Living in The Bahamas-Shysters Move In(Gordon England) LIVING IN THE BAHAMAS – SHYSTERS MOVE IN

A true story you could not make up.

One evening, Annie and I sat on our front porch in Nassau at sunset, watching two new neighbors move into the apartment next door to us.
“Did Kingsley fix their stove?” I asked Annie.
“I don’t know. His crew worked here all week to finish up. He’s been building this place for three years and still isn’t finished.”
“Remember when it took him two weeks to install our stove. Bahamians build houses a little at a time since home loans are not available.”
The taller fellow, a middle-aged blonde with an angular face, gave orders to a slight, balding man with a gloomy frown. Both had pale skin covered with sweat.
"They don't have many boxes," Annie observed.
“It’s a guy thing.”
With the last of the boxes unloaded from their car, Annie waved to them. “You guys look awfully hot. Would you like some iced tea?”
“That would be great,” the blonde said. Annie poured two glasses of fresh sun-tea.
“Hi. I'm Gordon England, and this is Annie.”
"I'm Steve, and he's Tom.”
“Hello, howareya?” asked Tom.
“I know that accent. You’re from Canada,” Annie said.
“Is it obvious?”
“That’s a game we play here. Try to identify where your fellow expat is from. I used to live in Toronto. I remember that accent. Where are ya’ll from?”
“We’re from Toronto, also. This sure is splendid tea. Is it always this hot here?” Steve asked, wiping his wet brow and changing the subject.
“No,” I replied. “This is November, about as cool as it gets. You better make sure Kingsley gets your air conditioning fixed soon before the heat sets in. Ours worked sporadically for the first few months. I finally fixed the wiring myself and sealed the ductwork to make it work better. I’m rather good with repairs. How about you, Tom? Are you good with your hands?”
“Not really,” he replied, with a nervous glance at Steve.
“I can do a little handiwork," Steve said confidently.
“You’ll need it,” I replied. “You have to be self-sufficient in these islands. When you get unpacked, join us at the pool to cool off. Annie will make drinks.”
“With our mermaid,” Annie added with a mischievous smile.

Later, we stood by the pool, barbequing fresh tuna, listening to calypso music, and sipping mojitos made with mints and Cuban rum. Tom and Steve wandered out in swimsuits.
“Care if we join you?” Steve asked.
“Not at all. It’s your pool too.”
“Have a mojito, then kiss the mermaid,” Annie instructed.
“What?”
She pointed to a colorful tile mosaic of a mermaid at the bottom of the pool. “She’s our gorgeous blond.”
“I’ll drink your mojito first, then swim down to kiss her," Tom replied. “I’m going to like it here.”
“When did you get to Nassau?” Annie asked.
“We came in a week ago to look for a place to stay. We were lucky to find Kingsley.”
Worrying about important matters, I said, “You might want to avoid the downstairs toilet. The one upstairs flushes better because it’s higher up with more pressure.”
The fellows looked surprised.
“Gordon has a regular job with the government,” Annie said. “He’s the Senior Drainage Engineer throughout The Bahamas.”
“Really?” Steve responded.
“It’s an easy job. I’m glad we have a good Internet connection. I still consult and write technical manuals at night for clients in Florida.”
“Hmm.”
The normal response when people ask what I do.
“I know, dreary engineering stuff. Do you have your work permit yet?”
“We’ve applied for one. It should be ready in a few days.”
Annie glanced at me, then asked, “What’s your line of work?”
“Import/export,” claimed Tom.
“I see,” she replied, winking at me.
“Well, good luck with your new business,” I said. “After you pull your cars into the rear driveway at dark, lock the gates. Our cars and boat are in the front driveway. There are an electronic camera and microphone by the gate. You have a button by your front door to open the gate for visitors. I patrol every night before bed to make sure everything’s locked uptight."
“Is crime bad here?” Tom asked with a wrinkled brow.
“A motor on my boat lasted just a week before being cut off," I replied. “You see that house with no roof being built next door? Last week they planned to roof it, delivering shingles one afternoon for installation the next day. That night, those shingles grew feet and walked away. Nobody heard a thing. Set the owner back $10,000 and delayed finishing by several months. Yes, we lock up at night. All windows on the island are barred.”
He nodded dismally, “I noticed that.” Tom finished his drink, then said, “We’re tired. Time for us to crash. I’ll finish unpacking tomorrow. See you later.”
“Good night.”

The next weekend, we gathered again by our pool, drinking rum with coconut water. Another neighbor, Aztec, had donned a scuba tank and laid face down on top of the mermaid, arms spread wide with periodic, sensuous bubbles flowing from his mask.
“Did you see the Bobbsey Twins’ new car?” Annie asked. Her name for our neighbors.
“No, what is it?”
“A Jaguar.”
“Whoa. On this island?”
“Yeah. In fact, here they come now. Hello boys. Come join us for a drink.”
“Don’t mind if we do,” replied Steve. He glanced into the pool. “What’s Aztec doing down there?”
Annie giggled. “Loving his mermaid.”
He shook his head in dismay. “How are you, Annie?”
“I’m taking it easy. I’ve been tending to my garden and artwork. I always wanted to paint watercolors, so now I’m learning how with internet lessons. We finish up most days with a swim at night.”
“Cool. I’d like to see some of your paintings.”
“I’ll show you when I finish one. By the way, I’m going shopping tomorrow for a couple of five-gallon bottles of water. Want me to buy one for you?”
“Why are you buying bottles of water?” Tom asked with a puzzled look.
“Kingsley didn’t tell you?” I replied. “Have you been drinking water from your tap?”
“Well, yes. Is that bad?”
“How’s your stomach been?”
“Now that you mention it, I haven’t been feeling great,” Tom said with a frown.
Annie brought her hand to her forehead, feigned horror. “Don’t drink that water! You’ll be sorry. It’s only for bathing and washing. We buy bottled water for drinking and cooking each week.”
“We wondered why there were trucks selling water on the side of the road,” Steve said.
“What comes out of the tap is sometimes good, sometimes not,” I replied. “You’ll notice the water is often orange from rusty pipes. So how about a rum and coconut juice, no water?”
Tom blanched. “We’ll take two.”
Annie busied herself at our poolside bar.
I asked Tom, “Have you seen many rats?”
“Oh my God. We saw a huge one in the grocery store.” He paled and pulled his hands to his chest.
“They’re in stores, warehouses, streets, everywhere,” Annie warned. “You’ll need to wash your fresh food and every can you buy. The only food I trust is what I grow and cook myself.”
Tom moaned.
“You’ll probably need buckets,” I added.
“Buckets?” he asked, sensing impending doom.
“I don’t know about your place, but our roof has leaked ever since Hurricane Jeanne. We quit complaining and put buckets under the drips now. Take money for supplies and repairs out of your rent. Kingsley won’t mind.”
"Nice car you have there," I told Steve.
“Thanks, we got a good deal on it.”
“You better be careful driving around on these roads.”
“I noticed a lot of busted up cars. What’s the deal?”
“Bahamians don’t drive safely. They crash constantly. You better not go out at night until you know your way around.”
“No?”
“You’ll be safe, but street signs are rare. It’s easy to get lost.”
“Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen many. That sure makes it hard to learn your way around.”
“The locals steal the signs to confuse the police. There aren’t many streetlights either. Nighttime driving scared me for a few months. I got lost and wandered for hours on these gloomy streets with no names. It helps to carry a flashlight in your car to look at street signs, landmarks, and building colors in the dark.”
Tom listened wide-eyed. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Have you found a street map?”
“No, but it sure would help if I did,” Steve said.
“You won’t find one.”
“Really?”
“There are no current street maps. I found an old one put out by Shell gas stations in the 90s. It took me six months to have it scanned with Ministry equipment. I’ll make an extra copy for you.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Any word on your work permit yet?” I asked.
Steve winced. “We’re still waiting on it.”
"Good luck. They are hard to come by. I have one only because I’m a government employee.”
Annie brought a round of drinks. She asked, “What do you import-export?”
“We import cigars from Canada,” Steve replied. “We’re setting up distributorships in Nassau with local partners. We’ll put our competition out of business.”
“Really?”
“Yes, our first store will be on Nassau Street. The next one over on Mosby.”
“You’ll be Over the Hill?”
“Sure, that’s where our partners are building a package store and wholesale operation. Our associates are strong. They gave us the Jaguar.”
“You have very kind partners,” I said, glancing at Annie.
"Back in Canada, we had a successful lumber business. We made millions shipping lumber around the world from Vancouver.”
“Great.” I toasted, “Here’s to your success.”

Over the next few weeks, I watched an eclectic group of locals march in and out of the Bobbsey Twins’ apartment, including dreadlocked Jamaicans and a pig farmer. The Bobbsey Twins continued to talk big, bragging about their previous business ventures. Steve dressed sharp, telling tales of business success as he tried to put the move on us. Tom didn't talk much, and his hands quivered. He mostly stayed inside cooking.
One day Annie told me, “I can tell Steve is a hustler, just like my ex-husband Bill. Don’t believe a word he says.”
“Not to worry, I figured that out. He’s all talk.”
“By the way, another new neighbor named Frank moved in the other apartment. His roofing business crashed after the hurricanes of 04 ravaged South Florida.”
Frank turned out to be slight of build, in his 30s, with a high strung, shaky voice. Although he wanted to start a roofing business, he too faced a problem securing a work permit. The Ministry of Immigration rarely issued work permits to expats who hide in paradise to take jobs from Bahamians. Peeking in his windows, I saw bare essential furniture or possessions. I’m not sure why, but he didn’t turn on his lights at night. Every other weekend his wife and son flew in from Miami, or he returned to visit them. We had little doubt creditors were looking for him.

On Thanksgiving, Annie invited the Bobbsey Twins over for turkey dinner. They did not know about our holiday but looked forward to someone else cooking. She loved to cook and made a traditional holiday feast that couldn’t be found anywhere in Nassau. She prepared turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, squash, and other vegetables from the garden. After a wonderful dinner that brought back memories of home, we sat by the pool where stories flowed with the wine. The Bobbsey Twins listened intently as we discussed island survival skills.
“You pay your utility bills in person each month,” explained Annie. “You won’t know how much the bills are until you get to a window after waiting in a long line.”
“You’re kidding,” Steve replied.
“With no street addresses, they don’t send out bills or mail. Moreover, don’t give them a check. It will get lost because you are an expat, or else it won’t be cashed for months. Then your service will be cut off for nonpayment. Locals love to jerk us around.”
Tom shook his head. “What a screwed-up place.”
“You’re not in Kansas anymore,” I noted. “In the States, there are too many rules. Over here, there aren't enough rules. I wish I could find someplace in the middle."
Steve talked about his younger days in Canada. In Toronto, he learned about money from an old shark named Bill.
“Where did you meet on weekends?” Annie asked,
He sat up, looking at her intensely. He cautiously replied, “At a wonderful mansion on top of a hill.”
“Owned by Michael Weinstein?”
“How did you know?” He was incredulous.
“He and my ex, Bill Kirby, were great friends. We attended many of his Friday night parties on that hilltop.”
Steve turned white. “Bill the Chinchilla man?”
“Yes, the Chinchilla king of Canada.”
“He took me under his wing, teaching me the money business. We went to Hartford to work in the financial market for a while. Then he disappeared with my first million dollars.”
Annie smirked. “Bill and I moved to Switzerland in the 80s, where he traded commodities. You know, dealing with oil futures in tankers. We got mixed up in a strange deal with Swiss and German bankers and a mysterious CIA man. We worked on a deal for several months before a German banker cut us out. We ended up broke and came back to the States. Soon after we came back, I turned on my TV and saw our mystery man, Ollie North. Talk about a shock. The deal had evolved into the arms-for-hostages disaster in Iran. Thank God they stole the deal from us.”
“What happened to Bill?”
“He died broke ten years ago in Florida.”
Our conversation reached one of those inevitable pauses of a party.
“Excuse me for a minute,” Steve said.
He went to his apartment, returning with a handful of expensive cigars. We lit them, blowing smoke high. “Here’s to old Bill,” Steve said. “He taught me a lot about money.”
Through tobacco smoke, we reflected on strange twists on our roads of life.
After a few minutes of silence, I asked, “Did you hear what happened to Frank last night?”
“Do tell,” Steve replied.
“Frank’s family flew in this weekend. He heard noises last night. When he went outside to check it out, a Bahamian busted him up with a bat, then terrorized his wife for a while. The police questioned him for hours.”
“We wondered what the noise was, but we stayed inside,” Tom said with trepidation.
“A wise move. Frank’s family packed up and left today. Another case of paradise lost.”
With that, Steve and Tom fell out of the holiday spirit, made their farewells, and quietly turned in.

After that evening, their hustle on us dried up. Though they seldom came out of their place, the pig farmer visited often. Steve’s new, illegal Cuban girlfriend, Maria, hid in their apartment cooking for them. I couldn’t figure out how they made enough money to pay $3,000 a month rent. It turned out they couldn’t get their cigars out of Customs because Duty hadn’t been paid, so Customs was looking for them. The boys were lying low, looking for a way out of their box. Soon the Jaguar’s owner repossessed it. It had been rented on vague promises of cigar fortunes. A few weeks later, we heard Kingsley next door looking for rent money. He made a big fuss trying to get in the doors that had new locks. They also had promised to pay Kingsley when their cigars cleared Customs, but they couldn’t afford the Duty.
The next evening, Annie told me, “I saw Tom hitchhiking down West Bay Street today with his suitcase. He looked petrified. Do you think he can clear Customs at the airport?”
“No. He’s probably on a no-fly list. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. What about Steve?”
“I think he and Maria are still here.”
Kingsley showed up the next day with a couple of big men with frowning faces. Since Steve had changed the locks, Kingsley brought a locksmith along.
“Why don’t we eat dinner out on the porch to watch a show,” I told Annie.
She laughed. “Good idea. This will be interesting.”
Kingsley banged on the doors. No response. When his locksmith opened the front door, they cautiously went in. Finding no one in the front room, they slowly approached locked bedroom doors, not knowing what they would find. We watched through a front window with great interest as his locksmith opened a bedroom door to find Maria crying in a closet. Kingsley and his crew became outraged that Steve had abandoned her. Next, they crept upstairs, then came back down a few minutes later.
I asked Kingsley, “Did you find him?”
“No, it looks like he left fast. A pile of his stuff is still on the bed.”
He talked to Maria, who then called Steve on his cell phone. She told him to come get his things before Kingsley burned them.
When Kingsley left the apartment, I asked him, “Do you have any problems with how we’ve been fixing up your place?”
“No problem at all. I wish my other renters be good as you and Miss Annie. However, I’m worried about you, Mr. England. I’m afraid you may have some problems at work with contractors.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hear people talk about you. Their problem is, you too straight. Some contractors aren’t gonna like it when they can’t grease you. Then they might hurt you.”
“I’ll just have to watch my back.”
“You better do that.”

When I came home from work the next day, I asked Annie, “Any news about Steve?”
“You won’t believe this. Steve snuck in his back door. Then I saw him leave with two suitcases on the pig farmer’s truck.” That was the last we saw of the Bobbsey Twins and their great cigar venture.

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