Island Time

by Linnea West | 2010

Moving to a Caribbean island from New York City, you might think that first I would notice how strange it was to drive a car again, now over bumpy dirt roads. Or how beautiful the aquamarine water was. Perhaps the sound the wind made through the chattering palm trees or its touch on my neck. I noticed all these things, but only vaguely, as I grew more and more impatient.

After I found the meeting spot where the real estate agent was supposed to be, I waited in the heat in my little island car. And I waited. I called her to learn that she would be there in ten minutes and was worried and distraught that it took her thirty. She gave a breezy apology. Disgruntled, I followed her lead. Unfortunately, it took me a little longer to learn her casual handling of time.

You have probably heard the phrase “island time,” but it can be difficult to appreciate until you see it in action, similar to a turtle race. Time slows down, at least for everyone else. I've sat in traffic watching car after car pile up as two passing drivers held a conversation. I've waited as a cook at a restaurant stopped fixing my dinner to fix her child's hair and then start scribbling in a notebook. I've been in post office lines that would make the citizens of New York revolt with their inefficiency. Yet I seemed to have been the only one perturbed. That is what really killed me at first—everyone else seemed so content.

Slowly I have come to appreciate that there are advantages to island time as well. A sense of having all the time in the world governs traffic here, which makes hairpin turns and unpaved roads manageable and even fun. While people might drive fast or slow, or very very slow, they will all certainly pause for you if you need to stop both lanes to turn around. Drivers routinely wait for people to pull out in front of them with a gentle wave. Traffic stops immediately for people wanting to cross the street, and the same goes for chickens. A language of honking has developed around this to accommodate everyone. A honk can mean "hello" or "look out, I'm turning into your lane" or "thanks." (This is the exact opposite of taxi cab drivers in New York City.) Here mutual cooperation exists.

I hadn't realized how much I had adapted to island time until my parents came to visit. We went out for a nice meal one night. After we sat down, and at the end of every course, they looked around for their waiter. They couldn’t understand why nobody rushed over the minute we were unoccupied by our food. As we waited for the check, I found myself explaining that there was no reason to hurry. We were in the process of having a meal together. It was expected to be a long and protracted occasion, and at the end we did not have to leave the table until we felt like it. We could stay for hours. They looked around. I saw the idea begin to sink into their brows. Clearly nobody in the restaurant was going anywhere else tonight. This was it. It brings a very present and luxurious sense to the moment when you realize that.

That slower pace of life has been a habit I've had to learn; rather, multi-tasking is a habit I have had to unlearn. I don't need to start the laundry and boil water while I shower. I can do them each in order. At first it was very hard to do one thing at a time when I could do multiple things at a time. Now time has slowed down for me too. I still have moments when I become frustrated with the pace of life, especially if I am running errands. But resistance is futile. The man bagging groceries, the woman driving, the children playing in front of the entrance—not one of them is going to rush if I sigh and tap my fingers. Eventually I have to accept that something takes as long as it is going to take.

Lesson learned: you can't rush island time.

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