the raft & bucket

The raft glides along the water, sifting through flotsam and burrowing broken bamboo through the tiny ripples of the bay. He is showing off now, split reed paddle in hands, flipping it around like a baton and then side to side as he approaches the boat. His long dreaded hair is covered by a cap with FIRST MATE embroidered on it, a toothy smile forming as he sees me on deck.

On the back of his homemade raft he has a bucket.
That is where the treasures lay.
Grapefruits, oranges, mangoes. Today a water coconut (a jelly), yesterday a piece of brain coral as big as his fist, tomorrow maybe some parrotfish.
"How you doin?" he asks, his eyes shining with possibilities.
"Hey Clive. I'm doing alright. Good day to you."
"Almost good evening!" he says. I glance up at the sun diving towards the lush green hills and agree.
I sit on deck and he shows me his wares, tells me the rain is done, asks me if I eat mushrooms. "No man, I'm living the straight life on board," I say. He tells me they are dangerous and make you act pfffttt. I laugh and agree. I wonder what sort of trouble he got into the night before when I saw him on the road. I was nibbling on jerk chicken, he was tripping, street dogs were barking, music was blaring from the bar across the street. Laughing maniacally, drool pooling on his long beard, he was obviously in another state of mind as he demanded, "Give me money." I told him I already had that day and didn't have more but gave him my festival (fried dough) to chew on. He went back to the bar. I went back to eating spicy chicken, never feeling threatened, just put off- drool is not pretty on anyone.
Strong mushrooms, he said. Indeed.

He was back to (his) normal today.

I wasn't planning to buy anything more from Clive. I have a fridge full of veggies and my cabin has become the boat pantry with mangoes, papaya, grapefruit, and sweet potatoes in bags and crates on the narrow sole. I can't fit anything more into the freezer and I'm already wondering what is rotting at the bottom of bins, in ziplocs or loose in the veritable chaos.

He placed the coconut on deck.
"I don't have a machete!" I told him. Knives don't work so hot on green coconuts. He dropped it back in the boat.

He pulled a string of white and red from his bucket. "I made this today. Dem from de mountain," he said, motioning to the pale line of Job's tears seeds streaming from his hand.
"Clive! I have earrings to match! They're from Belize. How did you know?"
He just smiled up at me.
"I pulled the shell from the sea," he said, handing me the necklace. I hesitated taking it, knowing once you take something like that in your hands it is hard to not keep it. Clive knew this too.
"How much do you want?" I had a feeling I was going to end up with it no matter the cost.
"500." About $5. He was overcharging me, for sure.
"OK." I paid without haggling, wrapping the strands twice over my bare neck.

There is always that dilemma for me: to haggle or not. Sometimes it's necessary. With Clive, it is definitely necessary most of the time. Except that I know Clive lives in the mangroves, that he is very thin, that the banana trees from which he gets his fruit to sell were damaged by Hurricane Sandy, and that he says his fishing license has been suspended until he does the paperwork and pays the fees. So I only haggle when I know he's going way above and beyond whats reasonable. Or when he's tripping and can hardly give me a price without laughing for minutes at a time.

But eventually he gets what he wants, I get what I want, and off he paddles into the mangroves, collecting supplies for another day of sales in his cornered market in the West Harbor of Port Antonio.