The Independent September 30 2017 The Independent September 30 2017 | Page 7

Survivors of terrible hurricane tell how they made it through disaster
Trinidadian Guy Wilson, an aviation consultant, is
general manager of Oil Mop Environmental Services, St
Maarten. Wilson and his wife Gail Roach-Wilson were
there when Hurricane Irma hit St Maarten on September
6, leaving the island suffering severe damage and also
plagued by looting. Wilson has been posting humorous
but heartbreaking dispatches on Facebook about life in
the aftermath of the hurricane since then. Below are
some extracts:
September 6, 5.32 am, Philipsburg, Sint Maarten:
I haven’t experienced such ferocity of wind in my
life. All still okay. Side picket fence just went sailing
away.
September 7:
The airport is a disaster. The fire station is in utter
shambles, the perimeter fence is all gone. Winair’s of-
fices are destroyed and their maintenance hangar is in
total disrepair. The main terminal building suffered some
serious damage, with windows and doors blown out.
There were two private aircraft upside down, as were
cars in the car park.
Later:
In an effort to cure our cabin fever, we decided to
venture into the unknown.
The Fresh Market and new home centre, ably as-
sisted by looters, were now deserted as these noble
raiders made their way to what is now “Cost you None.”
There was ample parking available as the merrymakers
indulged in shopping-cart drag-racing and “How many
Maggi browning gravy bottles can you carry?” Vital
supplies such as Playdoh and Lego blocks were the order
of the day.
Suffice it to say I shan’t be getting replacement lum-
ber for my fence at Ace Hardware.
We crested the hill and stopped at the popular tourist
lookout spot—sans the building. In Cay Bay and Cole
Bay. The sight was indescribable. The devastation was
complete, as it was easier to count houses with roofs
than without.
September 11:
Early this morning our neighbour Elston hailed me
out. His Chinese friend Lin called and advised him to
meet her behind her supermarket. Accustomed as I am
to such clandestine operations, I immediately donned
my trousers with the many pockets and made haste to
the rendezvous point.
We arrived at the allotted time, but there was no Lin.
We waited for over an hour, to no avail. By this time
(some six days after Irma) her meat and poultry products
had begun the natural process of decomposition. The
residents, seeing this unknown vehicle, approached and
made inquiries as to the whereabouts of Lin and when
she intended to come and relieve them of this aromatic
experience.
A la St Peter we denied any knowledge of Lin and
beat a hasty retreat. Very dejected, we returned home.
Not too long after, another neighbour advised that drink-
ing water was being distributed a stone’s throw away.
With the speed of Lewis Hamilton I made my way there.
The line, surprisingly enough, was not too bad and I
obtained an ample supply of government juice. I paid a
“piper” a few dollars to stay in the line for the distribu-
tion of ice at 5 pm. Visions of a tall, cold beverage
buoyed my spirits as I proceeded to another Chinese es-
tablishment rumoured to be open.
It was! The, line, however, was the envy of any civil
service department: it stretched around the corner.
After what seemed an eternity (it was), I got to the
top of the line and was quite chuffed with my success,
save for some lamp oil and D batteries.
I returned home with my new found wealth, sat on
my rocker, waved to the Dutch king and his motorcade
as they whizzed by, and waited for my ice departure.
Later:
Operation ICE is a go. Elston was bang on time. We
arrived at the ice establishment at 4.40 and my trusted
piper was present. At exactly 5 pm the doors opened—
but no ice.
By and by, a bearded bare-chested individual, whose
muscles seemed to have muscles and who looked like
the local Isaac Hayes, addressed the throng. He was only
able to make about 50 bags of ice and these would be
distributed on a first-come-first-served basis, two bags
per person. Being about number 30 in the line, I was in
Guy Wilson with his wife Gail Roach-Wilson: kept a diary
dire straits.
Soon the 50 bags were gone and some people, dis-
heartened, decided to leave. I told Elston we would not
be deterred, as we had gained some ground.
At 6 Isaac announced the ice machine had broken
down and he was doubtful that ice would be produced
before 7. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth and
many people left. I suspected there was something rotten
in Arch Road (no, not Lin’s Supermarket), for I had ear-
lier dispatched my piper to the other side of the build-
ing.
His reconnaissance revealed ice had been delivered
to members of the local cons tabulary and the owner of
the nearby house of ill repute. After all, essential services
must have preference.
Having established that Isaac was a stranger to the
truth, Elston and I decided to wait a bit longer, as we
were now fifth in line. Alas, in vain: the sun was setting
and the curfew would soon be upon us. I began to get
nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking
chairs, as I distinctly remembered my doctor’s advice,
during my last visit, to stay away from bullets. We left,
depressed and iceless.
But I got food and water. I shall get ice tomorrow for
sure. I have to, as it is our wedding anniversary and I
need to chill my newly acquired bottle of Chateau de
Chinese Supermarket to accompany our anticipated
repast to be served by the world-famous Italian Chef Bo-
yardee.
September 14:
It had been some time since Gail actually left the
house, so with the new curfew hours of 8 am to 3 pm, it
was agreed she would join my never-ending quest for
creature comforts. After plugging in every imaginable
rechargeable device, I kissed my refrigerator goodbye
and we set out.
Our first stop was Oil Mop. The damage was not too
bad. The offices were caked in mud, but when water re-
turns we will have it mopped up.
At our biggest customer, US Laundry, the devastation
was utter. The place looked as if the Mighty Avengers
and Loki’s forces had battled to the death on this very
spot.
Shaken but not stirred, we proceeded towards the air-
port. My offices there were intact, as the cargo building
is relatively new. The terminal, however, was literally
gutted. Outside, the employee parking lot had been con-
verted to the check-in area as scores of foreigners lined
up to board the relief aircraft.
By now my ability to discern back-door supermarket
entrances had peaked. My spider senses began tingling.
Shopping at Maho Supermarket was like a child’s first
visit to Disneyland or my first visit to Hamley’s on Re-
gent Street. We stocked the cart like there was no tomor-
row—then saw the “Cash Only” sign. So back went the
Doritos, Cadburys and the like. We kept the dry roasted
peanuts and, of course, the alcoholic beverages.
Hurricanes do not discriminate between rich and
poor, have and have-nots, and Irma certainly did not.
The Pelican area looked as if a Tasmanian devil ran
through while under the influence of an overdose of
speed. We met one of the managers of the yacht club.
He seemed in a daze, as both his home and club were
roofless and the deck of the yacht club had set sail.
We visited a dear friend, the recently widowed Judy,
who had just arrived in St Maarten to get away from it
all—only to end up right in the heart of Irma and her at-
tendant tribulations. Judy graciously welcomed us into
her air-conditioned living room and served us two of the
coldest beers imaginable. Such unadulterated bliss.
The curfew hour was drawing near, so we said our
goodbyes. Coming home to a lit house was surreal. We
had become accustomed to sitting outside in the dark
porch sipping our evening beverages—only this time
they were cold.
Just then, the lights went. Electricity was gone like a
thief in the night.
September 16:
The Windwards Islands Bank line was long, as usual,
and the occupants looked frozen in time. I swear they
were the same people from the day before, including hat
lady.
As I parked in the now free public car park, I noticed
a group gathering outside the RBC Bank across the way.
Was this a vision, a hallucination, a mirage? No, it was
not. The RBC ATM was working! According to the late
Holly Betaudier, “Solid, liquid cash.” Good start.
I stopped off by the Chinee and treated myself to a
breakfast of champions: a bun and a parlour juice.
I got water from a burst main in Simpson Bay. One
man took the opportunity to do the family’s laundry but
appeared a bit reticent to hang his wife’s dragon drawers
on the makeshift clothesline between his trunk and a
light pole.
I heard the Carl and Sons Bakery was open and when
I arrived a tray of piping hot loaves had just been intro-
duced. The aroma was enough to bring tears to one’s
eyes.
At home I was pleasantly surprised to find we still
had electricity. I kissed my refrigerator hello and en-
joyed the coldest bottle of water I’ve ever had the pleas-
ure of consuming. Dinner consisted of black bean soup
and fresh bread after our evening cocktails.
This time with ice.
September 17:
Having survived the week from hell, I decided that,
it being Sunday, I would adhere strictly to my religion
and rest from all servile works.
My better half was now losing her mind, having not
left the house since Thursday last. Armed with my ever-
present water bottles, we set off. We stopped at the local
Chinee and stocked up for the upcoming Hurricane
Maria.
I had a really good look at the sheer destruction
wreaked upon the Dutch side of the island. What was
Cost You Less now looked like Cost You Stress, dam-
aged not by Irma but by senseless mobs who had looted
after the tempest.
The same with Kooyman, a hardware store. Ravaged
by the wrath of Irma, it also suffered under the total
asininity of the hordes who descended upon it. Do these
idiots not realise that the same galvanize, wood and ma-
terials they loot today would be in short supply tomor-
row? Some have no roofs nor electricity, yet they looted
flat-screen televisions, computers, smartphones and the
like. I hope when Maria arrives with her attendant rains
that they find shelter under their newly acquired 50-inch
TV.
We headed for the Green House: limited ice, but at
least one could enjoy a cocktail with two blocks. Con-
versation centred on different methods of toilet-flushing
to conserve water, the beauty of the stars sans roofs, the
military presence, rumours of the Prime Minister demit-
ting office, and the curfew.
Oh, my stars and garters! In our ebullience, we com-
pletely forgot about the curfew.
It also dawned on me that both establishments were
still open – after curfew hours. Investigations revealed
that the Dutch military were treated to sodas and meals
during the day and would allow both Green House and
Buccaneers to close at 6.
Says I, that does not help me. But by now, dear Gail
was having the time of her life. I tried to explain our
predicament to her, but she would have none of it. But
we made it home without incident, whereupon we cele-
brated our good fortune with a sundowner.
September 20:
It was Monday and time to revisit the banks.
The powers that be had extended the curfew hours to
7 pm, though all businesses must close by 5 pm. The
military were in charge of the streets. The banks able to
open announced they would close at 1 pm, so all and
sundry made their way there. The WIB line won the
prize for best purgatory conditions in a post-apocalyptic
event. The RBC line was a close second.
Not me and this today. I noticed that at the entrance
to RBC there was an employee fielding questions. Says
I, “I must make a mortgage payment, perchance is there
a customer service representative available?”
With one quick movement the doors to the inner
sanctum were opened to me. Having absolutely no in-
tention of transacting any such business, I availed myself
of the delights of their space-age coffee machine, joined
the senior citizens’ line at the tellers’ island, withdrew,
then withdrew from the premises. Five minutes flat. A
record in any commercial bank, anywhere, any time,
under any conditions
After refilling my water bottles, I made my way to
the Oil Mop offices: still no lights or water despite being
a stone’s throw away from the water and power com-
pany.
It was past the 15th of the month, so I had to do the
payroll. But the bank where the employees could cash
their cheques would not be open until Wednesday, Maria
permitting. Poor fellas, there was nothing I could do, so
I gave them each a very small personal loan which I
hoped would tide them over.
Monday night into Tuesday morning was uneventful
in St Maarten; unlike Dominica, it had been spared the
ravages of Maria and the storm would pass some 100
miles to our south. As I looked out of my patio I saw the
angry Caribbean Sea unleash wave after wave of inde-
scribable venom. This would set back any efforts at re-
building, as the main harbour was closed and the airport
would soon follow.
In the evening I was able to get the Weather Channel
on YouTube. They brought out doctors of meteorology
past and present and put the fear of God into the poor
souls in San Juan and the US Virgin Islands. No consid-
eration was given to the goodly people of St Kitts-Nevis.
As night closed in, it became more blustery and I ac-
customed myself to the eerie noises of the howling
winds and sheet-like rain of tropical storm conditions. I
looked out one last time and noticed Philipsburg and
Madame Estate were in total darkness: there were only
seven houses with electricity. We were one of them.
I drifted off into another fitful night’s sleep. Jose and
Maria, where is Jesus?