– by Barry Mathias –
Life from a Gulf Islands persepective.
It is amazingly difficult to work out how many people live on a particular island: it is akin to estimating a cord of wood, or the number of wet days in the average year. There are so many variables.
There are the “true” islanders: those who never leave their island, and are rarely seen. These folk are often assumed to be “alive and kicking” long after their death certificate has been signed and a distant relative has assumed their habitation. It is rumored that on occasions, the relative is so similar in looks, and the departed person so rarely seen, that neighbours don’t notice the difference. This accounts for the stories of unbelievable longevity that are part of island folklore.
Then, there are those whose lives embody both urban and island living. From Monday morning to Friday evening they embrace conformity: formal suits, clean cars, high-pressure jobs and an apartment so small they can’t swing a golf club, which is why they don’t have cats. At the end of the week, they pay a considerable portion of that day’s pay to the Ferry Corporation, which allows them to doze in exhausted splendor, on one of the few remaining ships, back to their island. “Shut-eye” occurs in between messages on the vessel’s speaker system telling them how best to find the nearest lifeboat … if they are awake. Once back on their island, they indulge in an orgy of extravagant plans to enlarge their already sizeable houses and complete a week’s gardening in two days. For a few hours they wear comfortable clothes, cook their own food and consider themselves “islanders” … until they fill in their census form.
Next, we have those who happily inhabit islands all year … apart from December to April when they flee south to enjoy sunburn, insects and exorbitant health insurance. They complain loudly about grey skies and unending downpours, and ignore the fact that they chose to live on “The Rain Coast.” The question: “How long do you have to live on an island to be considered a resident?” is best discussed after a stiff drink or a sedative.
Recently, there has been a new element introduced to the population debate: international residents. These are people who purchase undeveloped lots, remove all the trees, build huge multi-bedroom palaces with more washrooms than the average hotel, and on completion leave them in pristine emptiness while they live elsewhere.
At the other end of the debate we have people, often male, who live full-time on islands but are happy not to be noticed. They have soft drawls and a pleasing non-violent approach to life, and although some are well travelled, Vietnam has never been on their itinerary.
Realtors will give numerous examples of tourists who arrive on an island on a dry day, fall in love with its rural fecundity, buy an unsuitable house, spend huge amounts on alterations, join too many volunteer societies, experience a customary wet winter and finally retreat back to their urban idyll. It’s called population balance.
It is a mystery how statisticians ever get a grasp on the population of individual islands. Perhaps it’s a mixture of guesswork, historical myth, realtors’ optimism and calculations made at the full moon after a third glass of homebrew? In the end, nobody really cares.
