August 7, 2008 Issue

Time passes slowly in the Bahamas.

Twenty-five years ago, when we first vacationed on Guana Cay in the Abacos, there was no electricity, there were no telephones, and there was no television. All of that has changed quickly, but much has remained the same.

The temperate climate makes it possible for a wide variety of fruit and citrus trees to flourish. There are grapefruit, key lime, lemon and a variety of orange trees. There are also banana, plantain, coco plum, tamarind, sugar apple, guava, avocado, papaya, coconut, sapodilly, and numerous types of mango trees.

The islands are lit up with the flowers of hibiscus, lumbagos, alamander, poinciana, and bougainvilleas.

The Bahamians have just about perfected picnics. But you’d better have some stamina if you want to join them. The picnics are always on Sunday and they last all day. Everyone brings food. Lots of food. Ribs, chicken souse, johnnycakes, conch salad, conch chowder, and cracked conch, whole fried yellowtail snapper, broiled lobster, macaroni, pigeon peas and rice, and rum cake.

There is a picnic spot between Scotland Cay and Guana that is similar to Destin’s Crab Island, without the people. The water varies in depth and in color. Every hue of blue that exists can be found. It is private, and it may be the one place in the world where a man can relax on an inflatable plastic raft and not feel self-conscious. I wouldn’t know.

The Bahamians depend on their government for very few things. They have been self sufficient out of necessity for so long that the government is almost of no factor. In terms of daily life, Bahamians have been used to growing or catching their own food for 200 years now. Also, they can still fix things.

For many years there was no Bruce Ming to call when your outboard motor broke down. You fixed it yourself, or you walked, swam or sailed. It might have taken a week, but when the week passed you were a fairly skilled outboard mechanic.

Freight deliveries have gotten better. Charles Sands, the most intelligent man I know, builds houses, rents golf carts, makes and sells fresh water, and fixes anything on the island. He owns the islands’ two freight boats. The food delivery to Mr. Bethel’s Guana Harbour Grocery has been on every Thursday for years now.

Crime in Guana Cay is almost unheard of. This is good considering that there is no police force. The few disputes generally arise amongst Americans who have enjoyed too many rum drinks. A favorite pastime is to sit along the settlement harbor and watch the day visitors--usually fueled by rum--try to deal with their boats that went aground on low tide while they were drinking at Nippers, the local beach bar.

In the settlement, Milo Pinder operates a little fruit and shell stand. He dispenses advice along with the coconuts. One lazy afternoon I sat in the shade of his stand and we had a heated discussion on a rather benign topic. For a solid hour we argued about the merits of coconut ice cream.

“Just because I see your mouth moving don’t mean nothing,” Milo said. “You’ll say anything.”

“Well, maybe,” I replied. “But we’re talking about ice cream, Milo, not philosophy or politics. One of our restaurants makes coconut ice cream. When you toast the grated coconut it causes the sugar in the coconut meat to caramelize. It gets sweeter and crunchier. It adds a nice golden color to the ice cream. And I’m telling you, it tastes good. I know this from experience.”

“Some people will say anything,” said Milo.

Just then the only jeep on the island moved slowly along Front Street.

“Hey Milo,” I said. “That lady right there, in the passenger seat. That’s Cher.”

“What do you mean when you say Cher?” Milo asked.

“You know,” I said. “Like Sonny and Cher. That was Cher.”

“Oh well,” he said, with a shrug. “Who cares?”

I couldn’t argue with that.

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