Past beach aerobics, reddening sunbathers, and waiters with trays of eye-openers, the all-inclusive hotel universe just ... ended. Raked sand gave way to fronds and flotsam. Intrigued, I climbed over the pier, picked my way round twisted trees, and looked up to a different world.
Rows of lean-to shacks—their shelves bowing under displays of driftwood carvings, polished shells, t-shirts, and other souvenirs—formed a kind of beach village. Shirtless men stood talking, stringing bracelets, or smoking while others readied lobster traps; a few women ate together; children chased soccer balls. I bent down to pet a wet white dog that wagged over to greet me.
“Dat is Xena, da Warrior Fisher Dog. She catches tirty feesh a day.” Walking over, a young man boasted that her pups had been taken by a tourist back to America—as if every island dog dreamed of the honor. Jokingly, I threatened to snatch Xena too.
“You steal dat dog, you break ev-er-ee-bodee’s heart on dis beach.”
“I would never do that,” I said as I tried to keep a straight face.
Four other beach vendors—all cousins—offered me a drink. Pleased when I accepted, they motioned to an empty shack (“Rasta-Mon not work-en’ today”) and showed me to a tree-stump seat as they stood.
Eager to talk without haggling, they spoke of their lives. They long for computers and "da Intanet." Most have never left St. James Parrish. They don’t like kissing. They are confused about tourists: those who venture to the Other Side of the Beach buy trinkets but often are rude. Many in the group had no running water, but they did not complain.
During the course of that week, the men always had time to chat, even though I had no money to buy their wares. What became a kind of friendship made my trip—and truly defines Going Somewhere. I told them I envied their lives, content with friends on a beach. They laughed. “Who are the real rich ones?” I thought. And now, looking at the beaded bracelet they gave me, I still don’t have an answer.
