A sun-drenched island lost somewhere on the fringes of the Caribbean Sea, Poco Cabesa earned its name from a rock formation on its eastern shore, which, if looked at from just the right angle, somewhat resembles the head of a man. A very small man. Hence, "Little Head."

Actually, you damn near have to stand on your own head to see any resemblance (and a bottle of rum helps), but buccaneer Henry Medillo dubbed it that back in the 17th century and the name stuck and there you have it.

Bacteria-shaped, about eight miles wide by twelve miles long, its southern and western sides are low and dry and arid, perfect for roosting birds, rotten for most anything else. Only Joetown (once called Klinkleburg) remains on the south side, and it has to use a balky Romanian-built desalination plant (courtesy of Fidel in 1961) to compensate for its inconsistent water supply.

Treacherous currents, winds, and tides sweep and litter its shores like demented hotel housekeeping vacuums, further isolating what is already a very isolated island.

As mentioned elsewhere, Poco Cabesa's claim to fame was built, literally, on guano. (For the still uninitiated, the word guano, as used herein, refers to dried bird droppings deposited over countless eons which, when harvested, can be put to use in fertilizers and other chemical whatnots.)

A flukish potpourri of geography, meteorology, and ageless avian instincts made the rugged southern and western portions of the little island favorite rest-stops for anything with feathers.

As the eons slowly unwound, so too did a few trillion birds, and their contributions grew like compound interest, creating the world's Mother Lode of high-quality, high-test guano.

But that was all in the past.

Now, all that remains in the southwest are the barren remains of the great guano extraction effort, the inert boomtown it once fostered, and the muttering and languid residents who now live off its benighted legacy.

As also mentioned elsewhere, one of many peculiarities on Poco Cabesa is the rugged mountain chain that separates Medillo Grande in the northeast from the rest of the island. Bathed by a warm ocean current, the mountains also corral rain-bearing clouds cruising across the sea, drenching the lush paradise like clockwork every afternoon around three.

In this tropical shangri-la there are jungles and meadows and streams, a coastline rich in fish and crustacean, and a steadfast kingdom founded by legendary Henry Medillo the Pirate. Pristine beaches beckon the world-weary (who aren't allowed in, by the way) and the pace of life is slow and easy for its few score coconut-gathering, crab-hunting, kakapao worshipping subjects.

It is on the very edge of this kingdom that, courtesy of Her Majesty Gertrude, "Following the Equator Air & Sea Charter" has its compound. Actually, scrapyard is a better description; run by a salty cowboy in the jungle. But that is another part of the tale altogether.

Just up the road is "Riley's Dream," what looks like an up-scale vacation hideaway with no guests. This is where refugee Emma Riley has come to seek her bliss. What she found was 100% vacancy rates.

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…Whites always mean well when they take human fish out of the ocean and try to make them dry and warm and happy and comfortable in a chicken coop; but the kindest-hearted white man can always be depended on to prove himself inadequate when dealing with the savage…
-- Mr. Twain