August 2013

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To the bat (shit) cave, Robin!

Friday, August 2, 2013 in Anguilla, Cap Juluca, Caribbean | 1 comment

Iguana Cave, Anguilla

Lloyd laughing as he leads Bail-Out out of Iguana Cave (which should really be called Bat-Shit Cave). Photo by David Lansing.

When Luscious and I had dinner at Jacala recently, I asked the owner, Jacque, who is from France, why he liked Anguilla.

“Because there is nothing to do here!” he said in that inimitable French way.

What he meant was that there are no zip-lines or helicopter tours or that sort of thing. The tourism industry on the island is very primitive. And most people who come to Anguilla (like Liam Neeson, Uma Thurman, Billy Crystal, Robin Williams, Michael Jordan, Paul McCartney, etc.) come here specifically because there’s nothing to do.

Except, our guide Lloyd told us, hike down to the Iguana Cave. Now I can’t say everyone was overly enthusiastic about a hike through a quasi rainforest and down a treacherous rock path blocked by belligerent hermit crabs. Luscious and Mrs. Poopsie were wearing heals and T-Bone was in flip-flops—not the best thing to wear hiking. Besides, there were spider webs and strange noises out in the forest which, Lloyd said, had been a lot thicker before Hurricane Luis cleaned it out in 1995.

Anyway, after hiking for several days (okay, maybe it was 20 minutes), we got to an area of rock scrabble that, if you scampered down, led you to the cave’s opening. “I’m not going down there,” said Luscious. “Me neither,” said Mrs. Poopsie.

That left T-Bone, Bail-Out, and me. So down the trail we went. When we got to the cave’s entrance, we all just stood there. Frankly, I’m not a big cave guy. They’re usually dark, moist, and full of weird objects. This one appeared to be no exception.

“They used to mine phosphates here,” Lloyd said. “Back in the 19th century.”

That should have been a clue as to what was inside the cave. Phosphates, you know, come from bird shit. Like bats. But I didn’t put two-and-two together at the time. Instead, I followed Lloyd in to the cave. Where we discovered…bats. Lots of them. Swirling around the roof of the cave like an evil vortex. I’m not sure if T-Bone pushed me out of the way as she ran to get out of the cave or I pushed her, but we both got out of there in a real hurry.

But the good news is that I think I’ve now come up with a name for our band: Bat Shit.

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At The Pumphouse, No Woman, No Cry

Thursday, August 1, 2013 in Anguilla, Cap Juluca, Caribbean

Our musical guide, Lloyd, in front of The Pumphouse in Anguilla. Photo by David Lansing.

We’d had two (maybe three rum punches) and still no Elvis. Which is when Lloyd suggested we head across the street to The Pumphouse, another well-known musical destination in Anguilla.

“You know Bankie Banx?” Lloyd asked. I didn’t but nodded as if I did. “Well, his son, Omari Banks, plays at The Pumphouse all da time.”

If I don’t know Bankie Banx it’s probably a good bet I don’t know Omari Banks, right? And how come the father and son can’t agree on how to spell their last name?

I told Lloyd I wasn’t a big reggae fan. So Lloyd asked me what sort of music we played. I told him I had no idea.

“You don’t know what kind of music you play?”

“We’ve actually never played together before,” I told him.

“Never?”

“Never.” And then I added, as if this might explain everything, that we were still sort of trying to figure things out. In fact, I told him, we didn’t have a name for our band yet. And we didn’t know any songs.

Lloyd thought about this while slowly nodding his head. “Maybe you should play reggae,” he concluded. “Anybody can play reggae.”

I nodded in agreement but I have to admit that it’s very unlikely that a bunch of mostly white folk playing the viola, ukulele, mandolin, and violin are going to be jammin’ and jammin’ (’till the jam is through).

Besides, I think if I have to listen to No Woman, No Cry one more time in my life I’m going to stick chopsticks in my ears and burst my ear drums. Anyway, I was more interested in The Pumphouse’s salt history than its reggae cred. See, before there was any tourism on Anguilla (mind you, the island didn’t have electricity until the ‘70s), salt mining was just about the only industry. From the 1600s until 1986, they pulled salt out of the pond behind The Pumphouse, which was used to regulate the water in the salt ponds.

If you’ve read some of my previous blogs about harvesting sea salt in Hawaii or France, you’ll know I like sea salt a lot more than I like reggae. So I was very sorry to hear that you could no longer buy any Anguillan salt. I mean, I’m sure listening to Omari Banks is great. But, frankly, I’d rather stick my head in a bag of sal de mer any time.

Before there was a Bob Marley, there were Anguillans like this hauling out salt from the Road Salt Pond.

 

See that building in the background? That’s now The Pumphouse.

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