Alberta Books Canada is a proud sponsor of this program and, during the event, we’ll be offering a door prize of one hour’s consultation. I also have a free ticket for the program to give away to one lucky blog reader. So if you will be in Edmonton on Mar. 1st, please leave a comment below telling me why you would like to attend, where you are in your writing career, and what you hope to discover from Charmaine’s new program.

For more information, contact Charmaine: charmaine (at) hammondgroup.biz or click here to register.

Charmaine recently interviewed me about Alberta Books Canada and will be posting that podcast to her new website on March 1st.

#1 – Rosemary Griebel, Betty Jane Hegerat, Lori Hahnel, Bob Stallworthy

#2 – Aritha van Herk, Gordon Sombrowski, Tom Phillips, Anne Sorbie

#3 – Marcello Di Cintio, Rosemary Nixon, Richard Harrison, Jeramy Dodds

If you are interested in purchasing any, or all, of these chapbooks, and would like to subscribe to the series and future publications, please send me an email: susanmtoy (at) yahoo.ca

Collect the set! These chapbooks are limited editions at 50 copies each, so when these run out, that’s it! There will be no reprints.

**And for all of you who love independent bookstores, I’m working on a way so you may eventually purchase eBooks from them, should you choose to do so.**

Once you get out of the Kingstown area and into the countryside, things change abruptly and revert back to the old Caribbean once again. The vegetation is lush—the hillsides are covered with large plantations of bananas, coconuts, and tropical fruits and vegetables. Further north it’s all dense rain forests, mountainous terrain, and treacherous, narrow coastline roads perched on the sides of cliffs high above postcard-beautiful, and deserted, black sand beaches.

A large part of the island’s northern quarter is consumed by Soufriere, an active volcano. Its last eruption was in 1979, but there have been several serious rumblings since then. At four thousand feet, it attracts abundant rainfall and supports a verdant tropical rain forest year-round. The heavy precipitation, along with the lava-rich soil and steep mountainsides, creates a perfect and nearly impenetrable area suitable for growing, and hiding, marijuana. If it were legal, I’m sure the authorities would have to admit that the value of marijuana grown and shipped out of St. Vincent far surpasses everything produced by the banana industry. The American DEA came in to the country many years ago in an attempt to wipe out the ganja farms, but even after all the helicopter surveillance and subsequent burning of plants, marijuana still remains a viable cash crop.

The marijuana farmers formed an association a few years back and marched on the legislature to protest this American presence. All those farmers, mostly Rastas, could have been arrested that day, but weren’t. This tells me that the government of the country has never really been serious about wiping out the marijuana industry. It’s either that or they believe claims that marijuana is only grown on St. Vincent for personal use. Considering how much the Brethren are capable of smoking at one sitting, it is possible that the marijuana farmers are simply supplying their own people for religious purposes in their ceremonies worshiping Jah and in day-to-day life of a perpetual high, but I know this isn’t the case. The number of cigarette boats running up and down the coast is ever increasing. For every large shipment of marijuana discovered and seized by the police, many more manage to get through.

And everyone claims the marijuana grown on St. Vincent is the finest in the world, but I wouldn’t know. The government may be relatively lenient with the marijuana farmers and Rastas, but it’s a different story for foreigners. Penalties for possession are disproportionately steep, so I’ve never hazarded taking a chance. Besides, while rum is more expensive than ganja, it’s still cheaper than the imported mix, plus it’s legal, making alcohol a more reasonable recreational substitute.

The St. Vincent countryside people tend to have little to no daily contact with foreigners. As a result, there are no artificial attractions to lure tourists up either of the coasts and away from Kingstown or the Grenadines. What the countryside offers instead is the most breathtaking and unspoiled scenery few people have the opportunity to experience.

But the local people seem to take for granted what is in their own backyard. Do they know how lucky they are to live in such a place? Many country people consider themselves impoverished, and I suppose they are by world standards. Yet they have a wealth of spectacular views right outside their humble homes, views that foreigners spend a small fortune enjoying for only a few days at a time. But then I guess you can’t eat scenery and, unless there is a tangible payoff in the form of tourist dollars, that beautiful scenery may mean nothing to those who must still eke out a substandard existence.

Lately, the Ministry of Tourism has attempted to make over the entire country and create a more palatable, generic destination to better attract those ever-elusive tourist dollars and put some of that money into the pockets of the impoverished. But I know that with any orchestrated development also comes the inevitable environmental despoilment. While I don’t begrudge the local people those few extra tourism jobs being created, I also don’t believe those jobs should be at the expense of ruining all this fabulous scenery. And, if history is any indication, ruined it will be—and that ruination will last forever. I hope the powers that be think twice before making any permanent mistakes, but then, promising jobs is a way of guaranteeing future votes and long-term power for any political party. So it looks as though the environment will be the eventual loser if this current trend towards wholesale development continues.

***

Chopper leaned forward to switch on the radio. He spun the dial and rested it when we heard an excited voice giving play-by-play commentary of a cricket match.

“Turn that shit off!” Al said.

“But it de Windies and Pakistan.” Chopper complied, though, with a slow reach towards the dashboard and a look at me, requesting sympathy if not support.

I hate watching cricket, let alone listening to it on the radio, so he wouldn’t find an ally on my side of the cab, but I didn’t want to be as abrupt as Al, so I asked Chopper, “Do you know where cricket was first played?”

“We teach de world to play,” he said, tapping his chest as though he himself had been instrumental in the game’s inception.

“Well, no. Not exactly. Look, which countries field teams?”

Chopper named the majority, leaving off the most important—England.

“And Canada,” I added before correcting his other omission. “My country plays cricket, too, you know.”

“Nah, dey not play,” he said with a sneer.

Well, granted, they don’t play well, or at least not well enough ever to receive attention from the rest of the cricket world. I decided to take a different tack, though, getting back to the game’s history. “England invented the game.”

“Nah, dat not what we told.”

“Of course they started playing the game there. Look—what do all the countries you listed have in common?”

Chopper scratched one ear and screwed up his face to look as though he were considering my question.

“They’re all, uh, Commonwealth countries,” I said, not wanting to introduce the subject of colonialism into the conversation. Chopper just shrugged his shoulders, but seemed interested. “And which country is the head of the Commonwealth? England. Cricket was invented in England, and they took the game with them into the world when they, um . . . ”

Al leaned forward and looked at me. “When they took over all these poor bastards and exploited the wealth of resources they found everywhere.” He addressed Chopper. “Only the US of A was wise enough to send King George packing. The rest of you have remained colonies of Mother England.”

“Ahem,” I glanced at a puzzled Chopper then shot a look back at Al that suggested too much information. “Anyway, Chopper, the Commonwealth is an association of countries that owe their love of cricket to England.”

“Nah,” he said, protesting again. “Windies invent cricket. Everybody say so, since de sixties, when we win so much. Dey say on de TV and radio, ‘Windies! We invent cricket!’ ”

Ah! Now I understood his reasoning. During the sixties, the West Indies team had begun playing a more aggressive form of the game and as a result were successful in beating all their opponents. So they hadn’t invented the game itself, just a new way of playing it. Some enterprising company must have used this new strategy as part of their ad campaign, attempting to boost team pride—as well as sales of their product—by emphasizing this “new” game. Chopper would have been one of many who took that claim literally. There was no point in correcting him.

“Well, it’s all shit to me,” Al said in disgust. “Baseball! Now there’s the best sport in the world, and a helluva lot more interesting than cricket.” He spat out the last word. “I’d rather watch paint dry.”

I leaned forward and smiled. “In Canada, we spell baseball h-o-c-k-e-y.”

Al slapped the wheel in disgust but said nothing more. With silence descending again in the cab, I turned to look out the window and began thinking of Canada. I hadn’t seen a hockey game in a couple of years, not even on television.

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Five-thirty seems to come earlier on Bequia than in most places, but waking up at that hour gave me enough time to shower then toss back a cup of coffee before a brisk walk to the ferry wharf in Port Elizabeth. I had my choice of two ferries, both departing from Bequia at six-thirty, on the dot.

Leave it to the Bequians: if one starts up a business that proves successful, two or more others will jump on the bandwagon and run an identical business or service. At one time there were three ferryboats, all owned by different companies and all leaving for Kingstown at the same time. One has since ceased operation. Once, I was foolish enough to ask why all the boats left in tandem instead of staggering service for the convenience of their passengers. The answer was simple: Bequians are accustomed to travel to St. Vincent at six-thirty.

“Ohhhhh, I see,” I replied, scratching my balding head. I didn’t really, but knew I’d never get a better explanation than that. Tradition is strong on this island, whether that tradition makes sense or not.

We’d seen the same sort of competition between other businesses: bakeries, Internet cafés, and specialty food shops. Right now there are two competing lunch wagons—what Al calls “de roach coach”—that cater to construction crews, and they use the exact same kind of trucks (one yellow, the other blue). The women operating the lunch wagons even have the same first name. Now that’s carrying competition a little far, in my book, because then it gets downright confusing.

Eventually though, some, or all, competing businesses are forced to close, either through lack of a solid customer base or poor management, or a combination of the two. So far Bequia has managed to support both remaining ferry businesses, the Admiralty Transport Company and Bequia Express, but you can see a fierce competitive attitude every morning as loyal passengers board their choice. The boat captains then race each other to be first to arrive at the Kingstown wharf while their respective passengers cheer them on.

Sometimes these boats can really pack on passengers and cargo, too, especially if chartered for special excursions (when they tend to resemble a potential Philippine ferry disaster). But, to their credit, both companies have operated, thus far, without incident. Well, there was that one time . . . The smaller ferry was coming over from St. Vincent carrying a pickup truck loaded with cement building blocks. The sea was rough that day and the truck, which hadn’t been adequately secured, shifted while the boat was manoeuvring a rather large wave. The loose truck then careened into the side of the vessel and punched a large hole in a panel. For the passengers’ safety and before the ferry started taking on water, the captain decided to jettison the truck, as well as its cargo, in the middle of the Bequia channel—much to the dismay of the truck’s owner. At least no lives were lost.

The ferries were relatively empty as I strolled onto the Bequia Express that Thursday morning, hoping it would continue its incident-free service to St. Vincent. I didn’t need any more excitement in my life.

During the school year, many Bequia students ride the ferries daily to attend a variety of schools on the mainland. This was July, however, and the passengers that morning were commuters on their way to work, some shoppers looking to buy cheaper goods on the mainland, and others were tourists on the first leg of their journey back home after an enjoyable vacation on Bequia. I said “good morning” to a couple of people I knew then settled in for a contemplative ride.

Prologue

Pronounced BECK-way, the name is a Carib Indian word meaning “island in the clouds.” This description of Bequia holds even today—when flying from Barbados, you can’t see the island at all until your last few moments in the air, because it is nestled in clouds. In their day, centuries ago, the Caribs didn’t have the benefit of an air approach, so Bequia must have been hidden when they first paddled towards the island, making their approach in dugout canoes.

The first time I saw Bequia was from the ferryboat—still the best way to arrive. Nothing compares to that view when rounding the headland as you enter Admiralty Bay, including West Cay, Moonhole and the entire southwest end of the island, in the distance. As the leeward coast unfolds, first Lower Bay then Princess Margaret beaches come into view. Admiralty Bay’s waters are dotted with sailboats of all types and lengths bobbing in the ferry’s wake. Oftentimes you might also see a few large working boats and maybe a small cruise ship or two moored further out where it’s deep. The ferry wharf at Port Elizabeth, the island’s heart, is surrounded on three sides, like a natural amphitheatre, with lush, tropical-green hills dotted by colourful houses of varying sizes.

You can read the guidebooks for the facts: Bequia is located in the south-eastern Caribbean; the total land area is seven square miles; it’s home to an interesting mix of six thousand or so, locals and foreigners. Nine miles south of St. Vincent, Bequia is first in the string of the Grenadines, the southern islands trailing off like a kite’s tail. It’s also right next door to Mustique—the grown-up and more sophisticated older sister—a celebrated and world-renowned island habitat of the rich and famous. Instead Bequia has always acted as a magnet for well-travelled and often down-at-heel sailors. And, unlike Mustique, it has no snob appeal; most people come to Bequia because they like the island, not because it’s a place where spending large rolls of cash makes them look important.

The entire country of St. Vincent and the Grenadines was a late bloomer in a competitive tourism industry that, even now, hasn’t developed into anything like St. Lucia, Barbados and Grenada, the better-known neighbouring Windward Island. The relevant authorities say that what’s kept this from happening is a lack of direct jet service from North America and Europe. So the country remains somewhat unknown, and more closely resembles the old Caribbean of about thirty years ago.

Yet Bequia, unlike the rest of the country, has always enjoyed a thriving business with foreigners in spite of its lack of air connections—or, as the expat community believes, due to that lack. Smitten visitors return, year after year, because the island remains undiscovered by the vast majority of sun-seeking all-inclusive tourists. For decades, excellent yachting conditions have attracted savvy travellers—not mere tourists—and those who are bent on finding an out-of-the-way destination that promises more relaxation, less shopping, fewer expensive restaurants, and no night clubs or chain hotels at all, unlike what is promoted on the bigger and better-known islands in the neighbourhood.

What guidebooks can’t ever describe, though, is the strong affection, this warm glow that everyone seems to develop for Bequia, even after one visit. There’s a certain je ne sais quoi, almost like a possessiveness of place, beckoning visitors to return countless times, until they feel compelled to put down stakes and become a permanent part of it. Many repeat visitors part with their life’s savings to buy land and build holiday houses; some even pack in lives back home altogether, moving into the community forever and ever, or until the money runs out, or Bequia loses her charm.

Like them, I too have a love for this island that I can’t quite define.

When you question others as to why they’re so attached, they answer that it’s because of the wonderful local people. Some will also try to tell you, when they hear my story, that I’ve got it all wrong and they’ll accuse me of carrying around a too-negative attitude about the island and its people. Yet their experiences aren’t mine, and I don’t mind saying I think I have a better sense of the place than they do; after all, I’ve lived here year-round, so I’ve seen both high and low seasons, the good, and the downright nastiness of the place and its people.

I should also mention that, unlike other expats, for me there was no choice; I had to escape to Bequia. But I’ll get to that later. There’s more you need to know before you start judging me.

What’s Behind the Smirk?

Jason Kenney had a telling smirk on his face when he appeared on CBC and CTV to discuss his latest “ruling.” Kenney had travelled to Montreal to tell the nation that women must discard their veils when swearing the public oath in Citizenship ceremonies. Unlike the pushy French or the frightened Dutch, he wasn’t suggesting that veils be banned; no, this was a simple request to respect Canadian values, to uncover the face so that everyone could be satisfied that the oath, in fact, had been recited.

But wait a minute. I was in one of those ceremonies many years ago, along with over a hundred people from around the world, gathered in a large hall, facing a Citizenship judge away up there in the front of the room, carefully reciting the words from the small piece of paper in my hand. Looking around at the others? Looking at the judge? Nope. But, believe me, I did say the words and, in a few moments, collected the already prepared certificate declaring that I was a Canadian citizen, a procedure that took months of paperwork and personal interviews, as well as mastering more than most native-born Canadians know about their home and native land.

So then what was the big deal that put the self-satisfied smirk on the Minister’s face that afternoon in Montreal?

Dennis Gruending provides a wise and thorough answer to that question in Pulpit and Politics: Competing Religious Ideologies in Canadian Public Life, published beautifully by Kingsley Publishing in Alberta.

Gruending comes well prepared to answer the question. He’s spent a lifetime at the intersection of religion and politics. Born in Saskatchewan, he was raised in a rural community as a devout Roman Catholic. Benedictine monks and brothers at St. Peter’s College educated him during the time of Vatican II, the Council that attempted to move the church into the modern world, with an eye on social justice. After completing his undergraduate degree, Gruending became a print journalist and began to cover and write about the social movements swirling around the prairies.

The late sixties and early seventies were a time when the mainline churches in Canada made significant commitments to the struggle for social justice. I saw this first hand as Director of Community Development at the Woodgreen Community Centre in the Riverdale area of Toronto. A church coalition, led by progressive ministers and priests, brought Alinsky-style community organizing to the neighborhood, while others were organizing social assistance recipients into the National Anti-Poverty Association.

Through his early journalism career, Gruending had the immense good fortune to be able to document the movement of progressive ideas from Saskatchewan to the national scene. The New Democratic Party, led by Alan Blakeney from 1971 to 1982, led the way.

The NDP emerged from the depression-era Cooperative Commonwealth Federation (CCF), which, in turn, had grown from a populist strain of religion, best captured in the career of Tommy Douglas, one of the original figures who migrated from “pulpit to politics.” Douglas was the CCF premier of Saskatchewan from 1944 to 1961 and led the battle to bring medicare to the province and eventually see it sweep the nation.

Gruending covered the Blakeney era as a reporter and later as the on-air host of CBC Saskatoon. He began his own intense “pulpit to politics” kind of shift near the end of that time. He took a break from journalism to travel for ten months in Latin America, observing first hand the work of the new missionaries who were bringing “liberation theology” to the barrios and villages across the continent. On returning to Canada, he became director of information for the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops in Ottawa and served there in the early nineties. Then in 1997, Gruending ran for election to the House of Commons in a Saskatchewan riding. He was defeated by a candidate from the newly emerging Reform Party, but ran later in another riding and was elected a Member of Parliament. After losing his seat, he went to work for the Canadian Labour Congress in Ottawa. He remains an active member of the social justice community in the nation’s capitol. He is also the author of six books, including a biography of Alan Blakeney.

Gruending began to break the code behind Jason Kenney’s smirk in 2007 when he initiated a blog called Pulpit and Politics, a precursor to his recently published book. He began to explore the recent history of religion and political parties, especially in North America. And he uncovered the secret to the code.

The long history of religion in Canada concerns the mainline Protestant churches and the Roman Catholic Church. The Protestant denominations, including the Presbyterian, Lutheran, United, and Anglican churches, dominated Canadian life until very recently. A drive through any of the older neighborhoods of Canadian towns and cities reveals the stone presence of those denominations in prominent locations. The Roman Catholic Church grew alongside the Protestant denominations in Quebec. In the late sixties and early seventies, the mainline churches began to collaborate on social justice issues, capturing the tenor of the times. PLURA—named after the first letters of all the mainline churches—was a formal coalition that operated in the seventies, funding grass roots community activities across Canada. The impulse for social justice grew from the prairie soil and took to the pavement of our cities and towns. Gruending played a significant role throughout his career in the movement for social justice and, as a writer and broadcaster, shared his observations with the world.

The mainline churches began to decline in the eighties and nineties, however, shrinking to tiny, older congregations right across Canada.

In the recent past, a new development began to emerge, bringing—once again from prairie soil—religion closer to centre stage. And this time it was evangelical. Alberta was the early breeding ground for this development. William Aberhart became premier of Alberta in the 30’s but, just as important, he became the first media evangelist in Canada, speaking to his congregation each and every week. He passed the “pulpit and politics” mantle to Ernest Manning, who continued as premier and media evangelist from 1943 to 1968. The seeds of evangelical expression were spread broadly through that long period of time and, in the contemporary era, spread even wider through Ernest’s son, Preston Manning, who created the Reform Party from a base in Calgary.

And it’s at this point that the story takes on a North American resonance. The evangelical movement in the United States had started to push out from their base in the churches, first to television and then to the political arena. The move into politics was centered on family value issues, and led to building broad coalitions that extended far beyond the walls of the churches. The coalitions focused especially on two issues that began to build a bridge to conservative Roman Catholics: abortion and same sex marriage. The issues quickly became instrumental political wedges, splitting the population and consolidating a firm base. But it didn’t stop there. The coalition building began to take on a strongly patriotic note, bordering on xenophobia, including support for military interventions around the world after 9/11. And, in a remarkable development, evangelicals began to support Israel as a manifestation of Biblical prophesies. These developments heralded a huge shift in political dynamics.

These trends began to play out on the Canadian political scene with the transformation of the Reform Party into the Conservative Party over the last two decades. Along the way, the key operatives began to understand how to play religious wedge issues in the political arena, largely through the clever use of metaphoric suggestion.

Gruending tells that story, in a clear and convincing way.

This leads us back to Jason Kenney, by far the most masterful user of this metaphoric magic. His deft delivery always brings a swift smirk to his lips. He knows when he makes a good move! The announcement banning the veil in the Citizenship ceremony was really a metaphoric suggestion. It unleashed a firestorm of rage in blogs, radio talk shows, and comments sections of newspapers and magazines. This kind of rage both solidifies and builds the “base.” The occasional incantation of metaphoric magic keeps the rage alive.

Gruending tells this story with many examples in a deliberate, thoughtful way. He’s a clear thinker with an easy style, turning complicated patterns into easily understood truths. Along the way, he visits all of the relevant interacting elements of this massive change in our political scene.

The May 2, 2011 election confirmed the sad result—a strong, stable Conservative majority government. For those of us, like Dennis Gruending, who long for fair politics and seek social justice, the result is shattering. And, far more disturbing, it may be deep and long lasting.

The Ipsos Reid exit poll confirmed that church-going evangelical Protestants, conservative Catholics, and Jews elected that strong, stable, majority Conservative government. And the alliance was built through wedging, base building, and rousing fire through metaphoric discourse. Their brothers and sisters to the south can only hope for such a convincing outcome.

Pulpit and Politics: Competing Religious Ideologies in Canadian Public Life is essential reading for anyone trying to understand the tectonic shifts in Canadian religion and politics and how those changes blur the distinction between the two. I’ve become more adept at reading political moves and interpreting political discourse because of this book. It took me only a minute to figure out why Jason Kenney had that cynical smirk on his face in Montreal. I had read the codebook.

The area under the almond trees, considered the heart of Port Elizabeth, is a scene of mass confusion most of the time, with taxis and other vehicles parked every which way, while their drivers attend “parliament,” which involves sitting on built-in benches under the trees, discussing “poli-tricks,” righting the wrongs of the country and the world.

It was a surprise to me that afternoon that no one at all was sitting under the almond trees except the Brethren, my employees.

Rastafarians refer to fellow Rastas as their brethren, whether it’s one or more, so I’ve always used the word in the same way, referring to my workers as a collective. Besides, they like the title.

“Hey, Brethren. What’s new in your world?” I said, approaching the bench.

They both looked as though they’d smoked enough weed to choke a horse. And, in all likelihood, they had. These two are experienced gardeners and terrific guys, but Rastas in general sure do love their herb, as they call it.

The Brethren and I had come to an agreement early on—they wouldn’t smoke weed while working at any of the properties I manage, but what they choose to do on their own time is up to them, and they more than make up for mornings doing without by rolling up the biggest Bob Marleys I’ve ever seen the minute they finish work. These joints would make Cheech and Chong reconsider inhaling.

But I can’t complain at all about the Brethren. They both do excellent work and, for the amount of physical labour they’re willing to put into their jobs, who am I to stop them from relaxing on their own time?

They dress alike, favouring the red, green, and gold colours of Rastafarianism, and both sport long dreads reaching halfway down their backs, although the unwieldy locks are always kept tied up on their heads and hidden away under knitted tams.

“Hey, Geoff. We hears you has some trouble today with de black fish. You cool, man?” Rasta Bongo said.

“Yeah, I’m cool.” I was pleased to hear they were concerned. “I’d appreciate it if you could pass on any information you hear about anything at all, guys. I don’t want you getting yourselves into trouble by asking too many questions, but please keep your ears open and let me know what’s happening.”

I knew there was no point telling them to keep their eyes open. I figured with the amount of weed they’d smoked they couldn’t see straight anyway, so I added a warning. “Oh, and try to hold back a little on smoking the ganja, guys. I don’t want you getting picked up by the police. They’re probably keeping a close watch on me right now, what with everything that’s happened. So they’ll also be watching you. That stuff you smoke is still illegal, don’t forget. I doubt any magistrate would allow religious use of illegal substances as a defence in court. I can’t risk losing my two best workmen, you know.”

They both nodded, their heads bobbing in unison. Rasta I-Toe said, “I and I gives t’anks, Geoff. We looks out for you and Miss Angie. No probs, man. And we watches de police. You no worry about we.”

The Brethren are good men and I knew I could trust them. When I first started the business, they had come to work as a matched set and did everything together, although I’m sure they draw the line at sharing the same bed. It wasn’t my place, in any case, to pry into their private lives outside of work hours. I don’t know if they have girlfriends now, but before moving to Bequia they both “made babies,” as they call it, with girls over in St. Vincent. This act proves manhood in the West Indies, or so they say. So I have to assume they are just good friends. Since I have never fathered a child myself, I don’t think they know or understand where I’m coming from, though. They seem to feel sorry for my childless state. But we do still have a good working relationship based on mutual respect. They tell me that “for an old white guy,” I work “almost as good” as they do. That’s supposed to be flattering, I suppose. I’m about ten years older than the two of them, so I’m not sure where they get this old guy-business, but I do take their comment as a compliment.

They’re in agreement with each other on just about everything. The one point I’ve heard them argue was whether, as true Rastafarians, they should or should not eat “flesh,” their name for all meat products. One of them does, the other doesn’t. While working side by side, they’ve carried on lengthy and rather heated arguments about chicken eggs and whether or not the yolk could be considered flesh. It boggles the mind.

But, otherwise, they both work hard and are capable of putting in more than a full day’s work, even during the hottest weather. They’re also knowledgeable about tropical plants. This expertise has helped make me look good to my clients over the past two years.

Racing down the stone path towards the pool, I cursed that last rum and Coke of the previous night. It was just 7:00 a.m., Monday, my busiest day of the week, but I should have been there forty-five minutes earlier. That drink, that last one, was responsible for making me sleep late and would punish me further as I fell behind schedule for the rest of the day.

Unlocking the garden shed door, I hauled out the cleaning equipment and dragged it across the patio. I stopped by the edge of the pool and stood, wavering, looking down, trying to focus my eyes in the sharp sunlight. I’d forgotten to pick up my shades in the rush to leave home. I blinked hard; the rippling reflection in the water made me cringe. I did look as bad as I felt; I needed a shave and hadn’t even had time to comb what hair I still had. But then, out of the corner of one eye, something drew my attention away from that ugly visage. I turned my head, blinking against the morning sun’s brilliant glint off the water, and focused on an object that looked even worse than I did—a body floating face down at the far end of the pool. A woman’s body; a naked woman’s body.

“Oh, shit!” I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand. My immediate, selfish reaction was that this was going to further screw up my day. Not to mention throw off the pool’s pH balance.

Then my hangover fog began to lift as the gravity of the situation sank in. I rubbed both fists into my eyes and peered again. Was it just a rum-induced pink elephant? No, the body was still there and I could feel the panic rising. I watched for a moment, trying to calm myself, to clear my thinking, gulping air like a fish out of water in an attempt to keep a sudden bilious eruption in the pit of my stomach from moving up any higher. A slight breeze caused a noticeable ripple on the water’s surface, just enough to make the body drift in a repetitive bump against the pool’s rim. Otherwise, there was no movement at all—no bubbles, anyway, and no point jumping in to save her. She was already dead.

After two years managing foreigners’ properties on the island of Bequia, I’d fished my share of bodies out of pools—all rodent and insect, though, never human.

Now, I like naked women as much as the next guy, but a dead naked woman is another matter. Floating face down, her backside was all I could see. So, even if I had known her, I wasn’t able to say who she was, having had little opportunity to examine too many women’s backsides on this island.

My effort at keeping that bile at bay was becoming futile. I needed to move, but didn’t want to pull her out just to satisfy morbid curiosity. She was in good physical shape, though—apart from the fact that she was floating face down. There were no tan lines and her skin was still fish-belly white. In all likelihood she’d just arrived, one of any number of foreigners, almost all tourists, attracted to this tropical paradise for its sun, fun, and rum.

But why did she have to wind up in one of the pools I managed? And why this day of all days? I already had enough problems in my life as it was. I didn’t need another.

Maybe I’d watched too much TV while growing up, but all those detective shows helped me decide that I should not disturb the body. I left it floating and trudged back up the hill to the house, thinking my next best plan would be to phone the police.

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