Gone Places

Can anybody imagine being on a hurricane driven island that is below sea level? And having to live there for a year? I used to teach at a school in a place called Anegada, which means ‘drowned’ land in Spanish. I remember when I used to go jogging, it was as though I was seeing the shoreline at an angle of elevation, rather than connecting it to be on the same tangent with my eyes. An action more like I was running to get out of a meniscus. The land itself is very small, and so, utilities such as water supply and electricity had to be manually improvised. It was always a risk taking a mini aircraft looking more like one of those paper planes that mischievous boys made in school, but that was the only means of air transportation that landed there. The pilot never had to worry about the effects of mountains in that region, for if there were any truth to the simile 'as flat as a pancake' Anegada must have originated that comparison. Once I set foot on land, I saw a small bar that was named Banana Well. The 'Well' I could comprehend, since the homes were all equipped with artesian wells as the major source of water supply. However, "Banana' teased my brain for a while because the tallest trees were cactuses and their families, and stubby sea grape shrubs. Hence, a banana plant would have definitely stood out as the one-eye king in a blind man's country.

It didn't take me long to figure out that for the inhabitants of nature's little paradise, it was nothing to hop, skip and jump on the single-engine Cessna air-bus that held eight occupants at a time. But for me who was taking my first trip to the land of Lilliput, I must have died a thousand times whenever I had to do business in Road Town, capital of Tortola, motherland of Anegada. The pilot was more interactive with his passengers, two of whom sat in the cockpit with him, chitchatting and sightseeing more than we ever did on land. One afternoon I was returning from the mainland when the pilot decided to let his teenage son take charge around the wheel, while he sat giving instructions. You talk about taking chances! I was just glad when I landed, trembling like a leaf as I got off the plane. I must have been the only one who felt the pressure, since everyone seemed relaxed like I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

From an aerial distance as depicted by Picture 1, Anegada has the look of a coral reef that the ocean reclaims whenever the tide is high. That's because if you are searching for green scenic vegetation, you might as well put your binoculars back in their pouches. The land use will never be for featuring forestry. The folks are more interested in attracting tourists to their shores. I became a friend of Jerry whose father operated a cargo boat that brought supplies to the land. Jerry was one of three men who worked on shift, ensuring that the generator unit was maintained to keep the country out of darkness. By day, he operated a small fishing boat that he used to go deep sea diving for conchs, interspersing that activity with taking wealthy North American tourists beauty fishing. By the latter, it meant the big wigs, some of them US politicians who visited for relaxation, got on board his ten-foot ferry, went far out in the ocean, caught blue marlins and others, before throwing them back where they belonged.

There is modest housing development and the one hundred and fifty or so inhabitants have a stress-free way of life. Even the educational program could afford to assemble the primary and secondary schools housing under one heading, without any undue interference from any of the entities. The respect that the students showed me was indeed stunning. Some of them were not the normal age group kids found in schools other parts of the world. For instance, a fifteen-year-old pupil might still be in first form. The most dramatic memory that I had was a twenty-three year-old young lady who was still in school trying to graduate to get her certificate. The younger ones ridiculed her to bring her down to their level, but that didn't stop her from trying. In general though, they were very polite and showed that they honored the banner of knowledge.

I was given accommodation paid for by the BVI government. The premises belonged to the Smiths, who had a monopoly on all travel arrangements done in Anegada. The structure was uniquely created with an artesian well fitted with a pump to generate my water supply. As if that weren't enough, the house itself was designed to have a reservoir cemented below the floor where water was channeled when it rained. The water was purified by adding chemicals to prevent the millions of mosquitoes from thriving anymore than they did.

Take a closer look at the landscape in Picture 2 above and you can figure out the soil type, though the house is located in the vicinity of one of the pristine beaches, hence the sandy foreground. The sea grapes foliage in the background is the major plant life on land, and the annals of Anegada recording this vegetative existence dates back to perhaps further than the memories of its own natives. There's just one main road paved with concrete mortar, not the usual asphalt found in other places closer to where it is geographically convenient to transport such luxuries.

There's a mixed population - blacks, whites and a few Hispanics. Each ethnic group tends to be closely interwoven in terms of family relations. Everybody knows everybody as the saying goes to describe small communities like this BVI little secret. I met a woman who was the mother of the village, not the capital, The Village, but of the entire bit of sedimentary rock that constituted the country. The octogenarian had twenty kids, grown men and women who were themselves multiplying to carry on the tradition. When she spoke up, everyone listened, and she had a lot to say.

Then it was time to say "goodbye Anegada" and "hello Virgin Gorda". VG is definitely another wonder of the world and the country welcomed me with open arms. I taught at the Bregado Flax Educational Center and a different community of people exercised their rights to be on the planet. Anegada has an airstrip to land a plane, small though it may be. In order to reach Virgin Gorda, a ferry is the deal. There is no flat space there to accommodate aviation dynamics of any sort. The landscape is nothing compared to Anegada. As a matter of fact, it is the total opposite with its hilly terrain. You can't go to Virgin Gorda - Fat Virgin for the Spanish translation - without noticing the boulders dotting the town and beaches, seen in Picture 3 below. The soil support much taller trees than Anegada, as can be verified in the background of Picture 4.

I found Viirgin Gorda with a lot more to give than Anegada, though they both possess their own set of idiosyncrasies. Traversing the Caribbean waters by ferry can be equally as daunting as taking off in a ten-seat flying machine. At times, ferry passengers encounter rough seas, especially in the middle of the forty minute journey, where the vessels pass a ridge that juts further out in the ocean, causing the current to become turbulent. And if two ferries should pass each other at that exact troubled spot, everyone is in for a bumpy ride. One afternoon, I was returning from Tortola, and the ferry had a lot more tourists than usual. The boat must have been overloaded because there were countless tourists decked out upstairs, enjoying the open air. Then the bobbing of the boat might have taken its toll, and at that moment I, and so did everybody else, wondered if we were going to make it. The passengers screamed and you could tell that even those who had experience sailing were worried about the worst.

I spent three years in Virgin Gorda before I left with a lot of cherished memories. The principal then Mr. Rhymer, now deceased, once invited me to go pulling fish pots with him in the deep. We were on break from school, and I had planned to spend Easter there, instead of jumping on a flight to go further northwest, like I had done in previous times. Josh who was another male teacher came with us, plus Israel, who was in charge of fishing for the conical containers, planted overnight in the distant waters. So, a ten-foot engine boat took on Mr. Rhymer, who weighed about three hundred pounds, Josh, who weighed about two hundred, Isreal, who was about two hundred, and me, who weighed about one hundred and fifty-five pounds. And the most ridiculous part has not been disclosed yet! There was not even a single life jacket on board! Beat that! There was only a gas tank filled with liquid, I couldn't swim, and couldn't speak for the rest.

Mr. Rhymer was the one in the driver seat, and when he climbed on board, the place where he sat sank closer to surface of the water. Meanwhile, you could reach for the tides effortlessly with your hands. I didn't realize that we were going that far out to where, looking back, people appeared to be the size of birds on the shore. We finally got to where the pots were anchored, and Israel in charge rose to the occasion. He started reeling in the containers like a pro. But just then, a fifteen-foot wave came crashing down on us, oscillating the boat in every direction. Josh who was standing, trying to help with the fish, was thrown off balance landing on the crossbeam, and breaking it in two like it were a match stick. I panicked. The rest pretended that they were too strong to crack up, but you could tell they were broken on the inside.

"Please take me back ashore," I begged.

They all laughed. Meanwhile, I felt like the frog that said what was funny for humans meant funeral for him. Then water was seeping into the boat that now looked like a frying pan meandering in Lake Michigan. Mr. Rhymer used a cheese container to bail out the invading inundation, keeping calm under the existing circumstances. Nevertheless, they ignored my pleas, pulled the rest of the fish pots, before heading back to shore, pretending that nothing happened. I simply swore to myself that the ocean was one place on earth that would never see my face again.

The closest I ever got to it after that wake-up call was when I went night fishing in The Marina (it's eastern end seen in Picture 3) with Vincent, a native teacher. We had a great time catching many small fishes, avoiding the bigger ones, known to be poisonous in VG. I wasn't a great fisherman, but I sure knew how to learn fast. We used to use dough and that did the trick, sending us home with a decent catch each night. I could tell when a small fry was picking, because the line would be pulling vigorously. However, when I felt an almost silent vibration before realizing that the line felt free, I knew I was just visited by a giant. I might not have wanted to catch a big one to eat, but I was more than enchanted by the idea. Hence, I planned to go for it. Since the bigger fishes were cutting the line, I decided to beat them at their pranks. I got a piece of thick wire, tied the line to it, making sure that it was well secure. Then I attached the end of the wire to the hook before installing the bait. I threw my line and waited. Sure enough, I felt that customary vibration and knew that my plan was taking effect. After a while, I tried a little pull and the line felt like it was stuck beneath a boulder. However, I administered a second pull and sensed that the weight shifted somewhat to alert me that a big fellow was waiting on my next move. Remembering what many villagers warned about the experience of others being dragged down by these fishy creatures, I resolutely turned towards the inner shore and ran like I was on a one-hundred-meter race track. And the big catch followed suit. "Plop," it fell on the sand, eyes wide open with its fleshy body just lying there panting. He was the stark image of a fish out of water! I was scared to even touch it at first, assessing its magnitude. But after the idea had sunk in that I caught my first ever thirty pounder, I asked Vincent for a helping hand. He couldn't tell the name of the fish and neither could I decipher.

I took the fish home, where it could hardly hold in my freezer. The next day, still being baffled by the size, plus whether I should throw that one back, I went to school and prodded Vince to get me some answers from the older folks in his community. That he did, and the fish took a break from my apartment, intending to return subject to some kind of approval. By the time the fish got back to me, it was just a small cut to let me taste what a fool I was for letting it leave my hand in the first place.

"It's a delicacy," said Vincent's father. "In over fifty years, nobody has caught any of these kinds around here," he said. "We almost thought they had been extinct."

The man was right. The fish tasted so good, I wished I had scraped out the small ones from my freezer to make space for that lovely fellow. I felt lucky, but I only prayed that I didn't give away my fortune to a total stranger. Refer to: http://hubpages.com/hub/Things-We-Take-For-Granted.