“We love your restaurant. Is this the chef?” they’d say, shaking my hand vigorously. Then they’d fire a line of questions: “Where are you from? How’d you choose Anguilla? Is it pronounced An-ghee-a or Ann-gwil-la? Were you in the restaurant business in Vermont? Oh, my God, you’re Blanchard & Blanchard? We have your salad dressing in our refrigerator at home right now!”
And so it went. Our quiet beach walks had become This Is Your Life.
In early December the restaurant slowed back down to an average evening of thirty or forty dinners. The last of the turkey sandwiches had been polished off, and we began to brace ourselves for the onslaught of the Christmas season. Thomas had brought a fifty-pound bag of lobsters one afternoon, and I went in a little early to boil some water and get them ready for Shabby. I met Bug sitting in his car, listening to a cricket game blasting on the radio. He was patiently waiting to attack the mountain of pots and pans from the morning’s prep work. He carried the heavy burlap bag of lobsters inside for me, placed a large stockpot under the faucet in the sink, and turned the water on. Nothing came out.
“Pipe ain’ runnin’,” Bug announced. “Water finish.”
I stared at the sink faucet in disbelief. Five thousand gallons of water had been delivered only the day before—the bill was sitting right on my desk at home.
“Check the cistern, Bug,” I said. “There’s gotta be water in it. Maybe the pump isn’t on. I’ll call Bob.” Bug trotted off to look down in the cistern with a flashlight.
“Go out back and see if the pump is running,” Bob said.
“It’s running,” I told him.
Bug returned and said, “Cistern dry.”
“How can this be?” I asked both Bob and Bug.
“I ain’ know,” Bug said apologetically, as if I were somehow blaming him. “Maybe cistern’s gotta leak—I can fix it with Thoroseal.”
“I’ll be right there,” Bob said, and hung up.
“What should we do?” I asked Bug. He eyed the mound of pots and pans to be washed and offered with a bright smile, “Leff we go outside an’ look. Maybe if the cistern gotta leak, the ground be wet.”
I followed Bug out the front door and around the corner of the restaurant to where the fill pipe enters the cistern. Bug looked around for signs of leakage.
“See, water there.” He pointed toward the side of the building, where a large puddle had formed near the sea grape tree. He ran over and picked up the end of a garden hose that we used for watering the plants.
“Here the problem,” he said, showing a mouthful of brilliant white teeth. “Somebody leff it running. Look there.” Bug pointed to a small white patch on the stone path where a tourist, used to an endless supply of water, had apparently washed the sand from his or her feet and left the hose running. “Least you ain’ got a crack cistern,” he said, trying to console me. “That a bigger problem.”
“Okay, we’ve got to hide these hoses, Bug, so nobody can find them again.” I went to call Junior to refill the cistern, muttering to myself, “Two hundred dollars’ worth of water on the ground so somebody could clean their feet.” At least the plants would be happy for a few days.
Back in the kitchen, I addressed the new challenge of how to prepare for dinner with no water. I needed some of those dirty pots, but not immediately. Filling the steam table was the most urgent problem. One by one, I poured in four cases of Evian.
Bug came inside and dumped more Evian into the lobster pot, then more into another to boil water for the sink. The pile of Evian cases was disappearing fast. It was not going to be a profitable evening.
Bob drove into the parking lot in a cloud of dust and ran by the back door to check the pump, then dashed through the kitchen to shut off the circuit breaker and stop the pump from running. “I hope we didn’t burn it up,” he said. “It was really hot.”
“Somebody washed their feet in the garden and drained the cistern,” I said. “Bug has already hidden all the hoses so it won’t happen again.”
“This water thing is turning out to be as much as the rent,” Bob said, and disappeared outside to check the pump again.
We used up all the bottled water for cooking and washing pots and pans, and there was none left to make coffee. The plumbing was not functioning, Bug moped around, unable to wash dishes, and the ice machine stopped making ice. Guests arrived at six-thirty, and we hoped that nobody had to use a bathroom. Junior, the water man, arrived at eight o’clock, just at our peak dinner hour. His truck, as it pumped the water into the cistern, sounded like a hundred motorcycles revving their engines, and our poor guests had to endure half an hour without any possibility of conversation. It was a rocky night, all in all.
The next day, as I was taking a tray of bread puddings out of the oven, I was startled by a voice from the back door in the kitchen, cheerfully greeting me with, “Good morning.” I turned to see the silhouette of a man in a bathing suit standing in the doorway.
“Good morning,” I returned. “Need some help?”
“No, I smell your cooking from the beach and came to see what you makin’. I John Hodge, but everyone call me Uncle Waddy. It is my family that owns this land with James.”
“Oh, you’re John Waddington Hodge,” I said. “I saw your name on the lease. You’re the executor of the land, right?”
“Yes, all this land on Meads Bay belong to my family. I James’s great-uncle. Since I the oldest member of the clan, they appointed me executor. I make eighty-five years next week.”
“You don’t look eighty-five,” I said, staring at his muscular body.
“I try to stay in shape,” Uncle Waddy said with a little grin. “The secret is the sea. Every day for nearly eighty years I swim in the sea and I walk the length of Meads Bay. And I don’t drink rum and I eat plenty of fish.”
Uncle Waddy had grown old gracefully, with a dignity that I wished I could teach others back home. He was not a big man, but he carried himself with a stateliness that exuded self-esteem and confidence. He was full of stories about the old days in Anguilla and what life was like before tourists arrived. Fascinated by him and his tales, I encouraged him to visit my kitchen often; he loved playing the role of professor, and I relished being the student. He would usually leave with a bag of oranges after sharing some bit of island folklore.
Cornbread
With Uncle Waddy watching carefully, I continued making cornbread to serve that night. We talked about how to combat the problem of cornbread being dry and crumbly, and I promised him a piece when it was finished. Customers often requested this recipe, and I was always happy to oblige, if only to see their surprise when they heard the ingredients.
Cream 1 cup butter and 3/4 cup sugar in a mixer. Add 4 eggs, beating well after each addition. With mixer on low speed, blend in 1 1/2 cups creamed corn, 1/4 cup crushed pineapple, 1 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese, 1 cup flour, 1 cup cornmeal, 2 tablespoons baking powder, and 1 teaspoon salt. Pour into a buttered 9-inch-square cake pan and bake at 325° for about an hour, or until golden brown. Serves eight.
“Where do you get your cornmeal?” Uncle Waddy asked.
“Florida,” I answered. “Why, would you like some?”
“Oh, no. I grow my own corn and take it to the Agriculture Department in The Valley, where they have a grinder to turn it into meal. I used to walk all the way to town carrying my corn, but now somebody usually give me a lift. “I hope you don’ mind,” he continued, “that I pick some sea-bean vines for my goats. Come.” He motioned for me to follow him outside.
Two round, green bundles of the vines that grew wild on the beach lay on the ground, tied into neat bales by their own leggy shoots. Lavender flowers poked through the strands.
“I pick these out in front of your restaurant. I hope you don’ mind,” he repeated.
“Of course not. It is your land, you know. But how will you get them home?” I asked.
“I just live up the hill in Long Bay.” And with that, he hoisted the two big bundles onto
his shoulders and strode down the driveway.
I stared after him, astonished. Eighty-five years old, dressed only in a bathing suit, with the body of a thirty-year-old, and carrying two heavy bundles of greens for his goats. “Will you come to dinner on your birthday?” I called out. “Our treat.”
Uncle Waddy stopped and turned with a wide smile. “I would be honored. It next Wednesday. I be here at seven o’clock.” And off he went.
Maybe Anguilla is the fountain of youth, I thought as I returned to work.
The chatter in the kitchen each night continued to further my education in Anguillian culture. Heated arguments about a boat race or a cricket game would often get out of hand and I’d have to quiet everyone down, reminding them we had guests in the dining room. Bug was always in the middle of these disputes, and his high-pitched voice easily rose above the rest.
“Hey, Bob,” he asked, “what go faster, a cruise ship or a speedboat?”
Although he was anxious to get back to the busy dining room, Bob could see he had been appointed referee for a touchy issue. But before he could answer, Shabby said, “Bob, tell he what go faster. A cruise ship must go faster. Tell he.”
Bob pondered the question briefly as Clinton, Lowell, and Miguel circled around, waiting for the verdict, leaving the diners to themselves. The debate escalated when it became clear that Bob had absolutely no idea which one went faster. The group argued about engine sizes, the weight of the boats, and which could get to Tortola first, a speedboat or a cruise ship. I reminded them that we had a full dining room, and everyone went back to work for a few minutes. Then Ozzie raised a new subject for discussion. “Mel,” he said, “you think Saddam Hussein should be assassinated?”
I was sautéeing corn, steaming baby green beans, and stacking portobello mushrooms with spinach and shaved Parmesan, and wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. “Saddam Hussein?” I asked.
“Yeah, Mel,” Ozzie said. “He evil. He gotta go, right?”
“Mel, what you think about the new airport?” Clinton asked a few minutes later as he sprinkled coconut on a cheesecake. “Everybody in Anguilla have a different opinion on this one. What you think?”
Now here was a truly difficult subject, and I took time before answering. The government was considering building a new airport that would change the island forever. I had learned to tread lightly on political issues, and in fact I could see both sides of the debate. How grand it would be to bring in more tourists—more business for everyone. But the thought of jumbo jets roaring over our secluded beaches, disgorging hundreds of people onto this tiny island, cast a shadow upon my visions of tranquillity. Where would all those people stay? Would our exquisite dunes be bulldozed to make room for high-rise hotels?
Anguillians had watched St. Martin lose its innocence. Over twenty short years, the arrival of giant resorts and casinos combined with a poorly managed immigration department had made it a haven for unemployment, crime, and a population that had lost control of its own destiny. “Not in Anguilla,” Joshua always told me. “Daughter, we will never let that happen here,” he would say. “Never.”
But Joshua was of the old school. There was also a generation of young souls torn between the conservatism of their parents and the lure of the outside world. Instilled with respect for the simple life in Anguilla, they were still drawn by the promise of more jobs and more money. Change had come quickly to Anguilla, and people were caught in the middle. Only twenty years before, most had not had the luxury of electricity and telephones. They had taken a giant leap through cultural time, and a new airport would be an irrevocable step again.
I finally came upon an answer. “I’m sure Anguilla will make the right decision.”
We had a run on jerk shrimp that night, so I asked Shabby to get some more from the walk-in cooler. He just stared at me.
“What’s the matter, Shabby? Are we out of shrimp?”
“No, but I can’ get it. I got gas in my shoulder, and that’ll make it worse.”
“Gas in your shoulder? What are you talking about? All you have to do is get some shrimp,” I said.
“I can’ touch the cold shrimp after I be near the grill. Can’ go from hot to cold. Not only my shoulder get gas, but the cold give me arthritis.”
Health issues were forever under discussion in our kitchen, and how colds were caught was an especially fraught topic. Our theories about germs had no foundation, Bob and I were told, and the perils of sudden temperature changes were impossible to dispute. Cooking in any restaurant kitchen calls for frequent trips into the walk-in cooler, but in Anguilla this took some coaxing. When necessary, our staff dutifully went in, but not before placing a small towel on top of their head. This, they agreed, would ward off the flu.
One day, on our way to The Valley to do some errands, we heard a shriek from a fellow on a bicycle. “Blanchard,” he yelled as we drove by. Neither Bob nor I recognized him, but he was waving frantically to get us to stop. He had turned his bike around and was now chasing us down the road. When we pulled over, he bent into the car window and with a giant smile revealed a gold cap that had been carved into the shape of a star on his front tooth. He was a Rastafarian with thick, fuzzy locks of hair down to his waist. Out of breath from the chase, he said, “Good morning. My name I-Davis. I Clinton an’ Shabby brother. They tell me all ’bout you. You come see my shell collection? I like you see it.”
I-Davis gave us directions to his house, and we promised to visit later that day. After we bid I-Davis goodbye, Bob explained that he’d read somewhere that Rastas always put an I in front of their last name—something to do with their religion and positive energy. They believed it added strength and purity to a name. We arrived in what we started to call “Davisville,” since Shabby, Clinton, and at least seven of the ten other Davis brothers and sisters had settled on the same piece of land. I-Davis gave us a hug as he welcomed us into his home, and sure enough, he gave us a tour of his collection. He and his wife had strung hundreds of sand dollars, olive shells, cockles, and pieces of conch shells with fishing line and hung them from sticks to make wind chimes. They swung musically from doorways and windows in all directions, making the house feel like some sort of sacred place. Thousands more shells were sorted in rows by shape and color all over the floor, and I-Davis told us stories about where he’d found them all. He loved the ones with purple and orange most, he explained, but some of the plain white ones made the prettiest sound.
Before we left, we were handed a pencil and asked to sign a rock wall in the living room to show we had visited. Names and messages covered the surface, and it was hard to find a bumpy little space to leave our mark upon I-Davis’s stone guest book. He smiled brightly, showing his gold star once again, and insisted we choose a wind chime to take home as a gift.
On Sunday mornings in Anguilla families gathered in churchyards for the service. Little boys wore jackets, usually handed down from a long line of brothers and cousins, and girls were in pastel dresses, lacy socks cuffed at the ankle, and shiny black patent leather shoes, their hair braided with ribbons and bows to match their dresses. The big children held on to the littler ones and clutched a Bible under one arm. As they walked along the road to church, fathers often carried a tambourine along with their Bible, sometimes giving it a little warm-up shake along the way.
The music was the best part. Women in straw hats sang with voices that soared through the churches’ open doors. Congregations belted out hymns of all kinds, some wild and frenzied, others soft and tender. Through the windows we could see the crowd sway back and forth, the whole building seeming to move to the rhythm. Congregants cooled themselves and their babies with makeshift paper fans.
We were listening to the music outside the pink church in South Hill when Garrilin and her six-year-old niece Roxana pulled into the yard. I complimented Roxana on her braids, which were finished at the ends with alternating silver and gold beads.
“Mel,” Roxana said, “I went by Brenda yesterday to get
my hair done. I got there eleven, I finish one. Mel, she plat sooo fast.”
“Plat?”
Roxana giggled at my ignorance. “Braid, Mel. Plat mean ‘braid.’”
“Two hours sounds like a long time to sit still to me,” I said.
“No, two hour fast. Sometime it take five hour.” Roxana held up five fingers to emphasize her point. “These a lotta braid, ya know.”
Garrilin and Roxana urged us to join them inside, but we weren’t dressed for the occasion. We listened to the music as it flowed like honey through the front door.
After his last finals, Jesse left Walla Walla at four A.M. on Horizon Air. He connected with a seven-thirty American flight to Dallas, then on to Miami, where he spent the night. The next morning he caught an early flight to San Juan and then the American Eagle to Anguilla. Christmas travel plans were a challenge, since it was high season in the Caribbean—Jesse was lucky to get any flights at all. Thirty-six hours after leaving school, he stepped off the plane, looking a little bedraggled and clearly in need of a haircut, but otherwise healthy and happy to be home.
We drove to the house under a barrage of stories about school and questions about life in Anguilla. Jesse asked about Clinton, Lowell, and Shabby—there was so much to catch up on. We talked for hours that day until it was time to go to work.
“Jesse reach?” Bug asked as soon as we walked in. “He marry yet?”
“He’s here,” Bob said. “He’s coming in later and no, he’s not married yet.”
“We gonna be at the wedding when it come time, right?” he asked.
“Bug, Jesse doesn’t even have a girlfriend,” I said. “It’s too soon to talk about a wedding.”
“Jesse gettin’ old. He need to give you some grandchildrens,” Ozzie said.
“Jesse’s still in school. I promise you that as soon as he decides to get married, you’ll all come to the wedding.”
A Trip to the Beach Page 13