Paradise Lost

It was a really long flight, or several flights to be accurate. Yet, it will be worth it. I am getting on the final leg of my journey. The pilot has just walked into the terminal which is the size of my living room back home. He announced “It’s time to go now”. I joined the 11 others and boarded. I noted that there were no metal detectors, no seat assignments and optional use of seat belts if you happen to have one. 

The overheads were overflowing with parcels of various sizes and shapes. The aisles had a couple of chickens- alive, walking about pecking at the floor, as well as several bags of groceries. My luggage apparently made it to the baggage compartment below- I hope. The pilot climbed onto the wing and lifted the glass window on the pilot side. After climbing in we were off in a few minutes. The copilot was an elderly woman- perhaps about 100, with thick glasses. I suspect she was actually another passenger. For a moment, I ran through old TV movies where the passenger takes over if the pilot dies. Let’s see I pull back on the wheel to go up, push forward on the wheel to go down. It wouldn’t be that hard. 

In about 45 minutes, the island appeared before us. I think I have been watching too many cooking shows. The plate before me had various shades of deep green surrounded by an impossibly blue sauce. At the center of this delight was a tower of brown, grey and green with silver rivlets pouring out of a few unseen openings rushing downward to the sauce. There were also several small, long utensils sitting near the plate. We flew down to get a closer look and the pilot decided it was safe to land on a tiny strip at the edge of the plate. This is one dinner I won’t miss!

It was a short walk to the hut. So far, the Exotic Trip Advisor was right. The tiny island of Caymise is really remote. I am being escorted by Ahni herself- the proprietor of the only B and B in the village. I suspect the three children and a goat carrying my bag- all belong to Ahni. But later I learned, the word “belonged” does not exist here. Everything belongs to everybody- all 15 or so of the residents. 

I want to say we opened the door to the hut, but there was no door- on any structure in this tiny village. I accepted Ahni’s invitation as she pointed to the small bed near the window- or the opening I should say. It was surprisingly comfortable. I suspect I could pick my sleep number and adjust the bed with more banana leaves under the mattress if needed. 

My busy days consisted of moving with the sun, the wind and the tides. I joined in picking wild fruits, berries and root crops. There was no time, no locks, no emails, no Breaking News. Fishing, walking on the beach, body surfing and canoeing with the natives filled my days. I also followed children as they turned over leaves and rocks to find things. I climbed half way up the extinct volcano. It was spectacular. 

Every morning Ahni greeted me with a bowl of fruit and a cup of some kind of coffee grown only here. She also washed my clothes as needed, folding them carefully before putting them into my 1960 vintage suitcase. I had dug it out of the attic just for this trip. The nostalgia it evoked was incredible. There were travel stickers and airline tags from all over the world- bringing back memories of carefree travelling across Europe and parts of South America.  Those were happy escapes from the war and riots of that time. 

One day I spotted Ahni picking up a peace symbol hanging from a leather strap. It had apparently fallen out of my suitcase at some point. I had forgotten it was even there. I watched as she stared at it, gently stroked it and carefully put it into the bottom of the suitcase. I would be happy to have explained the symbol and the suitcase but I only knew a few words of Caymise so it would be impossible. I just smiled and nodded. She returned my smile and nod. She hurried off.

All good things must end. My fourteen day stay was coming to a close. I was much too soon boarding the tiny plane to begin the journey back. I decided I would leave the peace necklace on my pillow. It would be appreciated. There’s no point in having it sit in my suitcase for another 60 years.

Later at my home in the suburbs as I was about to head to bed, Wolf Blitzer came on with “Breaking News”. In between stories about murder rate increases, denge fever outbreaks and toilet paper shortages he stared into the camera and announced, “More Breaking News- We are sorry to report all 15 residents of a tiny island called Caymise were found murdered. The proprietor of the only B and B, Ahni, was found clutching a peace symbol. Researchers tell us that the so-called peace symbol is actually a sign of Satan for South Pacific tribes. The three prongs represent Satan’s pitchfork, plunging into the soul.”  Wolf went on to say apparently Ahni had to kill everyone and herself to save their souls. 

I sank into my chair, stunned as Wolf returned to the news, “Portions of the Gulf of Mexico remain on fire. Scientists say we shouldn’t worry. This is a cyclical event that happens every 17 years.” My mind is riveted on the peace necklace. Maybe the researchers were right. Maybe the peace symbol was Satanic- unleashed nearly 60 ago. After all, things have gone way down hill steadily since then. What have I done to this last tiny outpost of peace and harmony?