Good Day!

'Good day ladies' called an elderly man as we passed him on the sidewalk. 'Good day' we called after him.

After a long hard morning of street-partying under our boss's watchful eye, Ly (my fellow intern partner) and I decided to stroll - for the very first time - around our neighbourhood on our own. We could hardly contain our rattling nerves as we sheepishly headed out. This was important. How important? I would equate it to something like meeting your in-laws for the first time. You are happy, nervous and worried all at the same time. You want to laugh on cue, say the right things without sounding vain and convince them that you deserve their love.

Off we went, burbling with anticipation of romantic ideals about what our internship experience was going to be. La, la la la la!

Cough. Hack. Gag. Reality check.

We live in a poor and stigmatized neighbourhood complete with abandoned houses, garbage strewn streets, rooster patrolled sidewalks and the moans and groans of lonely, hungry dogs.

No where else on the island is there a more open window into the struggles of the Kittitian economy. Poverty, crime and violence have left their traces for each of our senses to follow:

The smell of illegal drugs envelopes the hot humid air.
The sight of tattered and abandoned homes and garbage reveal hopeless disarray.
The touch of heavy padlocks on doors and metal rods on windows hint at the potential threat outdoors.
The barking of guard dogs and the occasional rat tat tat of gun fire pierce the insect filled night.
The taste of strong, sometimes brown, bleach scented tap water fills my tea cup.

But wait. Beyond its uninviting aesthetic, our neighborhood is
unapologetically.
honest.

Look beyond the landscape. Look long enough beyond the suspicious, stoic glare in the eyes of the locals and often, a warm hearted, youthful energy will pour out in words and gestures. Not always, but often.

We walked about 4 blocks before coming to an old mango tree with branches out-stretched and hanging from the weight of its juicy offerings. Conveniently, this tree was also outfitted with a bench --- a clue that this was a spot to congregate (or as we say in St Kitts, lime). Picture this, two stupid foreign girls trying to pick mangoes. Jumping to reach even the lowest hanging branches and missing the grab each time. We were doing it all wrong!! The better mangoes were on the OTHER side of the tree!! An onlooker watched, then began playfully scolding us, as you would a familiar friend, or a small child.

We smiled ignorantly and the stranger, hands on hips, let out a quiet laugh. He called for us to wait. In less than 4 calculated movements he appeared with 3 ripe mangoes in his hands. The first offering had been made. Ly and I were happy to have received the help and wondered if we had made our very first friend.

We would soon learn, through our many encounters, that this type unsolicited help is one of the many jewels of the Kittitian crown.

Far from the cold glances of my neighbours in suburban Toronto, the customs and traditions of the old world (holding doors, greeting strangers, and taking the time to say hello) are alive and well in this part of the world.

I am beginning to feel familiarity with these practices. Something tells me that my cultural compass, rooted in my Afghan upbringing, will help me navigate Kittitian culture. If only the Kittitians would drink more tea.

We return from our mango picking excursion just a few blocks from our apartment to the neighbourhood convenience store. It's a small store that looks more like someones home than a store. Outside, there are 2 noticeably drunk men, 2 chatting women and little Jatania, the Butterfly Princess. We greet them and go inside as little Jatania circles us. Inside we find canned foods, instant noodles, a small assortment of chocolates, jelly candies and drinks. We look for an excuse to stay a while and chat. We buy a handful of melted and refrigerated, old looking (and old tasting) chocolates. The store owners name is Yvette and the woman outside, Jatania's mother.

As we continued talking with the women, the men slowly took an interest in the two new girls. The man who approached Ly aggressively asked for money. I was approached by the mildly mannered man who was quickly shooed away by Yvette. The mild man was curious: he touched my hair.

Finishing our hello's and my-name-is speeches, we stepped out of the store. However, the aggressive man of the two became louder in his demand for $2. Encouraged by the women, we were told to ignore the old drunk beggar. We complied. After all, we were new to the neighbourhood and did not want to contribute to what could become a habit for the man.

With our backs turned, we began walking away from the store. The man's voice rose and he screamed "Fuck you! Fuck you! Get out of here! Leave!" My ears tuned into the expletives and against my better judgement, I turned around to see what was going on. The man, now seated, twisted his mouth and out flew a swath of saliva landing near my feet, just missing my clothes. Frustrated, and feeling confident, ( I had just watched the local women effortlessly shoo the drunks away) I shouted a challenging "EH!" at the man.

Wrong move, stupid.

The man who initially seemed drunk enough to fall over, rose to his feet and stood like a tall tree, except now he was angry. The previously slurred "Fuck You's" became stronger, more pronounced and the look in his eyes went from a drunken daze to an exact alertness. He began approaching us. I looked at Ly and we both knew we should get out of there.

He's closing in,
faster and faster,
we approach the corner,
I break into a run...

If he is a potential threat, he can not know that we live just steps away! Body shaking from the rush, I scrambled for our second floor apartment keys. Out of sight now, we hoped that he would turn back. We could hear him shouting angrily. He was right below our balcony.

Turn the key. Lock the gate. Go inside. Lock the door and wait.

What followed were ramblings of worry: What just happened? Did he live in the neighbourhood? Would we see him again? Should we have just given him the $2? Was the drama worth it? What did the others at the store think? Would they have come to our rescue?

Night turned to morning. Morning came and went. Days have come and gone and we have, since then, seen the man on the street. He lives in our neighbourhood and is commonly referred to as 'crazy' (and what does this mean --- really? More on this later). He appears to be in his mid-50's, is always wearing the same brown colored torn pants and dirty sleeveless cotton shirt. He stands a few inches above 6 feet and his complexion is a caramel color. His face (the quick glances I've stolen from it) show hints of a handsome youth.

What was the meaning of this experience, you ask?

A gentle reminder that my naive rose-tinted expectations about the land of sun, sea and sex are just that: my imagination.