,” She nodded, “Like my dumplins, my plantains, my sweet potatos,” she counted out on graceful hands, forever active when she talks, “…..Why you laughin?”

“That’s just another word I rarely hear out of an old-fashioned context. Unless it’s the military or something. Do a lot of people use ‘provisions’ when talking about food down here?”

She nodded, “Yeah,” and shrugged like it’s common, no big deal.

I’ve since determined that provisions is used to describe the variety of local side dishes. And they seem to be smaller side dishes, because I was quickly corrected when I referred to baked macaroni as a provision. 

And then sometimes the words are so absolutely island-sounding that I’m both surprised and not surprised at the same time.

A couple weeks ago, while lifting boxes of soda to store in the back room, Loida said to me,

“Ashley, you wan get a bamacoo or wha?”

“Wha you say?” I asked, doing my best island accent but still sounding very much like a white girl from the states.

“A bamacoo, ya know. You get dem when ya lift sumting heavy.”

“A hernia?” I asked.

“Yeah, a hernia. We call it bamacoo.”

“Oh my god, that’s a great word! How you spell?”

“I don’t know... ask Juel. She probly know. My granmadda use it. I tink all island people do. ”

“Okay, use it in a sentence for me, Loida."

“Girl, you done lift dat ting, you gon get a bamacoo, ya know.”

“I love it. Thank you.That definitely makes the blog.”