Flars n sich, Pindering about with my pinders down

This restaurant was noteworthy for two reasons: one, it was named Linette's, which is where my brother would eat if he was here. Second, it was the only place in town not named "Pinder's" something or other- "Pinder's Hardware," "Pinder's Rubber Chicken Outlet," etc.



This lobster was even bigger than the one we caught. This was painted from a live model that devoured seven children before it could be boiled and buttered into submission.



these be flars



lone palm sunset



yet more of them "flars"

SATURDAY, APRIL 12, 2008 by Greasy Grampy, Spanish Wells, Eleuthera
You know you’re getting old when…
The highlight of your Saturday night is when Lake Wobegon comes on at 6:00 on public radio. Of course, that sounds more lame than it is, because what you didn’t know was that “This American Life” comes on at 8:00, and then “American Routes,” so with a lineup like that it’s practically the same as some wild, drunken, orgy, except the only difference is you’re sitting there stone cold sober, alone, listening to the radio.
So, you know what I’m doing, in any event. Ruth’s blogging, and we’re going to have lobster tails for dinner. Which, so you know, is not typical, or really cheap, even. Two 8 oz. tails $22.50 from the fish market here in Spanish Wells.
Spanish Wells is really weird. Let me start by saying it is immaculate. It is manicured, and shit- PEDICURED. In fact it seems to be just to be plain cured of anything that isn’t lily whiteness, which is kind of bizarre in a nation of black people. It’s very, very weird, like some kind of Stepford. They’re all in some secret society, like a fraternal brotherhood, a legion of masons, or a klavern of Republicans. Where everyone knows some weird code and they have clandestine meetings about how to keep only the white natives in, black people out, and what are the best golf carts to drive around in. These people drive golf carts EVERYWHERE, and some even have… yes… booming systems. Rest assured, neighbor, that “city” influence will be brought up at the meeting of the brother hood- er NEIGHborhood next Saturday, right after Garrison Keillor.
Everyone here is named “Pinder,” which is an English name that we saw with some prevalence in the other islands, usually the owner of some market or another. Already, even around the Bahamas as a whole, the name Pinder appeared with remarkable frequency. I mentioned in a previous blog how everyone in the Bahamas is named Rolle, Pinder, Curry, and a few others. Everyone in the Bahamas is also practically related, distant cousins from everyone else. It’s not uncommon to hear someone say “I have 90 cousins on this island alone…” And Spanish Wells is the home of the Pinders, apparently. Maybe it’s the queen’s master hive from which they all spring forth, or some kind of Pinder Death Star.
So it follows, that since there are no chains in the Bahamas, all of the mom and pop businesses have family names. Thus, “Pinder’s Grocery,” “Pinder Marine,” “Pinder Snacks and Legal Counsel,” etc. Even the graveyard is like a big Pinder family reunion, except that everyone is dead and rotten, which, I will concede, is a significant difference, but still, probably every second grave is marked “Pinder.” It’s strange as hell.
To add to the strangeness, the people all have the super thick Bahamian accent, when we’re used to “yachtie” being synonymous with “honkie.” The boaters are all super square tourists that are humored and their inability to discern dialect tolerated by locals, but here, the accent is thicker than ever.
There’s a certain knowing look, and a hand gesture that everyone uses. I believe it’s some kind of a secret code, to indicate that they know who is who. Who is “family” (literally), and who is some kind of interloper.
They greet each other: “How’s it going Pinder?”
“Not bad, Pinder! You?”
“Oh, fine, Pinder, just fine. And how’s the Mrs. Pinder? “
“Oh, she’s just Pindering about. She’s been doing to Pinder’s to pick up a bushel of Dr. Pinders and Pinderpops for the Pinderlings over at the Pindergarten, there’s supposed to be a big ol’ Pindering going on at the Pinderspot at about six o’ Pinder.”
“Oh, really? I’ll be Pindered!”
“Stop by Pinder. The whole Pinderhood will be there. Remember, last Pinder there is a rotten Pinder. Pinder, Pinder, Pinder, Pinder, Pinder, PINDER!”
And at this, they both laugh uproariously. Must be some kind of in-joke.
Everyone bicycling by, or golf carting is whispering: “pinder… pinder… pinder….”
Other than that, everyone here is totally normal. You’d love it!





Pinder.