The plans took a week. Frequent dips in the sea to cool off easily turned into an hour of lazy floating. We walked the crescent mile and back again several times a day—the wide, soft beach rarely had footprints other than ours. Solitude, I learned, can be its own distraction. My mind was constantly tricked by the sun into thinking I was on vacation. Concentrate, we reminded ourselves, concentrate. Despite the diversions, we managed to compile a list of building materials that filled an entire legal pad. Bob detailed every piece of wood, how many pounds of nails and screws, the number of shingles needed for the roof, and how many gallons of paint to finish it off. I added a Cuisinart, KitchenAid mixer, pots and pans, furniture, linens, glasses, dishes, silverware, candles, and on and on and on.
“Where do we find it all?” I asked Bob.
“I think that lumberyard we keep passing is a good place to start,” he said.
We pulled up in front of Anguilla Trading next to a tiny white Daihatsu pickup. Barely more than a toy, this adorable little truck seemed to be the vehicle of choice on the island. They were everywhere—hauling boxes, concrete blocks, even people.
This one was earning its keep. It was loaded with fifty or sixty pieces of lumber protruding up over the cab and dangling precariously out over the tailgate, almost touching the road. The miniature wheelbarrow-sized tires were squooshed down by the weight, and we admired the ingenuity of the loading job before going into the store.
From the outside, Anguilla Trading looked like it had a large selection, with toilets in a rainbow of colors displayed prominently in the window, tempting the passing motorist. Water pumps, rusty shovels, pickaxes, and five-gallon pails of paint adorned the entrance.
Inside, we were in the dark. Not total blackness, but the lights were off and the store appeared closed. I knew from childhood visits to Deer Isle, Maine, that generating electricity on an island is expensive. Understanding this conservative approach made me feel a tiny thread of connection to life in Anguilla; I respected the darkness. The amount of hardware heaped on the shelves (and floor) took us completely by surprise. The inventory was staggering. Anguilla Trading is the Caribbean version of Home Depot. Bob rummaged through nails, which were in worn wooden bins like in the old general stores in Vermont, while I wandered around the corner and found myself in the gift department. Dishes, glasses, and toys sat alongside alarm clocks decorated with eagles and hearts, and an extensive collection of mop buckets overflowed into the Christmas ornament display. The store rambled on forever through rooms with couches, appliances, tools, and paint. I knew we’d be good customers.
“Are you getting bitten in here?” I asked Bob, back by the nails. I balanced on one foot, scratching my ankle with the other.
“Yeah, I think they’re sand flies,” he said. “There’s so much here, but I can’t find what I need. Most of these nails are for concrete. Let’s go out and look at the lumber.” I followed him out the back door and down some rickety steps. Squinting to adjust to the bright light outside, we roamed around piles of cement blocks, rolls of rusty wire, and stacks of crooked lumber. I knew what Bob’s reaction to the lumber would be. He is not only a good builder but a fussy one. Bob eyed the two-by-fours dubiously, picked up a few, sighted down the length of each, and discarded them in disgust.
“These things look like Twizzlers,” he muttered. “I couldn’t build a pigpen out of this stuff.” It was apparent that the preferred material for construction in Anguilla was concrete, not wood.
Bob disappeared into another building, and I sat down on the pile of two-by-fours, tilting my face up to the sun—even in a lumberyard, it felt warm and reassuring. Across the channel, St. Martin’s emerald mountains were circled in mist, and for a moment time was suspended. This is not vacation, I reminded myself for the billionth time.
“Mel, I found the plywood,” I heard over the roar of a muffler-free dump truck. It was backing up directly toward me in a gray cloud of exhaust.
“Coming,” I yelled back, knowing he probably couldn’t hear me over the din of the truck. Jumping over muddy puddles and climbing over mounds of crushed stone, I made my way toward the ramshackle building where Bob had located the plywood.
“Here it is.” He beamed as if he had unearthed a diamond mine. He was ecstatic to locate something on his list. Plywood has never really made me jump up and down, but Bob’s excitement was contagious, and I admired the stack of splintery wood with equal enthusiasm.
Crossing the soggy yard, the dump truck splashed past us, splattering our legs with mud. We climbed back into the main building and stood for a minute while our eyes adjusted again from the bright sunshine.
“Good afternoon,” said a good-looking gentleman from behind where we were standing. “Can I help you find something?”
“Good afternoon,” we replied in unison.
Bob said we were looking for the plywood price, and the man was curious about who we were. Once we introduced ourselves, we learned we were speaking with Walton Fleming, an Anguillian entrepreneur who was taking good advantage of the island’s growth. Walton owned not only this huge retail emporium, but also the Anguilla Great House Hotel. Unlike the more luxurious properties on the island, the Great House oozed Caribbean charm. Colorful little cottages trimmed with painted shutters and surrounded by palm trees lined the beach. Visitors who chose to stay with Walton were transported to a more low-key Caribbean. A week at the Anguilla Great House could make even the most high-powered executives relax. Life there was as simple as it gets.
Walton asked the young lady behind the sales counter to help us with prices, and she sifted through a giant black notebook searching for the information. I told Bob I’d meet him in the car; the sand flies had rediscovered my ankles, and I was anxious to get outside.
“Okay,” he said absently, not wanting to turn his attention away from the sales clerk. “Do you keep the drill bits out back?” he asked, pointing to a plastic case that had clearly held drill bits at one time.
“Bits finish,” she answered, and resumed her slow, patient search.
“But since the case is still here, you’ll be getting in more bits, right?”
She stopped thumbing through the notebook and stared blankly at Bob. “I ain’ know,” she said with a shrug, and went back to her task. Like everyone in Anguilla, she was in no hurry. It was this same leisurely pace that had lured us to the island, yet it still took adjustment. Bob forced himself to let the woman look for the price at her own speed without interfering.
Outside, there was that sunshine again; I soaked it up like a sponge. Settled into the open jeep, I watched palm fronds overhead rustle in the breeze and puffy white clouds drift past the roof of the building.
I was better at relaxing when I was a kid. Long, lazy summers of doing nothing—riding a bike through Central Park, eating blue Popsicles, and not really having to be anywhere at any certain time. One of the most enviable Anguillian traits is the innocent ability to relax. No one can take it as easy as an Anguillian. Limin’ is the term for serious relaxation here. It comes from sitting under a lime tree and doing nothing. I was limin’ in my jeep, but I needed more practice. It was difficult to reach this superior level of leisure after a lifetime of goals, deadlines, expectations, and business plans. Not that Anguillians don’t work hard and have goals. Quite the opposite; they are just not frantic about it. And there’s always tomorrow. The word stress is not in their dictionary.
We’ve seen locals sprawled for hours on end. Be it on a concrete cistern, a porch, or even on a step in front of a shop, they stretch out as comfortably as if surrounded by down pillows and watch the world go by. They might doze on and off, but basically they just lie there, limin’.
As I soaked in the sunshine my instinct was to find my notebook and add “practice limin’” to a list, but I knew that was contradictory. I did, however, promise myself to remove the word stress from my vocabulary.
“How much was the plywood?” I asked Bob, emerging from my daydream.
&nbs
p; “It doesn’t matter. That whole pile was sold, and they had no idea when they would get more in. I didn’t bother to ask the price of a twisted two-by-four. They told me to try Albert Lake in The Valley.”
We drove slowly toward town, easing over speed bumps, dodging livestock along the way. We rounded a bend, and stopped in front of us was the little truck from Anguilla Trading. Bob jammed on the brakes just short of the dangling lumber. The load had apparently been too much for the miniature tires, and the driver was changing a flat right smack in the middle of the road.
We were becoming used to this island custom of stopping regardless of cars behind. People lean out the window to chat with passersby about whatever the topic of the day might be. Often cars block one lane while their drivers browse in nearby bakeries or shops. The part of this habit I find most extraordinary is that even if there is ample room to pull off the pavement, it is more acceptable to stop squarely in the road.
On this day there was plenty of room to ease the baby truck off the road and into a church parking lot. The driver chose instead to remain in the flow of traffic. We backed up a little and went around him.
The ride to town is only seven miles but took half an hour. I amused myself by reading signs along the way. “Lighthouse Chinese Bar and Restaurant,” I read aloud.
“I wonder if it’s real Chinese food,” Bob said as he turned down the street toward the sign. “Let’s go by and we can check it out.” We slowed as we passed, spotting a Chinese family eating in the yard—a sure sign of authenticity—and agreed to give it a try sometime.
At the end of the street a cliff plummeted at least 150 feet straight to the sea, surrounding the quiet harbor below on three sides. We pulled over for a better look. The color blue must have been created right in this bay. The water looked as though it had been tinted by something artificial, something unreal. It was the bluest of blues, with patchy shadows of coral composing a canvas worthy of hanging in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A long pier stretched out from shore, and we watched as bananas were unloaded from a cargo boat.
“I had forgotten about this view,” Bob said. “We came here with Joshua and took pictures the first time we ever came to Anguilla. I love looking out at little Sandy Island with that miniature tuft of palm trees. It reminds me of Robinson Crusoe.” He put his arm around me, and we contemplated the sailboats below; their masts rocked ever so slightly in the waves.
“I can’t believe we live here,” I said. “We can see this view every day.”
We stood mesmerized by the serenity until Bob broke the silence. “Let’s go find some lumber,” he said, and we jumped back in the jeep.
More signs: highway bar, highway playskool, highway tyre, highway gym. The term highway had been redefined. In my old world, highways were straight, boring thoroughfares rushing people from one place to another. This highway was much more my speed. At 30 mph I could see the sights: a roadside stand with coconuts for sale, a woman peddling pomegranates on a table in her yard, an old man getting a haircut on his front porch.
“Excuse me, do you sell lumber?” Bob asked the woman at the checkout in Albert’s Department Store.
“See lumber there.” She pointed to a chain-link fence across the road.
Following her directions, we walked past Lake’s Home Decor, which connected to Lake’s Gas Station. This was Albert Lake’s corner, all right. In back of the gas station, we found Albert Lake’s Lumberyard, similar in character to Anguilla Trading. We wandered into a large, dark warehouse and were greeted by an eager young man with a surprising Spanish accent. “Chew nee some help?” he asked.
“Do you have two-by-fours?” Bob began.
“Finish,” he answered.
“How about half-inch plywood?”
“Finish.”
“Sixteen-penny nails?” Bob continued.
“Finish.”
Bob looked at me with dismay, and I could tell he was losing patience.
“Two-by-eights?” he tried again.
“Finish.” The young man didn’t seem to mind this line of questioning at all.
“Where are you from?” I asked, anxious to change the subject.
“I fron Santo Domingo,” he told us, “but my fadda fron here. Why you ain’ go south fo’ dis stuff?”
“Go south to where?” Bob asked.
“St. Martin.”
“I guess we’ll have to go south,” Bob said, emphasizing his new vocabulary. “Thanks.”
We left the Albert Lake empire and drove past the high school, where hundreds of teenagers were getting out for lunch. They poured through an open gate in the yard, clogging the sidewalk and overflowing into the street. The girls were all dressed in bright green pleated skirts and tan blouses, and the boys wore light brown pants with tan short-sleeve shirts. Just past the school, at a four-way intersection, a slight fender-bender had occurred. Traffic had stopped as the two drivers stood in the road shouting in disagreement. In the middle of the intersection, a hand-painted sign propped up on a neat mound of tires read TRAFFIC EXPERIMENT—apparently the experiment had failed. We turned around and drove back past the school.
“Melinda.” My name was being called from the sea of school uniforms, and I spotted an arm waving frantically in the air. The girl pushed through the crowd, yelling, “Melinda,” and we recognized Marina, one of Joshua’s grandchildren. She ran up to the car, smiling from ear to ear. “A lift, please,” she said, and hopped in the backseat. We drove her home to Joshua’s for lunch and found Evelyn on the front porch with two-year-olds Amalia and Kim-Misha running circles around her, tugging at her apron.
“Them’s bad lil’ childrens,” Evelyn said lovingly, and shooed them into the house. Marina skipped inside, dropping her book bag on the front steps.
“You sure have a houseful,” I said to Evelyn from the open jeep.
“I’s gettin’ too old for all these childrens.” Evelyn shook her head, but we knew raising this next generation was what kept her going. We backed out of the yard, waving goodbye, and went to look for lunch.
Our lumber search was discouraging, but that did not hamper our appetites. Our stomachs were empty, and we needed to regroup. Patricia and Rosalind from the front desk at Malliouhana had recommended a local place called Hill Street Snack Bar, which we had noticed on the way into town. Although tempted by the Chinese food, we decided to save that for a special occasion and give Hill Street a try.
It was packed. We had discovered a local hot spot.
“Sit anywhere,” a large, smiling woman said from behind the bar. “Everything on the menu is right here.” She pointed to a blackboard hanging next to her.
We sat at a painted plywood table and considered our options, glancing at the wrestling on a TV over the bar. The menu was simple:
Conch
Goat
Pork Chop
Chicken
Oxtail
$16.00 E.C.
“Bob, sixteen dollars E.C.—that’s only six dollars U.S.,” I said. “That’s a great deal.”
“How much could they charge for oxtail?” Bob said.
We ordered one conch and one chicken, a Coke, and a Carib beer. We sat with our drinks and listened to the chatter around us. A group of five women in Cable & Wireless uniforms were laughing at the next table. Three men in blue coveralls with PUBLIC WORKS across the back were seated at the bar, engrossed in the wrestling match, and behind Bob, a table of four businessmen in suits discussed politics.
“So this is the power lunch scene in Anguilla,” Bob remarked with a smile. A giggly young girl brought our lunch, and we stared at the enormous mounds of food, each plate heaped with enough rice and peas for an army. Giant pink conch shells had intrigued me on beaches for years, and I was curious to taste the meat. Bite-sized pieces had been simmered in a spicy curry sauce with plenty of onions, celery, and tomatoes, and I was surprised to find it so soft and tender. I remembered reading somewhere that conch was tough and chewy, and wondered if there was a trick
I should know about. The rice absorbed the extra sauce, and the fried plantains on the side gave my mouth a sweet break from the spice. The chicken was fall-off-the-bone tender, stewed in a Creole-style tomato sauce with onions and green peppers. We devoured everything.
The woman from behind the bar came to ask if everything was okay. There is something comforting about large Anguillian women. At home, a woman of this size would be considered overweight. Not in Anguilla. Generous weight is a sign of contentedness, happiness, even success; a thin person, on the other hand, probably works too hard, worries too much, and doesn’t eat enough. Here, a large woman has prospered and raised many children, and my need for mothering attracts me to them like a magnet. This woman was no exception.
I responded quickly. “It was great. We’re so happy to find you. I would love to know how you made the conch so tender.”
“Pound it with a mallet,” she said. “That’s all you do.” I wanted the complete recipe but figured it could wait until another time.
“We’re opening a restaurant down on Meads Bay. I’m Bob and this is Melinda.”
“I’m Cora Lee, and that’s my daughter, Sweenda,” she said, pointing proudly to the young girl who had brought our food and was now flirting with the table of businessmen. “My husband, Raimy, does the cooking. Where are you going to get your restaurant equipment?”
“We don’t know yet,” I replied. “I think we’re going to St. Martin tomorrow.”
“There’s a place over there called PDG in Cole Bay,” Cora Lee said. “They have quite a bit, but I think they’re too expensive and they don’t sell used equipment. I’m looking for a used restaurant stove—maybe six or eight burners. If you bring in a container from Miami, I would like to get a stove up there. I could give you the money before you go.”
“Miami? Is that what people do?” I asked.
“It’s really where everything comes from. There and Puerto Rico,” Cora Lee said.
A Trip to the Beach Page 4