Manpot's Tales of the Tropics Read online

  Manpot's Tales of the Tropics

  By Malcolm Boyes

  Cover Art by Aaron and Carl Wells

  Copyright 2011 Malcolm Boyes

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  1. Big Red the Gangster

  2. Wacko Jacko, The Oddfather and…

  3. Johnnie One Nut

  4. Don’t call me Ray…or Stevie Wonder

  5. The Last Great Beach Bonfire

  6. Yes…he is a Pirate

  7. "Mon…Dat be Icin’!!"

  8. The Million Dollar Chaise Longue

  9. "Lord" Land Crab and the Flying Donkey

  10. The Islanders…of Montana

  11. Four Red Stripes and a Funeral

  12. She Came Down…from Sturgis, South Dakota

  13. Bongo the Pelican…Bonus chapter for kids (and those of us who still act like them.)

  About the Author

  BIG RED THE GANGSTER

  It’s a long haul from California down to the island paradise of Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands. But after fourteen hours of flying south east to latitude 18 there’s one sight that instantly makes it all worthwhile. Stumbling out of customs and immigration at Tortola’s Beef Island airport into the warm, moist tropical air I’m greeted by a big white and gold grin and two outstretched arms….one to give me a “welcome home” hug, the other to give me an ice cold Red Stripe beer.

  My longtime buddy’s name is Darkie and in these oh-so-politically correct times a name like that really needs a brief explanation. Darkie is, well, very dark but he comes by the only name anyone ever calls him because his eyes are light sensitive and he wears sunglasses day and night.

  “My momma calls me Darkie”, my friend said when we first met and I told him how uncomfortable it made me feel to use that name, “so if you don’t call me ‘Darkie’ I’ll be very offended.”

  So Darkie it is.

  Seems few folks in the islands have names like Fred, Jim or Bob. My island buddies have names like Bomba, Boots, Sandman, Shadow, Quito, Daddy Magic, Landcrab, and of course, Darkie. I even have this weird island name Manpot.

  So how does a white boy from middle class North London end up with the moniker "Manpot" in the Caribbean?

  Of course, there's a colourful tale to tell.

  I first walked into the now famous Bomba Shack on a very hot summer day back in 1984. The shack hangs over the water's edge of Little Apple Bay, about eight feet above the beach. It's literally a giant sandbox made of corroding roofing materials, old surfboards, rusted outboard motors, even discarded computers and stereos. Basically anything that washes up on the beach or ends up on the roadside becomes part of the Shack.

  Someone once asked me what would happen to the Shack in a hurricane. I answered that no one could tell any difference. On a good day the place looks like a category five just blew through.

  Anyway on my first visit to the Shack I was greeted by a mountain of a man sitting on a giant cooler. He was at least six feet four and hadn't seen the downside of three hundred pounds in many a year. He fixed me with one eye, the other pointing in a decidedly easterly direction. The trade winds blew through the shack mixing a smell of barbecue, stale beer and rum…..the smells of paradise in other words.

  "Got any cold beer?" I asked.

  "Got any money?" he responded.

  "Yup," said I."

  "Got cold beer," said the man I soon found out was Bomba himself.

  That was the beginning of a generally fond friendship between Bomba and I. OK ...he wasn’t exactly thrilled when a friend of mine took out part of the Shack with his Jeep in the dead of night, but that's tale for another day.

  Anyway Bomba loves to give his pal's names and, after a couple of years, a gentleman showed up at the Shack who introduced himself as a sea captain from New Jersey.

  He'd island hopped through the Caribbean and landed, like so many of us wannabe pirates, in Tortola…at the Shack.

  Bomba immediately dubbed him " Seaman...cos that's what he was."

  Seaman quickly became a fixture at the Shack, helping out and quickly becoming another of those wonderful Caribbean characters.

  Around this time Bomba became famous for his Bar B Q's on Wednesdays, Sundays, and during his monthly Full Moon Parties where amazing mushroom concoctions are still served (The "Sports Illustrated" Swimsuit issue dedicated four pages to the bizarre ritual a few years ago).

  To be kind, a Full Moon party at the Shack's like a cross between a classic Caribbean "jump-up," a frat party and an X rated version of a Gidget beach bash. Almost anything goes and .everyone should experience at least one in their lifetime. But leave the kids at home.

  Anyway, after those wild bashes Seaman would dump all the leftovers into a massive pot, add spices and boil up a fantastic stew that Bomba then dished up to the regulars. He called it "Seaman Pot," which, after a few weeks, got shortened to "Manpot."

  Of course Bomba, being Bomba, decided that this wonderful, spicy dish had, shall we say," extra special properties that made men extra strong" in the love department. "Manpot", according to Bomba was the "Altoid of Aphrodisiacs" and any man who sampled it….well you get the picture.

  Anyway Bomba one day gave me that name and it stuck like a local's butt to a runaway donkey.

  So, down island I'm Manpot and my favorite cabbie is still the infamous Darkie...

  So there was my fine friend with the funny name at the airport. We hugged, we laughed and then he said we had to drop someone off on the way to my house in Little Apple Bay.

  "His name is Big Red the Gangster” said Darkie proudly, as he opened the back door of his Mitsubishi to reveal a large man, fast asleep.

  He was certainly "Big." He certainly wasn’t "Red." And he didn’t seem like much of a "Gangster."

  Within minutes, we were bouncing through the backstreets of Tortola’s East End. Reggae drifting out of the tin roofed houses filled the air as we bounced down the dirt road with potholes deep enough to swallow a medium size child. Suddenly, a booming voice broke the humid air.

  ”Stop”, Big Red commanded. We stopped and Big Red staggered out and into a tiny, smoky bar. We followed, into the darkness, bought beers and were back on our way.

  We repeated this routine, without anything more than the commanding “Stop," twice more before dropping a very drunk Big Red off at his house.

  Together Darkie and I headed on to Little Apple Bay along Ridge Road with the impossibly blue ocean below us, the emerald islands in the background, and sheer drops on either side of us., As he drove, much too fast, Darkie told me tales of Big Red the Gangster.

  “He cause a big fight in a bar,” Darkie said, “and when two policemen come to arrest him he say ‘Where the rest of the force (of course Darkie pronounced it "faarse") "Take the whole BVI faarse to arrest Big Red the Gangster."

  Seems Big Red was so drunk that the two cops needed no reinforcements that night and Big Red slept it off in jail. But Darkie said the one thing Big Red liked even more than booze, and the occasional fight, was the ponies.

  Now, believe it or not, Tortola actually has a horse racing track.( in typical island style renovating the racetrack was put before updating the hospital and fixing the airport….these small islands have their priorities right!).
And Big Red, it seems, has his own race horse (Pronounced race 'haarse' with that wonderful Caribbean accent).

  “So”, Darkie said, “Big Red takes his race haarse to the track. But that damn haarse don’t want to get in the startin' gate…All the haarses get in the gate...but Big Red haarse back out...they put the haarse back in the gate...he back out.”

  Big Red’s watching this from behind the barrier and he's getting madder and madder (maybe that’s where the "Red" part comes in).

  “Now Big Red’s real mad,” says Darkie,” he grabs a two by four ("faaar"), he jumps over the barrier and runs onto the track as his haarse back out again. Just then the startin' gates open and de race is on"

  "Big Red wind up with that two by four and whack his haarse hard on the ass ("aaas").

  ‘On your feet’, screamed Big Red at the poor haarse. That haarse take off down the track...runs past all the other haarses and win the damn race!!”

  There’s got to be some moral to this tale but, to me, it just reminds me how wonderful, and whimsical, the islands can be.

  By the way now, whenever I see Darkie, he just leans out of his Mitsubishi and yells “On your feet” before bursting into gales of laughter.

  As for Big Red the Gangster, last I heard he was sleeping under a palm tree somewhere near East End….and one race "haarse" knows never to back out the starting gate again.

  As for me, I'm just happy to answer to 'Manpot' and join the cast of colourful characters in the Caribbean with crazy names.

  WACKO JACKO, THE ODDFATHER AND…

  I guess working in Hollywood prepared me for the truly colourful, sometimes crazy but always amusing characters I've been so lucky to meet over the years in the Caribbean. I mean after spending ninety minutes in a private meeting with Michael Jackson and Marlon Brando in the VIP room of "The Record Plant" recording studio in Hollywood, just about anything else would seem normal.

  So how does a former tabloid journalist who's relentlessly reported on the exploits and dire scandals involving both these show business superstars end up in a one on one with them???

  Well it started through a truly sleazy contact in the "adult" movie world who ingratiated himself to Michael and suddenly found he was part of Michael's inner circle. Seems the late gloved one ain't too smart when it comes to checking out who he allows into that "inner circle".

  I'm a prime example of that.

  Well this "gentleman" told Michael he was a "producer", but failed to mention his specialty was young men engaged in...well you get the picture. It was at this time that Michael's friendship with Marlon Brando flourished.

  Marlon's son Miko had been a longtime bodyguard of Michael's. Next thing you know, Wacko Jacko and The Oddfather are best buds and Michael's saying he wants to shoot a documentary about Marlon. Of course he turns to his in-house "producer" for ideas. The man whose idea of plotline and dialogue is grunts and a few four letter words was stymied. There was no way he could come up with just what Michael needed and that could bust him.

  He called me.

  Now when a gay porn producer tells you he wants to involve you in a show about Marlon Brando with Michael Jackson, you have one reaction.

  "You're full of shit," I told him.

  Next day I left for London.

  A few days later I was having dinner at my sister's house outside England's capital city when the phone rang.

  "It's for you," said my sister. On the line from Miami, Florida was our "producer".

  "Michael wants to talk to you about the Marlon project," he said.

  Before I could utter "Yeah, right" there was the unmistakable voice of the man who changed the face of music with "Billy Jean" and the moonwalk at Motown 25.

  We sat in the second row that night and it's an event I'll never forget.

  Now here was Michael Jackson on the phone…with me…at my sister's house in England.

  Bizarre.

  Michael hardly let me get a word in as he explained what a genius Marlon was and how his talent should forever be caught on tape. I suggested we shoot on location on Marlon's private island in the South Pacific and then I got bolder.

  "Maybe you could teach Marlon to moonwalk," I said.

  Michael giggled.

  "Maybe Marlon could teach you to talk like the Godfather," I said.

  Michael giggled.

  All this time my sister, Marian, had been standing by the phone mouthing," Who is it?"

  "Michael Jackson," I mouthed back.

  "Yeah right", she mouthed.

  "Just a second Michael," I said, "would you speak to my sister for a moment?"

  The look on her face was priceless and the next thing I knew my sister and Michael were involved in a long conversation about lost love and broken hearts.

  Bizarre.

  On my return to the States I put together the proposal for the show, outlining the way it would evolve on camera. It seemed to me no matter what we did we'd have a "must see freak show". Through the "producer" the proposal was passed along to Michael who "loved it"...I was assured. And so it came time for the meeting.

  On the set date I had to meet in the parking lot of a Hollywood liquor store. At the appointed time a green Bentley sedan swung into the lot with our "producer" behind the wheel. The car was supposed to be auctioned for charity and Beyonce had signed the headliner...

  Bizarre.

  We drove a short distance to the "Record Plant" and I was ushered into a front office with my buddy Dewey who'd come along for this strange trip. A black curtain was erected blocking off the hallway and, within minutes, we could see some movement behind it.

  "Follow me", said the producer. Dewey and I followed through the curtain and there was Michael's oh-so-blonde son Prince playing with the bodyguard. Dewey was told to wait there while I was led upstairs.

  Sitting on the sofa, barefoot and at least one hundred pounds overweight was the legendary Marlon Brando.

  On the other side of the room Michael immediately bounced out his seat with his hand extended. He wore a long sleeve red shirt and maroon pants with gold braid down the side. They looked like he'd slept in them.

  But it was the face smiling sincerely at me just inches away that made me stare. His hair was greasy and straggly, his forehead was bumpy...as though someone had laid a bad coat of putty over it. And then there was his nose...or the remains of it.

  From the bridge of his nose to the tip was badly covered with flesh coloured Band Aids. It was as though he'd rushed the whole makeup job himself. At the top of his nose you could actually see tiny holes.

  I must have stared intently but Michael didn’t seem to notice.

  "Meet Mr. Brando", he said in the most childlike voice I have ever heard come out of a man in his mid 40's...

  The mountain of a man unpropped his bare feet from the coffee table and shook my hand. His son Miko sat beside him...

  I handed Marlon the proposal, although I'd been assured he'd read it and approved it. Marlon read to first page, threw it on the ground and announced:

  "I don’t' do this f****** sh**. I don’t give a f*** about my innermost thoughts or what people think of me," he raged.

  I looked at Michael for backup...surely he'd jump in and say " But Marlon you said you loved this."

  Instead Michael covered his face and giggled like a five year old.

  From there the meeting took a rocket ride straight into the Twilight Zone.

  Marlon pranced around the room saying he wanted to play congas (not bongos he insisted) in an African band.

  Then he came up with his own proposal

  "I want to do a five hour acting session that will involve actors and criminals. I would dress up as a Scottish woman with massive t****," he said as he danced round the room doing his best imitation of the very person he'd just described.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh...scream or run for the door.

  Marlon then informed me that acting goes back to the cavemen and then impersonated a prehistoric caveman wh
o'd thrown a spear at a mammoth and scared his buddy!

  I could not make this stuff up.

  This went on for at least fifteen minutes and all Michael did was giggle as though I was part of the biggest joke he'd ever seen.

  Suddenly in the middle of one of his diatribes Marlon yelled "Bang!!"

  "See I made you jump," he said laughing hysterically at me.

  It was around this time I knew I had to get out of there before my brain exploded. If only I could have had a hidden camera...but I was certain I'd be patted down. That footage would be better than anything anyone has ever seen on late night TV

  "I've got to go," said I after ninety minutes of relentless madness...

  "We'll talk again about the project," said Michael, as though this had been a perfectly normal business meeting.

  Marlon shook my hand and then wrapped a fatherly arm around me. I have no idea what that meant.

  I scooted for the door desperate to get home and write down everything that had just happened. And that is what happened...and even writing it, it does not seem possible.

  Of course I never heard from Michael again. The "Producer" fell out with Michael after the gloved one discovered the truth. Now, like a legion of other folks, he lined up to sue Michael.

  So…when I think about my island buddies...Quito, Kareem, Shadow, Bomba, Boots Fitzroy and a slew of others and then I think about that meeting...well life in the islands just seems ridiculously normal..

  JOHNNIE ONE NUT

  This tale was told to me over a Red Stripe or two by the legendary Quito Rymer one night recently in beautiful Cane Garden Bay, Tortola just as the sun was starting its daily spectacular dive into the Atlantic behind the island of Jost Van Dyke (named after a famous Dutch pirate).

  Quito...is a singer, songwriter, artist, restaurateur and all around great guy.

  When Quito ran into Jimmy Buffett recently Jimmy told him he was "the most famous unknown star in the Caribbean".

  Jimmy even plays Quito's tunes before stepping onstage at his concerts...something I witnessed with twenty thousand other "Parrotheads" at the Hollywood Bowl a few years ago. Not bad for a kid from a little island in the Caribbean.