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Grand Cayman Island, 1978

Grand Cayman Island, 1978

Dougburnett
2003-11-22 10:50:20

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She was standing beside the road waiting for me: a large, dignified black woman in an old-fashion print dress. I pulled my little motor bike over and asked, "Mrs. Whitaker?"

"You must be the young man who's looking for the room," she answered in her lilting Caribbean voice. When I nodded yes, she quickly added, "Well, come in then."

I had asked about rooms at a small bar back on the main road. Mrs. Whitaker's name had come up and the bartender called her. I hadn't originally intended to come to Grand Cayman - I wanted to go to Miami - but when I found out that a ticket there was actually $20 cheaper, with a stop in Florida, I couldn't resist. As I was a little short of cash for this add-on vacation, I needed a cheap place to stay.

Her small living room had a grandmotherly quality to it: lace curtains, floral wallpaper and lots of pictures I assumed to be family. Two small bedrooms adjoined the living room and, off the opposite side, a long narrow kitchen. When I asked which bedroom was available, she replied, "Whichever you like." I picked the one with a window toward the front of the house, but felt kind of odd: maybe it was hers.

Mornings she would make eggs and bacon before she sent me on my way to wander the island on my rented moped. When I found a nice beach I would stop to walk or snorkel. First, I visited the busy north shore where all the hotels and the island's only real town were located. Next, I toured the east and west ends where exclusive communities with guarded entrances were being built - some beautiful land was being locked away there. In fact, only the scrubby, flat center and beach-less south, where Mrs. Whitaker lived, were being spared.

In the evening we would sit on her screened-in porch, her with a glass of clear liquid I took for gin and me with my Indonesian cigarettes. She told me about her life: her sister in Belize and a son in the merchant marines. She also talked about how she made baskets for the tourists. I, in turn, told her about the day's travels but the island was so small she probably could have guessed where I had gone.

And so it went: my days were consumed with touring and my evenings with talking to my landlady. She was a good and gracious hostess but finally it was time to continue on to Miami. In my subsequent travels I have tried to find similar arrangements, asking around for rooms in private homes, but have never found a place like hers. I wonder if she is still there, offering a room and hospitality to lone travelers?

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