Up again before anyone else, I repeat yesterday’s ritual of dipping in the tidepool and taking a walk on the beach. Everything else about the day seems identical to yesterday, except Saerah goes to work and I head in to Christainsted. I want to see how far I can make it taking the coastline in…and have no idea where that may lead me. For a while, everything is easy, just strolling on the beach…the terrain gets a little more interesting after I have to cross the first creek. There are several abandoned cars on the otherside, which I can’t see until right up on them…rusted, vandalized…left for dead. Interesting. I keep going…having to scale and walk on short retaining walls at times, step over some ‘warning – do not cross’ yellow tape, but mostly just on the beach. Then I come to where I figure might be the end of the road…a huge piece of abandoned machinery…I think it is anyway…jetting out from the jungle to about 30 feet into the water. Eyes fixated on this awesome rusted pile of iron, I don’t see the older woman sitting down at my right, until I smell cigarette smoke and turn to look. Here sits a woman in her late 60′s or 70′s, sitting on a board wedged between two trees, cigarette in hand and walking cane leaning against the board.  There is no reason anyone should be here…there is nothing except this rust-piece around (never mind the fact that I am there) I am a little startled, yet still manage the customary ‘good afternoon’. After asking the woman if this part of the beach is passable, she tells me in a strong Crucian accent, “you muss be cayful…dis ahr-ea be condemned…you ken walk, but be cayful!”  Sweet, it’s passable!  Thanking the lady and moving into the jungle to get around the old machinery, I hear one more time at my back, “you muss be cayful!” Except for having to cut right through the backyard of St. Croix’s projects at the end of the walk, the rest of the adventure stroll was smooth going. Reaching the boardwalk after a surprisingly short 45 minute stroll, I order a beer at Angry Nate’s and wait for the Captain to show up. After beer number two and a stroll down the boardwalk, I finally find him to chat about the sailing trip. He tells me he will be leaving Friday at midnight for a night sail. Hmmmm…not sure how I feel about that. Then I let him know I don’t have my passport with me. Another problem. The offer still stands, but I am less motivated. Pulling an all-nighter is certainly not my forte, especially if I’m supposed to be crewing a boat. A little disappointed, I head back to Hibiscus beach, the same way I came. Feeling lazy and unmotivated, I spend the early evening deep in thought…then retire early, asleep before Saerah comes back from work.

Joe starts up his Jeep…it is early, but I’m not sure how early until fumbling around I find my phone and see that it’s 5:30. Trying unsuccessfully to get any more real sleep I figure it’s about time I get clean, clean from a day of tropical greasy sweat, 15 hours of airplane and airport travel…and scrub this blue spray paint off my feet. Aaaaahhhh, such a satisfying shower, albeit a little strange how the water pressure pulsates a little…I wonder if it is from being pumped out of the rainwater cistern. Making my way back to the patio upstairs, I pause to reflect on the fact that I am in the Caribbean! The view is once again, breathtaking…there are no noises except for chattering birds, and I sit peacefully enjoying the scenic splendor of the islands and cays in front of me. When I can’t take anymore mosquito bites I pack my bag with Joe’s hand drawn map and start hiking up the jungle roads, en route to nowhere in particular. It’s about a third of a mile uphill until I reach the dilapidated twin pillars marking the entrance to Estate Harmony (estate meaning ‘neighborhood’). Walking on the side of the road is a bit precarious, especially on curves. Every few feet I hear lizards and iguanas scurrying back into the jungle as I pass them. I pass a few homes that were never rebuilt after hurricane Marilyn’s class 5 terror a few years ago. I pass the Dominican whorehouse Joe pointed out last night on our drive back. I pass churches, mansions, shacks, a couple make-shift restaurants, and come to a roadside produce stand, most of which is local. Half of the stuff on that table is completely foreign to me. I recognize bananas, ginger, tomatoes and onions…and plantains; the rest looks like it was pulled off an alien ship. A few bananas should do me some good, and I am on my way again. Pretty much lost, I see signs for Koki beach, and feeling like a nice dip, head down the side street to check it out. Houses get sketchier…broken down boats, shady looking characters…not as concerned as I probably should be…keep on strollin’. I make it to what I think is Koki beach (later to find out it isn’t) and stop to rest, not taking a dip. The air in this harbor smells like rotting seaweed, and plenty of it is piled up in heaps between me and the water. No worries, the view is still amazing, with a nice breeze to cool me off. Dousing on layer 2 of sunscreen, I wander off headed east, still completely lost…but the island is only 13 miles long and 3 miles wide…how lost can I really get? Finding the main road after not too much wandering, I chance upon a coffee shop next to a storage unit. One of my goals today is to find an internet cafe, so I pop to see if they do, just in case. Not hopeful as I enter, since half of the coffee shop is lined with poker machines, I ask anyway. To my surprise, they do! I need to order something to feel better about the arrangement, and finding a couple reach-in coolers to my right…pull out a Guinness. Inquiring as to where exactly I am, both ladies behind the counter are surprised to find out I walked here from Estate Harmony…in fact their jaws dropped. I guess people don’t walk here much, but then again when you have a dollar safari bus, why walk? Finding out Lindquist beach is only a 10 min walk away, I head there after finishing my computer business, with the remainder of my Guinness in hand…you see, there is no open-container law here. You can walk around with a bottle of booze…drive around drinking a beer, and it’s all legal! In fact I heard that a guy was pulled over and ticketed, not because he was drinking a dark n’ diet (rum and diet coke), but because he didn’t have a straw and handling the cup was distracting his car maneuvering. Lindquist beach is GORGEOUS! It’s one of those beaches you see in idealized screen savers or post-cards, myriad blue hues to the water, crystal white beach transitioning into a coral reef, and palm trees with other tropical plants. And of course, lets not forget the random wild chickens walking around (you never see those on the post-cards). Slathering on sunscreen layer number 3, I hit the water…this is paradise. The lifeguard on the beach today is a guy originally from New Jersey named Jared. If it wasn’t for his lack of Caribbean accent, I would totally think he was a native. We sit and talk for awhile, about his photography business, travel plans, life guarding, my plans to open up a clinic…etc. Really cool guy, someone I could be friends with if I move to St. Thomas. We spend the last 10-15 minutes of our conversation making fun of a kite boarder who got his gear wrapped up on a shoreline tree, and then I head out to Red Hook, on the eastern part of the island. En route, I am startled by a 3 foot iguana that falls out of a tree branch right beside me…damn near on me! That’s a first. Finally making it to Red Hook, I stop at a bar/restaurant for some lunch…the bananas aren’t cuttin’ it now. One thing I am noticing is how friggin’ expensive food is here! More expensive than L.A. food by far! Granted it’s touristy here, but a lot of food has to be imported, and the cost of electricity is 4 times the national average…so businesses like bars and restaurants really get screwed. I heard that some of these bigger bars have an electric bill upwards of 10 grand a month, which sometimes is enough to put them out of business. I keep walking, not sure why, but I do…guess I just want to see more of the island by foot. Seeing a sign for a marina, I head off the main highway. Half-mile later down-hill a windy gravel road I come to the mangrove docks, and stumble past a chiropractors office…random place for a chiropractor I think to myself. T’wud be great to chat with this DC to see what the market is like here…but there’s an ‘away’ sign on the door. However, brochures are available outside the door, so I go ahead and take one, then keep walking. A beautiful, elegant woman passes by me, and then two seconds later I open the last fold in the flier and see the picture of the chiropractor…it’s her! I laugh to myself. After walking around some more I decide to head back, and come to her office again…should I go in and talk to her, as disheveled as I am…sunburned, greasy from sunscreen, sweaty tank-top with board shorts with a 2-week scruff, big-ass tattoo…and probably smelling like rotting driftwood…ahhh what the hell! I open the door and there are now 3 beautiful women right inside…all eyes on me. Their eyes are intently focused on me, and I’m feelin’ kinda self-conscious. Trying not to let that come out in my voice, and failing, introduce myself and carry on a short conversation with the doctor, but really to the whole group of three. The initial intensity of what I felt was staring gave way to more smiles, and I’m pretty sure my candor is making up for my appearance! Walking away, I feel good about having gone in. I’m worn out…must’ve walked 7 or 8 miles on this ninety degree day in high humidity…I’m ready to chill out now. As I head back up the gravel road, Pete, a guy in a white pickup with a couple people riding in back pulls up and asks if I want a ride. Hell yeah I do! After dropping off the other 2 in back, Pete winds up taking me all the way to Estate Harmony’s entrance, for which I am most grateful…and I’m even more grateful to have made it there in one piece with his crazy ass driving! Once on the way back he explained how some drivers here swerve into the opposing lane in front of traffic, and how annoying it was…then he feels he has to show me in addition and pulls right into oncoming traffic, pulling out just in time to avoid an accident! Whatever was in my hands, I was white-knuckling it! I beat Joe home by an hour, and take a nice shower. We meet up with some more of his friends at Jack’s, one of the many pirate-themed bar/restaurants on the island. Joe is friends with Steve, the owner. There is a cover band here tonight…pretty versatile with their selections. I don’t eat, because food is fastly draining my already tight budget…I had a late lunch anyway though, so I suck it up. Once again as we drive back, the cacophony of jungle noises greet us with their evening serenade.

The 757 approaches the runway, which is practically at water level…from our perspectives it looks like the plane is going to hit water…awesome. Pre-buying my tickets to St. Croix at the terminal (which services 6 airlines…3 of them local island hoppers) is a painless process, but costs more than I anticipated…too bad the ferry is out of service.  I finally figure out how the taxi service works…several 12 passenger vans lined up, and you wait until they have the van filled before you go…but what’s the rush, we are all on vacation…and it’s ‘the islands’ where NOBODY is in a rush to do ANYTHING. I’ve been told this over and over, but have gotten so used to urban L.A. where EVERYONE is in a hurry to do SOMETHING…this is tripping me out a little. Edmund, our driver, is not a very jovial fellow and drives like a maniac with complete nonchalance.  I am soon to find out this is how most St. Thomasians drive.  Although his service is shitty, I still plan on giving him a tip…until he tries to swindle me on the price, which is a preset fare.  I give him what I was quoted…he tries to squeeze more out of me…this is not how I roll…anyone who knows me knows I am not a negotiator…give me a price, I will pay the price or I will walk away.  Whatever…I am now here at Palm Passage where Joe, my couch-surfing host, works.  After texting him of my arrival I take a good look around, absorbing the humid salty air, a couple random crack-heads mumbling jibberish at me as they walk by, random families of wild chickens strolling through the parking lot (similar to pidgeons in the states), and the unique energy offered in ‘town’, as this part of the island is called.  Joe comes down from his office in a few minutes, I throw my bags in his car, and we agree to meet up in a couple hours at an island bar by his office after he gets off work. I start strolling the streets and alleys (called ‘passages’) of the main shopping district, all of which are littered with shops, full on businesses and cubby-holes carved out of seemingly nowhere, offering whatever wares you can imagine, but specializing in jewelry of any and every kind.  If you want jewelry, go to St. Thomas! No joke. Loving the historic danish architecture, I wander alley to alley, street to street, and before long find myself heading north, out of the shopping district and into a residential area.  What I don’t realize is that I am heading smack dab into the middle of St. Thomas’ ghetto.  So here comes whitey tourist in flowing linen pants and Raybans down a street with locals hanging out in shady porches,  street corners,  or at little vendor stands…giving me staredowns as if to say “wha da fahk yu doin ere mon”.  Four blocks in, I turn around, and head towards the old fort.  After more strolling I make my way into an antique shop specializing in 17th & 18th century pirate/naval goods.  This shop gives me a boner, no lie.  I can’t stop staring at the 250 year-old pirate flintlock blunderbuss…priced at a modest 4 grand, it is absolutely beautiful.

I get to the island bar a little early, and order some Blackbeard Ale, which ironically, is made in Minnesota. The handful of patrons here are local continentals (imports from the states) getting off of work. They all know each other very well, or so I presume, by the highly sexualized banter going back and forth.  Joe comes down at 5, and we sit chatting for awhile about the island, what sorts of things I’m interested in doing while here, and he introduces me to his local friends at the bar.  Apparently today in the local paper was a full page ad for a ‘pocket-bra’, made in St. Croix, which everyone is having a jolly time making fun of,  passing around the ad and eliciting more sexual quips, especially about the matching pocket panties.  Eventually we hop in Joe’s jeep cherokee and make our way to the north part of the island where he lives, in the mountainous jungle.  The main roads are windy and narrow, sort of like maneuvering the curves of Mulholland drive; in sharp contrast the offroads to his house are horrendous…I estimate the average car suspension must last no more than a year or two here…potholes from hell, broken chunks of road…horrible.   Joe rents a two-bedroom apartment in a tri-plex…and the view from his back patio is breathtaking.  You can see a few of the British Virgin Islands, and a couple of unpopulated cays…mesmerizing…amazing. I could sit up here and watch this view all day if it wasn’t for the relentless mosquitos. I swear those bastards can smell my sweet west-coast blood a mile away from the way they are ravaging me. After relaxing on the patio and talking for an hour or so we head out to Red Hook, the eastern part of the island for some dinner. I am still exhausted from my drinking-fest the day before, the red-eye flight, and walking around all afternoon. Joe laughs at me as I zonk out in his car in the middle of his explanations about the different communities we pass. “Are you sleeping?! What the hell?” After dinner we head back to crash…I am beyond wiped out. The jungle noises awaiting our return are straight out of the movies…frogs, bats, crickets and who knows what other creeping, crawling and flying critters, in a frenetic chorus of audible awesomeness.  Joe draws me a little map of how to get around the island by bus, and a few places he recommends I check out.  He leaves early for work usually, so I will be on my own manana.