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Things that could go wrong on an island-hopping holiday
Running out of cash
where the name of the local currency
derives from the pelts of martens
and the sacred linden tree Stuck
where Sunday mornings are for disentangling fishing nets
in a cotton print skirt with the old man or humping
the new cooker from the red van up the steps,
watched by half the village and all the guests
(and the English have sailed away to the next island
in their putty-coloured catalogue shorts and navy boat shoes
with shampoo and conditioner)
The gold-green beetle the size of 50p
flies in your face for luck
and black butterflies point the way
to the lake, the island,
the monastery with a cafe in the grounds.
The grounds of coffee dry in the cup from this morning
and you daren't go out again to take it back
lest you spend your last remaining cash.
What care they for your credit card
which is gold and entitles you to spend
six thousand British pounds?
It is no use no use.
You cannot hire a bike a car
a kayak or canoe for nine or
thirty pelts a day
you cannot enjoy an excursion
on a traditional-style wooden boat
nor buy a wheel of the domestic cheese.
There are worse things that could happen.
As you shunt your wicker chair up to the table
a staple might gouge into the pad of your thumb
causing you to shout out like an autistic child
I am hurt hurt
and now I'll contract tetanus and die
because I have not brought the number
of my travel insurance policy abroad.
Or you might be eating a mixed grill
in the harbour under a new moon
while six-year-olds monkey around the boats,
swinging from this rope or that prow
as you shake your head no.
They don't care. They squeal
and shriek and giggle, they egg
each other on. You turn your back.
A splash. A silence. Pause.
Up out of your seats spring you
and yours, the smart casual
young retired, tan handsome
couple who go with the yacht.
Nothing. Then a child's face
rises out of the water
like the Ace of Cups and
GIVE ME YOUR HAND
demands the woman in English
and he does and they haul and he's ashore:
pelting wet up the steps,
mother rolling off his sopping top.
Don't stop. Laugh a nervous laugh
and eat your chops. Your chips.
Lick your lips. Leave a tip.
That night you will not sleep
seeing the boy-child plunging in the deep,
yourself kicking off your sandals
pulling off your shorts, jumping
from the side, diving and gulping,
stretching and groping
for black hair in black water.
Nothing. Why didn't you
stop their play? Forgetting
everyone is home and dry, OK.
Was everyone OK? you asked
in the house in the historic city
where the landlady had framed
the dent in the wall made not by a ball
but a shell in the Homeland War.
Yes yes. Now we have to forget.
Out on the island
someone might come off his bike
and gash his head
and wait an hour for the policeman
with his siren on
the ambulance to come
to take him to the other port
to wait an hour
for the hospital boat
- bandages and blood they said -
That isn't anything to do with you.
The gulls that bob the wasps that buzz
the lizard with its stripe
have more relevance and yet
you will persist in wondering
what if? What if you hired
a bicycle (which of course
you cannot do for lack of
ready cash) and, whizzing along
an inland ridge or cliffside path,
snagged a wheel against a rock
and fell on your head, near dead,
and had omitted to tell your lover
the number for the emergency services
in these parts which is not 999
or 112, not 911 or anything she'll guess
and you a mess, can't speak.
Does someone round the corner now
to help? Or must you sweat it out
in eighty-degree heat?
It may seem a minor matter
but what if
as these Dubliners had found
your bathroom was so small
you could sit on the toilet
and be sick in the sink
and if you were, say,
that woman there - not massive
but bigger than us round the hip -
you'd not be able to take a leak
at all, as you would not fit
on the toilet seat
between the basin and the door.
Can't you stop your worrying and see?
Take off your shades, lie down and gaze a while
out at the blue-green Adriatic, wooded hills.
Hear the ping of the bicycle bell,
rev of the moped at the end of the day.
Feel the air shifting towards rain
as the child calls for her mother
and your lover steps in from the balcony in a pink sarong
to drape an arm around your knees and smile.
Helen Sandler
Mljet, Croatia
29/05/05
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