“ Ch’yea mon, ain’t no DUI laws on the island.” Is a phrase that resonates through my brain like a chamber orchestra in a cathedral. I can still see the Scooter Rental Clerk’s face in my head as he told me this fun fact about Bahamian legislature with a big smile. He was young, maybe 19 and obviously blazed on what might have been a better choice for that morning than the gin and tonic I was practically sweating out of my pores from the night before. Freeport, Bahamas was the first stop on the Carnival Cruise my longtime childhood friend and I decided to take for a summer vacation. I had no idea that the next few hours would be some of the strangest I have ever experienced.
The day started off great, as so
many do before disaster rears its ugly head like a desert python. Greg and I
rented scooters because we figured it would be a fun way to see the first
island we would visit in the five day cruise. No lines for tour buses, no taxis
taking us to gift shops covered with plastic flamingos and t-shirts made in
china. No tourist bars filled with more douchebags than a Planned Parenthood
stock room. We wanted real. We wanted one hundred percent, unadulterated, real-life,
Bahamas. How dangerous could a scooter be?
I kept thinking to myself. I had ridden a motorcycle before and this was much
more simple. After-all the scooters were for tourists like us. I was sure there
had been a million dumbass Americans just like us who had climbed their fat
asses onto the back of those godforsaken machines and made it back to port 100%
unscathed before the boat left.
“You realize that the whole place
could be like Rucker Park? It could literally be one giant ghetto with a beach
and a gift shop.” Greg laughed at the idea of us rolling through a tough
neighborhood on brightly colored motorscooters, sporting flip flops and
sunscreen. Not to mention Greg is a seven foot tall red headed giant. “I don’t
care.” I replied, feeling like a strong mix of Hunter S. Thompson and Steve
Zissou. “If that is what the Bahamas is, then I want to drink 40s and smoke
blunts outside a local gas station. I want to learn how the locals live.”
So off we went on our 180cc motor scooters
smelling strongly of various liquors from the lobby bar on the ship and into
the sun of a warm Bahamian day. The island’s architecture had a ranging
combination between run down shops and buildings that looked like they were
built in the late 70s, with of course the occasional rusted-out factory/plant.
In true form, Greg rode 15 under the speed
limit in the fast lane while we both sloppily adjusted to the new “drive on the
left side of the road” rule that the scooter rental guy also mentioned
enthusiastically as we sped into the distance. Every few minutes I would have
to turn around and scream “Keep up with traffic!” or “Be careful”! to Greg, as
angry Bahamians sped past us in their dust covered Hondas, honking their horns
in frustration.
The majority of people we saw were black and
as we got further off the beaten trail, we got increasingly more and more odd
looks from the people we passed. One white boy and one giant white boy on two
small neon scooters, putting slowly through East-end Freeport was something
that these people obviously hadn’t seen every day. I felt a ting of adventure
in my heart, something I hadn’t experienced since 2010 when I visited China.
The feeling was ecstasy, no pun intended to the Cruise Ship’s name that had
brought us there. I live for feelings like that.
Suddenly, feeling sober enough to
drink again, I decided we should pull over to a local grocery shop where we
could sample some of the local Red Stripe 40 oz. bottles of beer and a 2 liter
of water to wash away last night’s hangover. As we walked into the grocery
store, near the sliding door stood one of the biggest security bouncers (or
loss prevention clerks as white America might call it) I have ever seen. He
looked like I would imagine one would look if Rick Ross and Ronnie Coleman
missed the Morning After pill together and birthed a future felon. Needless to
say we acquired the beer and left immediately.
We continued to ride down the
street until finally I slowed down on my scooter so Greg could catch up. Greg
made the scooter look like a Fischer Price Big Wheel, though he looked like he
was having fun. “Let’s race!” I screamed to him and pulled back the throttle on
my scooter. He pulled back on his and we were off. In just a few seconds I
already had a serious lead on him, and just as I tilted back a victory swig of
the Red Stripe, I saw the speed bumps. Now I find that god sends more irony my
way than just about anyone I know, but I wasn’t about to let the speed bumps
get the best of my reckless behavior. I
leaned my weight some and shot over the speed bump quickly and continued along
the road. Just as I realized I should have yelled a warning to Greg about the
speed bumps it was too late. Like a scene in some strange French New Wave film,
life seemed to Jump Cut to Greg laying on the ground in the middle of the road
while curious Bahamians gathered around to see if he was dead. I didn’t see the
spill, but I saw the aftermath from a distance. My heart began to beat faster
and faster as I turned the scooter around and zoomed back.
I pulled up to a circle of gawking people and
watched as my friend opened his eyes, looked around and suddenly stood up. I
had a sigh of relief until I saw the blood pouring from his leg and pieces of
his skin tissue covering the scooter where the kick stand had cut a four inch
long gash in his calf. Mouths open, the whole circle gawked at the amount of
blood we were witnessing spill onto the road. I yanked my t-shirt off quickly
and tightly tied it around the open wound. Greg sounded delirious and
just about ready to pass out as he reassured the group of strangers that he was
going to be alright. “I’m alright, yall….” his voice would trail off. I never
know what to say when I’m comforting someone, even when my ex-girlfriends would
get upset about something all I had was “It will be ok”. So naturally I wasn’t
sure how to handle this with Greg. “You’ve got this. This shit is nothing.” I
reassured Greg as I poured water over his head like a trainer at a heavy weight
boxing match. I yelled “call the hospital!” At the gawking crowd, they
complied. The ambulance finally came after 30 minutes. It sauntered – no, it
mamboed slowly down the street at the same breath-taking pace of an 85 year old
geriatric woman. Again god gave me a wink and a laugh as the hospital was only
a few blocks away from the accident.
I spent the next five hours
watching Greg get stitched up, X-rayed, poked at and prodded on while I wore
nothing but a blue swim suit, sandals, sunscreen and my wallet. I was the only
white person, completely shirtless, amongst stab victims, tons of pregnant
mothers, screaming children and a guy who had lost a fight with a fork lift. I’ve
never been stared at so much in my life. The entire time I would go into the
operating room and tell the doctor “we really have to catch this ship” or “We
need to go soon”. The only thing worse than being stuck in a hospital is being
stuck there in a foreign country while a boat sails away with all of your luggage.
Finally the doctor said we were free to go.
We promised the taxi a big tip as he
sped towards the cruise ship, weaving dangerously through rush hour traffic. We
were thirty minutes late to when we were due back on the boat, but in that
moment I was more concerned with crashing into a brick wall. I gritted my teeth
at one point when the taxi sped off road and zoomed past a tour bus. They were
just about to close the door to the ship when we pulled up to the dock like the
Crazy Taxi video game and ran (Greg hopped) back onto the boat and into safety.
As the elevator softly rumbled up
toward our room Greg and I paused and looked at each other.
“That
was awesome.” I said to Greg. It was the only way for me to describe that day.
“Yeah
it was.” Is all he said back. Then there was silence all except for the sound
of the elevator.
