Manpot's Tales of the Tropics

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1. Big Red the Gangster

2. Wacko Jacko, The Oddfather and…

3. Johnnie One Nut

4. Don’t call me Ray…or Stevie
Wonder

5. The Last Great Beach
Bonfire

6. Yes…he is a Pirate

7. "Mon…Dat be Icin’!!"

8. The Million Dollar Chaise
Longue

9. "Lord" Land Crab and the Flying
Donkey

10. The Islanders…of
Montana

11. Four Red Stripes and a Funeral

12. She Came Down…from Sturgis, South
Dakota

13. Bongo the Pelican…Bonus chapter for kids
(and those of us who still act like them.)

About
the Author

It’s a long haul from California down to the island
paradise of Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands. But after
fourteen hours of flying south east to latitude 18 there’s one
sight that instantly makes it all worthwhile. Stumbling out of
customs and immigration at Tortola’s Beef Island airport into the
warm, moist tropical air I’m greeted by a big white and gold grin
and two outstretched arms….one to give me a “welcome home” hug, the
other to give me an ice cold Red Stripe beer.

My longtime buddy’s name is Darkie and in these
oh-so-politically correct times a name like that really needs a
brief explanation. Darkie is, well, very dark but he comes by the
only name anyone ever calls him because his eyes are light
sensitive and he wears sunglasses day and night.

“My momma calls me Darkie”, my friend said when we
first met and I told him how uncomfortable it made me feel to use
that name, “so if you don’t call me ‘Darkie’ I’ll be very
offended.”

So Darkie it is.

Seems few folks in the islands have names like Fred,
Jim or Bob. My island buddies have names like Bomba, Boots,
Sandman, Shadow, Quito, Daddy Magic, Landcrab, and of course,
Darkie. I even have this weird island name Manpot.

So how does a white boy from middle class North
London end up with the moniker "Manpot" in the Caribbean?

Of course, there's a colourful tale to tell.

I first walked into the now famous Bomba Shack on a
very hot summer day back in 1984. The shack hangs over the water's
edge of Little Apple Bay, about eight feet above the beach. It's
literally a giant sandbox made of corroding roofing materials, old
surfboards, rusted outboard motors, even discarded computers and
stereos. Basically anything that washes up on the beach or ends up
on the roadside becomes part of the Shack.

Someone once asked me what would happen to the Shack
in a hurricane. I answered that no one could tell any difference.
On a good day the place looks like a category five just blew
through.

Anyway on my first visit to the Shack I was greeted
by a mountain of a man sitting on a giant cooler. He was at least
six feet four and hadn't seen the downside of three hundred pounds
in many a year. He fixed me with one eye, the other pointing in a
decidedly easterly direction. The trade winds blew through the
shack mixing a smell of barbecue, stale beer and rum…..the smells
of paradise in other words.

"Got any cold beer?" I asked.

"Got any money?" he responded.

"Yup," said I."

"Got cold beer," said the man I soon found out was
Bomba himself.

That was the beginning of a generally fond friendship
between Bomba and I. OK ...he wasn’t exactly thrilled when a friend
of mine took out part of the Shack with his Jeep in the dead of
night, but that's tale for another day.

Anyway Bomba loves to give his pal's names and, after
a couple of years, a gentleman showed up at the Shack who
introduced himself as a sea captain from New Jersey.

He'd island hopped through the Caribbean and landed,
like so many of us wannabe pirates, in Tortola…at the Shack.

Bomba immediately dubbed him " Seaman...cos that's
what he was."

Seaman quickly became a fixture at the Shack, helping
out and quickly becoming another of those wonderful Caribbean
characters.

Around this time Bomba became famous for his Bar B
Q's on Wednesdays, Sundays, and during his monthly Full Moon
Parties where amazing mushroom concoctions are still served (The
"Sports Illustrated" Swimsuit issue dedicated four pages to the
bizarre ritual a few years ago).

To be kind, a Full Moon party at the Shack's like a
cross between a classic Caribbean "jump-up," a frat party and an X
rated version of a Gidget beach bash. Almost anything goes and
.everyone should experience at least one in their lifetime. But
leave the kids at home.

Anyway, after those wild bashes Seaman would dump all
the leftovers into a massive pot, add spices and boil up a
fantastic stew that Bomba then dished up to the regulars. He called
it "Seaman Pot," which, after a few weeks, got shortened to
"Manpot."

Of course Bomba, being Bomba, decided that this
wonderful, spicy dish had, shall we say," extra special properties
that made men extra strong" in the love department. "Manpot",
according to Bomba was the "Altoid of Aphrodisiacs" and any man who
sampled it….well you get the picture.

Anyway Bomba one day gave me that name and it stuck
like a local's butt to a runaway donkey.

So, down island I'm Manpot and my favorite cabbie is
still the infamous Darkie...

So there was my fine friend with the funny name at
the airport. We hugged, we laughed and then he said we had to drop
someone off on the way to my house in Little Apple Bay.

"His name is Big Red the Gangster” said Darkie
proudly, as he opened the back door of his Mitsubishi to reveal a
large man, fast asleep.

He was certainly "Big." He certainly wasn’t "Red."
And he didn’t seem like much of a "Gangster."

Within minutes, we were bouncing through the
backstreets of Tortola’s East End. Reggae drifting out of the tin
roofed houses filled the air as we bounced down the dirt road with
potholes deep enough to swallow a medium size child. Suddenly, a
booming voice broke the humid air.

”Stop”, Big Red commanded. We stopped and Big Red
staggered out and into a tiny, smoky bar. We followed, into the
darkness, bought beers and were back on our way.

We repeated this routine, without anything more than
the commanding “Stop," twice more before dropping a very drunk Big
Red off at his house.

Together Darkie and I headed on to Little Apple Bay
along Ridge Road with the impossibly blue ocean below us, the
emerald islands in the background, and sheer drops on either side
of us., As he drove, much too fast, Darkie told me tales of Big Red
the Gangster.

“He cause a big fight in a bar,” Darkie said, “and
when two policemen come to arrest him he say ‘Where the rest of the
force (of course Darkie pronounced it "faarse") "Take the whole BVI
faarse to arrest Big Red the Gangster."

Seems Big Red was so drunk that the two cops needed
no reinforcements that night and Big Red slept it off in jail. But
Darkie said the one thing Big Red liked even more than booze, and
the occasional fight, was the ponies.

Now, believe it or not, Tortola actually has a horse
racing track.( in typical island style renovating the racetrack was
put before updating the hospital and fixing the airport….these
small islands have their priorities right!).And Big Red, it seems,
has his own race horse (Pronounced race 'haarse' with that
wonderful Caribbean accent).

“So”, Darkie said, “Big Red takes his race haarse to
the track. But that damn haarse don’t want to get in the startin'
gate…All the haarses get in the gate...but Big Red haarse back
out...they put the haarse back in the gate...he back out.”

Big Red’s watching this from behind the barrier and
he's getting madder and madder (maybe that’s where the "Red" part
comes in).

“Now Big Red’s real mad,” says Darkie,” he grabs a
two by four ("faaar"), he jumps over the barrier and runs onto the
track as his haarse back out again. Just then the startin' gates
open and de race is on"

"Big Red wind up with that two by four and whack his
haarse hard on the ass ("aaas").

‘On your feet’, screamed Big Red at the poor haarse.
That haarse take off down the track...runs past all the other
haarses and win the damn race!!”

There’s got to be some moral to this tale but, to me,
it just reminds me how wonderful, and whimsical, the islands can
be.

By the way now, whenever I see Darkie, he just leans
out of his Mitsubishi and yells “On your feet” before bursting into
gales of laughter.

As for Big Red the Gangster, last I heard he was
sleeping under a palm tree somewhere near East End….and one race
"haarse" knows never to back out the starting gate again.

As for me, I'm just happy to answer to 'Manpot' and
join the cast of colourful characters in the Caribbean with crazy
names.

I guess working in Hollywood prepared me for the
truly colourful, sometimes crazy but always amusing characters I've
been so lucky to meet over the years in the Caribbean. I mean after
spending ninety minutes in a private meeting with Michael Jackson
and Marlon Brando in the VIP room of "The Record Plant" recording
studio in Hollywood, just about anything else would seem
normal.