Jumby Bay

Chapter 3

V.C. Bird Airport, Antigua - 1999 Taxicab Protest

sandpipe.jpg (67821 bytes) Sandpiper. Any of numerous shore inhabitating birds of the family Scolopacidae, related to the plovers, typically having a slender bill and a piping call. When feeding, it constantly bobs its tail up and down. Its distinctive style of flight alternates brief glides with rapid bursts of wingbeats.

Our host had hired cars and drivers to take us and our luggage to the ferry. We were standing around waiting outside the airport terminal. The smokers in the crowd were puffing away to relieve the stress from flight delays and lost luggage, the ex-smokers looked liked voyeurs at a porn flick their eyes fixed on nothing but the smoker’s sucking on their sweet nicotine sticks. Lionel, a tall, polite Antiguan with a pink shirt and khaki pants held up a sign that said "Jumby Bay." I just waited for our host to make a move. One of the tourists, not with our group, asked Lionel what the problem was, why were the taxis blocking his car.

"Can we move some of these vehicles?" the man said.
"We’re working on it now, sir. We’re straightening it all out." Lionel answered.

Jessie hadn’t noticed the commotion. She was statuesque, a former dancer who was working at Cheetah’s in Vegas when she met Jack Hammond. Jack was the grandson of Laurens Hammond, inventor of the Hammond Organ. Jack, patron of the arts, Broadway angel and host extraordinaire, was heir to an immense fortune, and he shared it gracefully. He was one of the most generous individuals you could ever hope to meet. Jessie was especially lucky. She was dancing for dollars not long ago. Now, thanks to Jack, she owned a swank sushi bar on Miami’s trendy South Beach. But she wanted to ask him for more. After all, she was the one who introduced him to his new bride. But she could only ask him when the time was right.

"Eddie, why is he in such a bad mood?"

"I don’t know, maybe the kids got on his nerves. I don’t blame him. Thank god there's only us grownups here this week. It's party time."

"Yes, but never mind that. I’ve got to talk to him this trip. It’s his wedding for Christ’s sake, we’ve got to be able to get to him. He’s got to be agreeable." No one could figure out why Jack was such an easy touch for Jessie. Granted, he was an exceptional friend and very giving. His philanthropy was world renowned, and on a personal level, he could meet people in an airport lounge and they’d become friends for life. He’d invited 80 of his closest friends down to his island retreat to help him celebrate his wedding. His grandfather, together with Paul Mellon and a group of other millionaires, set up the ultra exclusive Mill Reef Club on Antigua in 1949 when Bermuda got too crowded. Now Jack was following in the family footsteps in an equity partnership with a TV talk show host, a hollywood producer and a handful of Internet zillionaires to establish a new, ultraposh colony on Jumby Bay. The guest list included a majority of movers and shakers.

"Dammit, I wonder if our luggage made it from the connecting flight in Miami," exclaimed Jessie.

Eddie merely nodded because his something else attracted his attention.

"Hey, are you listening to me? What am I going to do, all of my dresses and beach gear is in those bags?" She was getting annoyed at him.

"Yeah, uh-huh, look I can’t talk right now."

"What the hell is going on here?" shouted someone at the other end of the curb.

Jack Hammond was embroiled in a heated argument with a group of local taxi drivers. Transportation had been arranged by Wendell, an employee of Mr. Hammond, who asked some of his friends to pick up the guests with their own trucks and vans, circumventing official procedure. At the last minute taxicab drivers set up a blockade so that no one, not even the regular tourists, could go anywhere.

As the cab drivers hurled racial epithets at us, Jack and Eddie were giving it right back to them. Eddie happened to be Jack's bodyguard, so it was his job to be furious. I just wanted to get to the resort and crash. Hopefully my suitcase would follow the next day.

"White boys got small dicks," one of the cab drivers shouted.

All of a sudden they all seemed to be shouting at once. I could barely understand the West Indian dialect. But I knew that things weren’t right.

"You don' know what you doin', mon, you takin’ money outta our pockets. What’s wrong wit you pussy boy? You cannah take you own cars, we got rules here."

"You are a disgrace to your country. These are my guests." shouted Hammond. I could see he was really steamed and we all knew he had a short fuse.

"Thissa airport is ahhhs, go back home pasties. Rich white boys suck dick. You mus ride wid us, or we gonna put a bullet in you."

Jack stood tall among the crowd. He was enraged. His face was beet red from anger and the sun, his shoulder length hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was fuming, angry at Wendell and the chaos, especially since he had a dozen members of his family, including his 80 year old aunt Gertrude, whom he had flown first-class down to the Island for his wedding fest. Now the humiliation of a local labor dispute, resulting in a large group of tired guests being inconvenienced after a trying day. Hammond had a temper. His aunt told me that when he was a child, he’d get riled up and she’d tell him to stand in the corner until he cooled down. One time, she said, he left the corner and came up to her. She asked if he was ready to behave. He replied, "no, I don’t think I am just yet." and went back into the corner. He knew himself very well. There are other stories about his anger, sometimes fueled by alcohol, but no one blamed him this time for losing his cool. The taxi drivers were causing a big ruckus. This wasn’t what the Tourist Bureau had in mind. This was a far cry from the posters advertising idyllic getaways with lazy days amidst the palms and white sand beaches. This was an explosive situation that did not bode well for the immediate future.

Hammond shouted: "You’re a disgrace to Antigua, I want everyone here to know that you are pissing me off. I’m selling my house and never coming back. OK everyone, listen up, if you take a cab, don’t tip the drivers, Jumby Bay will give them a voucher. Don’t even ride with them if you can help it, we’re walking." Many of the guests were elderly and a few were disabled, arthritic or already drunk.

Hammond started to walk, urging others to follow. Some of the elderly people rode with Wendell and other drivers that he had hired, but Jack was unforgiving. The next day he fired Wendell. I followed up at the front of the line with Jonie and Eddie the DJ, his cousin Kathy not far behind. I walked about half way then hitched a ride with one of the drivers. The rest trudged on through pastures with tethered cows and pavement scarred with potholes. It was two miles to the ferry.

The next day the two island newspapers will take sides in scathing editorials. One claims that we were followed by concerned citizens who were afraid we were in danger. The Daily Observer's headlines proclaim "Disgraceful Conduct by Taxi Drivers" and "The Death of Tourism." An editorial in The Daily Observer fuels the flames of social unrest with its political rhetoric: "Speaking for ourselves only, we are of the view that decent tourists, those who come here to rest, recuperate, relax and enjoy themselves, do far more good for the country than a group of imprudent taxi drivers whose only contribution to society appears to be the electoral support they give to a corrupt administration and the discomfort they are wont to cause those who visit us in peace." Little did we know that the taxi drivers were the least of our problems and that the danger was far worse than anyone imagined.

We waited for the ferry, which quickly delivered us to the beach pavilion dock where bartenders and waiters had prepared a feast.. Ah, an island off of a main island. I wish I could enjoy it, but I was tired, sore, disappointed that my scuba and golf gear were still somewhere in Miami. I walked up to the concierge and asked how to check into the room. He said, "don’t worry sir, let me take your bags, here’s a rum punch, welcome to paradise." I slammed the drink, signed in and was delivered to my cottage in a golf cart by a beautiful blonde staff member. I didn’t even think about my luggage, but dropped the carry-on bags and headed back to the beach bar. Welcome to paradise.

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