i. The Logistical Tribulations of March 6th

There have been complications.

I arrived in the Bahamas at noon. I haven't eaten anything, because I was in a hurry to board the plane, and also because waking up at weird times means that I'm not hungry.

I'm here for Palmcone: an 80-person existential risk conference put together in a hurry, after weird circumstances resulted in Lightcone being gifted a non-refundable booking at a big fancy oceanside venue.

Once again they called me for a last-minute hijink, and once again I went.

The Bahamas are...kinda moist, all the time? But bright and shiny and yes, tropical, so damn tropical, there's a pineapple on every table.

They're definitely trying to make tourists come over and spend money; the airport had a guy in a pirate costume walking around and working the Customs line, there was a steel drum band playing, it was definitely a Mandatory Enthusiasm zone.

I told the Nassau customs agent that I needed to catch a flight to Eleuthera that I hadn't yet booked, and then he barely glanced at my entrance paperwork and then waved me through. No questions asked, no luggage inspected; I could have been carrying ten kilos of cocaine in my backpack but whatever.

Then I realized my phone plan didn't work here, and no one took credit cards. Luckily, I happened to be carrying $1500 in cash. (Because work asked me to bring a bunch of cash for our eighty-odd guests to pay taxis with.)

I connected to the airport wireless and got a flood of hivemind messages from the Palmcone slack.

Palmcone: We need a TON of outdoor lights, wall plug adapters, a bunch of different medications, phone chargers, and batteries.

And they needed their agent on the ground—yes, me—to go buy those.

Palmcone: Don't worry about getting to Eleuthera.

Palmcone: We still have a chartered seaplane that we were using to transport people.

Palmcone: Just show up at the Odyssey Jet Terminal and say you're on the Coco Bahamas flight. Last flight out is 5:30.

It Begins

I asked a random lady at the airport kiosk where I would find a taxi. She glanced around shadily and then said she would call a guy she knew. I blinked at this, but shrugged and waited. She gave me a pecan cookie.

I started researching hardware stores (because we needed outdoor lighting). But it turns out that almost all stores in the Bahamas shut down on Sundays, so everyone mostly shook their heads sympathetically when I told them what I wanted.

I waited for twenty minutes (and bought some of the batteries, medications, chargers) and then she apologetically said that her guy couldn't make it today. I found this confusing, but whatever.

(Time: 12:30)

I went outside and asked for a taxi. A sleek and effete taxi man in a suit and sunglasses asked me where I wanted to go. I told him: the hardware store.

He paused, and noted that we would need to leave the touristy areas for that. He then directed me to a different guy, Gordon, who is sixty and wearing stained gray sweatpants.

(Gordon was nice to me. Gordon is also a crazy man. Neither should be neglected.)

Gordon's van is perhaps the actual worst vehicle I have been in, in terms of safety, damage, and fumes. The left rearview mirror was held on only via duct tape; the cabin was filled with engine exhaust; the tires were too big for the tire wheel wells and so made a rubbery grinding sound every time he turned left or right. Something about the steering was messed up, such that whenever he turned the wheel past ninety degrees, there was a clunk, like someone was switching traintracks. The car was vibrating, basically the whole time, for unclear reasons.

I rode in this vehicle for four hours.

We went first to the hardware store. Luckily, it was open. I asked an employee for some outdoor lighting, and they blinked at me, and came back with a box of christmas lights.

Me: Hey Palmcone, how much outdoor lighting do we actually need?

Palmcone: A lot.

Palmcone: Like really a lot.

Palmcone: Not less than a thousand feet.

I check the length of the box in my hand. 25 feet.

I look up at the employee. "How many more of these do you have?"

I check out at the register with my forty boxes of Christmas lights. In the Bahamas, you can't use a credit card without a PIN, and most American cards don't have that. So I'm trying to use Apple Pay, which (my dad claims) circumvents this process.

Gordon: (looking at my iPhone) Never catch me using one of those.

Me: Oh?

Me: Uh, do you not like their business practices—

Gordon: Because they let the Devil in.

Me: ...

Nice Store Lady: What

Tribulation Interstitial

(Time: 2:00)

I get another text.

Palmcone: We have no vegan protein.

Palmcone: We need fake meat.

Palmcone: As much of it as you can get.

I look up at Gordon.

Me: Hey, can we go to the supermarket?

Gordon: Yeah, but let me stop for gas first.

He stops for gas. Bahamas are a place where you can't pump your own gas, apparently; there's a gas guy standing at the pump. Gordon hands him eight dollars in cash and asks for "a small water, and the rest in gas." Then, he changes his mind, and says "actually, put it all in gas."

He does not turn off the van while the guy puts gas into it. I am nervous about this practice, but we didn't explode, so I assume I will never explode.

Tribulation The Second

(Time: 2:30)

We arrive at the supermarket. I search high and wide for fake meat.

I'm having that experience, that foreigner in a strange land experience, where literally no one but me is white and it feels like everyone is noticing me. We were definitely out of the touristy zones, and sometimes there are three young men with hard eyes leaning against the storefront and watching me in a way that makes me acutely aware of the $1500 cash in my pocket.

Gordon is idling the van in the front of the store. He honks sometimes. The first time he did it I scurried back to him in case he was trying to get my attention, but he just gave me a look like I was being an asshole. Apparently he just honks sometimes.

I bought out all of the fake meat they had (which was, in total, sixteen veggie patties) and also bought Gordon a water. This came to, about, $20 total.

I'm pretty hungry at this point (I still haven't eaten anything today.) I'm debating trying to buy something for myself, when I get another message from Palmcone.

Palmcone: We need many swimsuits.

Palmcone: Like ten. And goggles too.

Palmcone: The venue is trying to sell them to us for $80 apiece.

Palmcone: Can you get some?

Tribulation the Third

(Time: 3:20)

Everything is closed on Sundays.

We drive around, looking for anywhere that can sell me a swimsuit. We go back into the tourist zones. Gordon gives a strange, canned speech about how Eleuthera was one of the primary pineapple exporters of the world, before Dole ruined the soil by over-growing.

We pull up in front of a closed store.

Gordon: Looks open.

Me: …

Me: Does…it?

A man is walking by. Gordon lays into the horn.

Gordon: HEY!

Guy: ??

Gordon: IS THIS STORE OPEN?

Guy: ...I don't know? It doesn't look open.

Gordon: (to me) Might be closed.

(I think Gordon was just trying to run up the clock in this part.)

But then, he gets a pretty good idea.

The Sandals Resort

(Time: 3:45?)

(In Hero's-Journey type stories, there's a point where the protagonist descends into the Underworld. This is that part.)

We pull into the Sandals resort. There's a Sandals van in front of us for a bit, and Gordon lays into the horn like it's a punching bag.

Gordon: MOVE, ASSHOLE

Gordon: YOU DON'T NEED TO TURN LEFT, GO STRAIGHT. MOVE FORWARD

(The van driver gets out of the van and just stands there, looking at us unimpressed. We eventually go around.)

Sandals is a surreal, Vegas-madness place. You turn left off of a cracked two-lane road and then suddenly there's a...mansion? With huge gates and manned security and hedges and the word SANDALS all big and huge.

We pull up the security gate. Gordon lays into the horn.

Guard: (Looking skeptically at Gordon's decrepit van) Uh.

Gordon: I GOT A PASSENGER. I'M A TAXI!

Guard: Oh—he's, um, a Sandals guest?

Gordon: NAH, HE NEEDS TO BUY TEN SWIMSUITS

Guard: ...

Gordon: IN THE GIFT SHOP

(Gordon rolls down the tinted van window to reveal me, a genuine passenger, in the back seat. I give a sheepish, uncomfortable grin.)

Guard: I'll have to call my supervisor.

And then we wait for maybe seven minutes, as Gordon alternatively gestures as me and the guard talks in hushed tones to his supervisor. Eventually they conclude that yes, I can come in and buy a swimsuit, but I have to be escorted by the security guard the whole time, and Gordon isn't allowed to come in.

Gordon gives me a smug nod, like he's proud of how this went. In fairness, I wouldn't have tried this at all.

I enter the Sandals gift shop, followed by a security guard. There are five people there, other than the three staff. They are:

• A leathery man, reminiscent of Machete. Drunk.
• His daughter, or possibly girlfriend. Young. Drunk.
• Fifty-something British woman. Drunk.
• Thirty-five year old American woman inspecting a crystal. Drunk.
• Her boyfriend. Drunk.

A gift shop lady shows me to the swimsuit section.

The swimsuits are $80.

Me: ...

Her: (watching me with a hopeful expression)

Me: Okay but c'mon

Me: What's the actual price

And then she brings me out an identical swimsuit for $20.

And I sort of blink at her, and say, well, I need ten, though.

And then she brings me out ten identical swimsuits for $20 apiece.

(It seems like the entire Sandals gift-shop model is quadrupling the price of goods and selling them to very drunk guests??)

So I purchase the swimsuits, and the goggles, and get back into the ragged van with a cardboard box of Christmas lights and a plastic bag of rapidly defrosting veggie burgers.

VIP

(Time: 4:20)

We drive.

Me: Okay, apparently I need to depart from 'Odyssey Aviation'.

Gordon: ...ohhhh.

Me: ?

Gordon: That's for the jet-set crowd.

Gordon: Why didn't you tell me you were VIP, man?

Me: Uh, it's for work, and—

Gordon: Not to worry.

We pull up at the terminal. The car in front of us is a black limo. The staff here are all in very tidy uniforms, and some private pilots in pilot uniforms are walking briskly into the terminal.

Gordon lays into the horn.

Gordon: I GOT A VIP HERE

Gordon: HE'S GOTTA CATCH HIS JET.

Gordon: BRING A PALETTE, WE GOT BOXES

Me: (Shrinks down into seat and dies a little)

The staff all...do that thing, where someone rude has entered the restaurant, and so we're going to not look at them. Gordon hits the horn some more.

I attempt to distract him.

Me: Also, how much do I owe you?

Gordon: My usual rate is $60 an hour.

Me: ...

Gordon: (Watching me with a hopeful expression)

Me: ...sure.

So I pay him, in hundreds, and tip him 20%. He is gleeful.

Finally, a staff lady is coming out, possibly to tell us to go die. Gordon rolls down the window and crows.

Gordon: I GOT A REAL VIP HERE.

He waves the money around.

Gordon: LOOK HOW GOOD HE PAID ME

I make eye contact with the woman. This is an important moment. I show some subtle apology on my face. She gives me a faint smile of amusement and understanding. We have bonded. We are friends now.

As I'm leaving, I thank Gordon.

Gordon: No problem, man. Here's my number; call me up if you need anything.

Gordon: You comin' back later, yeah? I can be your driver again.

I dutifully take his number and shake his hand. He had a good idea with the Sandals resort, even if he was probably doing it to extend our taxi ride. But also I want to get out of here before he tells this woman that iPhones let the devil in.

I thank him and leave.

Long Wait For a Train That Don't Come

(Time: 4:45)

I enter the Odyssey Jet Aviation terminal.

There are people here, and they are very, very rich. They are so tall, and so healthy. They aren't dressed flashy, but their clothes fit very well and they are fit people. They are handsome, and beautiful.

I am carrying a wet cardboard box full of christmas lights and veggie patties. I walk to the front desk and stammer out my name, and am told that there is no such name registered. Some very rich people look at me, and then they look at the staff, perhaps wondering how this random homeless man was allowed to infiltrate this place of supreme wealth.

The staff maintain genuinely impressive poker faces.

I sit down with my wet cardboard and start frantically phoning Palmcone, the seaplane guy, and indeed anyone I can get ahold of. The next hour is a blur of phone calls and frantic texts, so let me summarize it in bullet points.

• Yes, the last seaplane flight is notionally at 5:30
• But the pilots need an hour to get ready, so that would've had to begin at 4:30 in order to happen.
• Yes, they were supposed to be on standby
• Yes, standby means that they are already ready
• Well, they're not at the airport right now and can't actually get back in time
• Because they figured you weren't coming, so they left early
• Uhhhh
• Yes, we're sorry about that

White Glove Treatment; and Denouement

(Time: 6:00)

I realize I haven't eaten anything today. I avail myself of the free Odyssey Aviation coffee—or rather, I ask a nearby staff member whether I'm allowed to have some, and she reacts with such supreme confusion that I'm guessing Asking For Permission is not a wealthy person thing to do—and now I have had zero food plus caffeine, which is not actually better.

Great coffee though.

Everyone but the staff has left, at this point. The staff are...unsettlingly obsequious, standing like statues in their uniforms behind the desk, watching me without making it obvious that they're watching me. This terminal closed at 5:30, but (when I ask a staff member when the terminal closes) she explains (with a smile) that they will remain open for as long as I require.

I explain that I guess I'll be needing lodging for the night, and they say they're very sorry about this and that they'd be happy to call me a car and book me accommodation. They have a special line to the hotels, and (they're very sorry) they consider this the least they can do.

I'm a bit taken aback, and reassure them that none of this is their fault and I won't, like, have their families killed or whatever it is that slighted plutocrats do? But sure, one of those sounds good.

And they show me a special Resort Package at The Warwick, which includes dinner and breakfast. And I am very hungry, so I say yes.

A black car arrives with a white-gloved driver. He opens the trunk for me, and he also opens my door for me. I carry out my wet cardboard box of defrosted veggie burgers and christmas lights, and put it into the trunk.

We drive for forty minutes. We go to Paradise Island, which is apparently the Vegas of the Bahamas. We pull into the special concierge parking of the Warwick Hotel.

The driver informs me that Odyssey did not in fact comp this ride and that it'll be $80. I sigh.

The hotel informs me that Odyssey did not in fact comp this stay and it'll be $250. I sigh.

I check into a four-star hotel carrying a wet cardboard box of Christmas lights and veggie patties.

And then I go have dinner.