Random thoughts

When we thought of moving to a Caribbean Island, we thought about long relaxing weekends by the sea, no rush hour, daquiris and cold beers sweating in our hands and a release from "the real world." What we did not expect was to own a blackberry, speak with our parents nearly twice as much as we did back home via Skype, maintain our Facebook pages and diversify our musical tastes with unknown Aussie and British indy bands. Blake and I have become more wound up in technology and media than we had ever thought possible. In fact... here is some big news! One of us will be published in a small Canadian magazine distributed nation-wide this year!!!!! And it isn't me! Blake was approached by an accounting magazine and asked if he would share his story about the transfer as well as some advice for up and coming accountants and the diversity a CA designation provides. It should be coming out closer to the end of the year - complete with pictures! Who knew that he would be the first to get published! Am I jealous??? Slightly, but I've been riding his coattails for the past 4 months anyways. The truth is that he really is the star in this marriage! However, my own personal accomplishment has been learning how to teach swim lessons and recognize and pick good papayas. Maybe not as large of an accomplishment, but new skills nevertheless.

Pictured above: Blake going to work, our first wild papaya

Rednecks rejoice

Blake and I discovered quite the treat this weekend. A place that is like no other. A place so backwards and hick-ish that it blew anything Burns Lake could offer out of the sky. I'm talking about the local speedway. You'll have to use your imagination here. We live on a minuscule island with few resources, yet they have managed to build a "speedway." Now I use parentheses because I'm not sure there is anywhere else in the world that would qualify a pot-holed and crumbly paved patch of tar a speedway. I knew there was something amiss before we had even parked the vehicle in an overgrown lot with dead bismarck palms and ankle high brush. The security guard standing at the roll-away fence charged us five dollars each and indicated that we could park anywhere in the field just beyond the slightly lopsided porta-potty. We came with some friends, and I think there was a tangible silence as we realized this place was reminiscent of a lost scene from Deliverance-slightly eerie. We parked the car and headed towards the track only to be stunned by what was before us. A row of old tires, three tires high, was lined along one side of the strip. A simple metal chain link fence that ended just above our heads was stuck into the ground at varying angles alongside the tires. And we were right there. Nothing but a fence full of holes and three tires were in between us and the lethal speed-demon cars. The surface of the speedway itself was shocking. I have seen better gravel surfaces than the sorry mess there. We all had to snap a few photos just to show our friends back home. All of a sudden a sharp revving sound broke the silence and I am not ashamed to say that I screamed and ducked behind Blake. Despite the fact that we were at a speedway, I couldn't help but feel like Leatherface from Chainsaw Massacre was about to run out of the woods and tackle me. That- or a possessed motor-bike was heading straight my way. The latter was more accurate of what actually ended up happening. The revving belonged to a street bike that rocketed a mere 10 metres away from me. Out of nowhere a loudspeaker announcer evaluated his speed at 5.2 seconds and 118 miles/hour. At this point the announcer also took time to ask us to back away from the fence and sit on the bleachers that were located right behind us. From that vantage point we were in the clear collision path of any vehicle that wished to jump the road, sail over the tires and land on us. Not a reassuring thought. Nevertheless, always up for an adventure, we took our places and waited for the races to begin. Now I should mention that they were scheduled to begin at 3pm. We arrived on Island Time at 3:15. At about 4:00 the announcer gave a long winded speech to his audience of 15 that he wished the officials would learn to respect time, and how all of these years he has been trying to instil a sense of professionalism and punctuality, yet the public continue to disrespect him by not arriving on time. This tangent had us all in a fit of laughter. Nothing like a loudspeaker rant about tardiness in the Cayman Islands. Next to warm up were the cars. It is a giant relief to know that Blake and I no longer have to worry about the fate of our '94 Accord when we leave. We will just race the heck out of it and call it a day. The first race car to hit the strip was an old model Honda Civic- colour: silver, door: black, hood: sunbleached. It flew down the strip at an astonishing pace of 6.9 seconds. My jaw dropped. When I think of racing and speedways I think of race cars and proper attire. Silly me... I couldn't have been farther from reality. It turns out that any old person can enter any old car, as long as it is in working order. Even then, however, there were at least a handful of cars that didn't make it more than a few metres off the track and had to be pushed by hand back into the holding lot. The serious contenders wore biking helmets, all the rest sported either ball caps or nothing at all. One car even managed to lose a belt while speeding down the strip. Unfortunately we missed the last group outing to the track, when apparently a car started on fire and it took the fire truck that was parked next to the bleachers more than five minutes to get their act together, drive a hundred metres and put the inferno out. By 5:00 the races had not yet begun, and since we had carpooled with another couple we had to leave. Just as we were making our way back to the parking field the first race took place. It was neither motor-bikes nor cars, but two trucks barreling down the narrow strip- side by side, vying for first place. Although I would like to have stayed for more, I felt that my red-neck quotient had been met for a lifetime and it was time to call it a day at the track.

PIctured above: the speedway in all of it's glory

Hotter than Hades

When I was little and it was really hot out, I remember my parents saying it was "hotter than Hades." This phrase now reminds me of two things; firstly, my parent's ability to replace bad words in a sentence to get across the point but not lose the meaning ( for example -gosh darn-it, oh my gosh, shoot...) and secondly, the summer heat of Nelson. Now summer can get hot in Nelson, but there is no comparison to the Caribbean. We are dying here... and I say that truthfully because if I actually stayed outside all day long I would have heat stroke and die. I have never ever felt such heat as what we are experiencing right now. And it is only going to get worse. Every morning there is sweat trickling down my back before I even make it to work. I have started taking three shirts to work each day. One for the morning, one for after lunch and the last shirt for the late afternoon. I can sweat through a T-shirt in under 10 minutes flat on any given day; a rather embarrassing yet impressive fact. This phenomenon also leads me to feel like I have been working out, when in fact, I have not left my desk... rather dangerous thinking if you ask me. It is not uncommon for Blake to sit down at the computer for 10 minutes and stand up with wet marks on his shorts from sweating. Thankfully humans don't melt, but I am beginning to understand how it might feel to actually do so. Last weekend after a visit to our beautiful neighbourhood beach, I decided I would run home. It was only a 4km run, no big feat. Blake was a little concerned and reminded me that it was quite humid out, but I assured him that I was quite capable of a short run home. Ha! No less than 500 metres in and I was wishing he would double back with the car and pick me up. By the end of the first kilometre my lower legs felt like they were on fire, and it wasn't from my lack of athleticism, but rather from the hot asphalt reflecting the burning sun. I felt like I was running in an incinerator. Each breath was sickly hot and heavy with humidity. I was wet from head to toe and could have slid down a dry slip-and-slide with only sweat as a lubricant. Even the snakes were hot. I nearly stepped on a small boa who was too lazy and hot to move! By the time I got home I was seeing mirages of water- so I had no choice but to jump into our pool and cool off... except our pool is the temperature of bath water after you have been sitting in it for 45 minutes. Not very refreshing. I can't say that we were naive about the heat before we moved here, but I think we were definitely disillusioned. I tend think of hot days as dry. That is the key difference. Not only is it 35 degrees here, but with humidity it is more like 45 degrees. You can actually taste the salt in the air when you step out in the morning, and the heat is like a duvet cover that follows you around all day long. I feel 10 pounds heavier after stepping out from our apartment. I'm pretty sure the animals are suffering too, since the roads and trees are full of lethargic iguanas, snakes and lizards. The worst part about this whole thing is that it is only May! Its just going to get worse! The next time someone says that it is hotter than Hades out, I am going to remind them that there is a place called Hell on this island... and its just as hot as South Sound!

Pictured above: Hanging out in Hell, Blake the sweaty mess after a run

Batabano

One thing about here is that there is never a shortage of activities and things to do. This weekend was the Batabano carnival. I just love that word! Batabano.... it just rolls off your tongue. The actual word is a Caymanian word for turtle tracks in the sand, and has become the name of the carnival, since turtle tracks in the sand are apparently something to rejoice about (I am getting the impression that you can celebrate just about anything here as long as beer, rum punch and bathing suits are involved). I had been anticipating the carnival for weeks, hoping it would be a mini version of Brazil's famous Carnival. It certainly did not disappoint... but had little in common with the real Carnival. We went down to see the parade on Saturday and arrived slightly late- we're adapting to this new "time doesn't matter" thing nicely! Of course the parade was also running a little behind, so we were able to run along side it for awhile until we reached our friends. The main road was a jumble of crazy colourful costumes and feathers, masks, hastily thrown together floats, steel pan bands and headpieces. Groups of scantily clad adults danced along the road, throwing glitter, candy and entire cans of pop out to onlookers. Free bandanas and rum were also being passed around! Every third float was a refreshment stand for the partyers, and refresh it must have, since I assume most dancers were pretty drunk. Last month a Junior parade was thrown, and now I can see why. Not a child was visible, and that was for the best. The dancers wore bras and shorts so small that most boys had whiplash by the end of the parade. Morals were not high on the list of qualifications necessary to be a Batabano dancer, as most were bumping and grinding each other, and girls were being sandwiched in between half naked sweaty men. So sexy was the atmosphere that there has been talk in this overly conservative country about shutting the carnival down next year. Lucky for Blake, he managed to snag a free rum and coke (which was actually just rum and a splash of what might have been cola) but I was left to watch the parade dead sober. In hindsight at least I will remember it, but sobriety did little to actually help me understand it. A woman wearing a foot long felt conch shell on her head traipsed by, followed by a man wearing what can only be described as a 10 foot wide spider web on wheels. Then came a green and blue feathered costume so bright it looked like a tropical bird, and finally a man wrapped head to toe in white bedsheets and sunglasses carrying a crutch. There appeared to be no order to any of the costumes and had it not been for the steel pan drums and pumping reggae music the parade would've had the air of a Halloween dance. After the parade had passed Blake and I followed it into town for the street party. We found we were a definite minority, but the atmosphere was undoubtedly caribbean with jerk chicken stands in the main street and little children running around their parents. We caught some of the awards ceremony which was also slightly odd. In line with the educational policies on inclusion in Canada, everyone seemed to get an award. The best dancer, sexiest costume, loudest bands... you name it, they got a trophy! All in all it was an eye opener, but it was neat to see such a spectacle. I know Stephen Mandel would die before he let a sultry parade like this one march down Jasper Avenue, but hey, everyone can use a little oomph in their lives... and I think Blake thoroughly enjoyed himself but will take a while to get over that whiplash!