Parking lots

I hate parking on this island. It is an evil necessity that cannot be avoided, but nevertheless it is something I loathe. Maybe it has to do with the fact that we are on a miniscule island, or perhaps it is because of spray painter error, but the parking spots here are made for Smart Cars, not real cars. They are so narrow and short that it is virtually unheard of to pull into a space in just one turn of the wheel. Generally it takes two or three reverses to finally get your car squeezed into the spot. I wouldn't get so annoyed if it weren't for the fact that I leave our flat at least 7-8 times a day, and 7-8 times a day I must back up three times just to get into our parking spot. It is a blessing that we own a car, because to park a truck into any of these spaces would be nearly impossible. In fact most trucks just circle the lot until they can find a double spot, and even then their end is in the middle of the road. This could also explain why there are so many vehicles parked along the side of the road, their owners just give up. Parking is really only half of the battle though. Once you have managed to manoeuvre your car into the rabbit hole you still have to get out. Unfortunately Blake and I own a two door car, which means that the doors are quite long, and once opened leave you about 6 inches of space to squeeze through. I sometimes feel like a Cirque du Soleil contortionist as I ooze myself out of the car. Another blessing is that our car is a beater, because nothing remains unscathed on this island. Most vehicles bear the scars of several doors that have been banged up against it, and dents on the bumper from the 5 point turns necessary to exit a parking spot. Aside from the actual parking space issue, there are parking lots issues as well. Canada evidently trusts us. When you have parked illegally you get a ticket, call someone to complain about it, and drive off. Here it is not so simple. They still have the archaic clamp system going on. So when you illegally park at the library, a wide open parking lot with a sea of empty stalls, your wheels are clamped by the time you get back. $85 CI and an hour later (if the clamper is quick about it) you are finally able to leave. If you don't have the $85 then add in a walk to the bank as well. Another parking lot problem is the spike guards. For a foreigner this is quite the surprise. I mean, how many times have you exited through the entry lane? It happens, especially when you are learning to drive on the opposite side of the car and road. Sadly that mistake could cost you thousands here, as you would be the recipient of four flat tires. The final blow is the meridians. There are so many, and most are only inches off the ground, that it is like an obstacle course in a parking lot. Last week at the bank I saw a Caymanian high centre her BMW on a parking lot meridian. If she has driven here her whole life what chance does that give me? I told Blake the other day that driving on this island will either drive me insane (no pun intended), or make me an excellent driver. Today I lean towards the former!
Pictured above: the only good lot in Cayman... with the best real-estate value in North America!

Outside look at our lives

Its official. We have our first visitor coming on Saturday! My friend Cheryl is visiting us here in the culinary capital of the Caribbean (as stated on the radio this morning-only because Cayman has the most restaurants, not because of actual contributions to the culinary world). It is funny how you never really look at how you are living until it is time to welcome someone into your home. In St. Albert we would do a quick surface clean, put away any dishes and hide the demon cat, but that was all. We were always in good shape for a drop by visit. However, the last few days have really led us to realize how differently we do live down here. For starters, our flat is not very visitor friendly. We were blessed with white tile floors that never come clean no matter how many times you sweep/swiffer/vaccum/mop and which leads to my greatest pet peeve on this island: dirty feet. We also have a 7 foot silk painting towering by our door that the landlord has not gotten around to putting up. It is one of those things you forget about, until you try and see your abode through a visitor's eyes. We are also rather poorly equipped for guests in terms of supplies. Our "furnished" apartment has only 2 bath towels, no hand towels, one wash cloth, no floor mat and no extra bedding. Our living room has a super comfortable pleather couch, but not a pull-out, leaving us without permanent sleeping arrangements- so an air mattress will have to do. Entertaining is also a little tricky when we have no glasses, no cheese grater or cutting board, one wooden spoon and no blender (in a tropical pina colada zone)! Media wise we also lack t.v, a stereo and home phone. Furnishings aside, our place has got a great caribbean vibe, which may be its only redeeming quality when it comes to hosting.
In discussing activities to do with guests during our stay, we inevitably discuss travelling on the island. There are two ways to get anywhere. The scenic tourist laden and often painfully long ways, or the local unattractive, obstacle dodging thoroughfares. Should we bring Cheryl home along South Sound Road so she can admire the amazing ocean views and huge homes at the risk of getting stuck behind the 15Km/hr Trolley Roger and losing sanity, or is it better to take Linford Pearson highway scattered with goats and iguanas (sometimes of the smushed kind), run down houses and the rusting sno-cone trailer for time's sake? A difficult decision. When it comes to tourist attractions it is the same. Who doesn't want to send a postcard home from Hell, but is it worth the drive out there to see a wooden cut-out of the devil and ironshore, while ducking bullets from the constant shootings plaguing Westbay (Hell is really beginning to live up to its name). And what about tourist traps like Boatwain's Beach and Dolphin Cove? It is great to see the seat turtles and dolphins, but at what cost, and is it beneficial for the animals?
Preparing for our first guest has really given Blake and I an outside look into our lives, but a lack of towels and kitchen supplies wouldn't lead me to abandon this lifestyle. Our life here is amazing and worth more than the material drawbacks. We can't wait until the rest of you come visit!

Brunch

Brunch is something of a legend here. Instead of asking your buddies if they'd like to go golfing, or seeing if your girlfriends would like to hit the mall, you ask them out for brunch. Nothing cures a hangover like a little champagne and orange juice in a crystal glass the next morning. A little odd by North American standards, but definitely something we could get used to. Most of the high end hotels have brunches every Sunday Morning, and some even have them during the weekdays. As a welcome gift, KPMG took all of the new starts and their wives out to brunch at the Westin. Regularly this is a $50/person event. I'm sure our rowdy juvenile group scared most of the typical Westin clientele, but it was a blast. The brunch is set up on the sand, with white tents to keep the seagrape leaves from falling on your head. The waiters pour the champagne like it is water, and the orange juice comes quite quickly too, but try and order a water and you will be waiting awhile. Inside is the massive buffet. A fat kid's dream come true. Station after station tempts you with the warm smells and delectable fare. They must go through a bin full of melon's just to decorate and flourish all of the dishes. There is a Japanese sushi chef, complete with cleaver and white jacket. He can roll you anything your heart desires in mere seconds. At the pasta station you create your own sauce mixtures by choosing the vegetables and sauces you would like them to simmer up for you. The fruit section contains every fruit you can think of, and many you would never think of. They must have raided France to set up the cheese block because there were French labels that even I had never heard of (however, that could just have been faulty translation). Miniature yet classy jars of Welch's jams and Grey Poupon adorn the side walls. The buffet also has an ethnic section where you can find tandori chicken and naan bread or curries of all flavours. To top it all off there is the dessert section. I'm pretty sure I spent more time than necessary at this one. Every flavour of Tortuga Rum cake was available ( and trust me, there are a lot of flavours!) chocolate mousse, Key lime pie, Coconut cake, brownies, Fresh fruit and yogurt, squares and poundcakes, cookies and meringues... everything! It is a fortunate thing that the brunch runs from 11-3:30 because it actually takes you all that time to eat. Never have I reached a level of fullness as I did that Sunday. By 3:30 we had all collapsed on the beach, champagne in hand. They must pay the lifeguards extra on Brunch days so that they can fish out all the overeaters from certain drowning. The worst and best part depending on how you look at it, is that they don't stop serving the champagne until the tent is down and everything has been put away. It must have been a comical sight to see so many accountants trying to drink their weight in alcohol on full stomachs. Yes, Sunday brunches are famous here. So beware, if you plan on visiting us, start dieting now!

pictured: Blake and I at Westin Brunch, Our friend Matt loading up before closing

Ugliness, STDs and pregnancy-Cayman's greatest fears

So it is finally time to start getting my working permit in order. Not that I have any gaurantee of a job, but at least it gives me something to do during the day! First off was the photo lab. Caymanians are not embarrassed to admit that they hire based on appearance and skill. On all of my teaching resumes I have had to include a photo. If you are ugly then you can't work. End of story. So wearing my most flattering colour I headed off to PhotoPharm to get my pictures done. After 5 minutes I left, receipt in hand and stunned. Perhaps the most timely transaction ever made on the island.
Next up was the medical forms. Buoyed by this sudden evidence of efficiency I headed to the private hospital. I figured this was a better choice for both cleanliness and efficiency. I was wrong- again. At the main desk, the receptionist looked down her nose at me, no doubt envisioning this parasitic expat taking over her job, and told me in as few words as possible to fill out the book of forms. I sat down and proceeded to document the past three generations of medical history in my family. Once finished she gestured that I was to take a seat further down the hallway and wait for the nurse. I proceeded to the bank of chairs, picked up a 2006 copy of O magazine and waited... and waited and waited. After 25 minutes a nurse came to fetch me and escorted me into a dungeon-like closet to take my measurements. However, as soon as she sat down in her chair, she decided to ask me and record my answers rather than do the work herself. When I told her I didn't know my height, she told me to guess (even though a metre stick was stuck to the wall beside me). Giddy with power I shaved an inch or two off of my waist width and gave a liberal guess as to my weight. Take off an extra ten pounds, don't mind if I do!
After the measurements she took me into the hall, pointed to a tiny window with blinds pulled shut and said " yousa waita here, when dey lif dem blinds, yousa pay and den go do blood lab and x-ray." I positioned myself so I could see the window and waited for the blinds to lift. According to the hall clock it was 15 minutes later when the nurse reappeared and saw me still waiting. "Yousa not paida yet?" I pointed towards the closed blinds. She laughed, took me by the shoulder to the main reception desk out front and told me I could pay there. what!?! Typical. Lining up behind all of the people that used to be behind me was a lesson in patience. $90 later I walked into the lab to get my blood test. A girl of about 16 jabbed the needle into my arm. Along with a good appearance, the Caymans demand that their workers be STD free. Judging by some of the behaviours at the bars on the weekend I am guessing that many expats don't get their work permits renewed... Finally it was on to the x-rays. I checked in with reception only to find that I owed another $35 to get a picture of my lungs. I swallowed my protests and paid the money. As soon as I entered the x-ray chamber the technician asked me if I was pregnant. Always a flattering question for those who are not! I looked at her and confidently answered "no." She narrowed her eyes and said "Are you positively certain that there is no possible way that you are pregnant?" Now that is a scary question, and one that is hard to answer for most women. Is there a possibility... always! But rather than hold up the entire process I stuck to my original answer, which luckily was the correct one based on the results. Back to the nurse for a urine sample now. Apparently they do not trust the x-ray results and like to double-check about the pregnancy issue. I was handed a plastic cup with no labels and told to leave it on the shelf in the restroom. It turns out that the shelf in the restroom is an uneven piece of wood, with numerous cups waiting for analysis. I had visions of a pregnant drug addict switching their sample with mine, but as there was nothing I could do, I was forced to forge on. Finally it was on to the last step; the doctor visit. Dr. Digby turned out to be a nice English woman and we had an interesting conversation about the organs and tissues of the upper body while we looked at my x-ray. Because pregnancy is as undesirable as ugliness and STDs, she did one last abdomen poke to insure I was "pregnancy-free" as she coined it, and signed my forms, telling me to pick them up at reception at 5pm. I left the clinic three hours later, a vial of blood lighter and up to my radiation limit.
At 4:54 I returned to the main reception to get my results. The receptionist from the morning greeted me with her icy stare, looked at the clock and informed me I was 6 minutes early. She nudged her head in the direction of the chairs, where I took a seat to wait. At precisely 5 p.m. she gathered together my sheets, which I had seen sitting on the table behind her, and slid them under her impermeable expat proof window. I was finally free to leave! Work permit application done. One experience I hope I don't need to repeat for at least another 3-6 months!

Lifestyles of the low-income and unkown

After my last entry about the wealthy, I figured I had better tell you about the flip side. The "real" Cayman. No place that I have ever visited has had just one face to show, just one identity. Like there are two sides to every story, there are two sides, or more, to Cayman. Having visited slums in La Paz and Lima, and seeing the poverty in Indonesia, I was prepared to see some low-income neighbourhoods in George Town. I was pleasantly surprised at first. Most people seemed to live in houses that are in better shape than some back in Canada. They all drive nice vehicles and are religious about washing them. Most are appropriately dressed, and most work. It wasn't until I started to dog-walk for the Humane Society that I came across some "forgotten" streets. With names like Ms. Keppie Lane, Rock Hole Road and Mango Turn you would expect a quaint little street. Instead you discover the areas tourists aren't meant to find. Narrow one way roads, thick with brush along the sides reveal metal tubs sitting on lawns, broken down cars with flat tires sitting on the sides of the road, years overdue for their inspections. Worn plastic lawn furniture grace the decaying and sloping wooden verandas and toothless men wearing dusty cut off jean shorts smile from their doors. Unlike the touristy areas, the roosters and chickens don't seem out of place in these neighbourhoods. They peck away as reggae music pumps from an old stereo in a crumbling upstairs loft. It is hard to say who these people really are, but the crime descriptions in the newspapers generally label them as Jamaican immigrants, here for work. In fact, every week when I read about the shootings, they are generally from these neighbourhoods. It makes me a little sad, because when I walk along them in the daytime I see qualities we lack back home. For these people, their family and friends are their entire lives. They are never alone. Every house is wide open, and you can hear the soothing cadence of their accents as they speak. Although they do not have much, they always appear friendly. I have never been approached in a creepy way, and in fact, at one point I had to go up to a house to ask for a poop-scoop bag, and I met a legless man and his grown daughter who were more than happy to lend me a bag. When I walk along a street back home I often feel isolated. There is no one around, all of the houses have drawn curtains and locked doors. There are no voices except for the odd guard dog. Here is so different, and so welcoming. The crime in West Bay and George Town, however, is something I am glad we do not have back home. The poverty and crime levels are linked. Since our arrival there have been many shootings, three robberies in banks, and last months biggest tragedy was the shooting of a 4 year old boy whose father was actually the intended victim. Although it appears most crimes are linked to drugs and gangs, it is still scary when there are only 56, 000 people on islands and not a crimeless week goes by. I wish I had a solution. I guess, like everyplace, there are the good parts and the bad parts. One would be hard pressed to a Utopia anywhere in the world these days, but I think that Cayman is a contender, crime aside, with the right morals.

Lifestyles of the Rich and sometimes Famous

Hedge funds and offshore accounts were only terms I had heard of from movies and rich people before we moved here, hobbies that required lots of money and perhaps some shady morals. However, if there is one thing that I learned within the first few days in Cayman, it was this: there is enough money on this island to blow your mind. Never have I seen so many mansions, yachts and private jets in my life. In fact, Friday afternoons are marked by the constant drone of personal jets and first class helicopters depositing their occupants on the island for a weekend getaway. Cheryl Crow, Orlando Bloom, Dr. Phil and Tiger Woods (when he was still allowed out) are among some of the repeat visitors. Of course, Sunday afternoon consists of much the same, as the wealthy leave their weekend homes and return to mainland. But for some, air travel is too common. They prefer to anchor their 6 storey yachts off Spotts Bay and slowly sail west along the coast, flaunting their magnificent ships to all of us land dwellers. On occasion you will even see the yachts side up along a cruise ship, in an effort to prove how "big" their boat really is. As another taunting blow to our economical self-esteem, there are weekly advertisements in the paper for luxury homes. The newest development on Seven Mile Beach features 4 bedroom condos with a living space on the downstairs floor for you butler and pilot. The road that we live on is renowned for the mansions (how we ended up living here is a mystery). There is the Thompson mansion (if only my maiden name had a "p" in it, I could have shmoozed my way in) owned by the hardware store family. It sits opposite the most beautiful cove on the island and is done up in Victorian fashion, with little T's designed into the wrought iron fence. Further up there is the yellow mansion. That is the one pictured above. It is so large it creates its own light halo you can see from further along the road. There is also the "Cave" mansion. This guy has actually built underneath his seaside house and 40ft into the ocean, where he has a grotto that is sealed off with glass. Apparently when you are scuba diving you can go right up to his underwater window and look into the grotto if thats the kind of thing you're into. Some millionaires don't want to get caught up in the maintenance of property. They would rather pay $7 million for a top floor penthouse suite at the Ritz. It has been said that Oprah actually owns one of these as well. If you can't afford the 7 mill, then perhaps co-ownership for $2 million a year would be advisable. That way, when you aren't on island, it can be rented out to affluent commoners for the average Ritz price of $30,000/month. Accommodations aside, there are still the cars to deal with. Every day when I drop Blake off at work, our dented '94 sun-burnt Accord is typically sandwiched between a brand new Mercedes or Land Rover and a Lexus or shiny BMW convertible. As embarrassing as our car is, I am thankful that should a hurricane hit the island and the Accord float to sea, we won't have lost much money. As you can see, appearances and money are pretty important on this little island. Sometimes I stare wistfully at the jets as they leave, but then I remember that I am lucky to live here in my own right, and I want to learn how to shuck my own coconuts and catch my own conch (that is not supposed to sound as dirty as it does) instead of spend my life being catered to. Life is about the journey and experiences, not how much money you can flaunt... and as broke as Blake and I are, we are happier than ever... although I can still dream about building my own underwater grotto...

Conch and Canadians

With Blake working 10-12 hour days we both look forward to the weekends, when we can relax and remember that we live on a tropical paradise. This weekend was one of the best yet. On Friday after work we met up with an Irish couple for dinner at Guy Harvey's. Guy is something of a legend on the island. Born in Jamaica and raised on Cayman, he is a well-known artist and marine enthusiast with a whole line of clothing and souvenirs imprinted with is name. He also owns a restaurant famous for their nightly $10 specials and half off happy hour drinks. An appetizer, bread, steak and fries for ten dollars is a huge deal here, so we couldn't pass that up, especially when the company is Irish, you know it will be a good time! Saturday we were up early for the long awaited and slightly dreaded confined water dives! For those of you who don't know, we have started our PADI diving course. Academics took up the better part of last weekend, and this weekend it was time to start the water theory. I've been determined to get my PADI certification since I visited UBC in grade 11 and saw a sticker on a dorm room wall... maybe not the best reason to attempt the sport, but a reason nevertheless. Blake, unfortunately, has had to withstand pressure from my end, as he wasn't as excited at the prospect of breathing underwater (maybe because he has just managed to effectively breathe while sleeping...) So Saturday Scuba Len took us out. Now before I go any further, I must describe scuba Len for you. He was a marine in the U.S. for years, part of the special service. He is over six feet tall, shaved head, beefy and his upper body is covered in tattoos. He used to jump out of helicopters for work, and now he drives motorbikes, dives into submerged submarines with dead occupants on board, and is attempting the world record for the deepest dive in June at nearly 500ft off the North Wall here in Cayman. He is optimistic about his survival rate... I'm not sure anyone else is. Scuba Len also has a softer side. The first time we went to meet him we were stopped dead in our tracks as he shushed us to be quiet. He was on his dock feeding the largest pelican I have ever seen. This is his wild pet who comes twice daily to be fed by Len. On Saturday he took us out on his pontoon (one of the 6 boats he co-owns with an oil barren from Texas) to North Sound. The water was crystal clear, perfect for learning to scuba, and learn we did. It was neat to be able to breathe underwater and not have to worry about staying near the surface. Almost like being weightless in space. We even got to follow a stingray for awhile. After our lesson we got back on board and ready to head back, but then Scuba Len decided he'd rather hunt conch. We stopped in the middle of North Sound and the boys went snorkelling for snail-like creatures. It took only minutes for us to reach the 12 conch limit and we were off and back to town, where we learned how to clean and harvest the conch. Len made an amazing conch dip in less than 5 minutes. It was delicious! Exhausted after our diving day, we headed home for the night.
Sunday does not need much description at all, because we were doing the same thing every other Canadian should be doing...watching the best hockey game of all time. We went to Legends, a sports bar where we met up with a couple from Edmonton who are down here for the same reason we are. He plays on Blake's ball hockey team ( go figure, that is where all of the Canadians can be found) and he actually knows KPMG people from Blake's home office. Small island, small world. The bar was a sea of red and the cheers we made were probably heard all the way to West Bay. After the victory the whole bar stood and sang O Canada. It was a weird feeling to be so patriotic outside of our country, but it also made us both realize how proud we are to be Canadian, regardless of the game outcome. I'm pretty sure that match added about 2 years worth of wrinkles to my forehead and a few grey hairs, but it was worth it! What a great end to a phenomenal weekend!

Pictured above: Conch dip, scuba gear, a beautiful conch shell, Blake and I in North Sound