It was there right by the side of the house when we first
came to the island. Almost certainly it was growing there before the house was
built, because no one would have planted it deliberately. We had come from the
city, so we didn’t even really notice it for a long time. It was just some
tree. We could recognize a coconut tree, and that was about it.
We did notice the flamboyant trees that someone had planted
above the driveway when they suddenly produced flaming orange blossoms that
covered the car. We also noticed the frangipani trees when fat, yellow and
black caterpillars came and ate all the leaves, and then moved on, leaving us
with naked sticks standing up in front of the house.
Later we planted bougainvillea, oleander and hibiscus. Just
saying those names makes you think of sultry nights, fragrant breezes and
tropical romance. The dreams of paradise that lure people to Caribbean islands.
Lying in the hammock by the beach, under the palm trees.
We didn’t realize that these trees were not native to the
Caribbean – though not such recent arrivals as we were. The hibiscus trees came
from China originally, and the oleander was from the Mediterranean.
Bougainvillea is named for a French navigator who found the plants growing in
Brazil in the 1700s and took some back to Europe. Even the flamboyant was
imported; it originally came from Madagascar. It turned out that only the
frangipani was actually native to the Caribbean.
When we started out trying to tame the ‘bush’ areas near the
house, we quickly learned that the things you want to get rid of the most are
the ones that always keep coming back – like the stinging nettles, creeping
snake cactus, and vicious, thorny catch-and-keep vines.
Some of the flowers we planted couldn’t keep up with the
more strongly rooted local plants we had tried to replace, or were overgrown by
the super-aggressive, non-native, false tamarinds that sprout up wherever the
land is disturbed. Others fell prey to mealy bugs or fungus, or couldn’t
survive the droughts, or the storms. Eventually we only planted cuttings we
were given by the neighbors, things that were free and had shown they could
thrive without much attention on a steep hillside in dry, rocky soil. Anything
that needed water had to go down where the washing machine hose emptied out.
We first really looked at the tree right next to the house
when fruit rats started coming in the house. Our neighbors pointed out that
there were tree branches touching the roof, so the rats could be climbing up
that way and dropping down onto the deck. From there it was an easy sneak into
the house. We cut the tree back then, and again later when a storm tangled up
the electrical wires running through it to the meter box.
Sometimes there were reddish-orange berries on the tree, and
my young sons made up a game out on the steps that involved collecting the
berries and stuffing them into a hole in the stone retaining wall. Like pirates
hiding treasure, or squirrels maybe, preparing for a hard winter. I worried
that the berries might be poisonous. But when I asked what kind of tree it was,
I was told “That’s a nothing tree.”
Not dangerous like the oleander. Not glamorous like the
flamboyant and bougainvillea. Not bountiful like the papaya and mango trees. Or
shady like the palms. Or good for building houses or boats. Just a nothing
tree. I began to feel badly for it, not being particularly glamorous or
flamboyant myself. There are always others more aggressive, or showy. Is it
enough to just take in the sunshine and produce some berries, feed a few birds,
and then gradually be absorbed back into the earth so something new can grow? I
suppose trees don’t really worry about finding meaning and purpose in their
lives, though they definitely do compete intensely to survive and reproduce.
Later, after watching many of the local trees get bulldozed
off the hillsides to make more room for rental homes and exotic vegetation, I
learned the names of some of the less familiar trees. Eleanor Gibney’s Field Guide to Native Trees & Plants of
East End, St. John, US Virgin Islands identified the nothing tree as a
‘pigeon berry’ – its scientific name Bourreria
succulenta. Mostly the tree seemed to attract the noisy ‘thrashees’, who
ate the berries and left hard-to-remove purplish droppings on the white
railings below.
The most interesting thing I read about the pigeon berry
tree was that the leaves used to be soaked in rum to make an aphrodisiac. That
doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’. Maybe it could be marketed to a pharmaceutical
company and make the tree famous. Happy couples would appear on TV saying
“Thanks to the pigeon berry, our marriage was saved.”
There was no recipe given in the book, so I didn’t know if I
should I boil the leaves first or dice them up raw. Then, after thinking about
it for a while, my enthusiasm for becoming an pharmaceutical entrepreneur
subsided. It was easier to just lie on the hammock in the shade. The nothing
tree and I might never get to be famous, but at least we could enjoy a peaceful
afternoon together, sharing the warmth of the tropics and swaying in the ocean
breezes. And what a wonderful aphrodisiac that can be, even without eating any
leaves.
