CHARLATAN

I rarely get an invite to Government House these days. I’ve been here so long that I’m regarded as somewhat of an aging oddity, with distinctly unguarded opinions. Not the colorful, witty, sophisticate that can be relied on to be pleasant and intelligent with visiting dignitaries. August is a slow time however, a time when many of the expatriates go home for breathers, a time when the B list of invitees can be called upon to fill out the cocktail crowd. So here, nestled between my National Geographic and the Island Times is the unmistakable invite; white, gold embossed, with the emblem of St. Georges snuggling beside Her Majesty’s insignia, a clear indication that while Her Majesty is not exactly in bed with this island anymore, the relationship is still both valued and necessary. Well, that does depend on one’s point of view of course and this is just the sort of remark that my hosts will be wary of me making. But I am nevertheless one of Her Majesty’s subjects and as such do warrant the occasional invite.

Governor Wilson Requests the pleasure of the company of Mrs. Georgina Harris at a reception from 6-9p.m. at Government House To welcome Mr. Lorne Thompson Wednesday, August 15th, 1997 Dress – Informal

It’s already Tuesday. Definitely a B list invitee. Still I will be happy to don my one and only semi-formal attire, a silk turquoise chemise. Worn with silver leather sandals and a matching silver chiffon shawl, it tactfully avoids any attempt at sculpting my long sagging figure. A phone call to Alice will secure a ride as well as some moral support for the occasion. It’s a given that she will have received an invite. She is not prone to making impolitic remarks and has remained a constant on the invite list through numerous installations of governors and changes in political stripes. She came to these islands some twenty years ago with a not inconsiderable fortune and has spread it about in an inconspicuous yet useful way. Libraries and museums have all received some well needed maintenance and renovation through her endowments. In addition, she has a talent for investing in the occasional successful venture on these islands, a talent that has kept her on the A list for over a decade. On the steps we are greeted by Governor Wilson and his gracious wife, Belinda. He fills the role with ease, but I do suspect that privacy and seclusion would be her personal choice. She does put on a brave face.

A cooling evening breeze disperses the delicate scent of bougainvillea. It’s been awhile. I don’t recognize too many faces. Rev. Thomas is a welcome familiar face. He comes over and greets me and with a twinkle in his eye he whispers, “A new prophet for the island has arrived.” My eyebrows rise, a request for more information. It’s left hanging. The gong rings – a summons to attention as the guest of honor is introduced. Lorne Thompson, business entrepreneur and avowed Christian  unfolds his plan for development on the northeast tip of the island. The artist’s impression reveals a marina, flanked by high rise condos and luxuriant palms. The northeast tip has no natural inlet that could be gently sculpted into the multi-pronged marina depicted in the artist’s sketch. This scheme would require a massive excavation and dredging offensive to carve up that piece of land, which is equal parts coral and mangrove swamp. I feel the muscles around my jaw slacken and my eyes blink involuntarily. Thompson has the full attention of the crowd. He spotted the island on his way back from a trip to Guyana. Its shape, he observes, is a mirror image of the Holy Land. A sign from God, he felt sure, to guide him to this small country to bring investment dollars and great wealth. An exclusive medical clinic and spa would be part of the project — a sanctuary in which to recover from the rigors of plastic surgery. I scan the crowd for feedback. The Minister for Health and the Chief Minister of the island are wet eyed with wonder and expectation. Most of the invitees are native St. Georges stock and while they have good reason to doubt the likelihood of the completion of this grandiose scheme, if past history is a trustworthy measure, they certainly want to believe in it. Thompson has been well prepped by local promoter and self-styled Christian evangelist, Brother Justin Sparks. Brother Justin is a recent arrival to the island who has been courting both the local clergy and the local politicians with his dreams and visions of wealth for the island. The combination of wealth and religion is just too attractive for this struggling, God fearing former colony to pass on.

Enthusiastic applause follows the completion of Lorne Thompson’s presentation. The Chief Minister gets up to respond. “I want to thank Mr. Thompson for choosing St. Georges for this project. Our government will play its part by setting aside the northeast corner of the island for this development. We pray that God will bless Mr. Thompson and that he will find the extra investors needed to proceed with the development within the agreed two year time frame.” A few amen’s from the crowd. “Our time has come. We have worked hard and prosperity is at hand. Praise the Lord.” “Praise the Lord. God bless, St. Georges,” Brother Sparks announces. The Governor is stone faced. Impossible to judge what his take is on all of this. I look at Alice. “Is this for real?” “At this moment it is.” A typical Alicism.

Everyone will be rich on St. Georges, the headline reads in the “Island Times”. Entrepreneur, Lorne Thompson, to develop a multi-million dollar harbor complex and medical clinic. Christian Evangelist Brother Justin Sparks to coordinate the project locally. Dedication of site to take place on Monday August 14th at 10 a.m. I take a detour down by the northeast tip of the island during my morning walk and come upon the small procession. Brother Sparks is leading the entourage to the dedication of the site. His black flowing robes billow out behind him and press against his rotund mid section as he strides out over the dusty bush trail. He is carrying a carved wooden box supported by two long poles and shouldered between himself and one of his lieutenants. An Islander blows on a conch shell and raises a sonorous wail which pierces the morning quiet. A donkey in the bush replies with his own virtuosity. They stop at a brown flat slurpy piece of wet sand. An unremarkable spot except for the small plastic flag that has been posted to mark the spot. The wooden box is placed on the ground and Brother Sparks reveals its contents after a dramatic pause. Two slightly wilted palm tree seedlings are carefully removed, blessed and dug into the saline mixture of sparse dirt and shifting sands. Brother Sparks stands up, spreads his hands against the freshening wind and calls forth for divine blessings and intervention for the success of this great enterprise. He is misty eyed and choked by his own passion. “Friends, I have a vision.” A slight pause while Brother Sparks composes himself. “Yeah, this piece of rock and mangrove swamp will become a verdant paradise. A paradise, I say.” This last statement said with heightened tremor in his voice. “A refuge for the ailing.” This said with pious affirmation. “And friends, a source of wealth and happiness for these islands!” “Amen, Brother Sparks, Amen!” As the procession returns to the town centre, I continue my walk towards the sea. The northeast shore is on the windward side of the island and is subject to a slick of floating garbage and vegetation churned up on the beach by each receding tide. Gulls pick through the debris like professional beachcombers, while sandpipers scurry before the tide in search of live offerings. Not the most picturesque part of the island but pulsating with its own bio-rhythms and curiosities. A phenomenon I find incongruous with the proposed development. On my way back I notice a donkey snacking on the newly planted palm trees.

The next several weeks sees a frenzy of activity on the island as Brother Sparks buzzes around in a jeep displaying the decal Harbor Project on the hood. All potential investors are tracked down and given the speech most appropriate to their sensibilities. The vision speech is given to the missionaries, the tax shelter speech to the mercenaries and a grand attempt at obfuscation is offered to the shrewd. Alice is not easily obfuscated and Brother Sparks cuts short his visit with her after a certain line of questioning relating to assets and securities sends him running for cover.

Some marking of land occurs during September and October. This prompts a flurry of excitement about possible environmental impacts should dredging proceed, followed by a series of commentaries and editorials on the pros and cons of the development. The would-be developers stay out of the debate. Hurricane season comes and goes without much ado. By the time tourist season rolls round, there is still no sign of any heavy machinery excavating or dredging the site. Environmentalists are relieved and proponents become anxious. Dissatisfaction at island bureaucracy slowing down the access and importation of excavation machinery to the island is aired as the source of delay. Investors, if there are any, keep their own council. Brother Sparks maintains an upbeat approach to the project but with a somewhat tempered zeal. He has the look of a man considering his options.

On a hot April day, Alice stops by for coffee and casually drops a copy of the Miami Herald on the sofa.

“You may find that interesting,” she offers without elaborating. Page three is running a story on money laundering and tax evasion. Front and centre of the exposé is a photo and headliner, Thompson files for bankruptcy as IRS closes the noose. Likely to serve jail term for fraud.

“Did the government lose a bundle on this deal?” I ask, not quite getting it.

“Not really,” Alice explains. “The land reverts to the government if Thompson doesn’t build on it within the two year time frame. Thankfully, this charlatan got caught before he had a chance to make an awful mess. As soon as he had run out of money he would have pleaded for funds to continue or threaten to leave the place scarred with machinery rotting in the swamp.”

“So, everything’s okay then?”

“Oh, yes. Amnesia will set in across the bureaucracy and a little bit of revisionism will deodorize any foul smells coming from the P.M.’s office. I should imagine that Brother Sparks will find some family emergency in a far away land that requires his urgent attention. The islanders will carry on as they always do and you, dear Georgina, can continue your morning walks in blissful solitude. Care for a coffee?”