Going to Town

by Nancy Hauswald (United States of America)

Making a local connection Bahamas

Going to Town After nine days of blissful sailing among uninhabited islands in the Bahamas, Jon and I were looking forward to stopping at Staniel Cay, a small (less than one square mile) island located about 80 miles southeast of Nassau. Although home to fewer than 100 permanent residents, Staniel lies near the midpoint of the Exuma Cays and, as such, offers cruising sailors like us some important services including, we’d been told, a post office. Shortly after anchoring "Merry Yarn", our mahogany yawl, we dinghy ashore and head straight for the Staniel Cay Yacht Club, the unofficial epicenter of the island. Isabelle, the club’s bartender, was reputed to double as the island’s Tourism Information Officer. We order two Kaliks (the “Beer of the Bahamas”) and, after a decent interval, ask Isabelle if she’d be kind enough to tell us how to find the post office. “Der is no post office, but if Hazel be home, you can mail. You go down de road den up de path to de aqua shed near de blue house. Pull de rope, like de sign she says.” Piece of cake. We find de aqua shed, de rope, and we pull. Up the hill, we hear the faint tinkling of a bell. A woman appears at the door of the blue house. “Yes? What do you want?” “Are you Hazel? Isabelle told us that you might help us mail some letters.” Hazel makes her way very slowly—we are definitely on island time—down the hill. She indicates that Jon and I are to sit down with her on a low stone wall next to the aqua shed. We know the drill. We need to discuss the weather before discussing business. “It’s so nice here under your shady tree.” “Yes. The sun, she be hot. Let me see de letters.” We follow Hazel to the aqua shed. She unlocks the door (Who would break into this little shed? For what?) and we go inside. A few dusty boxes of Christmas cards are on a shelf to one side; some canned goods are stacked next to them. An empty cardboard box sits on the floor next to the door. Hazel goes behind the counter and counts our 10 letters, each destined for the U.S. She fishes a pencil stub from a pocket in her dress and laboriously writes “45¢” in the right corner of each envelope. Now that our letters are “stamped,” Hazel counts them again, just to be sure. (Of what, I’m not certain. But then, I’m not the postmistress.) Moving on, I hand Hazel a somewhat-heavy manila envelope that I want to mail to friends in Man-O-War Cay, an island approximately 275 miles north in the Abacos. “How do we know how many stamps dis needs?” “Uhm, we thought perhaps that you might be able to tell us.” “Well, a letter to Man-O-War costs 30¢.” We all pause, trying to figure out how best to use this information until I say, “How about $4. Would that be enough?” Hazel protests, “No, No. Dat would be too much, way too much.” I suggest that Hazel puts whatever postage she thinks appropriate on the envelope and buy herself a little treat with the leftover money. “Dat is a good idea. Veddy good idea.” Negotiations concluded, I hand Hazel $10.00, she smiles, and the three of us head outside. At the door, we watch as Hazel dumps our mail into the cardboard box on the floor. I catch Jon’s eyes, he rolls his. But who are we to question Bahamian postal practices? “Thank you so much, Hazel. It was a pleasure to meet you.” “You be welcome. Have a good day.” As we turn to walk back into town, Hazel stops to give us a pocket calendar. We thank her profusely and put it in our canvas boat bag. Back at Isabelle’s bar for another round of Kaliks, Jon pulls the calendar out, smiles, and hands it to me. Printed on its cover are the words, “Isles General Store, Staniel Cay, Bahamas. Life is Fragile, Handle with Prayer.” Is it any wonder that we get so excited about going to town?