"LORD" LAND CRAB AND THE FLYING DONKEY
I think the first time I ever saw Land Crab was at one of our local beach bars in Tortola's Apple Bay. Every Sunday night "Sebastian's" would hire a local "fungi" band named" The Spark Plugs" to play.
Now there is nothing more "local" in the BVI's than "fungi" music. Instruments can be anything from a hollowed out gourd, to a triangle...or electric keyboard...Basically "bring what ya got and join in".
Just great.
The term "fungi" literally means "scratch" and refers to the veggies you use to make a meal from "scratch". So it's literally a "scratch band."
Well on this night there was this white guy, dressed in a Hawaiian print shirt, with a red Converse high top on one foot and a green one on the other dancing around in front of "The Spark Plugs'…and blasting out some killer fungi songs.
Now "fungi" and "calypso" kind of join forces here...The lyrics to any great island song have to be primarily about one or two things…government corruption...and sex.
And there are lots of both in the islands...
Land Crab's song had them both in healthy doses...and he had one hell of a great voice.
Later I discovered that "Lord" Land Crab was a regular in the annual festival "Calypso Contest" and always did well.
Quite a talent for a white school teacher from Florida!
Well...down the road Land Crab and I became good friends.
His family owns a house a few bays east of me and he loves the BVI's as much as I do. He's just way better at putting his feelings into the words of some very unforgettable songs.
Now there is no doubt that my good friend LC is bit of an exhibitionist...heck all we had to do to get him to sing at a recent beach bash was turn on the stereo!
But there is something else LC likes to do. And it's bit more dangerous than singing...
He likes to ride donkeys…fast…without a saddle.
And, of course, the BVI's provide the perfect chance for a crazy white school teacher/calypso star to fulfill that insane fantasy.
Every year the next bay over from us, Carrot Bay, holds a festival with bands...great local food...and homemade model boat races. But the big highlight is always...you guessed it…the donkey race.
Now the following account comes from Land Crab himself because I was not there to witness the event.
But apparently LC entered the race and took off at a great rate of knots down the road to the delirious cheers of the crowd. Now a donkey at full gallop is hard to control...A donkey at full gallop with no saddle adds a whole new element to the equation.
Anyway...it seems LC did pretty well for a few yards….until he approached the "Mr. Dick's Soft Ice Cream" truck parked on the side of the road.
Now just having "Mr. Dick's" and "Soft" in the same title is a questionable marketing ploy...but that is what it was...and still is.
Well...it seems LC's donkey either had a hankering for one of "Mr. Dick's" finest soft confections...or he just wanted to get rid of his rider...
The donkey decided to sideswipe "Mr. Dick's" truck dumping LC unceremoniously in the street. Now LC's one tough dude...but he was a-hurting. A trip to Peebles Hospital revealed bumps, bruises and some serious road rash…and a tale for us all to tell.
They decided to keep LC overnight and that's when things got a little scary. At one point LC was awakened by the cleaning lady. "Land Crab, Land Crab", she whispered in his sleepy ear," The Donkey got you."
To say our buddy freaked out a little would be an understatement.
He decided to make his escape...only to run headlong into a three hundred pound nurse.
"Land Crab", she bellowed," get back to bed"
LC did...but didn’t sleep another wink. The fact he had to beg for a pillow didn't help.
The fact the pillow had blood on it helped even less.
"Turn it over then", said the nurse.
LC obeyed...
But at first light LC was out of the hospital...and back in Brewer's Bay licking his wounds...
Of course LC was not done...He returned last year to win the Carrot Bay donkey race...outright. But I do believe he paid Mr. Dick handsomely to park his ice cream truck in the big parking lot so he wouldn’t make a return visit to Peebles...
And then there was that mysterious "Santa Claus" who showed up in Brewer's Bay atop another donkey to the delight of all the kids...and grownups too of course.
Once again the "Mr. Dick's Soft Ice Cream" truck was nowhere in sight.
Co-incidence??? I think not.
THE ISLANDERS…OF MONTANA
He was a talented guy who'd travelled the thirty miles from his native Tortola to find work at a resort in St Thomas…that's like heading from rural Kauai to Waikiki. But it was fine ...for this young man knew that one day, when he'd saved a few bucks, he'd head back to Tortola and to the piece of land he owned on the beach in Cane Garden Bay and open his own little beach bar.
In the meantime he was happy to tend bar at a resort in the US Virgin Islands and create all his spectacular cocktails, with names like "Painkiller" and "Bushwacker", for the "snowbirds" who flock to the tropics in winter to escape the blizzards back home.
He'd smile as he handed over his icy concoctions...and then watch the tourists turn lobster red under the tropical sun.
Of course he'd warn them...but usually his wise words fell on deaf…and very sunburned...ears.
The season started to slow down and it was then our young friend was approached by the manager of the resort. Seems the place was owned by a large corporation which also had a big spread up in Montana in the good old US of A. They were heading into their high summer season and needed good help up there. Would our pal like to work the summer in Montana?
Now this young island man had never been to the USA and this seemed like the chance of a lifetime. Images of rolling prairies, John Wayne and the Wild West galloped through his brain...besides, he was told, several other local workers would be there too.
And so it was, a few weeks later, that our gentle island friend found himself in "Big Sky Country"...surrounded by miles of greenery...pick up trucks and cowboys…and a long way from the beach. But at least a few of the locals looked like John Wayne.
But he was there to work and to experience something completely different...and this was certainly that. Talk about a tropical fish out of water!
He worked hard and finally had a day off. A few of the other friends from the tropics had the day off too...so the guys hung out...singing a few songs that reminded them of the home they missed so very much...
"One Love" drifted on the prairie wind that day.
Now the guys didn’t know it...but the manager of the Montana resort heard the guys singing...and he came up with an idea. Why not bring a taste of the tropics…to cowboy country???
Next day a big sign was posted by the pool…" This Sunday….by the pool...The Islanders"...
Well all the guys from the islands were thrilled. Some down home music right here in Montana...maybe the band would even do some Bob Marley.
To be honest these guys had heard enough songs about old pickup trucks, broken hearts and lost dogs. They needed some island tunes and here was a band going to play them. For the boys from Latitude 18 it was a good day to be in Montana.
The day of the big event finally rolled around and our bartender was really excited. Finally...as the day wore on...he sought out the manager.
"What time are The Islanders coming on?" asked our pal.
"Whenever you guys are ready," came the response.
"What," said our pal, dumbstruck" You mean...we are the Islanders?"
"You're the only guys around here who look like Islanders to me," came the gruff response, "now get out there and sing."
Well, our pal rounded up the rest of the guys and explained the predicament. A couple had guitars...one had a steel drum and that was about it... But they put on a show...
The guests loved it...Here was a bunch of Caribbea
n guys, barely more than kids, singing their hearts out about the tropics…in the middle of Montana.
So "The Islanders" were born.
Every Sunday for the rest of the summer ' The Islanders" played. The crowds got bigger and even some of the local cowboys showed up to hear them. Bob Marley never knew it…but there were a lot of folks in the Wild West hearing his songs that year.
Well summer started to wind down and our pal was told he should head back to St Thomas and prepare for his old bartending job.
But he had really enjoyed singing and, after all, he did have that piece of land right on the beach on Tortola's Cane Garden Bay.
Instead of going back to St Thomas, he returned to his native Tortola and...with the help of a few pals...built his tiny beach bar.
The year was 1981 and "Quito's Gazebo" was born.
The bar had some interesting features…there was a tree growing up the middle of it and the ants would parade up and down to the amusement of the patrons.
Quito was the only member of the staff back then. He'd pour some drinks and then pick up his guitar and play a few tunes.
In 2006 Quito celebrated his 25th anniversary with seven best selling albums behind him and a greatest hits CD in his near future. I was honoured to write some words that will be included on that album cover.
"The Gazebo" is now a legendary bar and restaurant in the Caribbean and about ten times the size of that original little beach bar. But Quito still picks up his guitar...playing solo on Tuesdays and Thursdays...and with his band on Fridays and Saturdays.
The band is called " The Edge", not " The Islanders" but the roots of that wonderful music that wafts on the trade winds out of Cane Garden Bay can be traced back to those Sunday afternoons out by the pool…in Montana...
Happy 25th Quito!!!
"FOUR RED STRIPES AND A FUNERAL"
I’ve never understood how the first part of “funeral” can be “fun”…most of the ones I’ve (sadly) attended have been far from a laugh riot. But sometimes there can be humour even in those dark moments…and so it was the day of “Four Red Stripes and a Funeral”...
My wife Candace, my buddy Dewey and I had only been on Tortola for a few hours and we were having a cold one at my local, Bomba’s Surfside Shack. Only in the islands could a place like Bomba's exist ...a ramshackle drinking establishment with a sand floor and "nouveau junk" furnishings ...and that's being kind. But you've just got to love a place like that.
So we were hiding from the afternoon tropical sun when a car screeched to a halt ...Out jumped a longtime island buddy of mine with a grave look on his face.
“My brother died,” said my friend,” and the funeral’s tomorrow”.
I told him how very sorry I was…although I’d never met his brother…a man who went by the well deserved moniker “Big Leo”...
“I’d like you to come,” he added. I told him all we had were island clothes ...shorts and, at best, a silk aloha shirt…hardly funeral attire.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, “please come”...
So the next day we headed into Road Town to the little church near the old prison. It was very hot and we were way too early, so we walked into a nearby cool bar. Four Red Stripes later it was time to leave for the church...
By the time we arrived the church was overflowing with mourners and the area in front was jammed. There were so many dark .suits and Ray Bans it looked like a “Blues Brothers” convention. Think we stood out??
Anyway we joined the others outside as the stirring music and singing flowed from the church. The sun beat down and the singing went on and on. Many sniffled into their handkerchiefs and the poignancy of it all was hard to miss. This certainly was sad ...but “Big Leo” was being sent off in style.
Finally the singing stopped and it was time, as is Caribbean tradition, for the pallbearers to carry “Big Leo’s” coffin around the church and then outside for everyone to pay their last respects.
Now as “Big Leo” was a large man (some said six five and three hundred pounds) he had some very, eh hefty, gentlemen carrying him on his last journey.
Everything was fine ‘til they reached the front door to bring "Big Leo" outside. That old church doorway wasn’t made to accommodate “Big Leo” and the six big guys carrying him. They huffed and puffed and then started turning the coffin on to its side to try to slide the Big Guy through.
I caught Candace’s eye ...she caught Dewey’s eye and we all had that same thought ...”Big Leo” was about to roll right out of that coffin and down the steps into Main Street, Road Town. Call it “Gallows humour” ...but we all started to lose it ...burying our faces as we guffawed at the thought of what might happen next.
Our fellow mourners were very sympathetic…assuming we were overcome with grief they comforted us ...That didn’t help the situation.
Finally they wrangled Leo, safely through the doorway and up to the outside mourners...But then they headed back into the church…for a replay of the whole scenario. That was more than we could take ...between hysterical sobs we bade our farewells and fled the church…
I hope “Big Leo” can forgive us but I must say ...when I go I really wouldn’t mind hearing a few good laughs from the crowd ...and if I can still be the one providing them ...so much the better!
SHE CAME DOWN FROM…STURGIS, SOUTH DAKOTA
Unlike the infamous Jimmy Buffett song "Fins" ...she didn't come down from Cincinnati…Beverly came down from Sturgis, South Dakota.
Now having a name like Beverly in a town like Sturgis was tough enough for this young lady…but she found those winters, with the icy wind barreling down from the Black Hills, even tougher to handle.
She enjoyed her little town ...especially in August when twenty five thousand crazies would descend on it for the annual" Bike Week", but it was time for this young lady to go searching for her dream.
It was dream where the only ice she'd see would be in a cocktail glass...
She'd read her copies of "Islands" and " Caribbean Travel and Life" until they were totally dog eared and she endlessly searched the internet for that job in paradise ...The Caribbean was the place she was going to be…but there were so many islands beckoning her name ...
Beverly realised quickly that her best chance of landing work was on an American island ...and her best chance of landing work on an American island was probably on St Thomas, in the US Virgin Islands ...a major tourist destination.
She heard about all the tourists and she heard about the crime rate but the one thing Beverly liked about St Thomas was it was so close to many other islands with names right out of a pirate book…Tortola, Jost Van Dyke, Norman, Cooper...and Anegada.
As the icy wind beat against the windows of her tiny apartment in Sturgis on a frigid late October night she dreamed of jumping on a ferry in shorts and T shirt with a back pack and a cold beer and tracing the footsteps of Blackbeard through those magical islands...He had found treasure in those islands and Beverly was sure she'd find her personal treasure there too...
Every day Beverly e mailed bars and restaurants looking for a job that would at least get her into the area she so desperately wanted to be.
Finally...it came…an assistant manager/ bar tender at a bar and restaurant in the capitol of St Thomas…Charlotte Amalie...
Beverly had to be there within a month for the start of high season ...and had to find a place to stay and, probably, a beaten up island car to get around ...
Now Beverly did not have a lot of money and quickly realised that flying down would cost her hundreds of dollars ...and she'd have to get to Sioux Falls to catch her flight...
She counted her cash and spending the money on the airfare would leave her close to broke…but she bit the bullet and bought the ticket. Friends said they'd give her a ride to the Sioux Falls airport ...and two weeks later she found herself locking her front door in Sturgis for the last time and dragging her duffel bag, containing all her worldly possessions, into the back of her friend'
s car.
Time to start the next faze of her life.
Her instructions were simple ...arrive in St Thomas, jump in a cab and ask the driver to drop her at "The Petite Pump Room" above the Tortola ferry dock…order a cold drink and wait for Rick to arrive. If he's not there in an hour ask the bartender to call.
It all sounded too good to be true...
Nearly twenty hours after leaving freezing Sturgis, South Dakota Beverly found herself staring out over the waters of Charlotte Amalie harbour.
It was easy to ignore the mega cruise ships moored at the massive dock far to her left. Instead she sat on the balcony of "The Petite Pump Room" with a Red Stripe in her hand, watching the sea planes take off and land…and sailboats motor slowly out of the harbour heading towards St John and the British Virgin Islands. The tropical sun warmed her frozen limbs and she had never felt more alive in her life...
Suddenly she smelt something even more intoxicating than the trade winds…fried chicken. Beverly realised she hadn't eaten during those twenty hours of travel…and that smell of fried chicken made her tummy rumble.
She looked in her wallet ...there were a few twenties a couple of fives ...and a dozen ones. She ordered the fried chicken,
Minutes later she tucked into her plate of fried chicken and fries covered with Matouk's hot sauce .It was the best, most exotic meal, she could ever remember having.
As she washed the feast down with her second Red Stripe she suddenly became aware of someone calling her name.
She looked up and there stood her new boss, Rick. He was suntanned, weather beaten…and looked very inch the beach bum he truly was.
"You must be Beverly", said Rick, as his new bartender/assistant manager tried to wipe the chicken grease from her face.
Before she knew it he was sitting beside her ordering a Red Stripe and a plate of fried chicken. She looked at him and he smiled again.
Manpot's Tales of the Tropics Page 4