Commuting to Paradise

by Judith Mackay (Canada)

Making a local connection Bahamas

There’s no question my commute to work is one heck of a haul. The perception that business travel isn’t really like working is a myth, especially after 9/11. Travel restrictions and security checks, obscene wait times, and the overall dehumanizing experience air travel has become, not to mention the separation from family, begs the question, “Why do it?” Well, because if I have to work for a living, I might as well work in Paradise, or to be more precise, Paradise Island. When the plane’s rubber wheels hit the runway in Nassau, The Bahamas, my fellow seatmates shift into vacation mode. But for me, 2,200 kilometres away from home, my work week has just begun. Nassau, the capital of The Bahamas, is located on New Providence. It’s a favourite tourist destination for royalty and regular folks. At last count, in 2017, more than six million tourists visited The Bahamian archipelago chain of 700 islands, cays and inlets. The Atlantis Resort and Casino and the exclusive One & Only Ocean Club on Paradise Island, owned by the company I do contract work for, attract both the high roller and the stroller crowd. But before I can cross the bridge spanning Nassau Harbour that separates New Providence from Paradise Island, or PI, as it’s locally known, I need to clear customs and pick up my rental car. Live calypso music follows a flood of tourists through the automatic sliding glass doors, and out onto a road of controlled chaos. A host of tour operators hold up paddle signs displaying their company’s name in one hand while clutching a clipboard with the other, while white stretch limos and mini-van taxi owners politely solicit customers. Further down the curb are two idling hotel motor coaches belching out diesel fumes. The mix of toxic exhaust and the heavy humid air smacks me in the face as I push through the crowd towards my rental. But first, I scan the parking lot to stock up on my favourite local cuisine. The Trunk Lady is easy to find in an ocean of cars in the massive outdoor parking lot. It’s just past noon on Sunday, and a small group of airport workers, wearing fluorescent orange pinnies, huddle around a boat-size car at the far end of the lot. I fiddle in my purse for my lanyard that holds my work ID, a not so subtle signifier that separates me from a tourist. My valid work permit means I’m obliged to follow all the rules and regulations of the Bahamian Government, which means it’s illegal for me to gamble in the casinos, as it is for every resident of The Bahamas. My tag dangles from my neck, and clunks against the lip of the trunk as I peer into its gaping opening. Large silver chafing dishes covered in tinfoil hold a mixed menu of Bahamian cuisine, influenced by waves of war, slave trade, pirates, and European explorers. Two men banter back and forth, “I want the neck, I want the neck,” pointing to a tray of Jerk chicken. She has baked Mac & Cheese, cut into generous squares the size of bricks, as well as traditional Peas n’ Rice, made with locally grown pigeon peas, and seasoned with tomatoes, onions, and Caribbean spices. Suddenly my Queen’s English slips into a Bahamian patois as I blurt out, “alla dat.” She uses a large silver spatula to place a block of Mac & Cheese into a white Styrofoam container, followed by a scoop of Peas n’ Rice. I plunge my hand into a blue metal cooler filled with ice, water, and pop, and pull out a Goombay Punch, a sugary soft drink manufactured only in The Bahamas. “O’ tho ting too,” I say, handing her an American ten in exchange for my carb and caffeine-infused meal. I slide into the driver’s seat, buckle up, and channel my Bahamian mantra: Keep left, look right. Keep left, look right, to remind myself British road rules apply here, although I’m a Canadian girl, paying in American tender. Confusing? Not for me, because for the last 15 years I’ve connected with this beautiful country I call Paradise.