We knew very little about St. John the first time we
visited. Just another beautiful island
created by God with a great resort created by Rockefeller for us to enjoy some
snorkeling and sun while we waited to reunite with our son after his summer
sailing experience.
Our first morning there we walked the lush green grounds of
the resort following a path lined by flamboyant foliage and swaying palm trees
through an expansive clearing which gently sloped up to the edge of the
rainforest. The air was fresh and
lightly salted. The breeze cooled our
sweaty skin on this humid tropical summer day. It was early and we were alone. Stirring
at the forest edge, a commotion of animals headed this way, slowly at
first but picking up speed. A large herd
of donkeys had decided at that moment the grass WAS greener on the other side
and they were headed for it. Donkeys? It seemed silly at first. But we stood transfixed, directly in the path
of this asinine stampede as the dashing donkeys now at a full gallop gained
speed and threatened to engulf us at any second.
Like Walmart shoppers on Black Friday, the rambunctious group of jacks and jennets
converged on us too quickly. Our survival reflexes kicked in and, as juvenile
as it may seem, our only way out was to dart awkwardly behind the safety of a large
palm tree. There we stood as skinny as
possible behind its protective trunk with donkeys speeding by us to either
side. Donkeys to the left and donkeys to
the right, their unassuming gray and white coats shining in the sweltering sun,
some snorting and others just kicking up a little dust but all thump thump
thumping with their hooves on the soft turf.
And passing by us to the grassy field beyond, as quickly as they had
started, they stopped.
Today they came from the protection of the National Park
territory to eat breakfast, but generations ago, they came from a land much farther
away. Donkeys don’t swim. This is an island. They got here by boat. Over five hundred years ago. By Christopher Columbus’ ship, on his second
voyage to the New World in 1495, the first donkeys landed in the
Caribbean. With weathered stays rigged
to a creaky mast each of the four jacks and two jennets were harnessed and
lowered to this sandy soil. Back then, a
donkey was respectfully called an "ass"; far from silly or stupid, they were important
companions and beasts of burden.
They were brought to work.
To carry loads and people as they went about the business of settling
this new frontier and building St. John.
Since way before the days when Jesus rode one into Jerusalem, donkeys have
been excellent workers. They eat less
and live longer than horses, and take up less space. On St. John they were excellent rum makers. They
hauled bay leaves from the mountaintops and sugarcane from the fields. They turned mills to grind the cane to
sweeten the rum. They transported the
coveted concoction to the docks to ship to the world’s markets an export that
is to this day the region’s number one commodity.
And they were attentive witnesses. If they could talk they would enlighten you on
the historic battles for the island, and detail for you the raucous behavior of
rebellious pirates as well as the ugliness of slavery from its beginning to its
end. They would tearfully describe the
horrible hurricanes and earthquakes, and the 35 foot tsunami of November 18,
1867, and gratefully explain how Laurence Rockefeller arrived to create a
National Park haven for them and others over fifty years ago.
Relaxing in a two-person hammock on a Christmas visit years later, we noticed some of the
wild herd again in the shade at the edge of an alabaster beach. One of the males, the leader, broke away from
the group and made his way slowly and deliberately toward us. He approached me, closer and closer until his
nose was beside my cheek. His whiskers tickled my skin. I froze.
I did not even breathe. He
sniffed my shoulder, then down my side to my thigh and back to my face. Then stepping forward, he positioned himself
directly between me and my island girl.
And there he stood, for what reason I don’t know. Posing.
Twenty-one donkey generations after Columbus, we rested
under the shade of a welcoming palm tree, and enviously watched their wild donkey descendants,
with no predators to worry about and no more work to do, peacefully retired and munching happily
and deservedly on the dewy sweet green grass of paradise. And we were filled with the spirit of Christmas, the peace and goodwill toward man symbolized in the harmony of that moment, thankful for this gift from our donkey friend and happy to share this gift with you.
Merry Christm"ass" To All!!
