Mustn’t Grumble!

The generator rumbles, day and night, across the street from the Department of Education – even yesterday on that most sacred of American days – Thanksgiving. I recognise how lucky I am to have the luxury of electricity, and I recognise how truly fortunate I am not to have to deal with a roofless house and all that entails – a life blown or washed away.

And so I “mustn’t grumble”.

That is arguably one of the most British of British understatements. Our world may be caving in but really there’s nothing about which to complain. A quick search brought up Chas and Dave, Eric Idle in The Life of Brian, and Terry Wogan’s autobiography. I can’t help feeling it’s a phrase that’s been around a lot longer than either Chas, Dave, Eric or Terry.

But those are the words which aptly describe many on St Croix. They have been devastated by a category five hurricane, Mad Maria, skimming the south shore two months ago and the majority of people when asked how they fared, respond with variations of “mustn’t grumble”. Dig a little deeper and you will find some living under a blue tarpaulin – signifying FEMA have stepped in and provided covering against the capricious elements. Or windows were sucked out, or blown in, in a terrifying eddy of angry winds – either from the hurricane itself or a tornado it spawned. Or “dat big ole tree, it jus’ felled down” – enquire further and you are liable to find it landed across a home, or the track leading to a home, or maybe it came to rest on a car.

But hey, Jemima or Cyril or Sarah, well they had it worse, so mustn’t grumble.

I bumped into a professor I know – we were both looking for anti-mould remedies or batteries or any of the myriad items shelved in The ‘ome De, that well known d-i-y store where employees where orange pinnies and which also took a battering, and whilst the roof might have been repaired the signage has not – anyway, she, the professor, proudly told me when I enquired about the state of the University of the Virgin Islands, that they were up and running two weeks after the storm. She added it might have been a bit chaotic – but mustn’t grumble.

A number of schools have been deemed unsafe and so the Complex, one of the high schools on the island, has juggled its timetable to accommodate not one but two other schools – an elementary and a junior high. The high schoolers are released from academic bondage at midday and the younger students stream in for the afternoon session. It must have been an educational nightmare to reorganize three schools into one, but mustn’t grumble, others have it worse.

Not only was hurricane debris strewn across roads – huge old mahogany trees rudely uprooted, galvanized tin flung from roofs, siding cartwheeling across fields and through gardens – but electricity poles tumbled too. Power lines whipped around in the wind before subsiding into tangled coils or snaked across buildings and roads, making the latter impassable for fear of a jolt. Some poles were felled to splinter in jagged abandon against a branch, or landed in a trampoline parody on a strand of cable still hanging. Adding insult to injury a sink hole appeared on the road linking Christiansted along the north shore to the East End of the island. The road on the south side was impassable in most places because of the aforementioned power lines.

A combination of no power for over two months – some lost it when that bitch Hurricane Irma sped north of St Croix the week before Maria hit – no water because, as you know, power is needed to pump water unless you have a handy ass or ox nearby to walk around and around in circles to draw it up from a well, no means of transport in some cases because a car has been damaged or because there is nowhere safe to go and, immediately after the storm, a curfew only lifted for four hours each day, not to mention a hospital badly damaged with many medi-vaced to the mainland, and I think most would agree there is a hell of a lot to grumble about.

But Crucians, and imports, are hardy folk. They focus on what can be done. They praise and celebrate the arrival of linemen (I’m sure some of them are from Wichita) who are valiantly assisting local crews with power restoration. They have elevated Tim Duncan, a local boy, and latterly of San Antonio Spurs fame (basketball for those not from the US) to near sainthood for his immeasurable help in raising funds, and then having the grace to actually come home numerous times to help distribute water, care packages, batteries and so on, rather than tossing a kitchen roll as our president was filmed doing.

There are stories of local generosity too. A local veterinarian, Kasey Canton, shipped and distributed generators from the mainland. A brother and sister duo, the Ridgeways, have raised money in a GoFundMe campaign  and dispensed needed supplies through their new organization VI-R3 (Relief, Recover, Rebuild), and there are countless other tales of magnanimous deeds.

And so as I grind my teeth at the incessant rumble of the generator I remind myself, and reflect that whilst the phrase may be British those on St Croix have earned the right to use it, I really mustn’t grumble and in the immortal words of Eric Idle, ‘always look on the bright side of life’!

Moths, Maggots and Mould

Here we are in St Croix! The sea is an ever-changing panoply of brilliant blues and glorious greens and is a ready distraction as I glance from my study window. I’ve just watched the ferry depart – it’s rather odd four-hulled shape making smooth headway across the channel to St Thomas. It is a constant on an island that has few constants at the moment after first Hurricane Irma skipped to the north, followed a week later by Hurricane Maria who skimmed the southern shores creating merry hell.

Power being the least constant of them all. Most of St Croix is still powerless though the hordes of beefy-looking linemen from the mainland, and our own crews, are steadily making their way across the island installing new poles and lines. March, or at the latest April, is the month being touted by Governor Mapp – I think that’s called “hedging one’s bets”!

Arriving on Wednesday after relatively stress-free flights considering we travelled with Bonnie, the cat and her partner-in-crime, Clyde, the dog, we were astounded to find we are part of that small percentage who do have light and therefore water. Along with the delight was a momentary pang of guilt – assuaged by offering ‘power and shower’ to people we know who are in need of a top up.

Hurricane Maria stripped the island of vegetation. Stately mahoganies tumbled. Elegant palms may be upright but their waving fronds have fallen or dangle impotently, providing little or no shelter. The genip tree across from our sturdy West Indian home is showing signs of life but until a few days ago was naked – it’s branches skeletal against the ocean backdrop.

But life is to be found. In our house it is in the crevices of old brick walls, or sending tendrils across walls and furniture, or in the fridge.

Moths emerge on a minute-by-minute basis. They had taken up residence in the pantry, managing to invade tightly sealed packaging to leave mounds of sawdust on the shelves. Bleaching and repainting have helped but still they flutter out to be met by a barrage of Raid.

Mould is an unsightly web of varicose veins across walls covered with anti-fungal paint, and wood furniture polished with wax. Diluted vinegar has been sluiced over every surface, left to dry, rinsed and then sprayed with eucalyptus anti-mould magic. We’ll see.

And maggots inhabit every nook and cranny of the fridge and freezer. The saving grace. Power came on the day before our arrival and so instead of a seething mass of blancmange-like grubs there is a bucketful of dried oat-like particles coating every surface and deep within the fridge’s innards. I will never look at muesli the same way again.

Drawers, rails, the ice-maker, and various screws, bolts and important parts line the gallery catching every skerrick of sunshine as vinegar and lemon do their part in eliminating odours. I have a minor concern that there will be one vital part missing when the fridge is reassembled, and I believe it is an unacknowledged concern of the man who will be putting it back together. It has been a back-breaking endeavour and why, I have been told, my husband never went into the plumbing business. A tall man in a confined space is not a pleasant work environment. We have spritzed, we have poured, we have scrubbed, we have dug into every possible fissure with toothpicks in order to rid our cooling device of it’s unwelcome, though thankfully dead, visitors. Baking soda and a constantly rotating fan are now doing their job and one day, soon, we will have a functioning fridge.

There are many small jobs which need attention. Shingles have been rudely cast aside by Maria’s wrath exposing the inner structure of our home. A few shutters now swing forlornly on broken hinges in the intermittent trade winds but the windows held true as did the roof, hurricane clipped at every conceivable point. An enterprise I, at one time, considered excessive but for which I am now grateful.

But we have it easy. Blue tarpaulins dot the landscape in FEMA’s effort to keep the daily squalls out. Many have lost much. Piles of debris litter the road sides – mostly organic but sofas, mattresses and televisions are seen in some areas. There is a recycling centre but it is overwhelmed – it’s dumpsters out and about around the island trying to corral the odiferous detritus left in Maria’s wake.

Frederiksted, on the western end of St Croix, took the brunt of the hurricane as she spumed her way to Puerto Rico where she inflicted even greater damage and hardship. This end of the Caribbean chain has been hard hit this year so we are receiving cruise ships who normally shun us. St Thomas, Tortola and many other regular cruising destinations are unable to host great numbers of tourists and so St Croix is grateful to be able to receive them – albeit offering limited delights but each day is better than the last, and the spirit of resilience is ever present.

These islands need tourism, and to those who have made plans to visit, or are considering a Caribbean adventure, please come. All are welcome. But please be patient if your credit card does not immediately work, or cell phone reception is patchy, or if the power fluctuates – this is what islanders have been managing for many weeks, and in some instances will be coping with for months to come.

Moths, maggots and mould are easily dealt with and do not dampen the warmth and friendliness of the Caribbean, and remember it is always about the people.

At the End of the Day

Clouds drifted through the sinking rays shimmering through palm fronds and across the bay. A magical end to an interesting day. I was sitting at the corner of a long bar at a pink hotel, my elbows resting on the brass rail held to the counter by ornate elephant heads. It was crowded and from the murmur around me I gleaned a plane load of tourists had recently arrived.

We like visitors on St Croix. Mostly. If they enjoy and respect this beguiling island which has so much to offer. We like them to help prop up the economy. Buy rum. Buy the famous hook bracelet, or the many variations thereof. Revel in the ever-changing colours of the sea as it filters through aquamarine, turquoise, lapis lazuli and occasionally grey when a storm scurries in from Africa. Hike the rain forest or down to the tide pools. Ride the beaches. Immerse themselves in the history of what was the Danish West Indies a hundred years ago.

People are friendly here. No conversation starts without a good morning, a good afternoon, and once the sun goes down – even if it has only just dipped – a good night.
And that was why I was so surprised. I have sat at many bars around the world. When traveling alone it is by far the most interesting place for conversations and the barman, if experienced, keeps an eye out for his solo female patrons.

It was busy but barmen are used to that. If they are good they acknowledge the person waiting – it is the polite thing to do and defuses any possible irritation. Not a nod came my way. I continued to wait and watched, piqued, the two white men dance around each other like mating praying mantis. Arms reaching and cocktails shaking. I listened to the patter of one, an aging Lothario, as he placed a chocolatey concoction in front of an older woman – a grandmother sitting with her granddaughters.

“A Bushwhacker, dear. It’s an adult MacDonald’s shake!”

His manner was unctuous and I expected him to wring his hands any moment, Uriah Heep style. Friends know how much I loathe being called ‘dear’ by anyone, particularly in a restaurant or bar, and even more so by those much younger. Familiarity really does breed contempt for me, though it did not appear to irk the customer. Fortunately I was served by the other barman, harried and not being particularly helped by his older cohort, he did apologise for the delay and promptly poured my wine.

My acquaintances arrived – we met at the VI Literary Festival and I had agreed to join them for a sundowner at their hotel. To some we may have appeared a motley crew: a white woman with an English accent – me; an African American writer from the mainland with numerous books and accolades to her name; a black man from Antigua known throughout the Caribbean for his calypsos; and a swarthy, though attractive, young man originally from Leamington Spa, England but sounding American, and who is a respected editor and publisher from New York.

I turned my barstool as more drinks were ordered and we formed a tight group. Banter and laughter were interrupted as a hotel guest, a white man of retirement age, pushed past us. With not a word of apology to our young companion whose rum he split, not once but twice, the tourist leant against me and signaled the barman.

Edging away, and about to admonish this rudeness, I caught the eye of my Middle Eastern-looking companion with an Arabic name, who shook his head. I learnt later that there had been a similar incident with the same man at the breakfast bar that morning, where words had been exchanged. I also learnt this erudite professional was regularly hauled out of lines and subjected to unpleasant grillings in airless little rooms at airports around the world.

The jostling of an ignorant man led to a discussion about the assumptions we all make. My writer acquaintance, invited to St Croix to be a speaker by the VI Literary Festival, commented on the whiteness of the pink establishment in which she was a guest. The Antiguan shrugged it off with a flashing, toothy laugh and the words, “Tourists are like that everywhere.” Perhaps lyrics will be borne from our conversation.

I wonder, as I sit at my desk and these new friends fly back to their homes, what sort of impression they have of this island I love. I hope it is positive because the pink hotel and its guests, were not a good indication of the friendliness of St Croix.

And I wonder why some people travel if they are unable to be polite and pleasant to fellow travellers, and I can only presume their hosts. But, at the end of the day, maybe I’m the one now making assumptions.

Beauty and the Beast

I am fortunate to spend time on St Croix – the largest of America’s surprisingly unknown Caribbean islands. The raw beauty of her beaches and the capriciousness of the sea as it cycles from emerald to aquamarine to turquoise to steel, depending on the clouds sent scudding by the constant Trade Winds, never fail to delight.

History emanates off the foot thick walls of the forts – yellow in Christiansted and rust coloured in Frederiksted – telling of the seven flags under which St Croix has flown. Originally known as Ay Ay, the island has been colonized, captured, lost, recaptured and bought, by the Dutch, British, French, Spanish, the Knights of Malta, and finally in 1917 sold by the Danish government for 25 million dollars to the US, fearful of German expansion during the First World War.

With the benefits of US laws and banking regulations, strong African roots from the days of slavery, a European heritage, and a lingering Caribbean charm, St Croix has much to offer both residents and visitors alike.

Green, hawksbill and occasionally leatherback turtles lumber up many of the beaches to lay their eggs, year after year. 50 to 70 days later, seabirds circle the skies watching with predatory interest as the tiny hatchlings surface through the sand and scuttle down to the ocean to start their journey north.

Cacti and scrub populate the eastern end of the island, with mahogany and genip trees towering high in the rainforest to the west. Bougainvillea, hibiscus, ixora and the island flower, Ginger Thomas, splash colour along the roadsides and hide both million-dollar mansions and less palatial homes from prying eyes. Papayas, pomegranates, pineapples and figs – the delicious little bananas – grow with easy abundance. Mangos and avocados grace many local dishes, and the sea offers lobster and mahi mahi and snapper.

Tranquility and beauty.

The islands – St Croix, St Thomas and St John – like most places have community issues, with elements of society not content to follow the rules. There is domestic abuse, too many guns in the hands of the wrong people, drug, alcohol and gambling addictions and larcenies of various kinds. All man made.

There is though a natural beast which lurks with vicious impunity along some of the shorelines. Known by the Spanish conquistadors as the ‘little apple of death’, the hippo mane mancinella, more commonly known as the ‘manchineel’, provides a natural windbreak and fights beach erosion, ever a problem for areas facing Atlantic hurricanes. The tree, sometimes growing to 50 feet, can be deadly to most birds and animals though, for some unexplained reason, iguana seem impervious to its toxicity.

To mere mortals its small green fruit resemble crab apples and lie temptingly on the sands. Don’t be enticed. If ingested, savage abdominal pain can be expected, followed by vomiting, bleeding and damage to the digestive tract. Deaths have been reported. Don’t even pick that apple up. The leaves and bark produce a milky sap which cause blindness, mostly temporary, and scorching blisters. If scratched by branches not only do the wounds hurt but pulsating pustules emerge over the coming few hours adding to the misery. I have seen the pain.

If Juan Ponce de Leon, the conquistador intent on colonizing Florida in 1513, and later parts of the Caribbean, had survived a manchineel-tipped arrow piercing his thigh, he might have been able to attest to its ferocity. Some though accept the temptations. Carpenters covet the hard timber for furniture and a few risk the dangers, drying the wood naturally to neutralize the sap.

Most manchineel shrubs and trees are marked with red crosses and warnings, but signs can get overgrown. Beachgoers have been burned just by standing underneath the tree during one of the many squalls washing the islands and coasts of South America and Florida. The caustic sap can even burn the paint off cars parked under its branches. And, if burned, the air is filled with toxins causing respiratory problems.

Accepted as the most dangerous tree in the world, the manchineel is relatively rare and is considered endangered – remember, it does have some positive benefits. But really, the best thing to do, should you come upon a manchineel is to give it a wide berth.

Beauty and the beast – part of the allure of the Caribbean.

And, should your kite get entangled in the manchineel’s embracing arms, just cut the strings.