Isla Margaritaville

Isla Margaritaville

A travel essay by Luther Hughes

©2006 by Luther Hughes.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy Conventions. Published in the United States by Waccamaw Press

South Carolina

ISBN (10 digit) 0-9785857-0-4

ISBN (13 digit) 978-0-9785857-0-9

ISBN for the eBook edition 978-0-9785857-2-3

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E-mail me what you think of this book to waccamawpress@gmail.com

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This crazy story is dedicated to Doug Fisk and all the other members of the Poverty Jet Set.

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Part I:

Here’s an introduction and a prologue that takes place mostly in South Carolina.

The Idea to Flee

Scarcely off the northern coast of South America is a small pearl of an island imaginatively named Isla Margarita. Christopher Columbus gave the island its name on August 15, 1498. I suppose he didn't like the name the island already had: Paraguachoa. Nonetheless, he claimed he named the island Margarita because it was full of pearls. Later, while I was visiting Margarita a man told me that Margarita is Greek for Pearl. I looked up pearl in a Greek dictionary and found this: μαργαρίτησ. I don’t know if μαργαρίτησ is pronounced Margarita. Moreover, why would Columbus give an island a Greek name?

In reality, Columbus probably named the island after a girl, Princess Margarita of Austria. The pearl story must have been to cover his affection for the princess. Be that as it may, 507 years later I ended up fleeing a troubled marriage to spend a month on Isla Margarita with my then seven-year-old daughter, Mariana.

Jimmy Buffet sang the following:

Some people claim that there's a woman to blame, but I know it's my own damn fault.

Is that why I went? Could be.

Before I begin this account of my travels to Isla Margarita, I must give the reader some prologuical information. By the way, prologuical is a word that I made up. Thus, I hope it catches on. Anyway, first, I assumed that the few people who actually will purchase this book do not all speak Spanish. Therefore, I gave accounts of much of the Spanish conversations in English. On the other hand, when the meaning was clear using the surrounding context, I gave the account in the version of Spanish that I have learned unedited. In other words, I did not correct my poor Spanish for the purpose of this book. If I corrected the Spanish I spoke or heard, this would not be an honest account of my journey, and would have made me sound much smarter than I actually am. Besides that, Spanish words are full of accent marks, and I was too lazy to figure out where to put them. Besides Spanish mistakes, there may also be a few English grammar errors. I did my best to edit this book, but I’m sure I missed a few mistakes. The writer Paulo Coehlo wrote, in his book The Zahir, that he reads and corrects his books three times before sending them off to be read and corrected again. After I wrote this book, I read it three times and corrected the mistakes I found. If you are a Grammar-Nazi, get over it and enjoy the book.

Also, I changed the names of a few people to avoid any embarrassment. I wanted to tell an honest tale without hurting anyone’s feelings. Therefore, I felt it was necessary to change just a few names. To me nothing is funnier than us humans. For that reason, we laugh at ourselves, and we laugh at each other. My hope is that we can laugh at the absurdity and silliness of life without seeming to make fun of people.

I just wrote this book, because it was fun to write it. In the grand scheme of things a daddy and his little daughter’s little trip to a little island off the coast of South America isn’t really a big deal. However, the trip had some funny moments and I hope I can make the readers laugh a little.

Furthermore, I don’t care whether five or five million people read this story. This is liberating, because I can write whatever I want to write without worrying whether or not someone will tell his or her friends to buy this book.

Finally, all the historical and geographical facts I gave in this book are strictly anecdotal. This is not a scholarly report on the island of Margarita. This is a travel essay that takes the reader with me on my journey from a small town in South Carolina to Isla Margarita. Now back to the story…

☼

The genesis of my idea to travel to Isla Margarita came to mind on some Friday night in the Living Room Coffee House and Used Book Shop in Myrtle Beach. I believe it was March. Originally, my summer travel plan was to travel to China with my two children and my brother in order to visit my friend, Ted. Ted was married to a missionary named Kathleen and lived in Beijing. He and I had talked of camping on the Great Wall and visiting Tibet. Taking my daughters to China sounded like a great way to spend a summer. However, on that fateful night my plans would suddenly change.

Every Friday night at 6:30, a friendly group met at the aforementioned coffee bar to speak Spanish for a few hours. Most members of this fun gathering actually spoke Spanish. I, on the other hand, made a feeble attempt. Below I will recount the conversation that I had on the fateful night that I decided to travel to Isla Margarita.

Aroura, a smartly dressed Colombiana in her sixties, asked me (in Spanish), Where are you going this summer?

I answered in stuttering Spanish using the incorrect verb tenses, I'm going to China with my brother to visit my friend, Ted. He's married to a missionary and lives in Beijing.

Nicholas, a sixty-eight-year-old American of Spanish parents, asked me, Are you taking Mariana and Zoë?

Por supuesto, I answered, of course I am.

Rosalyn, a twenty-eight-year-old slender Venezuelan, walked into the shop. She wore a pink skirt that draped loosely over her hips and a white shirt that hugged her slender waist tightly. After kind greetings with all, she sat down with the group, which numbered about eight. My seven-year-old daughter, Mariana sat in the corner reading a book she had taken off the shelf.

My two-year-old daughter, Zoë, sat on my lap and stuffed her face with a chocolate brownie. She only ate half the brownie leaving the uneaten half smeared on her face and my white shirt. Rosalyn asked Nicholas about a Caribbean cruise Nick took with his wife. Eventually, they began talking about Caribbean islands. Have you ever been to Isla Margarita? she asked him, but in Spanish.

No. Where is that?

It's part of Venezuela. I went there when I was a child. It has beautiful beaches with beautiful women in tiny bikinis.... She continued telling Nick about Isla Margarita, and the more she spoke, the more I wanted to go. As she continued to articulate about the island, I pictured it as the mythical land of Margaritaville. By the time she was telling Nick about the empanadas, I was nibbling on sponge cake and watching the sun bake all those tourists covered with oil.

Then she turned to me, Where are you going this summer, Lucas? Most Spanish speaking people referred to me as Lucas, because it is easier than Luther.

I woke from my daydream and replied without missing a beat, Isla de Margarita.

¿De verdad? she asked.

Then Aroura asked, this time in English, I thought you said that you were going to China.

I changed my mind.

Before leaving the café I purchased a $2.00 used copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. Then, I was actually on the road heading home with little Zoë sleeping in her car seat and Mariana sitting in the back seat using a flashlight to read a Judy Blume novel. A not yet full waxing moon reflected sunlight on night clouds to my right. Billions of unseen stars hid behind the light and the clouds. Light reflected off the large moon and the clouds making the night bright enough to cast shadows. Nothing feels better on the skin than a cool breeze blowing off the Atlantic on a warm Carolina night. I rolled down the window and that wind felt easy against my face. Margarita Island. Isla Margarita. The idea of going to some little spot on a map that I knew nothing about was so appealing to me that night. The more I thought about it, the unknown mysteries of that place captivated me and dominated my thought. From that night on, despite the location of my body, my mind was on that tiny island that I knew almost nothing about.

By the time I parked my car outside my house, I had devised a plan of sorts. My plan was to drive my little old piece-of-shit Honda from South Carolina to Miami and then fly to Isla Margarita with my two children. The only problem was convincing my future ex-wife.

I carried Zoë into the house and washed the chocolate off her face and brushed her teeth while she slept. This child could sleep through anything, I thought. The difficult task came next.

Karen was my future ex-wife and, unfortunately, my nemesis. Over the four years prior to this journey we had been separated about as much as we had lived together. Karen is a pretty and intelligent woman who deserved someone better than me. Despite the fact that we had lived together on and off, she disliked me more than she liked me. In fact, her disdain for me approached pure hatred. This was not a conducive environment for compromise. Nonetheless, I felt I needed to work something out with her prior to taking our children away for the summer.

☼

Karen, I've decided that China would be too expensive this summer. Why don't we go to this island called Margarita? I asked her.

What do you mean we? she replied.

I mean we could all travel down there together, and I’ll stay with the girls after your vacation time runs out. What do you think?

No way, Luther! I'm not going to another Spanish country.

Where do you want to go?

I want to go to Hawaii and visit Patty Jo.

OK. Then, can I take the kids with me?

You can take Mariana, but leave Zoë with me.

At any rate, we reached a compromise: Karen was off to Hawaii (at my expense), and I was off to Isla Margarita for a month with Mariana. I know now how the framers of the constitution must have felt after reaching the Three-Fifths Compromise. How could I take one daughter and leave the other behind? I felt guilty for not including little Zoë in my plans. On the other hand, I tried to justify this decision by trying to believe that at two years old Zoë was too young to go, but I knew I was lying to myself. On the other hand, each of our daughters were able to spend a month alone with one parent. Still, as I type these words, I regret not taking Zoë with me.

Cross-Eyed Mechanics and a One-Armed Bandit

Raymond's Stop and Shop was a tiny dusty store with a tiny dusty garage and old rusty gas pumps out front. Raymond called everybody baby: Young, old, male, and female. Two old men sat on the bench in front of the store all day long talking kindly to everyone who walked past them. One of the old man had just one leg and wore thick round glasses. The other old man’s mouth was tobacco stained, and nearly all of his hair and teeth were long gone. Both gentlemen still managed to smile and wave to the customers as they walked up to the store. The aisles in the store were too narrow to accommodate all the people. Of all the people in the store, two, at any given time, might have been customers. The others seemed to just be hanging out inside or talking with Raymond.

Raymond gave everyone credit, but I'd never seen him write anything down. When I wanted gas, I just pumped it and waved to Raymond. Then I would stop in from time to time and pay what I figured I owed him. A cross-eyed mechanic named Bill ran the car shop, but, just like his store, the garage was full of people. Sometimes Bill would even tell me what the problem was with my car and let me use his tools to fix it myself. I believe nearly every small town in the Carolinas had their own version of Raymond’s Stop and Shop. Most of these types of stores sold fried chicken and biscuits from under a heat lamp.

I had purchased a new stereo for my old car. The stereo played music from SD cards and jump drives. I hoped that Raymond would have someone who could install it. Consequently, when I saw Raymond standing behind the cash register (wearing one rubber glove for some reason), I asked, Raymond, do you have anybody who can hook this up. Before he could answer, the phone rang, and Raymond picked up. He, then, pointed to his wrist like he was showing me an imaginary watch. Next, he pointed out to the garage. I held Zoë with my right arm, and Mariana’s little right hand was in my big left hand. Raymond looked at the kids, covered up the mouthpiece on the phone, and, with his slow Carolina draw, stated, Those Little Luthers are growing like weeds. He always referred to my children as Little Luthers. This moniker puts a smile on my face every time.

Too fast.

That one-armed bandit out there'll take care of that CD player for you, Raymond said before restarting his telephone conversation.

Out in the garage, there was a cubby-cheeked, big-bellied black man missing a hand. You must be the guy who installs stereos for Raymond? I