Caribbean

The American Dream and the Colonial Nightmare

One of my college friends texted me last summer with an outrageous and unusual invitation: “Would you be able to be in Martinque Dec 10…?” He had just bought a custom 40’ catamaran to be delivered in Martinique from the shipbuilders in France– an extravagance I would not have imagined for him, or for me. In 1998, he had come to Stanford from halfway around the world with a backpack and a full scholarship. Through a series of jobs at tech companies over 20 years he had become a homeowner in the Bay Area, a US Citizen, and now a yacht owner inviting his friends to the Caribbean!  It was all a bit shocking. I enthusiastically accepted his invitation. 

On board for seven days, we experienced all the cliches of the Caribbean– warm turquoise waters, steady winds, tropical fruits, and evening drinks with tiny umbrellas.  There was much to delight in, including the powerful illustration of (one version of) The American Dream.

But there was another dream playing out just outside the boat: the intertwined nightmares of colonization and slavery. Each of the islands we visited – Martinique, St. Lucia, and St. Vincent – have distinct stories, but follow a similar pattern. In the 1500’s, European explorers arrived on fancy boats to explore, and soon after stake their claim over the local land and people. While they were disappointed to not find gold, they soon realized they could plant sugar cane and other tropical crops –some of which could be  sold for more than their weight in gold! 

Seeing big profit potential, they enslaved the indigenous population, most of whom quickly died. Next they brought indentured servants from Europe, but they, too, crumpled under the conditions. Finally, they began importing and enslaving Africans,spurring the transatlantic slave trade. These islands were so profitable that in 1764, when France was given the choice to keep Martinique or all of Canada, they chose the tiny island.  France and England fought over St. Lucia fourteen times! St Vincent was similarly the focus of conflict as Europeans traded blood (both African and European) for money over hundreds of years. 

As sugar prices tanked and slavery became untenable, the economics of these islands no longer made much sense as colonies. The colonizers eventually left (except in Martinque, which is still part of France). The indigenous populations had been almost entirely wiped out.  The people who remained were primarily the descendents of African slaves, brutally selected for their ability to survive over hundreds of years of abuse. 

So there we were, roughly 500 years after the first foreigners arrived on fancy boats to explore this new world. The locals paddled out to meet us, offering to sell the literal fruits of the islands, and perhaps upsell us with other services. 

I had surprised myself by catching a barracuda as we crossed from St. Lucia to St. Vincent, so I needed a little local expertise on how to cook it for dinner. John (name changed for privacy), a local who had brought his skiff up to our boat to greet us was eager to help. He offered to take it to his sister to have it cooked, and said he’d bring it back to the boat. I asked if I might tag along to learn how she did it. He winked and suggested that I might like to have sex with his sister while the fish was cooking.  I declined, but we agreed I would accompany him back to his house. I put the barracuda in a bucket and hopped on board the skiff. 

The sun was setting as we pulled John’s skiff on land at Barrouallie, just two coves away from the Walilabou Bay where we were mooring with three other yachts. Several men were bringing the meat of a killer whale off of drying racks and into storage. The Bequai people are among very few on earth who still hunt Orcas. They offered me a small cube and encouraged me to try it while they watched. Gulp. Cultural immersion. 

We walked over concrete rubble inland toward a dilapidated town, alive with deafeningly loud island music and scores of  young men, shirtless and shoeless, well into happy hour with bottles of rum in hand. There were nods of greeting as John took a few shots of rum and paraded me through the center of some pretty tough looking guys. I was getting a little uneasy.  “It’s good for me, and good for you, to show them we are here together,” he explained. I agreed. 

We found John’s “sister”, bathing herself from a bucket in an alleyway. She was not interested in cooking the fish so John approached another woman nearby who rolled her eyes and agreed to cook it for us. She said making rice would take at least half an hour, which was starting to sound kind of dicey to me as the sun began to set. I hadn’t thought this through and was pretty far outside my comfort zone already. 

John asked me to hang back for a few minutes while he picked up some “white” for another client. Apparently he planned to make a cocaine delivery on the way back to the yachts. My interest in leaving grew much stronger. After several assertions in both directions that “everything is cool” and smiles all around, we agreed to leave the bucket of fish and cocaine behind.  We hopped back into the skiff and headed back to my bubble of imagined safety, on board the boat. 

About an hour later, I heard a skiff engine coming toward the catamaran in the blackness. Sure enough, it was John with a fried barracuda, rice, and sauce. He asked if we would like a tour of the island waterfalls tomorrow. We declined, but I offered him my headlamp.  As he cruised away I watched the light illuminate the side of another yacht nearby as he made what I imagine must have been his other delivery. 

From fruit seller to concierge, pimp,  drug dealer, tour guide and food delivery man, John is doing it all, Faced with a juxtaposition of extreme poverty and privilege, John is doing what he can to access the wealth that comes sailing in. And what else can he do? His ancestors were enslaved for centuries and then marooned on this island with very little in the way of functioning institutions, education, or tax base. He’s playing to the market he has access to, and as I lay in bed that night, I found myself respecting his hustle at the intersection of the American Dream and the Colonial nightmare. 

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