“Caribbean Vacation.” (not starring Chevy Chase) Part 9

The six men in drab green fatigues suddenly converged upon us, seemingly materializing from behind every side of the plane. Tortola men are large, sinewy and rock-solid with luminous dark skin (of the espresso variety; no cream). They move deliberately in unhurried strides that telegraph the kind of alarm like encountering a stalking panther. All the passengers, including the leashed goat and crated chickens, were huddled closely, cowering together in the shadow under the left wing of the plane. The abrupt spectacle of the men rushing towards us pulling and aiming thick, black rubber water hoses in our direction delivered concurrent fear across our mass of soiled and acrid bodies that were affixed to the steamy asphalt. The men halted simultaneously, quickly gauged the distance to their target and then sneered while adjusting their two-handed grip on the chunky hoses. That’s when they turned the release lever at the top of the rusty metal spout. Water surged out and hit us right in the….

That’s the scene that I imagined was awaiting us after the flight attendant had just directed us to quickly exit through the front cabin door, down the portable stairway and proceed immediately to beneath the wing; and wait there.

“Brian, please explain what’s going on,” Valerie said apprehensively while gathering up her carryon and handbag.

I had already considered and dismissed my previous image of being hosed down with disease sterilizer and insecticides; sort of like a tropical flea & tick dip. This concern had been triggered by the fact that when we had finally touched down on our island paradise, I had eagerly scanned the perimeter to locate the flower adorned and colorfully painted terminal with the “Welcome to Tortola” sign above the doorway to our air-conditioned baggage claim area. All I saw were dilapidated shanty huts and concrete, glassless windowed structures with randomly tossed sheets of corrugated tin for roofing.
I applied my “island way” decoding mantra to the puzzle, which led to me to surmise, “It must be that they’re sending the air-conditioned shuttle bus over here to drive us to the terminal that’s located further down the runway.”

It must have made sense to Valerie because she didn’t respond; that’s until we reached the shaded patch under the wing and stood perspiring (one of us was sweating beyond saturation) for about fifteen minutes with the other passengers and our new barnyard friends. I had been drier in the shower.

Let me assure you that the combination of 1) stepping into the shock of 90+-degree tropical heat, 2) two hours and forty-seven minutes of balmy airports and air vents, 3) twenty-two locals returning home from an outdoor agricultural festival with their drooling and cackling raffle prizes and 4) the promise of impending sterilization is a foolproof remedy for any hangover. We were both stone cold boiled sober. Forget the fact that our once Vanity Fair styled outfits now looked more like the native farm attire and that there was sense of impending capture and being held in compact quarters remarkably similar to Alec Guinness’ tin “sweat hut” in The Bridge on the River Kwai.


There was no way this could possibly get any worse. About a minute later a large, circa 50’s maroon-colored truck with an open rear bed with side benches and splintered plank side rails pulled up in front and lengthwise along the wing.

“Plees stap up kafully into da truck. We will take you to da bogguge clam and costoms arraya.”

I was wrong, again. It could get worse.
And it did.

For emphasis.
(b)