Friday, January 23, 2015

Governor’s Harbour, Eleuthera, The Bahamas

Friday Night Fish Fry

The Legend of John the Fisherman

After sunset every Friday night, our little Bahamian island of Eleuthera throws down for a rowdy street party on Cupid’s Cay: the Friday Night Fish Fry. The tiny plywood shack, which every other day of the week sits boarded up and padlocked, casts open its shutters, the heavy scent of fry grease and charcoal billows forth, and the street fills with wave after wave of folks out for the second most important social event of the week, next to Sunday worship services.

The orange sun sank behind the cerulean Caribbean Sea and turned what we had believed to be white sands to a rosy pink, as if to fulfill what had been written in the guidebooks. Styrofoam containers flew like gulls from the ocean-side window of the fish shack: this one full of sweet barbequed ribs and coleslaw, that one a whole fried fish with peas (beans) n’ rice, another with spicy jerk chicken and baked mac ‘n cheese. From the street-side window, cold bottles of Kalik lager and shots of rum were dealt out to the men while Rum Bubba, a sickeningly-sweet punch, was poured into plastic cups for the women and tourists.

They say the fish fry starts at seven o’clock, but most locals wouldn’t even think of coming out until after nine, so the initial surge of partygoers is ordinarily made up of tourists. Any locals who do venture out early mostly hang around the edges of the dock sipping cold Kalik and waiting for the tourists to get drunk enough to go home so the real party can start. Eleuthera is not a hot-bed of tourism, so the few travelers who do find their way to the island are often slightly more adventurous types hailing from Europe, the US, Canada, or Australia. That doesn’t mean, however, that they’re not super annoying when mixed with rum punch.

The tourists are usually interspersed with a few of the white natives, referred to locally as “Conchy Joes.” Conchy Joes have a long history in The Bahamas. Some are the descendants of European settlers and others of British loyalists who escaped to the islands after the American Revolution. Others are more recent immigrants. You can tell the Conchy Joes from the tourists by their sinewy muscles, their salty, leathery skin, and their easy, unhurried pace, as opposed to the plump-pinkish-burn tone of the scurrying visitors. Conchy Joes can also sometimes have a bit more hair than is convenient, made wiry and erratic by generations of seafaring life. And also by having nothing but conch shells to brush with. (That last part isn’t true.)

We made the honest mistake of showing up at seven for the fish fry and had to suffer through two hours of drunken tourists. It did give me the opportunity, though, to meet a lovely, if wobbly, young woman in a papaya-colored beach dress. I had noticed the woman earlier in the evening and already despised her for a number of reasons, including: 1) She was taller than me, and 2) She seemed to be traveling in the very large and very intoxicated group of women that was currently on the dancefloor, making a bad name for gringos everywhere. We on the other hand, were the embodiment of proper decorum.

As I was minding my own business, looking disdainfully upon the tourists from the edge of the dock and trying to make like a Conchy Joe, I noticed little Ms. Wobbly staring at me from the dancefloor. I averted my eyes, but not quickly enough. Ms. Wobbly stumbled toward me and, with words accented by flecks of spittle, she introduced herself as Wendy. Shrouded in a rum-scented cloud, Wobbly Wendy proceeded to provide long and cheery answers to all the questions I had not been asking. About where she was from and how long she’d been in the islands and where she had found her beach dress and how she absolutely loved the Rum Bubba.

I yawned, checked the invisible watch on my wrist, and glanced around in the hopes of finding something that might require my immediate action. A woman going into labor, maybe, or a shark attack.

Wobbly Wendy’s eyes followed my gaze seaward, and she went on with her monologue. This time she spoke dreamily and with no trace of her previous cheeriness. About how her little sister had died of leukemia. About how her older brother had taken his own life, shot himself in the head, after suffering for years from brain cancer. About how she and the other gringas on the dancefloor were here to celebrate her best friend—See, the one in pink?—who had just been diagnosed with breast cancer.

Wendy may as well have stabbed me in the heart with a stingray and twisted. I smiled empathetically and nodded as she went on with her saga. Then, to assuage my guilt for having been such a judgmental ass before even knowing her story, I confessed to Wendy that I had also been diagnosed with cancer two years ago, at the age of thirty-nine. That I had beat the disease and that I was sure her friend would do the same. Wendy placed her hands firmly on my shoulders, trying hard to maintain focus, and looked me in the eyes. She had some difficulty, initially, in deciding which set of eyes was mine, but after steadying herself she choose the set in the middle and narrowed her gaze.

“You listen ta me, girfrennn. Yer gonna beat this thhhhing!”

“Oh, no, you misunderstood me. I did beat it. I had surgery and the doctors say they got it all out. No worries.”

“Nooo, nooo, you hear me out! Yer tooodally gonna kick cancer’s ass. I juss know yer gonna.”

“Yes, yes, I already did. I beat it! The doctors say I’m cancer-free. Clean bill of health for over a year now. Yay!”

“Naw listen, you listen da me gadammit! One year from now, I’m onna see you right back here, right here at this friggin’ frish fry, and yer gonna be partyin’, you hear me? Cause yer gonna beat this thing. You juss mark my friggin’ words, sister! You hear me?”

“Wow. Thanks Wendy. That really means a lot to me.”

Wendy smiled and gave me a long, boozy embrace. Then she stumbled off with her bad-news brigade. I got in line for a rum punch.

“Re-PENT!” “Re-PENT!”

The lanky black prophet with wild eyes, even wilder dreadlocks, and a walking stick large enough to part the Caribbean stood beside the fish shack shouting his usual cautionary advice. He looked the part of an Old Testament prophet and was dressed in the same weathered tunic as yesterday and the day before. Both he and the tunic looked like they may have spent years adrift at sea. We had passed him several times as we traversed Eleuthera on its few roads, and each time he would shout the same word. Was it because we were outsiders? Or particularly sinful? Or did he just greet everyone in this same awkward manner?

“Re-PENT!” “Re-PENT!”

As the waning moon rose over the fish shack, most of the tourists began making their way home, careful to give Dreadlock Moses a wide berth as they beat their hasty retreat. The dock began to fill with locals of all ages. Young kids congregated at the edges, cellphones illuminating faces, seemingly unaware of each other or the party around them. Every so often they broke into spontaneous song when the DJ played a favorite tune, then, synchronized with the song’s last beat, snapped back to their screens. An old man who was missing several fingers on his right hand bounced to and fro on the dancefloor. I overheard a voice behind me saying that the man used to be one hell of a fisherman.

“Until duh accident. Nowaday, always he kerpunkle right up!”

I took this to mean that he’s a bit partial to the rum.

I took a seat with Jason at one of the picnic tables on the dock and sipped my punch. A young man in a flannel shirt eased onto the bench next to us, followed by his bubbly girlfriend. The man’s short dreads bounced playfully in front of his eyes, partially obscuring his face. When he smiled I recognized him as the round-faced young Patrick, side-kick of the illustrious John the Fisherman. John the Fisherman had made quite an impression on us earlier this week when we were in a bit of a culinary pickle, and he has since reached heroic status among our group of six traveling companions.

The legend of John the Fisherman probably has many versions, and the facts and themes may vary depending on the teller, but here is our piece of the story. After an entire day of hunting lobster off Ten Bay Beach we were heading home, exhausted, and with nothing but empty scuba tanks and a sorry runt of a specimen that looked more like a crawdad than a lobster. After any other failed day of fishing, we could have just thrown up our hands and headed to Tippy’s for some cracked (fried) conch. But not tonight. Tonight Jason had already invited two ladies from the neighboring village over to our home to teach him how to prepare a few traditional Bahamian dishes. The last item on the shopping list they had meticulously composed was lobster: lots of lobster. He couldn’t go home empty-handed.

Plan B: Jason pointed our rusty rental van toward the docks. Fishermen will sometimes unload their catch in the afternoons if they’ve caught more than they need for their families and for the local restaurants. No luck, the dock was empty.

Plan C: last-ditch effort. Jason pulled into the little grocery store in town, though we all knew full-well that they rarely had anything other than a paltry selection of wilted produce shipped in from parts unknown since so little is grown on the island these days. The only seafood they ever stocked was the frozen tilapia filets in the deep-freeze out back. Even so it was worth a shot.

The front door was locked. Jason checked his watch. Dammit, it was 6:01.

We’ve learned the hard way that shop owners on Eleuthera are very serious about their store hours. At least about their closing times. On a previous night, we had pulled up just a few minutes late at the liquor store next door, and the liquor lady was already ruthlessly ushering the drunks out of her shop. She followed them onto the street and closed the front door behind herself. We approached her with wallets and puppy-dog eyes, but she seemed to be unmoved by the fact that we were at serious risk of not having enough rum for our evening cocktails. She pursed her lips and shook her head from side to side as she yanked on the door and turned the key.

We just couldn’t bear the same rejection tonight. I shaded my eyes and peered in the locked door of the grocery store. I could see the grocer’s large frame, which somehow seemed familiar, slowly circling the store flipping off lights. I knocked quietly, apologetically. The grocer stopped, then lumbered toward us. As he approached, I immediately recognized him as the preacher from Restoration Baptist Church down the street. As luck would have it, last Sunday morning, after shopping around a bit to find the liveliest service in town, we had settled on Restoration Baptist. We had then spent the next two-and-a-half-hours with this man, singing and shouting along with his enthusiastic congregation. He just had to recognize us! And, if worshipers got any special treatment around here, maybe he’d let us in. I waved at him excitedly, and I could see that he recognized me too. He pulled a keychain out of his pocket and began to open the door. Amen!

The blessings that the preacher had poured upon us from his extremely loud microphone at last Sunday’s worship service began to ring in my ears again. He had started by compelling us to stand up and introduce ourselves and then insisting that the parishioners come up and introduce themselves to us in person, one-by-one. This process took some time, but the preacher kept it moving with animated encouragement from the pulpit:

“Aw yes, Jesus, he gon bless you for comin’ to this service! He gon bless you for choosin’ Restoration Baptist Church.”

James Brown backed him up on keyboard, and I think it was Max Roach on the drums.

“Jesus gon bless you families. Jesus gon bless you friends. And he gon bless you loved ones, too. Everybody say Amen!”

“AMEN!”

“Jesus, he gon bless you, I say. He gon bless you real good! Everybody say Hallelujah.”

“HALLELUJAH!”

The preacher swung wide the door and welcomed us into his shop. In typical Bahamian fashion, we spent the better part of ten minutes exchanging pleasantries and talking about our families. He shared photos of his two sons who had both died of “blood cancer” before the age of thirty. But when we finally got down to business, alas, there was no lobster. He pointed us up the road, toward the house of a spear-fisherman he referred to as John the Fisherman. Before sending us on our way, he shared a story he had heard recently from a parishioner involving John the Fisherman in hand-to-tentacle combat with giant octopus.

“If anyone round here bound to have extra catch, it’s John.”

We pulled up in front of the small green cinderblock house just as a white pickup rolled into the drive from the other direction. The young, round-faced man who I now know as Patrick eased out of the passenger seat and smiled, looking our way, but shyly averting his eyes.

“You lookin’ fo fish?”

The six of us nodded excitedly.

“Well, we got some.”

A shirtless man got out of the driver’s seat. He was stunning to behold: a long black beard and dreadlocks, the tips of which had been bleached by the sun, leather sandals, black swimming trunks, and a chest and arms that had been chiseled by a lifetime of swimming. As the women in our group slobbered on themselves, John the Fisherman introduced himself to the men and accepted a cold beer. He unloaded a long fishing spear and snorkeling mask from the bed of his truck, then proceeded to lob dozens of the largest grouper we had ever seen onto a long, metal table, along with lobsters the size of small dogs.

Jason chose the largest of the lobsters for our feast. While John weighed and prepared the immense creature, Patrick relayed the story of how John had wrassled with a shark for that one. Apparently, after spearing the lobster John had been approached by a reef shark hell-bent on stealing it from him.

“Dat shark, he gone home hungry today.”

“Re-PENT!” “Re-PENT!”

I took a long sip of my Rum Bubba and began to relate to Patrick all the ways we had since been enjoying John the Fisherman’s lobster, which had proved to be far more than we needed for that evening’s feast: lobster with butter and garlic, lobster salad, lobster ceviche, lobster omelets, lobster fritters, lobster soup… What I didn’t tell Patrick was how, with each new lobster meal, the legend of John the Fisherman had become increasingly more fantastical around our dinner table. With each new rendition of the tale told by our men, John’s catch had grown ever larger, while in the women’s tales he had become even more statuesque. I didn’t tell Patrick that John the Fisherman had reached demi-god status in the house of the six gringos. Even so, before leading his girlfriend onto the dancefloor, Patrick declared with some pride that John the Fisherman was his cousin.

“Re-PENT!” “Re-PENT!”

On the street across from the fish fry, the well-dressed ladies from the Cancer Society had set up their tables and were beginning to hand out brochures and mini-magnets to anyone willing to listen. A poster pinned to their booth claimed that the biggest killer of men on Eleuthera is prostate cancer and that breast cancer is on the rise among women. I couldn’t imagine why anyone in their right mind would join a Cancer Society, but since I’m always on the lookout for new mini-magnets I strolled over and asked the ladies why cancer is so prevalent on the island. A slender woman who introduced herself as Susan cited three main reasons: (1) Poor water quality—apparently every time another hurricane blows through it mixes everything up on the island. (2) Intermarrying—it’s a small island, Susan explained, and there are only so many boats. (3) Lack of fruits and vegetables in the Bahamian diet—come to think of it, I hadn’t seen anything green on my plate since we arrived, with the exception of lobster guts.

In fact, if the selection on the entire island is anything like that at Preacher’s Produce, I can see why people don’t eat their vegetables. I recently heard that farmers on Eleuthera, which used to be renowned for pineapples, are hard-pressed to grow even enough fruit for their annual pineapple festival. Rum, on the other hand, rum is something that The Bahamas are still producing in abundance. And as a result, rum is relatively cheap on the islands compared to the cost of fruits and vegetables.

Rum has food value. Food has no rum value.

Susan went on to say that, in years past, when each family had its own garden and everyone was either a famer or a fisherman, disease had not been so prevalent. She pointed to the address on my mini-magnet and invited me to come check out their site. Out back she and the other Cancer Society ladies had started an educational garden and were trying to teach islanders how to grow greens. And to get them to eat fancy things. Like arugula.

“Re-PENT!” “Re-PE…”

Dreadlock Moses unexpectedly cut short his warning and sank into the shadow of the fish shack in befuddled silence. I turned to see the silhouette of a large man ascending the stairs onto the dock. His sun-tipped dreads swayed in the moonlight, and he held a slender young woman by the hand. The crowd parted to admit the couple, and from their admiring glances it was evident that this man’s legend was not confined to our dining-room table.

As the couple began to sway to the voice of Whitney Houston, conversations resumed around the perimeter of the deck. Teenagers returned to their cellphones. The old fingerless fisherman resumed his bouncing. I took a sip from my plastic cup and glanced skyward to see that the moon had fully risen overhead. Moonlight flooded the harbor illuminating the fishing boats in its pale glow.