There Will Be Blood

What do you get when you take an IT professional and a lawyer, give them a machete, and send them into the overgrown bush to lay waste to the standing foliage?  127 mosquito bites, plenty of cursing, and about a half pint of blood.

Despite our newfound love of the machete, a half acre of trees and underbrush still posed quite the risk of life and limb.  We began our three day journey with high hopes and, as it turned out, a bit too much hubris.  "Hah," we said.  "What could possibly stand in the way of our newly-sharpened machete and our unbridled passion for destruction?"  "These are mere trees, and we are MEN."  "Our cavemen ancestors tamed far more dangerous wilderness," we boasted.

Little did we know that the trees had other plans.  "Look at these fucking idiots," the trees whispered.  "These guys look like they type for a living, and haven't been near a bladed weapon in their lives."  "Haven't these morons ever heard of a chain saw," the trees mocked.  "Wait, these guys are wearing shorts but are not wearing gloves?"  The over-under, from the trees' perspective, was us lasting about four hours.

Mandaid
We began in earnest.  We quickly learned that our earlier successes, though confidence-building, quickly faded.  We battled the trees tirelessly, exchanging tree bark for our flesh.  Many trees fell that first day, but our hands quickly turned sore, then red, then blistered.

Not to be deterred, we went to the tried-and-true solution to any problem- duct tape.  I mean, if they use this stuff on the International Space Station, surely, it can be used for any earthly problem.  We engineered a duct tape configuration that both protected our blistered hands as well as gave us a nice cushy grip for the machete.  We dubbed our creation the Mandaid.

The Mandaid worked great.  In addition, we grabbed the nearest analgesic we could find for our wounds.  In our case, the nearest analgesic happened to be a six pack of Miller Lite.  (Don't judge- in Caribbean environments you can take your fancy beer and flush it down the toilet.  The only things that matter are that the beer is cold and you can drink a can in two chugs, lest it get warm.)

Armed and ready, we went back on the attack.  However, the trees had more up their sleeves.  Specifically, wound around many of the trees were beautiful flowering plants, which climbed up and around the tree trunks and intertwined themselves with the branches.  But, like many beautiful things in nature, there was a price to pay.  The flowering vines, though lovely, were also covered with needle-like thorns.  Think 1"-1 1/2".  While it is indeed true that every rose has its thorn, I doubt Bret Michaels wrote that verse whilst fighting for his flesh with said thorns.  Otherwise, the lyrics would probably have been more like: "Every rose has a million fucking thorns that gouge into your fucking arms, while AHHHHHHH.  Fuck it, give her daisies."

Our wounds, though not fatal, hurt like hell.






Over the next three days, we fought relentlessly against the trees and their cursed allies, the flower-thorns.  We gave better than we got, and in the end, found ourselves in the middle of a half-acre of newly-cleared vegetation.










The purpose of all of this, of course, was to allow for a better view of the ocean and the canal system while you, future Lionfish Hotel guests, drink cool blended rum drinks.

























So, when you visit Lionfish Hotel, and are sitting poolside with a cool drink in your hand, and you look out over the canals and into the Caicos Bank (the area of water between Providenciales and Haiti), pour a few drops out for your homies, Mandaids, and the human spirit.

Next up:  Clean up and landscaping.

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