Antigua

Antigua is an island in the Caribbean. Its name means “ancient” in Spanish. Columbus named it this in 1493 for the Virgin of La Antigua, a Catholic saint. It renamed its highest point to Mount Obama in honor of the current U.S. President. The main sport is cricket.

I visited Antigua for a singular afternoon. The disparity between the tourist side and the population side was enormous and evident. Native islanders strolled through the traveler streets, offering shell-necklaces and flimsy sunglasses to girls wearing lip gloss and contempt. I slipped away from my family - who were no doubt under the impression I was getting a snack – and went to explore.

There was a market. The stands were all of faded, painted wood. There was so much movement, so much rhythm rhythm rhythm packed into a crowded place, packed into such a small land. I bought an icy drink from a lady who touched my hair and gave me a wide stretched smile. She wouldn’t stop moving as she handed me my change, a straw, and a coupon.

Every step I took was a different smell. Cigarettes down this aisle, car exhaust across the street. Sweat rolling off of that man in waves. The scent of cool cotton from a shop of dyed sundresses. The smell of salt everywhere. Dust, fish, and is that oranges? It all mixed together into a wonderful blend.

The sky was the exact color of a bruise that afternoon – blue faded into a disconcerting purple. It loomed over the hills to sit on the nearby shantytown, where everything is shakier than a house of cards. On one side are Americans tanning their bodies, darting around like ants to buy beads and shells from smiling locals. On the other side are one room houses made from aluminum walls, goats that are everything, and hardship.

Heat magnifies the cigarette smell, the cotton smell, the fish and orange and salt smell. I cannot comprehend any of it. So instead of trying to figure it out, I went back to my family, sat on a reclining beach chair, and let my mind go hazy.