Saturday, December 13, 2014

A Donkey Christmas...

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!!


    **a friendly beachcomber with a camera walking by at just the right time snapped this shot for us.

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