“Caribbean Vacation” (not starring Chevy Chase) Part 7

Do you remember the Wizard of Oz gang chanting, “Lions, tigers and bears, oh my. Lions, tigers and bears, oh my”? Well, on our trek to D46 the forest trail to Tortola was about to get darker and even scarier…and with animals.

By the time we had D46 in sight, we had traversed across a minefield of construction zones. We’d dodged all sorts of skeletal metallic structures, hovering dust particles, various unnamed projectiles along with many other tepid travelers and workers. The sweat had now formed a shape resembling a shamrock on the front of my white linen shirt, now distinctly adhered to my skin. Valerie, normally dry, must have been experiencing sympathy perspiration, as there were a few beads of sweat gathered on her brow. We hadn’t talked much on the hike. But with D46 in sight in the distance we finally looked at each other. An uneven smile creased my lips and I exhaled, “We can do this, it’s the island way.”

Anticipating our shiny commuter jet, continued first class treatment and cool streams of air conditioning while soaring amidst the clouds lifted my dampened mood. My euphoria lasted all of about 30 seconds. The first hint that all was not right was the scene awaiting us in the waiting area. Instead of like-styled island vacationers milling around in jovial anticipation, the seats were occupied with unmoving, dark-skinned people in worn, plain attire and their…pets? Two goats on fraying rope leashes and a small wire crate with three chickens. I looked back over my left shoulder to verify we were at the correct gate (yes) re-scanned the scene (all images creeping now in slow motion), and after considering playing a round of “Name That Odor” I glanced out the windows. In place of our pristine jet airliner was a miniature twin-engine prop plane.

I blinked twice. I unhurriedly brushed my forefinger across my right eyebrow to flick away a few sweat beads and considered the situation:
• No luxury jet.
• No first class pampering.
• No stylish vacation mates.
• More heat.
• More sweat.
• Barnyard friends.
• It’s the island way?
I didn’t even wait for her to comment.

“Hey, you know that Tortola is a small, remote island in the British West Indies. This is really cool; the blending of real island people and the exotic.”

I pulled free the soaked left sleeve of my linen shirt that had affixed itself to my upper arm and shoulder.

“We can do this. It’s the island way.”

Valerie feigned a meager smile.

We only had to wait about 10 minutes when there was an announcement (actually, it was more like shouting from the uniformed gate agent) with resulting movement, including clucking and bleating, around us. As we moved toward the opening in the glass door with our small herd of friends, I had a flash of Noah entering his very intimate and unsanitary accommodations for an undisclosed period of time. We climbed the rolling stairway and then “ducked” into the rear door of the plane, where my premonition was confirmed. In lieu of our previous greeting by handsome and gentile flight attendants, we were greeted by wild-eyed drooling goats and frantic chickens emitting a cacophony of sounds and aromas from their stall just inside the narrow entryway. It crossed my mind that the native Tortolans must have been an under-nourished people, as the cabin was slightly wider than a bathroom stall and slightly higher than my daughter’s Barbie Dream Castle. In this instance my now sweat saturated clothing became an advantage, as in the terrifying likelihood that I might become wedged between other passengers and the two seats per row on either side of the “tube,” I would simply slide through; like the effect you get when ejecting a slimy pea out of a steamed peapod.

We slithered our way to the second row from the front on the left side and settled into our taupe leather seats. Valerie took the window seat, molding herself into the curved area to avoid any body contact with me as I tried to adjust my 6 foot/2 inch bulk into my miniature seat. My butt hadn’t even touched the surface when I saw and reached up to adjust the air conditioner vent. The good news: it was blowing hard. The bad news: it felt like the warm breath of a German Shepherd.

As I listened to the propellers’ whine and felt the plane tremble before its ensuing movement away from the gate I felt a new bead of moisture tumble down the crease between my upper lip and right nostril. It was more sweat…or was it a tear. I moved my eyes (without turning my head) to see Valerie, chin in hand looking out the window. I returned my gaze to the front.

Engines whining.
Plane trembling.
Goats bleating.
Chickens clucking.

I thought quietly to myself, “We can do this. It’s island way.” This was immediately followed by, “Shit, what have I done?”

For emphasis – (b)