The Day of the Iguana

Doug and I loved going to Aruba. It’s a beautiful, arid island that’s small enough to travel end-to-end in a day, but full of beautiful vistas and quirky spots like Charlie’s Bar where business cards from around the world layer the walls. In the early 90’s, touring the island meant leaving the two areas where resorts were located. At the time, all of the high-rise hotels were located along one long sandy stretch. This meant you could easily walk up and down the beach, choosing from any of the cantinas, cabanas and sandy spots. A pink tractor – the booze-mobile – covered the entire area, so you could plop down for the day, with all your needs, wants and desires close at hand, napping to the sound of the waves, and the scent of coconut and pineapple.

One day, we decided to take a break from lying in the sun and getting drunk to exercise and do some sight-seeing. We saw a sign for bike rentals and hatched a plan. The sign did not say “functioning” bike rentals, nor “properly sized” bicycles, but we didn’t let that stop us. I managed to wobble out of there on a bike so small my knees nearly hit my chin. Doug’s was slightly better, but not by much.

Did I mention that Aruba is arid? That’s code for really, stinking hot without humidity – a heat that sneaks up on you when you are riding a child’s bicycle for miles across rugged landscape. We had a notion to bike to the top of a nearby mountain but abandoned that idea by the time we got to its base.

Instead, we turned down a laneway (pictured), hoping we were heading in the direction of our hotel. Neither of us wanted to admit to the other that we were horribly out of shape, possibly lost, and missing the beach and the booze-mobile. Lurching down the laneway, we stopped for breath.

There, in a field beside us, were hundreds if not thousands of iguanas. They ran from the long grass and brush on one side, across the open field, only to disappear again on the long grass and brush on the other side. I can still picture them, iguanas of all colours and sizes, large and small, brown and green, hopping and racing across the field. And, just as suddenly, they were gone.

A herd of iguanas had just raced from one side to the other and now all was stillness. Not a blade of grass moved. My husband and I looked at each other in wonderment. “Did we just see that?” Giddy with joy we returned the rickety bikes and made our way back to the beach. We had seen something exciting and new. Something magical.

We were content to spend the rest of the week flopping on chaise lounges, waddling to cantinas and barbeque pits for food, while keeping an eye out for the pink booze-mobile. Ah. Our vacation was complete.

Photo credit Doug Whittall

Comments

In the Manger with Jesus

Young children have a hard time understanding complex ideas and things they can’t see. This is why they say the darndest things as adults struggle to explain concepts like God, death, and the small microbes that live on their grubby little fingers which they should wash before supper. My nephew, we’ll call him Sebastien, was four years old when my father passed away. Dad had Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and while he had trouble breathing and didn't have much energy, he always had time to read a story or share some red grapes with Sebastien. There were lots of naps in the big easy chair with Grampa. When Dad got sicker, the chair was moved out of the front room to make way for a hospital bed. Dad died on December 24, 2009, as my brother and I held his hands and my mother stroked his face. At Sebastien’s house, his mother struggled to explain what had happened. Why there would be no more naps, stories or grapes with Grampa. “His get-better-bed didn’t work,” s...

Red

Mother summons me to her office on Monday morning to scold me and I’m transported back in time. I’m five years old. Her red pinched lips are shouting and her red-tipped finger is wagging at me. You horrible bad girl, where is Mother’s sweater? What did you do with it? I’d taken it to bed with me, to feel something soft that smelled like her mix of menthol cigarettes and Chanel Number Five. While she and the rest of the family were skiing in Mount Tremblant, I’d explored our big empty house, including Mother’s walk-in closet. The sweater, cashmere, lay crumpled on the floor. I hid there, amongst her clothes, shoes, purses and scarves, missing my family – my father who was rarely home but smiled and sometimes told me stories; my boisterous teenage brothers, who were rarely home but sometimes played games with me; and my mother who was always home and whom I tried so very hard to emulate and please. I hid the sweater under a pillow in my frilly pink bedroom. Rosi...

The Fall

“It’s not the fall that kills you,” Tom Rafuse always used to say. “It’s the landing!” Millicent Dunbar – Millie – heard Tom tell the gag many, many times. He had an easygoing manner, a penchant for pocket protectors, and the meaty paunch and polyester wardrobe of a much-beloved high school shop teacher, which he was. Tom’s wife, Rose, was downright dim – always at his side, looking up adoringly. Millie watched their delightful backyard barbeques through her kitchen window. Tom’s monster hamburgers and stupid repetitive jokes; Rose’s exquisite potato salad and chilled cherry cheesecake. Of course, the laughter stopped when Rose was found dead at the bottom of the cellar stairs, her blood pooling under shelves of raspberry jelly and pickled beets. It was, indeed, the landing and not the fall that killed her. The coroner ruled the cause of death a broken neck. The manner of death she left undetermined. A tall detective with an odd moustache came to question Tom daily fo...

Words By Whittall

Search This Blog