Field Notes

Listening to the Island

2008-09-27T15:04:00.000-07:00

I am currently packing to leave in a few days. As always, its bitter sweet- I’m just growing accustomed to being here, just feeling comfortable, feeling part of my own little social circle and community. There is still so much I haven’t told you about the island! What is the most disappointing about trying to relate life here is that all I have is words, typed, not even scrawled in my loopy half-cursive penmanship. Sometimes I can post a picture or two, but usually I lack photographs of those things that I really saw, that are in my mind. But here on St. John, like everywhere, there is a soundtrack to life. For instance, when I’m sitting at the Tap Room, especially on a Friday Reggae Night, when instead of closing at 9 the place comes alive at 9, and Lang, Cheech and Austin DJ, mixing it up between old, worn vinyl albums that have been painstakingly collected and the mp3s ripped from the internet onto a state of the art computer system, I know I’m going to hear “Cherry-O”, a truly old-school reggae song that I adore. Everything about the Tap Room is rolled into that song for me- Friday nights, getting a lecture on reggae music from Cheech, eventually helping to close the bar down as the conversation deteriorates into the history and politics of the island. Saturday night, Beer Pong night, where the song is always absent, and instead we hear Top 40 from the early 90s, and it always feels eerily like a middle school dance. Sunday nights Cherry-O is back on the play list, and I hear it when I was the only person in the bar, my laptop and papers spread across the back corner table, Meaghan feeding me handmade root beers and a pale ale or two while I write frantically, trying to finish a chapter for an edited volume that I had too much hubris to decline, Tim and Kevin being kind enough to distract me by wandering over to talk to me now and then. Sometimes Jess joins me with her computer, and John calls us dorks from the bar, where he is watching the game (really any game that happens to be on).

Reggae is a part of the island now in a way that it hasn’t been in the past- people like Austin, Lang and Cheech are actively trying to create a “scene” on St. John. It definitely represents a different political mindset for the younger generation of St. Johnians, people in their mid-20s to early-30s who are starting to take part in the economic, cultural and political institutions of the island and don’t like the direction its been heading over the past decade. But Reggae isn’t the only sound on the island; nor is it the only musical politicking that is occurring. The island is rapidly becoming Spanish, and, as in many other places, it is creating tensions and new communities that have to be engaged. In recent weeks my neighborhood has required moniker “Little Santo Domingo”, or just the “Barrio”. This neighborhood has been Dominican for a long time, a little ripped up road that floods in big storms where concrete “shacks” have quickly sprung up. I live at the end of the road, up the infamously steep driveway, and throughout the day and long into the night the conversations of everyday life floats up the hill, and underneath it are catchy, sometimes peppy songs, the chatter and lyrics always in Spanish. In another nearby neighborhood little shops and hang outs have sprung up in just the last month or so in cargo containers, and on Friday and Saturday nights the competing music is so loud that you can hear it down into Cruz Bay, where it is only drown out by the two competing Dominican bars, one of which sprung up just a couple weeks ago across the street from what was originally “the (only) Dominican hangout”, Caps.

Many of these Dominican residents are illegals. St. John has long had a problem with illegal immigrants using the island as entree into the US mainland, but it has picked up since I have been coming here. The Park recently recovered a large, but rickety, boat on Brown Bay, the Merci Jesus that is estimated to have brought as many as 30 people to the island. On survey I often find the discarded clothes and shoes of people who jumped ship and changed after swimming to shore. Sometimes we find the people themselves, trying to make their way to St. Thomas. My neighbors, always pleasant in passing, cooled to me for a while when a couple of months ago one of the Rangers drove me home in the big SUV with the blue lights on top. I think he was nearly as uncomfortable being there (my neighborhood is out of Park jurisdiction) as my neighbors were with having him there, turning down their radios and going inside until the federal vehicle had left. If he, or the other Rangers, find them on Park property they undergo documentation and complicated ICE processes that fall outside my realm of knowledge as a Park Archaeologist.

Its not just the music or the sounds of people that are part of this soundtrack. This island is never silent- the crows and clucks of chickens punctuate everything, every couple of weeks accompanied by the peep of day old chicks scurrying after their mothers, looking for food. Dale and I decided they were the island equivalent of pigeons, eating everything people discard. As you walk on a trail or near brush, you hear constant scurrying, which are the lizards and the soldier crabs- sometimes the latter clank against rocks as they fold up into their scavenged periwinkle shells and roll down the hill. The louder crashes are iguanas, terrified of people, rushing to get away as quickly as possible, sometimes scrambling awkwardly up a tree. If they are already in a tree and you freak them out, then they crash the other way- towards the ground where you’re standing. You never hear the bush cats running through the brush, but you hear them fight or mate, or sometimes feed. Several evenings ago I was coming home at dusk and turned up my driveway only to come face to face with 9 bush cats who silently watched me as I walked by. Since the beginning of August, and the incessant rain that comes with the height of hurricane season, the frogs have gone crazy. After the sun goes down the tree frogs and coquie, invasives from Puerto Rico, are deafening, drowning out the Dominican’s songs and my neighbors conversations. Even drowning out the TV. The other sound that comes with hurricane season is the sound of rain on the broad leaves of the banana trees outside my window, a little “pop” sound that gets amplified 100-fold as the heavens open up and give us the water that is supposed to last in our cisterns through the coming dry months.

Last evening Susanna, Kaete, Carey, Jess and I started at Happy Fish, then met a bunch of the Rangers and Kevin and Tim at the Tap Room, where we made Drew the bartender put on the presidential debate (what’s geekier than a group of NPS employees? Apparently nothing). One by one my friends straggled home and Jess and I ended up at Larry’s Landing, as we so often do, John tending bar. I like Larry’s; I usually don’t have any friends there, other than Jess, so I get to sit back and observe, hear stories, blend into the crowd without having to interact with anyone too much. And that’s where I realized how much I would miss the sounds of St. John as much as the sites and the people, the feel of the sand and salt water and sun. Cruz Bay was busy last night, busier than it has been in weeks as people are arriving back home, anticipating the end of slow season. Larry’s was literally the only game in town last night; Tap Room closed at 10 when we left, and every other bar in town is closed for cleaning and/or maintenance until the tourists come back. Some baseball game was on the 3 television screens, shots were being purchased, stories were being told. The guy next to me, Matt, was slowly pouring the beer his friend, Patrick, had bought him into a plastic cup that he had hidden behind a napkin dispenser. The IPod finished playing a “mainstream” reggae tune, replacing it with a Radiohead song. As the song started Matt was at the corner of the U-shaped bar with his girlfriend Emily; Elton had taken up Matt’s seat next to me, completely solitary in his beer. I sat at the top of the U with Jess, who was talking to Patrick, laughing at some blond girl we didn’t know telling a couple of West Indians across the bar who we did know, including Patrick the bouncer, to go back to Puerto Rico. The song was a bit slow, a bit somber, as a lot of Radiohead is. And for some reason, as the song progressed, more and more people were singing, so that by the end of it, even the blond had stopped screaming racial epithets long enough to join in on the chorus. But like so much on St. John, what in other circumstances would have caused a brief moment of communitas in this circumstance didn’t; there was no sentimentality in the singing, no bonding. Everyone seemed lost in the song completely on their own, or with their immediate companion. Those not singing in the bar didn’t seem to be affected one way or the other. People just sang, or they didn’t, which in the end seems to be the general fabric of the island. When the song ended, John switched off the IPod and announced last call. And then the bar was silent.

Getting Around

2008-09-13T11:28:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week I was working late and found myself in Coral Bay around dusk with the NPS truck. For those unfamiliar with St. John geography, Coral and Cruz Bays are approximately 7 miles apart as the crow flies, 8 miles with the added twists and turns of Centerline Road, a good half-hour to forty minutes by car. The maximum speed limit on the island is twenty miles an hour, and its hard to push it too far past that. There are switchbacks on hills that I have driven down that are so steep that you can't see the road through the windshield, and you just have to trust that you're still on the "paved" surface, and curves (such as the one on the way to "Miss Lucys") that are so sharp they become single-lane for just a moment.

This was the typical drive home that I was facing as I stopped at the intersection in Coral Bay to turn onto Centerline. A man was standing by the stop sign, and approached the truck as I pulled up. "Cruz Bay?" He asked. My heart sank. "Hon, I'm sorry, I can't" I answered him. He glanced at my door, saw the park insignia, and smiled, waving me off. "National Park. That's ok." "I'm so sorry. I really am." I said as I pulled away. If I had been anyone else, or in any other vehicle, the exchange would have vastly different. I felt awful as I drove off, the only person is a large vehicle in a place where gas costs $5 a gallon. It felt anti-karmic, like there would be a small mark on my record that shows I had not acted neighborly to my fellow man. Most everyone at the Park feels bad about not being allowed to pick up hitchhikers- I personally think its slightly hypocritical as the Park has told me, and other interns, to hitch in order to get parts of my job done, but that's another blog entry.

Hitchhiking is a way that people get around here, our version of mass-transportation, which, ironically, is more reliable and convenient than the bus that drives back and forth down Centerline. Everyone has their own personal rules about who they will pick up and when, or who they will ride with and when. I have been picked up people who claim they haven't picked up a hitchhiker in 20 years. More often, its someone who you "know", that friend of a friend you met at the bar over the weekend, or who you worked a project with at some point, who pull over if your walking in the direction they are going.

My rules include walking. To many people here that's key. On St. John, you walk, holding your hand out and pointing your finger casually as a car passes by. It shows that you're self-sufficient. And if they don't stop, you're just that much closer to your destination. You can tell when someone is new to the island; they stand in the shade waving people down. They're usually considered lazy continentals that we just don't have time to stop for.

When people do have personal vehicles, they are usually "island cars"- rusted, dented, jerry-rigged survivors, small suzukis and old jeeps that are turned on by paper-clips when keys have been lost, and sometimes have things like wooden benches built on the back. These are cars that are always four wheel drive, and can be taken down the dirt and gravel roads, or steep driveways, that still comprise most of the roadways on the island. Somehow these vehicles keep on keepin' on, probably just from the sheer will of their owner.

Some people claim the most efficient way to get from place to place on island is via boat, but it seems that there are even fewer boats than cars. When going off island there are ferrys, both for cars and for people. The car ferry requires that you in fact have a car, so I have to tag along with friends, usually John and Jess, if they are heading to St. Thomas for supplies. When you have a car ferry trip available, you generally buy the 6-month supply of toilet paper from Cost-u-Less. Last week three of our four car barges were down, and I'm still not clear on whether they were broken or if gas prices drove them to close for a few days; around here it was probably a combination of the two.

If you take the people ferry, say to St. Thomas, you have to rely on taxis. No one from St. John hitchhikes on "St. Trauma". There are several different kinds- the safari's, which are also called dollar taxis (they are only suppossed to cost a dollar anywhere, but I have paid two before). These are similiar to the taxis on St. John- pickup trucks that have been modified to have benches where the bed of the truck would usually be. They are open air, no seat belts. Somehow, even with 10 people in the back, the driver remembers where you said you needed to go. Safaris are easily confused with gypsy taxis- people who do not have a taxi medallion but who will stop and pick you up as if they did. These are generally not recommended. However, if you are going somewhere that a safari doesn't you might be able to negotiate a good price with a gypsy taxi. How and when you'll get there can be another story. The taxis most tourists take are the airport taxis- 15 passenger vans that have a stranglehold on St. Thomas transportation and are ridiculously expensive. I only take them when I have to get to and from the airport as safaris don't go there. They are notorious for price-gouging, but are airconditioned, which is always a plus.

You can take the ferry farther than just St. Thomas- there are also daily ferrys to Tortola and other parts of the BVI. I spent 90 minutes on the "vomit comet" to St. Croix a few months back. Vibe and I spent much of the trip out on the deck; by the time we arrived at Christianstead our arms and clothes were covered in salt from the spray of the boat. We looked "candied". Sea planes are common, but expensive. Some are quite old- models of aircraft that our grandparents would be familiar with, hopping between islands. A few weeks ago I flew Cape Air between San Juan and Charlotte Amalie- it was an 8 passenger Cessna, with a 9th passenger in the co-pilots seat. Our saftey talk was presented by the Captain, a guy named Mike who was about my age, who just turned around in his seat to tell us what to expect. I was able to watch how a plane is flown, see the panel of instruments. It was an amazing trip- we were closer to the ground than in larger commercial aircraft, so I was able to see some of the smaller islands between Puerto Rico and St. Thomas, such as Mona, that are usually obscured by clouds and distance.

Usually, though, I walk everywhere. I know that I can fit about $60 worth of grocerys in my backpack, and a gallon of water in each hand for the walk home. There are trails all over island, both official and unofficial, that you can follow to just about anywhere as long as you have your water bottle, sunblock and bugspray. Shoes are optional.

This Island Life

2008-08-29T17:01:00.000-07:00

I adore the island right now. It's empty, save for "us" who actually live and work here. The kids have returned to school this week, which means that there is a little more traffic in the mornings than there was two weeks ago. In the evenings, or on the weekends, town is nearly empty. Some of the bars and restaurants- ones like Woody's or Quiet Mon, which keep nearly 24-hour schedules at the height of tourist season- are dark many nights now, or have as patrons the employees who don't happen to be working that shift. I recognize, and am recognized, by many people as I walk down the street. It's nice to finally feel like I fit into the place, even in such a small way.

This time of year is bitter sweet, however. Since the economy depends completely on the service industry, the lack of tourists pouring off the ferries means that, for the next couple months, times are lean. It is also hurricane season, the height of which will come in mid-September. So far we have gotten some violent outbursts from Faye, Gustav, and now Hannah, but have narrowly missed the full brunt of their aggression. But St. John has exploded into green vines and screaming frogs, which often drown out the whirring of fans or even the television. The mosquitoes are out with a vengeance as well- "Dengue" is on everyone's lips as black clouds swarm us. This afternoon Kate and I were searching Francis Bay for signs of the early 18th century-era Betty's Hope Plantation, covered in military issue "100% deet", which only discouraged the bugs for a few moments. by the time we ran into the ocean to escape Kate counted 38 welts just on my back, as I scratched furiously at my arms and legs. Even locals contend that this is an especially bad year.

Genips are in season, and we did spend a few minutes sacrificing ourselves to the insects so we could pick them. They are usually high up in the trees- Kate stood on the roof of the truck to cut them down with the machete. They are exceptionally sweet little green fruits, about the size of a globe grape, but with just the slightest bit of meat wrapped around a large, inedible seed tucked inside the leathery shell. I adore them, as do most people around here. It was mango season when I got back three weeks ago- Jane was nice enough to bring three to me the night I came in, most of the trees on St. John had already been stripped bare. Mangoes are actually related to the poison ivy family- it has very small concentrations of the same poison in its skin, which can get you in trouble if you eat more than one or two a day. Bananas are also still growing like crazy outside my window, and must not be seasonal. I have been practicing making fried plantains- I'm pretty good with the Lesser Antilles sweet version, and am now anxious to try my hand at the Cuban-style savory type. I have a whole list of Caribbean foods that I'm going to subject friends and family to when I get home in the fall.

I've been trying to learn about the flora and fauna on the island, but its daunting. I've mentioned many of the more hazardous plants that I had to learn quickly so I could stay out of their way- christmas bush, catch-n-keep, stinging nettle. But there are other plants that have other significance, like tamarinds and gregre trees. Both are hard wood, long lived trees, the tamarinds producing a funky little bean-type fruit that is tangy and slightly sour, but very tasty. It is an introduced plant from the Old World, and is found in India and West Africa. Here, many people are ambivalent about it since they can be the dwelling places of jumbies, as can gregres. I was speaking the other day with Eleanor, the leading botanist for St. John. She not only knows her plants, she knows specific plants and trees, their life histories and how they have intertwined with human histories. We don't get growth rings in the tropics, so it is nearly impossible to age trees here, but based on size she speculates that some of the tamarinds here are 400 years old, which begged the question for both of us- who planted them? And why?

Dog Days of Summer

2008-08-19T18:27:00.000-07:00

It has been over a month since I last posted any comments- not only have I been busy (which is a constant, and not much of an excuse, I know), but I had been working on another post which was only tangentially related to my research. Several weeks ago now, the United States House of Representatives issued a formal apology for slavery and Jim Crow (H. Res. 194). In that apology the Congressman who issued the legislation commented on the need to "rectify the lingering consequences" of these two institutions. Issued in the middle of the summer, as the Olympics began, on the heels of the major party conventions, and all the other events that have demanded the attention of America, it seems to have been quickly forgotten. But the promise "to rectify" the wrongs done shouldn't be so easily set aside. I have my own ideas on how to begin rectifying, how the conversation needs to change. One of the consequences of these peculiar institutions is just how damn difficult it is to begin discussing, and I found myself having trouble finishing the brief essay. So I have decided to set it aside for now and discuss research related topics, living it to simmer on the back burner for later.

After a brief visit to Central New York I have returned to a quieter St. John. Most of the tourists are gone, and as we get deeper into hurricane season more and more of them are trickling out. We have already had one "tropical wave" this week, Faye before she became a depression, which is less scary than it sounds. It was a massive rain storm, complete with wind and thunder and lightening, which I could see through my eyelids as I tried to sleep. I woke up the next morning to a river running through my neighborhood, tearing up the already cracked and crumbling cement on the road. Mangrove swamps washed out at Cinnamon Bay, taking a large portion of the beach with it, and some of the bays were brown with run off for a day or so. But it filled up our cisterns and turned the island green, so now we just wait for the next one.

John and Jess both straggled back on island a few days after I did, and within a couple days of each other. Although I love my little purple farmhouse with my husband and flocks of random pets, having roommates this summer has really been a lot of fun, and a constant learning experience as I have had to remember how to share space and food, and try to suppress some of my more annoying habits, all around people who never met me before I moved my stuff in.

Research continues at the National Park. I'm still spending quite a bit of time wading through files and old reports, although mostly I have been identifying what might be important, photocopying it and adding it to the pile to be gone through back in NY. I have moved on to GIS data, and had a productive conversations with Chuck, a local historian who seems to be an endless font of knowledge. More field work needs to be done, but this week we have the Secretary of Interior visiting, so we've been preparing for that as well as doing all the work we normally have- today we moved Mandy's 12 boxes of artifacts into the curation facility.

So, I guess I've just been easing back into island life, and will have fun and exciting news in the (very) near future.

Carnival Weekend

2008-07-10T15:51:00.000-07:00

The island is settling down with the end of Carnival last friday, July fourth. The third of July is Emancipation Day, the day in 1848 that the Danish Crown abolished slavery in it's Caribbean colonies, and this is the week that St. John has chosen to hold its carnival celebration every year. Nearly every Caribbean Island has such a celebration, but they are all different, and are held at different times of year. Each year, one week before July 4th, St. John sets up "The Village" in the customs parking lot, across from the NPS Visitor Center, with a big stage and lots of little stands that sell all kinds of local food and drinks. Every night its full of people listening to local reggae music and eating conch fritters and johnny cakes. Jouvet is the big event for July 3rd. Theoretically it starts at 4am, although in my four years here it has never started on time. This year was no exception. Jessica, Adrian and I wore our "carnival dresses" (Jess and I both chose black this year, Adrian went with a booty-liscious paisley number), and, sporting the light-up jelly rings that Jessica picked up for all of us girls, we, along with Hannah, John, Ryan and Dale, bounced between the Village, Front Yard (It's final night!) and Larry's Landing until about 5:30 am when Dale and I dragged our sorry carcasses off to bed, Jouvet still not begun, except for a small steel drum band that marched on its own, apparently as impatient as the rest of us. In the end we didn't see jouvet as it did not start until 7am this year...

The Front Yard is a local bar that is this little shack next door to the police station, with a gravel parking (the front yard) with an extra little bar out there, and plenty of space for people to dance and drink. For years it has been a favorite of the SU students who have found their way down to this rock. For its last night the Low Down Throw Down- a reggae-blue grass-rock band, fronted by a semi-local who used to play for a local favorite called Hatch- played until sun-up, and then until the last person had wandered off to watch Jouvet.

11 am is when the big July 4th parade is scheduled to begin; we met up with my friend from Syracuse, Christian, who is excavating in Charlotte Amalie at the Megan-Pedersen House, and his friend Kevin who was visiting from the states, at Mongoose Junction where the parade begins. At about 12:30 Christian, Kevin, Dale and I saw the opening of the parade as Miss St. John was ferried past on the back of an El Camino. It was another 20 minutes before the next group went- it was the "Middle Aged Majorettes", women of a certain age wearing long t-shirts sporting air-brushed, bikini clad torsos and blue wigs, mardi gras beads, and flinging batons. The parade was incredible- it consists of people getting troupes together to dance and perform. There were a number of actual dance and majorette groups, school groups from St. Thomas and St. John; a man in a butterfly costume with wings that had to span 20 feet; and the "mocko jumbies", people marching and dancing on stilts that make them 30 feet tall. It lasted until about 4pm, when the last flat-bed truck with a local band singing the "jouvet song" pulled into line. Dale and I hiked to the beach as all the roads were closed, and got a few minutes of swimming in; by the time we made it back into town that last truck was just finishing its triumphal ride from Mongoose Junction to somewhere around Dolphin Market. That evening we watched the fireworks from my front porch as they were launched from a barge in Cruz Bay Harbor, and shuffled off to bed early as we hadn't slept much in nearly two days.

The rest of the weekend we took it easy, heavy rains keeping us from the beach until early afternoon on Saturday. Sunday Dale and I hiked the Reef Bay Trail, eating lunch at the petroglyphs before heading straight up to Centerline Road. On the way home we stopped at Hawksnest Beach and had a cook out with Jess, John, Ryan, Kenda and Eli. I finally saw my first lobster while snorkeling- a good sized guy with a 6" carapace hiding in a coral skeleton. Dale and I ended carnival weekend with another early night, ready to get back to work the next day...after a morning of diving at Whistling Cay.

A Day in the Life

2008-06-15T05:39:00.001-07:00

5:47 am
Oh no- my alarm isn't supposed to go off for another 43 minutes, but the sun is starting to come up and the bush cats have decided to perform the feline version of Braveheart outside my window. Stupid cats...

7:06am
I finally drag my carcass out of bed, sleeping in slightly and blaming the cats for making me do it. Tomorrow I'll probably blame the weird little island chickens...I put on sunscreen and my "Park Uniform", which consists of the nearly-knee length polyester "park green" shorts with a high, 1980s waist band, and a grey t-shirt that says "National Park Service" somewhere beneath the stains and tears. Yeah, super sexy, right? I've inherited about 4 shirts, slightly too large for me. Somehow, if we're rolled into a company or agency with other types of scientists such as biologists or geologists, or we're stuck with a group of egg-head engineers who probably haven't stepped away from their computers...I guess ever- then archaeologists end up with the hand me downs, the stuff that was broken anyways, and anything that may need to be jerry-rigged before use. Maybe the idea is that we're just going to get it dirty anyways. Which, in the case of these shirts, is true- I managed to get my hands on a couple of half-way decent ones, and just a day or two at Hassel had them looking "rugged" and "worn in".

7:45am
Jessica and I descend down the driveway, coffee mugs in hand, and make our way through town to the NPS truck that is parked at the visitor center. Cruz Bay is always bustling this time of day. A flood of people make their way up Center Line Road, just off the 8 am Ferry from Red Hook as we make our way down. Kids are on their way to school, so we take advantage of the Crossing Guards' presence to cross the intersections that only barely resemble a cartesian design. At the NPS Visitors Center other employees are congregating- some stay here, at the main office, some go up the hill with Jessica and I to the resource management offices, some are off to the maintenance building or places I don't even know exist yet. Here I get into the 1 ton, rear-wheel drive, manual transmission pickup and Jess and I, and sometimes Devon, who can leap into the back of the truck from the ground, head up the hill to the offices.

8:05am
I leave Jess and Devon at building 4; they're biologists, and probably begin to get their dive gear ready to go maintain buoys or monitor reef beds. I head back down the hill to maintenance, and put ice in the water coolers for our own day out in the field. It is about this time that the "Grey Ghost" comes down the hill- an old, bondo grey Blazer with a cracked windshield, a hole in the dashboard where important car-type stuff should be, and some mysterious wires that drag out the bottom like a tail. It holds the interns. They pull into Mongoose Junction and hit the Deli Grotto for sandwiches for the day. It's another great place to run into NPS employees who are also there for lunch, or grabbing coffee and a quick breakfast.

8:30am
We are all back at the office, usually waiting on Ken. Eric fills the coolers with ice, Andreas gets the electronics bag together, with our multiple GPS units, walkie-talkies and cell phone. Everyone else is assessing what other equipment we may need for the day and packing the truck- when Ken comes in we're on e-mail, taking care of the administrative bits that are necessary before we embark.

9:30am
Theoretically, we are leaving the dock by this time. I stress the theoretically. Our boat is the Haulover, again, a hand-me-down from the NPS Rangers who need faster and better boats to run down drug smugglers and antiquities thieves. It is a 25 foot Boston Whaler with twin 225 engines, which apparently means it can only be driven at one speed. We stow everything in the hold, and everyone takes their positions. The trip to Hassel takes about 30 minutes on the way there, and sometimes as much as 45 minutes on the way back. It can be very rough- we often hit big swells that cause our feet to leave the deck. Ken enjoys this entirely too much. Reapply sunscreen.

10:00am-3:30pm
Once we get to Hassel Island, the real work begins. Docking can be tricky. We pull into a historic slip that was built in the 1800s for Careening (cleaning and repairing) ships. There is no modern dock, so we tie up to abandoned machinery that was left to rust on the sea wall, the boat slamming against it until we get the extra bumpers in place. Everything we loaded has to be unloaded and hiked to whatever site we are working on that day, and change into long pants and heavy work boots. Sometimes we break up into multiple teams and work on various sites.

At the Leproscarium we clear, grid, surface collect, excavate, map, and photograph. The leproscarium covers an extensive area, and for this field season we just focused on the heart of the site. It was gridded in 2x2m blocks; we use the Pythagoreum Theorem (A2 + B2 = C2) to lay out grids with perfectly parallel lines and 90 angles, using just a couple of pull-tapes. It is surprisingly accurate and easy, and a basic archaeological skill. I also keep a list of commonly used grid-sizes with the hypotenuse lengths so no one (especially me) has to do math (and screw it up) in the field. We then conduct a full surface collection. Because the site is going to be cleared and interpreted for visitor access, we did not use a sampling strategy, although given the amount of artifacts that were on the surface, in ideal circumstances it would have been a good idea. Mandy also laid in 3- 50cmx50cm test units around the foundations of the structures that were present. The structures, units, grid and collection areas, as well as significant topographical features, were mapped using a Brunton, or mirror, compass.

For the early sites survey we spend much of our time cutting trails, following the ridge top, historic maps and surveys done in previous decades to find our sites. We cut through Mother-in-law's Tongue, a succulent that grows about 3 feet high in thick patches. It is my favorite because it isn't pokey or poisonous, and is easy to hack through with a machete. The only down fall is it becomes very slippery to walk on. There are cacti, both as tall as trees which are easy to walk into or grab mistakingly, and little suckers that like to bite ankles; Pinguin, which is similar looking to an aloe or century plant, but that has tiny, sharp spikes edging the leaves- Historically the British planted it around their forts on this island for added protection as it is like razor wire, and impossible to just walk or climb through; Christmas Bush, which is actually a fairly large tree that has rows of leaves that look like those of a Holly Bush that have been mutated and are now evil, with a big spike coming off the tip of each one, and high concentrations of the same toxin found in poison ivy; Catch-n-Keep, which has "cat claw" reverse thorns, and is really fun to pull off your face; and a variety of other spiky, stinging plants. That's why we use machetes. Don't forget, we still have the excessive heat and humidity to deal with, as well as the tarantulas, termites, and Jack-Spaniard wasps to deal with. We hack our way into the bush, taking turns to lead the pack with machete or clippers, although for some reason Vibe and I took an almost perverse pleasure in killing all things green in the jungle, and the guys seemed to content to let us do it.

When we find a potential site, usually based on foundations or an artifact scatter, we record it by mapping and taking GPS points, collect artifacts, and make notes, beginning to assess the site and compare it to what we know from the historic record.

Somewhere in there in eat lunch- trust me, we never skip lunch. My preferred field food is tuna and crackers or cookies. I used to bring those little foil packs of tuna, but Ken gave me a P-38 (itty-bitty military issue can opener) insisting that the cans hold more and are cheaper. I eat it right out of whichever package- about 50% of the time I forget my camping silverware, and so have to rely on the saw blade of my Gerber, a pen, or whatever else may be handy in my pack. I think its good for the immune system. Put on more sunscreen.

Alternative Day
A typical day after the field work is over involves getting the data into various computer programs, completing notes, washing and analyzing all the artifacts, then bagging and labeling them for curation, and finally, writing up reports for the whole thing. Typically you would devote about 2/3 of your entire project time to lab work, and only 1/3 to field work. It's where the real science gets done- otherwise, you're just a looter.

4:00-ish pm
We straggle back to the boat, dirty, sweaty, weighted down with artifacts and comparing our various battle wounds from that day. Again, the boat gets loaded, sunscreen is applied for the trip home, and we're off. Sometimes, when morale is particularly low, we moor across from Caneel Bay and take a quick swim, changing into our suits on the boat. Somehow, it just makes everything much better.

5:00- or so, pm
We get back to the NPS dock on St. John, and head back up the hill to unload our equipment. I'm usually late, so Jess has gone home already, and I drive the truck to the visitor center and shuffle back to the apartment where I shower and will myself back out for dinner with the crew. Even though I often just want to go to bed and die, on any project these communal dinners are great for letting everyone have some down-time together, and really helps keep the crew close. It's part of what makes us a family, and helps us work together in stressful conditions.

10:00 pm
I am asleep, practically dead to the world. I don't even hear the bush cats outside my window...

Everyone, Meet, Everyone

2008-06-08T16:49:00.000-07:00

So far, my time spent with the Park has been a crazy whirl-wind of jungle, rough seas, and heat. It has been spent with a really good crew.

Vibe and Andreas were our two historians from the University of Copenhagen whom we dragged out of the archives and made Hack their way through the bush to find the earliest historic sites on Hassel Island. Vibe is an amazing friend- we were practically inseparable for four weeks. We got through more than one day with just complete, uncontrollable giggling. We didn't remember what was so damn funny later on, but we were pretty sure that it was comic gold. Andreas is just about the sweetest person you could meet, as well as a hip Ska-reggae musician. He was my laundry buddy- the two of us would be folding everyone else's underwear, usually while they were getting us dinner.

Casper was our Danish archaeologist, and was pretty cool for one of those underwater, prehistoric guys. He provided interesting insights into Caribbean archaeology in the Danish West Indies, especially over VI Pale Ales at the Tap Room, or on one of the killer hikes in the Park.

Mandy and Eric were Team USA! Mandy is a graduate student at the University of Tennessee; I'm wicked jealous that she has gotten to study on the famous "body farm". She also says deliciously evil things in a perfectly sweet voice- it seems to take awhile for people to catch on. Obviously, I really, really like her. Eric was our "little brother", an undergraduate from Beloit College in Wisconsin who was here trying to figure out if he wanted to do archaeology- I think after Hassel Island the answer is probably no. He was also my SCUBA buddy, which was way fun.

Jessica is my roommate. Also NPS, but smart enough not to be Cultural Resources; she is one of the biologists for the park. She also puts up with living with me, and hasn't kicked me out yet so I feel like I'm doing pretty good.
The LCS team visited us from Atlanta for a week: Josh, Beth, Cynthia, David and Bethany. We kicked off their departure with margaritas the size of our heads at Margarita Phils before dancing the night away Larry's Landing. They deserved it after what we put them through in the field.

Last, but not least, is Ken, Park archaeologist, captain of the Haulover, UNESCO petroglyph expert, leader of the whole gang. Ken defies words, he's more of an experience.

All eleven us (except for Eric, who no one knew was arriving later that night) spent what Vibe and I call "that one perfect day" on and off the boat. First of all, I find it hard to believe that the poor Haulover can hold eleven people, plus our equipment, but she did, chugging across water between Cruz Bay and the harbor in Charlotte Amalie. The week had been long and difficult- we often were split into three or four groups, each surveying for our own projects. I had spent most of the week with Bethany, Cynthia and Josh doing LCS survey on historic structures, )which was really fun since I hadn't ever done it), while Mandy continued working on her leproscarium, Andreas, Vibe, and her trusty machete Arthur hacked through razor-wire sharp pinguin and christmas bush, making trails all over that damn island, and Casper mapped and recorded his coal barge wreck. Beth and David were doing their own survey on St. John and on Hassel. By the time Thursday rolled around, we were exhausted, crispy from the sun and scarred from viscous insect bites and catch-n-keep. I think Vibe and I were ready to mutiny, and I'm pretty sure that we could have mustered the rest of the crew to follow suit. But when Ken walked into the office that morning, he looked just as haggard as the rest of us. There would be no going to Hassel that day. Instead, the LCS Team needed to see various sites around St. John before they left, and we needed to do the boat version of a "windshield survey" of Turner point, where a 1719 map claimed there was once a fort. We spent the day on and off the boat- snorkeling at Reef Bay above the happy, fat star fish; climbing through the maze of mangrove roots at Coral Bay; climbing on the beach at Browns Bay. We even saw Jessica and Devon, maintaining buoys on the Leatherback. It was happy and lovely, playing in the warm, salty water while it rained softly above us, and unusually calm. We spent that evening at the Beach Bar, seeing off Bethany who was leaving early, and feeling ready for the entire crew to take one final stab at Hassel. The next day we pushed across the ridge top to the Officer's Quarters, and ended at Phils.

Part I: View from a Leproscarium

2008-06-04T18:04:00.000-07:00

Well, here I am on St. John again, this damn island.

I left without really saying goodbye, stealing away for the Caribbean without even attending the end of the year party, (for the second year in a row, I know. In fact, it appears I'll miss the beginning of the year party again as well. Sigh). I had good reason this time, laid up in bed during my final weekend at home, with a hurt back of all things. (When did I get so old?)

I'm renting a small apartment in Cruz Bay off of Enighed Estate- they call the little road "The Valley"- with one of the biologists at the park, Jessica. The neighborhood is active, and you can generally hear people speaking spanish late into the night, until they are drowned out by the tree frogs and insects dripping from the vegetation that seems to engulf everything here. Just so I'm not too home sick, I'm usually woken by the chickens that run wild across all these islands, or by the feral cats, or by the epic age-old battle of chicken vs. cat that takes place outside my window as dawn breaks. Fred the Iguana also lives nearby, and early some mornings he is basking on the driveway as I leave for work.

The last month has come and gone- the speed with which time passes has become so cliche that I just can't come up with a witty metaphor tonight. Most of the time has been spent on Hassel Island, a hot, dry little spit of land that lays just across the harbor from Charlotte Amalie. It's mostly uninhabited, except for just a few intrepid souls such as the lovely old sail-maker named Manfred. We all had our reasons for being there- Vibe and Andreas were searching for the earliest sites of occupation, Mandy is investigating the Quarantine hospital (from where I get the name of this section), Casper was researching ship wrecks and anchors, and I was...well, I guess I'm just the muscle.

Hassel is its own special place, isolated and overgrown. We spend our days literally cutting our way through thick bush, with machetes, clippers and anything else we can get our hands on, careful to avoid the christmas bush and catch-n-keep, the first of which is poisonous and the second which is painful. We collect artifacts that are laying on the surface, record the rubble that used to be houses and factories. We occasionally dig holes, although not as often as one would like being an archaeologist.

In the evening we drag our sore and tired carcasses to the Tap Room or Beach Bar, for a bite to eat and a drink, and then are usually in bed early- like grade-school kids early. We have more fun on the weekends, hiking, swimming, sleeping in late. And then its always back to Hassel, to the leproscarium that sits on the hill overlooking downtown Charlotte Amalie and the cruise-ship tourists that invade nearly every afternoon. Its deceptive, the view of the town from the Leproscarium. There is the town, today as it would have been one hundred and fifty years ago, the sounds of the people carrying across the water. The water, at the base of the island, is a royal blue, abutting a thin strip of light tan sand. It seems as if it should be ideal. But there is nearly no breeze; by the time the early afternoon hits it is nearly unbearable there. No swimming in the water just below, no reprieve from the people across the way. In the mid to late 1800s it seems as if individuals with a variety of diseases- leprosy, small-pox, yellow fever- were quarantined on the side of this hill, watching the people in the town and the boats passing just below. The patients there were probably utterly miserable, except for the friends there with them.