As a director of LAWK Enterprises, Inc. I feel it behooves me to visit the company at least once a year just to see how enterprising it really is. In early January, with London in chaos after the worst snowfall in 12 years (a whopping 4 inches), I decided that now would be a great time to go. Besides, the shops were out of all the necessities and I was just one lamb bhuna away from having to use both sides of the toilet paper. The fact that LAWK is based on the Caribbean island of St Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands had no bearing on my decision. Whatsoever. Honest.
Let me back up a bit and explain how I got this gig. Nepotism, baby! Lynda is my dad’s cousin (which makes her either my second cousin or first cousin twice removed, I haven’t quite figured out which) whose generosity - and, let’s face it, money - saved me from the motivational quicksand of Leigh-on-Sea in the early 90s by inviting me to visit her in Washington DC. Before I knew what happened I was doing bong hits and chasing Frisbees at St Mary’s College (note to Mum and Dad: I’m kidding; I hate Frisbee).
Fast forward to 2003: Lynda has been living in the islands for about 10 years and recently set up LAWK as a holding company to benefit from the tax advantages afforded to entrepreneurs down there. Basically, the company (i.e. Lynda) is building secluded holiday homes targeted for rental to affluent American businessmen who, with their botoxed wives and bratty offspring, will spend a load of money for a week of peace and seclusion (or possibly just somewhere different to argue and plug in the PlayStation). To tax-dodge legally, LAWK needed to have a board of directors. And that, quite simply, is how I became the company secretary.
It was a little warm (87°F) when I stepped off the plane at Cyril E King Airport with my winter coat. Being an American territory meant I had to pass through U.S. Immigration and Customs which, following an unfortunate deportation incident several years ago, always makes me feel a bit nauseous and arse-burpy - even though the problem has been sorted and I haven’t seen the inside an immigration holding cell for years.
There is only one flight a week to St Thomas from London, and I could see that the officials were excited at welcoming the new influx of pale Europeans. I sized up the three lines in the Customs Hall and chose the one with the jolly West Indian lady. Believing that her cheerfulness was probably an interrogation trap set for me, I swiftly switched lines to a guy who was whizzing people through like he had a taxi waiting outside to take him to Bob’s House of Punani and Ganj.
Lugging my oversized carry-on (that’s an argument I won’t go into) and sweating in my ski jacket, I approached the ‘We will shoot you if you cross the yellow line without being invited’ line with me and my bum coping relatively well. I was duly invited to cross The Line and approached the desk. Noticing my damp brow and apparent discomfort I was asked why I was sweating. In a split second I came up with a remarkably witty and clever reply: “Because I’m hot.”
He shot me a look of contempt, and began to slowly thumb through my passport. Bollocks. I was going to get grilled and sent to Camp X-Ray at Gitmo along with all the other tourists they don’t like the look of. He asked me about the school visa and work permits. Why did I go to school in the U.S.? Where did I work? What did I do in China? Have I ever been to a Turkish prison? What was I doing in Washington DC over New Years? Incredibly, he didn’t ask me about the big red “Uncle Sam says ‘Bugger Off!’” stamp I collected a few years ago. Instead he began tapping something into his computer (probably something like “Plant smack while performing full body cavity search”) when he grimaced and started thumping the keyboard. His computer had gone down. I was sent back to the end of the queue I had previously left and should have stayed in. The West Indian lady invited me over The Line, stamped my papers with a bright toothy smile and wished me an enjoyable visit in de islands.
Lynda was there to meet me, and asked if I would like to drive. In a confused combination of heat exhaustion, jet lag and relief at not having anything shoved in my cavities I said yes (after all, if your Chairman, CEO & President asked you to drive them somewhere I bet you would as well).
The Virgin Islands were formed by volcanic activity millions of years ago, so navigating the steep, twisty and narrow mountainous roads is quite an adventure. I was quickly reminded that not only do they have left-hand drive cars down there but they also drive on the left side of the road so that the driver is closest to the kerb. Weird, but I suppose anything to screw with the tourists.
The airport is located in the southeast of the island, with Lynda’s house being on a northern promontory called Peterborg. Twisting up and over the ridge of Crown Mountain, past the self-proclaimed St Thomas White House where Bill Clinton twice soiled the sheets (“Stay close to the gutter! Stay close to the gutter!” I told myself whilst driving). Dodging potholes, rummed-up nutter taxi drivers and confused tourists in their rentals I finally pulled in to the driveway. Two minutes later I was beside the pool with an ice-cold beer, the memory of the 15 hour journey already being faded by the sun.
Now for the historical bit. Located 40 miles east of Puerto Rico at the eastern end of the Lesser Antilles, the islands were discovered and named in 1493 by Christopher Columbus when he was out one day having a bit of a sail. Nothing much happened until the 1600s when St Thomas became a safe haven for pirates and buccaneers to sell their swag. During the 17th century, the archipelago was divided into two territorial units, one British and the other Danish. Sugarcane, produced by slave labour, drove the islands' economy during the 18th and early 19th centuries but when slavery was abolished in the mid-1800s the economy declined. For strategic military reasons the U.S. paid Denmark $25 million in 1917 for three islands. St Thomas, St John and St Croix now form the U.S. Virgin Islands, whilst neighbouring Tortola, Virgin Gorda and Jost Van Dyke comprise the British Virgin Islands (BVIs).
Today the primary industry is tourism, with about 2 million people visiting a year. St Thomas’s capital, Charlotte Amalie, is fortunate to have naturally deep waters which allow the mammoth cruise ships to disgorge their passengers directly on to the quayside. They arrive at dawn and, after tearing themselves away from the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet, squeeze into their Special Holiday Shorts that they wouldn’t be seen dead in back home and go shopping.
Not too long ago an island-hopping Caribbean cruise was considered a once-in-a-lifetime treat usually associated with older people, such as a couple celebrating their ruby wedding or perhaps retirement. Now with the advent of cruise ships the size of Wales a trip around the Caribbean has become affordable to many more people (“Want to celebrate getting that new tattoo? Hey, come on a cruise!”). As a result thousands of people a day descend on the small town centre, choking the narrow streets as they try and find their way to the Hard Rock Café whilst getting their hair braided and buying hilarious “I went to the Virgin Islands and now there’s one less” t-shirts.
After a fun-packed day riding around the island in a taxi or basting themselves in the sun on the fabulous beaches, it’s back on the ship at dusk for the evening feed and overnight voyage to the next island. Many of the passengers don’t even know what island they’ve visited, let alone what side of the road to drive on. Maybe I’m being a little mean and snobbish to the cruise-shippers, but the truth is they are absolutely vital to the economy of the island and it would be disastrous if they spent their money on something else (such as liposuction). Hell, I’ll probably be one myself one day. But only if I can’t unplug my life support machine first.
It has been two years since I was last here, when Lynda had just moved over from St John and purchased nine acres of land on the western tip of St Thomas called Botany Bay. A mile down a private road through lush forest, past Ermintrude the lawn-mowing cow and under screeching parrots (with poo not nearly as colourful as their feathers), you reach the house. Well, half of it. Two years ago the half was an abandoned hurricane wreck; now it’s a building site - albeit a very nice one.
Situated high up on a cliff the five bedroom house overlooks Mermaid’s Chair with several other islands in the distance as the sea sparkles to the horizon. The private beach can be reached by walking down to the vehicular turning circle (it’s actually a heli-pad built by the former owners, but that sounds oh-so-pretentious) and then down some steep steps to the beach. Unfortunately, it’s a bit rocky but the thin strip of sand stretches out to Little St Thomas, with waves from the Caribbean sea to the south sometimes reaching over the sand to kiss the Atlantic waves from the north. It’s a great location for snorkelling around the rocks and coral but the waves were a bit rough that day and I had visions of being dashed on the rocks and ending up not too dissimilar to Christopher Reeve. So I went and dozed in the hammock instead.
Because of the legendary bureaucracy in the islands – everything is done in ‘island time’ - it took eighteen months to get the necessary planning permission to start building LAWK’s first property. This, plus the fact that it’s rather hard to find qualified and reliable builders on such a small island, as Lynda found out to her cost. Despite glowing recommendations from so-called friends, the guy she hired was a bit of an arse when it came to building, and took the project way over budget. Consequently, Lynda called a LAWK board meeting in the swimming pool and it was decided that he should be fired. As expected, he sued claiming breach of contract and things continue to be a little ugly. As company secretary I felt there must be something I could do to help, so I went down to the beach to have a bit of a think.
Magens Bay has by far and away the best beach on the island. The powder white sand stretches for nearly a mile, forming a gentle heart-shaped arc that slips quietly into the crystal blue waters. I went to the eastern side of the bay which is as far as I could get from the snack bar where the taxis drop off the cruise-shippers jabbering away on their mobiles (“Guess where I am now…..no…..I can’t remember which island…..no…..the beach…..I’M ON THE BEACH! What?….a Bee Gee died?…..what a TRAGEDY!”). I dropped the snorkel gear and lubed up with the sunscreen. That’s when I saw the boobies.
There were just a couple at first, and then one came along on its own, looking a bit out of place. I didn’t have my glasses on so I couldn’t see as well as I would have liked but oh yes they were definitely boobies, flying effortlessly over the waves looking for their next meal. Pelicans were nearby too, circling above a school of fish before folding their wings back and dive-bombing their unsuspecting prey. I also saw plenty of frigatebirds, easily recognizable by their pointed wings and forked tails. Frigates are renowned for beating up other birds and stealing their food. When they spot one with food in its beak they fly after it and start pecking at their head. The victim gets so pissed off it drops the food and the frigatebird swoops down and picks it up, sometimes in mid-air. Unfortunately I didn’t get to witness this, but I did see a cruise-shipper drop a cheeseburger before picking it up off the sand hoping that nobody was watching (I didn’t really but I’m sure it has happened).
St Thomas has a population of about 50,000 with 80% being West Indian and the remainder rich whiteys from the mainland escaping the cold. Of course, this isn’t strictly true. Being a U.S. territory any citizen can go down there and work freely, which is what plenty of people do after falling in love with the scenery and climate. However, many become overwhelmed by island fever after a few months and go back north.
One night I was sitting in a dockside bar called Latitude 18 listening to a remarkably good cover band. It was packed with casually dressed locals (white locals not local locals). It was hard to tell who were the rich ‘snowbirds’ wintering in the tropics and who were the locals relaxing after a hard day selling insurance or working at the check-out. Then the band played ‘If I Had $1,000,000’ by the Bare Naked Ladies, and it became obvious. Those of us without a million dollars were whooping and singing along dreaming of expensive art (a Picasso or a Garfunkel, as the song goes), whilst the snowbirds sat quietly horrified, probably thinking to themselves ‘If I only had a million dollars I’d have to sell the yacht and get a smaller place in the Hamptons.’
One snowbird I met was a very cool 87-year old woman from Massachusetts. Lynda had become quite friendly with her as she owns the land near to her at Botany Bay and together they fought and beat developers wanting to buy their land and build hideous condos. Carla Casagrande and her family escaped Nazi Germany and ended up in Boston where her husband taught civil engineering at Harvard. Before leaving their homeland her husband had designed and built the autobahns and Carla had been a photographer. She had the good fortune – if you could call it that - to cover the Berlin Olympics in 1936 where she took famous pictures of Jesse Owens winning his gold medals in front of a furious and embarrassed Hitler.
The Casagrandes first found the islands in 1954 before it had been discovered by tourists and quickly realized they had found something special. They built a house on St Thomas and, although her husband has passed away, she lives in that same house from December to May, still knocking back her lethal gin and cointreau cocktails and taking photos (in fact she just had her work exhibited in a Boston gallery). I just hope I’m that sharp and cool when I’m 87 (or 37 for that matter). At least I’ll know that I won’t be being wheeled around on a cruise ship.
This trip wasn’t all hanging out with old folk, stressing about the building and board meetings (although the one in the swimming pool is the only one I can remember). We did manage a couple of days relaxing and exploring other islands. One day we took an exhilarating high-speed catamaran for the 75 minute trip to St Croix and spent the day driving around the island. We also took a (tax deductible) business trip over to Tortola in the BVIs. Lynda wanted to get ideas for colour combinations for the house so we rented a jeep and I promptly got us lost, which is quite an achievement on such a small island.
Even though Tortola is British I again had to go through the immigration rigmarole, and for some reason I can not go and move there and work like the Americans can in the USVI. Sailing and scuba diving are the major attractions to these islands, and it’s not hard to see why. Hundreds of coral reefs and desert islands are just a short sail away, including Cooper Island which locals insist inspired Robert Louis Stephenson to write Treasure Island, and Dead Chest Island where Blackbeard left his 15 men with a yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
There are a couple of nice beaches on Tortola, including the hidden Smugglers Cove. Half a mile down an extremely bumpy and twisty unmade road we came to the beach. Lynda told me that there was a famous beach bar down there that had the Lincoln Continental the Queen and Prince Philip toured the island with in 1977. The bar has been around for over 30 years, but unfortunately the owner had died several months earlier and is now closed. The car is still there, and I tried the doors but they were locked.
Another interesting bar on the island is called Bomba’s Shack. Made out of the junk and driftwood washed up on the beach it has to be rebuilt every year as it is normally destroyed by hurricanes. This place is also known for its Full Moon parties when tourists and locals alike get out of their heads on magic mushrooms washed down with gallons of rum. Unfortunately, we were a couple of days early for the Full Moon, so we took the ferry back to St Thomas.
After a day of phone calls with lawyers and arguing with the builder, Lynda was a little stressed out. That’s not much fun to be around so I suggested we go over to St John and get a sail boat. The ferry to St John runs every hour from Red Hook on the east of St Thomas, across the Pillsbury Sound and arrives 15 minutes later at Cruz Bay. It’s the only way to get to the island, and travelling with the commuters on the 8am boat with the sun shining and stiff sea breeze in the air I couldn’t help but think of my daily nightmare on the (French-owned) cattle-train that sometimes makes it in to London. Oh the choices we make!
St John is the smallest and by far the prettiest of the three U.S. islands. Two-thirds of it was once owned by the Rockefellers who donated it to the nation in 1956. It has enjoyed National Park status ever since and so development has been minimal, and what a blessing that is. We came over to meet Captain Bob and his boat, Spree, for a morning of leisurely sailing around the nearby cays and islands. Bob first sailed Spree down from Michigan 17 years ago and he’s been there ever since.
We spent the morning sailing around and snorkelling. Now, I’m not a strong swimmer, but with a couple of flippers and a snorkel I do OK (as long as I don’t stop because for some reason I have a tendency to sink). So I gob in my mask and jump in. Immediately I was struck by the beauty of the coral – literally, as my foot hit a big old piece of brain coral. I swam with brightly-coloured angel fish, a mean looking barracuda and was fortunate to swim with a turtle. Next time I think I’ll give scuba a try and go find me some sunken treasure.
Relaxing back on deck with a cold one I thought of the long trip back home the next day, squashed on a plane with my sunburnt knees scraping on the seat in front. I thought for a moment that I could engage in a mutiny on the Spree and get Capt Bob to sail me around the islands picking up scantily-clad nymphs skilled in the art of making burritos. Alas, Capt Bob had to get back ashore and pick his missus up from work.
Maybe next time.
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