A "horse" is worth only eight points in Scrabble"Kelley, you idiot, how many times must I tell you?! Tell them 'medicine!' " So spoke our Jamaican host after yet another hour-long delay by Customs officials at the airport in Kingston.
I consider myself to be a fairly bright individual, but it seems to be open to debate in some quarters. And they may have a point.
For the past 15 years, my wife and I have been going to Jamaica once or twice annually as the guests of one of the leading breeding operations in that country. Our function is as "consultants," a euphemism lately for soaking up sun and being humiliated in Scrabble by our host, the most fantastic Scrabble player I have ever seen. (He routinely uses all seven letters twice in a game.)
Sure, we still go to the farm. In a seven- or eight-day stay, we may spend upwards of five hours (but downwards of eight) justifying our existence and his expense, but there is little we can do anymore except admire the condition of the horses and pastures and marvel at the conception percentage and foaling rate. Over the years, my wife, a former Thoroughbred farm manager, and I have made suggestions, offered advice, and taught a few things, and most of it has been heeded and applied. Now, there is little (or no) need for our visits, but I am not about to tell that to our host.
Okay, now back to the burning question, the one that opened this epistle: Why am I an idiot? Or, more apropos, why am I called an idiot?
Supplies are difficult to come by in Jamaica, especially veterinary supplies. Items such as many vaccines were once not permitted, but that has been overcome. Other items-antibiotics, ointments, palpation sleeves, roll cotton, infusion pipettes, etc.-have been permitted right along, but being "permitted" and being "available" are two different things.
One of our functions in going to Jamaica, therefore-and probably the only one still beneficial to our host (he does not need us to embarrass at Scrabble; he has a wife and four daughters)-is the bringing of supplies for the farm and the farm's veterinarian. It is pretty innocuous stuff-antibiotics, ointments, progesterone, wormer, speculums, transport media for cultures, etc.-but it is not the usual items seen by the Customs inspectors examining the luggage of incoming passengers at the airport.

Customs
We are in line at Customs. The bags with our clothes pass right through, but then I open the first of the bags containing supplies for the farm, from which the appellation "idiot" eventually arises.
"Remember," my wife whispers, "'medicine.' " I nod.
"What is dis?" the inspector asks as he picks up a shiny silver cardboard speculum.
"It's a disposable speculum," I reply.
"A speculum," he says. He holds it up to his eye and looks through it. "And what do you do wid it?"
"It's used to visualize the vagina and cervix of a mare," I explain.
He looks at me. He looks back at the spec. He turns to the Customs inspector behind him. "Dis is for the vagina of mares," he says.
"Mares?" the newcomer says.
"Female horses," I volunteer.
They both look at me, look at each other, look at the spec.
"He's a veterinarian," my wife explains.
Obviously not convinced but nonetheless putting it and the other 24 of its kind aside, our inspector picks up a bag of plastic examination sleeves.
"What is dis?"
"Plastic sleeves."
"What you do wid dem?"
If he wondered about what I do with the speculums, I feel certain he will never accept the truth about these sleeves, so I say only, "They're used to examine mares."
He shows the other inspector. "He use dem to exam mares."
His companion takes the plastic bag, turns it over, opens it, takes out a sleeve. A third inspector, possibly of higher rank because he has only been standing around observing, walks over.
"He use dem to exam mares," says the one with the sleeve in his hand.
The new guy takes it, holds it up, looks at it, puts it on his arm. "Too big," he says, and takes it off again. He takes the bag of sleeves from the second man, holds it above his head, and examines it from the bottom. "Okay," he says, and hands it back to our inspector.
Pipettes, cotton, and a hoof tester are examined and questioned. By all three men. Finally, that suitcase is finished with and we receive a grudging, "Okay."
Then they ask me to open the last suitcase. Herein lay antibiotics, ointments, wormers, and tubes of transport media. And herein lay the reason I am called "idiot."
"Medicine," my wife whispers to me again.
"I know," I growl angrily.

Drugs
Our inspector picks up a bottle of gentamicin wrapped in a roll of protective cardboard in one hand and a small box containing a vial of injectable progesterone in the other.
"What are dese?" he asks.
Okay, I have been asked this many times. I know what to say and what not to say. My wife has just reminded me twice.
"Drugs," I calmly reply, as I have done practically every time for 15 years. It is what not to say.
"I don't believe it," my wife mutters, shaking her head.
I have said the magic word. Our inspector's head jerks up. He stares at us wide-eyed. We have the immediate attention of the other two inspectors nearby, as well as the open-mouthed gapes of other incoming passengers within earshot.
"Dese are all drugs?!" our inspector asks incredulously.
"I mean medicine," I stammer feebly, knowing full well it is too late now. As usual.
Eventually, we visit the office of the Head of Customs. The fact that I have been explaining to everyone that, although I said "drugs," I really did mean "medicine-horse medicine"-goes unheeded. They are picking up the test tubes of transport media and shaking them to see if anything is in them. They stick fingers deep into the jars of ointments to see what may be secreted there. Everyone takes a turn pretending speculums are telescopes.
One would think that after 25 or 30 times through Jamaican Customs that some official-any official-would remember us. One would also think that I would learn. But they do not, and I do not.
Our passports and paperwork are checked and rechecked. Questions-the same ones as always-are asked. "What are these drugs?" "Why do you have them?" "What are you going to do with them?" "Who are you here to see?" Fortunately, our host is an important man from an important family. I do not know what would happen if his name was not immediately recognized.
After an hour or so, we are free to go. On those occasions in which our host has someone pick us up, there is no problem (other than my wife). Those times, though, in which he meets us personally, I am called an idiot. My wife concurs.
We spend the night in his home outside Kingston, then the next morning drive across the island to his private beach condo in Ocho Rios. The farm is in the mountains about 20 or 30 minutes out of Ochi.

The farm
The next morning we go up there. Although it is only January 29, 11 of the 52 reportedly pregnant mares (out of 57) have foaled. One foal died, but the remaining ten are bright, healthy babies.
The woman who manages the farm asks me to look at four of the mares that were reported as barren but are not cycling. Two turn out to be in foal and two are in anestrus, so the farm's conception rate is boosted a few percentage points (54 out of 57).
The manager wears a light jacket and apologizes for the cold weather as my wife and I stand there comfortably in shorts and t-shirts. Yes, it was nippy. Probably 68 degrees.
We go back two days later and look at the yearlings. One has an eye injury, and another is lame from "blackwater" (kind of like a gravel), but all are good-sized and well-conditioned. We glance at the five stallions, sons of Alydar, Nijinsky, Tri Jet, Al Hattab, and Vice Regent; two have been leading sires, and three have sired classic winners. They are stopping 90% of their mares, so there is no problem there, either.
The rest of the time we spend at the pool, beach, or the Scrabble board. We do not have to worry about the "cold" temperatures of the mountains. It is 80-to-85 degrees with a gentle breeze off the Caribbean. I am especially hot at Scrabble and win eight of the 12 games we play, a new personal record for success. Normally, the outcome is strongly in our host's favor.
But I may have shot myself in the foot. The horses and farm no longer need help, and if our host cannot destroy me at Scrabble anymore there may well be no further need for our visits. Luckily, our last night before we leave, I lose twice.
The temperature is 85 degrees as we step on the plane there. As we prepare to disembark back home many hours later, the pilot announces the temperature at the airport: 0.