Nothing was unusual about my walk back from Drunk Bay - just down the path from the Salt Pond Bay that lay east of Coral Bay, St. John. I'd done it dozens of times over the years. On this beautiful morning I'd just finished shooting some promotional photographs of my cigar box guitars set amongst the whimsical coral, rock, driftwood and found object sculptures, obelisks and wacky who-knows-what created along this wild and windswept stretch of uninhabited beach by artists unknown. But then, out of nowhere, things took a turn for the weird. It was here that I had an awkward, somewhat surreal encounter that bears retelling.
Earlier that morning I'd packed up my little Canon camera, two of my homemade cigar box guitars and went down to the sculpture-strewn beachhead at Drunk Bay to take some promotional photos of the cigar boxes before the shadows took over. I was heading back on the little path to my tattered, borrowed Jeep - a real 'island car' - that waited like a loyal old steed in the parking area beyond. I always enjoy hiking this particular path, the sun gloriously warming my face as I leave the crashing waves of the Atlantic over my shoulder. I wend my way first through ancient coral barrens, carefully stepping over loose rock and chunks of coral so as not to bash the guitars to splinters, and then through the scrubby bush - choked with thorny catch 'n keep, Christmas bush (one does NOT want to receive a Christmas gift from this bush for it is pain that keeps on giving!) and stubby, wind-scupted seagrapes. Shortly, the path opens up on the left to the real salt pond - a shallow, brackish body of copper colored water with tiny clouds of salt foam scudding across the surface and collecting upon the shore. Salt Pond, where old-time West Indians still harvest salt and, when ill, go to bathe in its allegedly curative waters, slathering themselves with its mineral-rich, rejuvenating mud. Strolling along, I passed various long-legged wading birds languidly hanging out by the pond's edge. I can't figure out why they're there
for I've never seen fish, or any life, whatsoever. And, the water smells really rank! They must know something I don't.
As the sandy path meanders along the lee of the salt pond's shore and away from Drunk Bay, the wind dies and the tropical heat turns up. Off to the right the vegetation thickens, broken only by a tangled, barely visible path, or more accurately, nocturnal byway for bush goats, deer and the errant wild donkeys. Now and again the landscape gets punctuated by tuberous, prickly succulents like aloe - good stuff for those sunburns...and cactus wounds! Gigantic, stately bluish-green century plants - some with a single, otherworldly stalk protruding like a steroidal asparagus from its core – mingle with pointed green and red pineapple bush, mutant generations away from their fruit-bearing Hawaiian cousins. But to me, the most striking of the vegetation inhabitants in this arid, tropical terrain are the cacti. There are a few different varieties, but I only know the names of two.
I am familiar with the Turks Head cactus because, well, it looks like an unshaven, short, plump, green Turk wearing his colorful red fez. Some show-off Turks Heads will wear multiple fezzes (fezii?) and can get rather rotund though they will rarely stand more than two feet tall. Probably related to the barrel cacti family, the Turks Head fez produces a delicious little fruit that looks like a miniature, very pink chili pepper. But it's not hot like a pepper; it's simultaneously sweet and tart - and very high in vitamin C. The trouble is, each fez produces only one or two tiny fruits at a time, so if you want to have a tasty snack, better plan on traipsing around in the bush, getting sunburnt and certainly stabbed by more than a few stationary, though angry, Turks! But, then there's always the aloe!
The other cactus is less cute and somewhat more dramatic with its great, almost tree-like height and multiple, cylindrical green arms, rife with rows of small, spiky thorns no more than half an inch long. The thorns are almost invisible from afar. To a careless hiker, the arms of these cacti can have a long reach and are capable of providing quite the laceration. These cacti look much like smaller versions of southwest America's saguaro cacti, but here in the Virgin Islands, the West Indians call them “dildo”. Their perverted idea of humor, perhaps?
Anyway, as I was ambling along the path back to the beach at Salt Pond Bay, enjoying a brisk seabreeze on my sweating back and the midmorning sun's warmth on my face, the magical scenery unfolded before me. I was not thinking of anything in particular when I thought I heard voices. Not the Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus kind of voices, nor those from the hordes of sun-burned tourists beginning to arrive at the Salt Pond Bay beach - I was still too far away from there and the wind wasn't right for that. These voices sounded a bit...shrill and, well, amazed. A few steps closer and I discerned that they were women's voices. A few steps more and their British Empire accents became plain.
The path to Drunk Bay is not routinely traversed by tourists, especially in mid-day. At a tad more than half-mile in length, it's too short for a good vigorous hike, so those looking for a lung-busting cardiac workout would be sorely disappointed. Nor does the path lead to a comfortable, family-oriented sandy beach with shady palms and a tiki bar. It will take you by that stinky, orange pond. And, it's too damn hot. Even the lizards don't show themselves! Unless one were purposely going to see Drunk Bay's wonderfully wacky, transient assemblages, fashioned by the mercies of the sea and the whim of the artistic types who erect them, no one would be out here now. Except, perhaps another nut like me. Or two.
“Oooooh, just look at that, Agnes!” chirped a melodious voice in utter amazement.
“You better stand away from it, Olive, dear. It looks most dangerous,” worried Agnes, who nervously drew out the word “dangerous”, adding emphasis to her anxiety.
“Pah! You sound just my son, you do, always telling me to be careful. Watch out for this...watch out for that! Tiddles to you, my dear Agnes! This terrain is fascinating and I shall get as close as I like,”
chided Olive. “I'm getting my camera ready for this, I am! The garden club will surely want to lay eyes on these fine fellows!” she continued defensively, clipping her words in a high-class British sort of way. “You don't think I shall need my tripod, do you? This wind is unpredictably ghastly.”
Just then I rounded the bend about twenty five feet from the pair. I was sweating profusely, unruly hair blowing wildy in the wind; I had removed my damp shirt. In one hand I carried the shirt, in the other a pair of cigar box guitars. My camera bulged obscenely within my shorts pocket. The two women had paused by a tiny clearing just off the path and were admiring something not yet visible to me. They appeared quite fit, though each had to be well into their 70s, perhaps early 80s! It was hard to tell by their garb.
Each wore a variety of safari bush gear that I imagined one might find in a British Army-Navy surplus store: long-sleeved khaki shirts, sturdy hiking boots with calf-length, black woolen socks pulled up over matching khaki jodpurs. Each wore a vest, outfitted with countless pockets filled with God knows what - perhaps a Middle English copy of the Canterbury Tales, a Cadbury or two, a tin of Darjeeling...maybe a refreshing Schweppe's or a nip of Bombay? Olive's vest was green (but of course) and Agnes's a regimental khaki. Olive, rather a stout woman, wore a genuine English pith helmet over her hair which was tightly pinned in a bun. She sported a large red bandana around her neck, Boy Scout-style, and in addition to her binoculars, a pair of cameras and a compass hung precariously low. Olive was, as they say, definitely 'large and in charge'.
Agnes was considerably thinner and a bit shorter than her compatriot. Under her broad, floppy- brimmed cloth hat (also khaki) she wore a long, loose, Lawrence of Arabia styled white scarf that trailed down behind her thin back. She seemed preoccupied by her round, black, heavily-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down her damp nose. She repeatedly pushed them back, only to have them slowly ease back down. I imagined that her nose was well lubricated with sun screen. She too had binoculars suspended from her neck. And a whistle on a woven lanyard. Each had a canteen strapped to their waists, a sturdy knapsack to their back, and bore stout wooden hiking sticks like war clubs. Imagine a female version of Laurel & Hardy cast in Lawrence of Arabia, or as holdovers from the front lines of the Boer War. They hunched over a small cactus, peering intently, cautiously, at it as if it might suddenly lurch onto their path.
I had noticed them for about five seconds before they noticed me ambling along the path. As I entered their peripheral vision, they startled and stood up straight, clutching their hiking sticks tightly.
“Oh! Oh!!!” whooped Agnes, quickly taking a small step closer to Olive, nearly knocking her over onto the cactus. Both women stood erect with their mouths open, speechless, staring wide-eyed as I approached. Now, I'm certainly no Jason Momoa, or even Jason Alexander for that matter. I'm just a harmless, old Woodstock-era dude. But with my wild windblown hair, week-old beard and sweating shirtless paunch, I must have appeared for all the world to them as an island castaway. Or demented pirate? Worse, I was heading their way!
I held up my hand that carried the cigar box guitars and waved at them with my other. They could only blink, mouths agape. I thought that at any moment they might either break off in a sprint crashing through the bush or, just as likely, give me a sound thrashing with their sticks. That old “never get another chance to make a good first impression” saying flit through my mind.
Olive bravely broke the silence. “I say there, my fine fellow, do you reside here? Perhaps you know what these are?” Olive gestured with her stick towards a bulbous pair of rotund cacti.
“I sure do,” I said cheerily, trying to put them at ease, as I slowly approached. “I have a little shackteau about a mile from here, just above Miss Lucy's. Those two little guys you are looking at are Turk's Head cacti. See the little red fez each is wearing?”
“Astounding!” gasped Olive, taking out a pencil and tiny notebook. She scribbled something in it. Agnes, remaining silent, still wasn't so sure about me. “We wish to photograph the local flora here on this delightful island for our garden club back in Sussex. That's in England,” she said, as if I were daft.
“And this tall, rangy fellow here,” continued Olive pointing her stick at the dildo cactus. “Do you happen to know what it's name is, too?” I could see in her bright, hazel eyes that Olive was beginning to get just a little bit excited. Except for the fluttering of her Lawrence of Arabia scarf and oversized hat brim in the sea breeze, Agnes remained as motionless as a da Vinci statue.
“We really should be trotting on, Olive dear,” said Agnes, sotto voce as she clutched Olive's sleeve. “I should think that they'll be wondering where we are.”
“Pish-posh, Agnes! This gentleman seems to know some things about the flora that surely will be of interest to the girls. Now, what did you say you call this tall fellow here, then?” chirped Olive, turning to me. She lowered her stick and raised her pencil.
“I don't know its Latin name, but I do know what the West Indians call it. It's kind of crudely suggestive and I don't I want to offend you proper English ladies,” I said, trying to add a bit of humor and perhaps defuse Agnes who I was not yet convinced wouldn't bolt off like an iguana through the bush.
“Why, whatever do you mean, sir? We did not fall off a dustman's lorry yesterday you know,” retorted Olive, waving the little notebook in my direction, a bit of annoyance flared in her voice. She now reminded me of Hyacinth, a character in the BritCom, Keeping Up Appearances. “I do believe I can well manage learning the bloody name of one of the residents of God's great garden!” She hooted at me like an astonished owl.
Well, OK then. “It's called the dildo cactus,” I said, looking at them directly.
Wide-eyed, Agnes grasped Olive's forearm more tightly, knuckles whitening. She seemed as if she might faint away at any moment. Agnes glanced anxiously at the camera bulging in my shorts. Both ladies' mouths again dropped open and they stared at me like an island deer in the headlights. For a brief moment even Olive was speechless. It was as if the earth stood still. I thought maybe this could be the catalyst that would ignite Agnes and make her begin blowing her whistle, but she remained stunned.
'I've tazered them with my words!' I mused to myself.
It was Olive who, again, broke the awkward stalemate. “Very well then. Thank you, sir, you have been most helpful and now we really must be going. Come along, Agnes!” And off they traipsed . . . straight into the bush!
I knew they wouldn't make it very far at all into the thick, tangled bush before they realized that they'd better recalculate their route! I would have liked to have stayed around to watch this tiny drama unfold, but I figured the pair had had enough embarrassment for one morning. I resumed my walk along the path to my Jeep, further into my day.
*****
As often occurs on this small Caribbean island, peoples' paths cross all the time, sometimes quite unexpectedly. Olive and Agnes would soon experience this phenomenon as their paths would soon cross again with mine.
The next evening, I recognized both expeditionary English ladies dining seaside with their two adult children at Miss Lucy's Caribbean restaurant where I supported myself by playing music for the guests several nights a week. I almost didn't recognize them without their khaki uniforms and field gear - or in
the company that they were currently keeping. I did not want to embarrass them so I avoided their curious stares ricocheting in my direction.
As fate would have it, here sat Agnes' daughter, the lithe and lively blonde Sylvia, who was married to Olive's chubby, pasty, son, Teddy. And there they were, all together, escaping England's dismal winter on a tropical holiday in St. John. Sylvia and Teddy had already heard me play at Estate Concordia earlier in the week and had become new 'fans'. In fact, it was the bikini-clad Sylvia who had chased me down the Salt Pond Bay beach earlier that day to ask if she could have Teddy take her photo with me and my cigar box guitars – only moments after I'd had my cactus encounter with their mothers on the path to Drunk Bay!
As I was preparing to take my first-set break at Miss Lucy's, Sylvia walked up and invited me to meet her mother along with Teddy's mum. I nervously agreed and we strolled back to their table shaded by an ancient sea grape tree. Sylvia introduced me to her mother and mother-in-law. When I smiled, “I believe we've already met,” Olive and Agnes, suddenly recognizing me, exploded in laughter! It was now Sylvia and Teddy's turn to be confused and stunned.
We exchanged stories and enjoyed several more wonderful laughs that evening. They stayed for my entire show and we “closed up” Lucy's. As we walked together to the parking lot – they even helped me load-out my gear! - Olive took me aside. Touching me lightly on the arm she said quietly, “You know, young man, you have contributed wonderfully to our holiday. Thank you.”
I chuckled to myself at the 'young man' reference. “Not at all,” I replied, for I had to admit that they, too, also created more island memories for me. Close encounters: You just never know when you're going to have them, do you? And maybe, just maybe, one does get a second chance to make a good impression?