The Fisherman

My neighbor who lives across the street is a fisherman. He has a boat and he employs people to help him. They are mostly relatives. The boats are small and the fishermen usually don’t wear life vests. The sea on the eastern side of the island (Atlantic Ocean) is very rough; waves break far from the shore. I am amazed at the work they do. I run out to my balcony at the end of the day when I hear them blow conch shells to announce the catch of the day. The loud sound coming from the shells is heard throughout the village and is one of my favorite things about my new home. I think they are very brave men. Today, when I came home one of the men was repairing a lobster trap. He worked on this trap all day. He will put it in his boat and take it out to sea. He will place bait inside to lure the ocean spiders into the traps. The fishermen return later to retrieve the red pinching crustaceans. And no, I don't buy them from the fishermen. If you remember the post "Here's Looking at You" which was written on November 22, you will know the reason.

The Wedding

Elizabeth came up to my apartment today. She said, “We need to be at the Pentecostal Church at 3:00 so we can get a good seat. Can you be ready by then?” Of course I said yes. Elizabeth is my landlady. She looks out for me. She makes sure I know people in the village and she shows me where to buy bread, groceries, and which restaurant is the best. When she hasn’t seen me for a day or two she comes up to make sure I’m alright. Earlier when I didn’t have enough to do, she invited me to teach a computer class at the Infant School where she was the principal until retiring in December. Her husband, John, was in a car accident twenty-five years ago and now he walks with a cane. They don’t own a car and so getting around the village is difficult. Walking the quarter mile to the Pentecostal Church is too much for him.

I got dressed in the best thing I had. How I wish I brought a formal dress. There have been three occasions when I could have worn it. This will be an item I will bring back when I visit home this summer. I walked down the stairs and met Elizabeth. She was dressed in a shear red dress with fancy black two inch heeled shoes. We arrived at the church and were given a corsage. Corsages are common at formal events. They aren’t real flowers – they are fabric leaves decorated with a ribbon and pinned onto each man, woman and child who enters. Most formal events include a corsage. I will add this one to the growing collection I have in the top drawer of my dresser.

The church was filled with folding chairs and decorated with flowers and ribbons. PowerPoint slides are shown from the balcony and projected on the screen below. I followed Elizabeth and she picked two seats. The church filled to capacity. Everything was ready but the bride and groom. The wedding was scheduled to start at 3:30, but it turned out the start time was an hour later…and worth the wait. People were dressed to the “nines”. Children were in their Sunday best. Some were obviously wearing clothes handed down from brothers and sisters and there were lots of patent leather shoes. All of the girls had perfectly combed hair with colorful ribbons and barrettes. I had seen many of the children in my computer classes and heard them whispering to parents, “She is our computer teacher”.

The adults were wearing gold lame, chiffon dresses, and silk scarves. There was so much material sparkling with sequins and crystals. I’ve never seen so many gold shoes in one place. Those that weren’t wearing gold were wearing silver which had their own version of sparkles and flowing materials. They all had jewelry – on every finger and around their necks as well. But then there were those that were wearing formal wear that passed, but didn’t impress. There were those with no sparkle and no jewelry. They were the contrast, but it didn’t matter – and I am impressed that it doesn’t matter.

The pastor gets up and announces the wedding must get started. He is becoming impatient. The music starts and the wedding procession begins. The groomsmen line up in the front of the church. The first person in the processing is an old man, well into his seventies, if not eighties. He’s a short man, maybe five feet tall who probably weighs 100 pounds soaking wet. He is wearing an oversized white suit. He looks like a man dressed in an uncomfortable suit in an uncomfortable situation. He makes the best of it and dances to the music as he moves down the isle. Everyone is laughing and having a great time. He is the groom.

Each bridesmaid walks slowly down the isle while a cadre of photographers and videographers capture the moment. When the bridesmaid reaches her groomsman, he takes her hand and twirls her. She pins a corsage onto his lapel and he presents her with a bouquet of flowers and twirls her into place. The ring bearer with a ring and a huge grin precedes the flower girls who were dressed in pink dresses with flower and ribbon crowns on their heads. And, now finally the bride enters. We stand and there she is in a beautiful white gown with a long wedding train. She is walking slowly down the isle while her daughter is holding her up. She is at least a foot taller than her groom and maybe seventy-five pounds heavier. She and her groom have been married for fifty-four years and they are about to renew their vows.

They didn’t have the money for a big wedding fifty-four years ago and probably still don’t. Their nine children paid for it. They were the bridesmaids and groomsmen. Their grandchildren were the ring-bearer and flower girls. They sat in chairs during the ceremony, unable to stand for too long. When asked who gives this woman to this man the entire procession yelled, “We all do!” When asked if they would still “honor and cherish one another until death do they part”, she answered “Hallelujah and Amen”; he answered “Praise the Lord, I do!”

The reception was at the multi-purpose center right next to the church. But, after the ceremony, they all piled into two old limousines - each limo was at least twenty-five years old. It is tradition to ride around the village with horns honking before coming back to the reception. So this is what they did. Limo’s sputtering and coughing, but still capable to make plenty of noise with their horns, the couple was escorted around the village for everyone to see.

January 30

It was thirty-eight years ago today. It does not seem that long ago. My life could have been so small, but it feels slightly larger than small.

I got up early this morning. There’s a package in Castries for me and Elaine needs some help with a computer program. I make a small carafe of Starbucks, carefully measuring no more than I need. The prized black grounds with the rich aroma are sent to me by friends and family. I love them for that. I look around the house and gather books that I’ve collected from the Peace Corps Library. Some I’ve read while others will never be read and now it’s time to return them. I pack them up in my red backpack, put my identification and money into the pouch, and grab my ITouch so I have music to listen to during the one hour trip.

It was a stormy night last night. The rain pounded the aluminum roof and when it subsided the howling winds from the Atlantic Ocean created a haunting groan moving throughout the village. It kept me up the better part of the night. This morning I opened my doors allowing the wind to blow through the house. Sprinkles of rain turned into two quick storms. I wait for a break before heading out for the day.

I intend to stop at the Credit Union before I get to the bus stop. I need to deposit my rent money into Elizabeth’s account, but a bus comes down the street and the driver is looking for passengers. He shouts, “Castries?” I confess, I got on the bus. The rent will be paid when I return today.

There are only a few people on board, but the driver heads for the city; something seldom done. He will usually wait until there are enough passengers to make the trip worthwhile. I settle in, open my bag and retrieve my ITouch. I watch a couple of YouTube Videos, but then turn to music.

Today would have been our thirty-eighth wedding anniversary. I have so many wonderful memories of John and today he will be on my mind. As I listen my ITouch it creates a musical time-machine. Each song has another memory taking me to another place that makes me smile. How did I get here? I never would have guessed this would be my life.

As the bus travels down the winding two lane road headed for the capitol, I look out the window at the banana fields that dot the highway. Blue bags hang from the trees. The bags are used to protect bananas from pests. I see a man sitting at a table by the roadside. There are dozens of bananas on the table. This is his business – selling a few banana’s each day. They cost a quarter each.

Marvin Gaye sings What’s Going On bringing me to the early 1970s and I think about our days on Border Avenue, the endless parties with so many friends, BBQs and our backyard communal garden. We had more tomatoes than three families could possibly eat.

I first heard the Clancy Brothers when I met John. He loved his Irishness. How fitting it is that The Jug of Punch should play on this day. As I think about family gatherings and corned beef and cabbage, I notice a partial truck by the road that is overcome with wild ferns and other plants. It looks much like a planter. The truck has been there so long it blends into the landscape. There is the occasional pedestrian walking on the highway carrying a cutlass.

Creedance Clearwater Revival’s Lookin’ Out My Back Door begins and I am immediately filled with joy. It’s one of the few songs I would hear John singing to. Whenever this song played, whatever was happening, I paused because it brought out the best side of him.

Out my window a woman is selling fruits and vegetables. There is a colorful array of edible fresh picked foods; watermelons, oranges, tangerines, tomatoes, sweet potatoes and breadfruits. A man is harvesting bananas in a nearby shed. There are streams of brown muddy water from the tropical rain.

Pink Floyd plays Eclipse and it takes me to our early days on Clarion Drive. Our friends moved across the street because no one wanted to leave Border Avenue behind.

I notice shacks with tin roofs and homes with freshly painted porches. There are ferns and coconut trees and we are passing the best part of the road now; a rain forest filled with lush greenery. I look over at other passengers and watch them enjoying the beauty of nature. And then James Taylor starts singing I’ll be There, and I smile.

There are packs of passive dogs crossing the highway with skill. Survival of the fittest is evident in these packs. They are skilled at dodging cars and have learned to have patience with people who generously toss leftover bones their way. I am reminded of our two German Shepards, Charlie and Alice.

I have a strange feeling. I’m here in Saint Lucia, but I’m holding John’s hand at his childhood house on LaSalle Street in Los Angeles. I’m realistic about this. I know there were some terrible times, but it’s nice to be in a place where I can finally bring the good memories forward. What a great life.

.

A Contrast in Culture

When I went to Cable and Wireless, Bernard, my customer service agent helped me through a mountain of paperwork. There were forms to fill out, questions to be answered, agreements to make and the inevitable proof of identification. I pulled out my driver’s license and handed it to him. Bernard looked at it for what seemed a longer time than needed and then looked at me. I thought to myself, “Oh my gosh, have I aged that much?” But that wasn’t what he was thinking. As he handed it back to me he said, “It’s hard to believe a lady is treated like this.” What? He was referring to the information on our driver’s licenses; specifically weight. I looked at him and responded, “Oh, we always lie anyway.”

This was one of those moments that caused me to pause. He called me a lady – it was very respectful. I’m not a girl or woman, but a lady in his eyes. I have visions of walking across the room in three inch high heels with a book on my head and white gloves on my hands. Humm, I will probably eat a watercress sandwich for lunch. My thoughts turn in another direction as I remember that fidelity among Saint Lucian men is not the norm.

This small interaction is a symbol of the culture here in Saint Lucia. Some values they hold are ones that we might have enjoyed fifty years ago. Women are expected to cook, clean, wash and take care of the children. Women work very hard. Most get up at four in the morning to begin cooking. They make their own juice, called local juice, made from golden apples chopped and blended and squeezed by hand. Juicers are not the norm here.

They bake lots of cakes, not as sweet as ours and most have no frosting. They buy fresh fish from the fishermen and fillet them for the evening meal. Their diet is filled with starches with very little vegetables; macaroni and cheese, rice, beans and pasta with a small amount of meat and a few slices of cucumber and a fried bake is a typical meal. None of this comes from a package or a restaurant.

This is an island. Almost everything here is imported from somewhere. There aren’t dozens of car dealerships on the island. I know of one. Most things on this island are imported. They don’t throw things away and get new things. The men fix things.

When I arrived on the island I unpacked my small alarm clock and found it didn’t work. I left it at the Pastoral Center because it was one less thing to carry and because it didn’t work. When I met my host family, I mentioned my alarm clock was broken and I needed to buy a new one. Bea immediately said, “Give it to Neil, he will fix it”. I hadn’t even thought of actually fixing it – my thought was to go get a new one. What a concept; what a lesson!

Most things people have are paid for, including their homes; at least those that are lucky enough to afford this luxury. A 2005 study found my village of 18,071 has almost 46% living in poverty; 33% of children 0-14 years of age are indigent. Imagine. In the United States 16% of our children are living in poverty. Imagine. In the United States we use credit as a way of life. Here, people don’t have pounds of thin plastic cards to lug around in their pockets or purses. Most don’t have a debit card. They use cash. They pay for what they buy. What a concept. There’s a lot in this paragraph to reflect on.

Until the 1950s they were heating their irons on coals. They had mostly outdoor plumbing and outhouses. Today many have indoor plumbing and electricity. Old fishing technology using spears and ropes are still used. They are using propane tanks to heat their ovens and most homes have no hot water, including mine. It’s hot year round, but there is no air conditioning in homes. Electricity is available and reliable but very expensive.

Here’s the contrast. In the last few years Cable TV, cell phones, and the internet have been introduced to the island. With this came the introduction of computer gaming. Children are introduced to many of the same things our children are experiences. They see the same American commercials on TV that our children are subjected to. They watch the same movies, sitcoms and reality television that we do. While their children are doing this, parents are using a new device recently introduced to the island: the Blackberry.

There is a stark contrast here. Among the women making local juice, the men fishing with ropes and spears and the public village washrooms; gold chains sparkle in the sunlight with sagging pants that create a judgment by older generations. The culture is moving towards a thirst for materialism. And so I see the past and the future in one breath; a clash of cultures viewed in one step. Within this breath and step it’s easy to envision a different future.

Black Sand and Shared Coconuts

A few weeks ago, several volunteers went to the beaches along Laborie, a small village on the west side of the island near Vieux Fort. It was a cloudy day and tropical rains were likely to come and go.

As we walked on the black sandy beach, the predictable rain was passing. Some of us took shelter under an abandoned make shift shelter used by fishermen to process their catch; others went for a swim in the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea in search of the coral reef just off the shore. As the rain drops gave way and the sun broke through the clouds, we walked through a forested area and to the next beach. We passed beautiful pieces of driftwood as well as patterns of sandy eroded walls. We floated in the warm clear blue water for what seemed like an hour, allowing the gentle current to take us out and then bring us back over and again. As we stand on the beach drying off, we shared the juice in the coconuts Jeff brought.

We found hundreds of Conch Shells along with other wonderful smaller shells on the pebbled shoreline. As I walked along the water, I remembered that I used to find shells along the California beaches. Now, there are none. I can remember going out in the backyard of our Torrance home and finding shells there. Those memories aside, this was one of those times when capturing pictures on my camera would interfere with experience, so the pictures of the shoreline remain in memory. As a fan of natures details, a couple of us sat on a rock and watched tiny hermit crabs moving across the rocks with tiny colorful shells on their backs. Occasionally, a little crab would attempt to climb over a pebble. From its perspective these pebbles must look like mountains that need to be conquered; to us, the pebble is viewed as one of millions. This crab could be easily overlooked.

A couple of volunteers skip small pebbles across the top of the clear calm blue Caribbean water. Contests among those skipping rocks pass time and entertain us in a small way. It brings to mind the relaxing vacations John and I had so many years ago. Before we had our children we made several treks to Northern California to spend a few moments in our life camping and being overcome with the beauty of nature. We would spend full days on the river with our two large dogs, Charlie and Alice, skipping rocks, throwing sticks, enjoying nature, and talking about our future. We always came to the conclusion that these moments were the better part of Gods plan. Those lazy days on the Eel River, camping among the Giant Redwood Trees, and picking blackberries along the roadside to make tasty deserts are among the best memories I hold.

I’m lost in thought as I watch the little crab making its journey while climbing a pebble. I conclude it must appear as a mountainous white knuckle climb taxing its skills of balance and concentration. He falls from the pebble and quickly rolls back over and continues his journey picking the next mountainous pebble to climb. I put my hand near its path and it retreated into its shell, blending into the rocky and shelled beach. I brought a few shells home which I will enjoy for the short time I’m here in Saint Lucia. I plan on making a trip back to the beach before I leave to bring them home.

On our way back, we stopped to admire the beautiful view, and the remains of an old sugar mill, before heading up towards the light at the end of a beautiful trail littered with almonds that had fallen from the trees. But before the trail ended we saw a butterfly stopping for a rest.

Pauline

A few times a week I walk the half block to the bakery to pick up fresh bread. I walk up the step to the entrance and put two one dollar coins onto the counter. A woman emerges from the back and I say. “Six rolls please”. Within seconds she returns with a clear plastic bag filled with fresh rolls. I pick them up and head out the door. I round the corner and hear someone say, “Hey, who you?” I look over and there are a group of women at the corner. One woman says, “Come. Who you?”

I walk over to her and introduce myself. She tells me they have seen me, but don’t know who I am. I explain I am Peace Corps and there is an immediate smile. And then she says warmly, “My name is Pauline”. People in the village are used to Peace Corps volunteers here. She says, “Are you replacing Ryan?” Ryan is the Peace Corps volunteer who extended twice and left just a week ago. I go into more of an explanation than I’d like. I explain to them that I am working for the village foundation and I’m not here to replace Ryan who worked with a village basketball team.

Pauline asks, “Where your husband?” I explain I’m not married. She says, “Why not?” I explain that he died. “You need a man to lay with at night to keep you warm. I find you one.”

I’m relieved as she turns the conversation in another direction. “Where you from?” I explain I’m from Los Angeles, California. Do I know Michael Jackson? O.J. Simpson? Beyonce? Celine Dion? With each name I shake my head and Pauline seems disappointed. She’s written to O.J. but he didn't respond. She concludes he must be busy in prison. I nod my head in agreement.

Making Friends

As I enter the church I hear a man praying. He is in the front of the room with a microphone in hand. The steam from his emotions is flowing into every corner of the church. People have their hands outstretched, palms facing the sky, eyes closed. They are swaying back and forth.

It’s a small church with about 70 folding chairs and I start to follow a group of parishioners to the back of the church when Bertha takes my arm and leads me to three folding chairs in the front row; one for her, one for her husband and I am seating between them.

To date, I’ve only attended the Seventh Day Adventist service. I suspect this will be different when I see drums, an electric guitar, an electronic keyboard, sound equipment and three standing microphones behind a pulpit with plastic flowers in front of it.

A few nights before, I attended a meeting at Monroe College in Castries for faculty and then a follow-on meeting for new students. They served a nice dinner under in the large tent just outside the college. I took my food and sat on one of the picnic benches and talked with a few faculty members and a few of the new students. They were understandably anxious about their decision to return to college; math and statistics were high on their list of fears. I could understand every syllable of their fear; it’s been only a few years since I was one of them. I tried to assure them they could do it; that it would be hard but not impossible.

It was near 8:00 that night when I grabbed my red backpack and headed down the stairs behind the Saint Lucia Bank and toward the quietness of Castries Marketplace. During the daylight hours, Castries is a bustling city with vendors, shoppers, bars, music and restaurants. When there are ships in the harbor the Marketplace is filled with tourists wearing shorts and t-shirts. They are carrying large camera’s, backpacks and satchels filled with a few fruits and mementos they will bring back signifying the few hours they spent on the island.

By this time of night everyone has gone home and there is a stillness and peace about the city. The only activity seems to be waiting bus drivers and passengers as well as the inevitable taxi driver who whispers “Taxi?” as I take a short cut through the park. Busses don’t leave Castries until they are filled to capacity. There is no schedule. On this night I was the last to arrive and there was only one seat in the front. As I got into the bus, I said, “Good night everyone, I bet you are all happy to see me. Now we can be on our way!”

The woman sitting next to me said, “Did you enjoy the meeting and dinner?” I didn’t recognize her until she reminded me she is a Monroe College Professor. As we talked I learned she lives in my village, her husband, Melvin, is a taxi driver/tour guide, and he is also the preacher at the Pentecostal Church in Laborie. Melvin met us at the bus stop in his taxi. They offered me a ride to my house and invited me to their church service. I felt like I’d known Bertha and Melvin my entire life. That’s how I landed at church this morning.

Bertha leaned over looking at the man leading prayer and whispered in my ear, “He’s blind you know”. I could hear increasing volume and emotion with every hallelujah, thank you Jesus, praise the load, amen and praise God. Then everything was silent. A young woman walked up the stairs and took his hand a led him back to his seat.

A young woman takes the microphone and half sings half yells hallelujah eventually breaking into song. Her beautiful voice is backed up by three women singers, a man playing guitar player and another man on the keyboard and still another on drums. As the crescendo peaks mumbling can be heard throughout the church as well as hallelujah, thank you Jesus, praise the load, amen, praise God. Almost everyone has arms stretched high into the air and people are dancing in the isles. Melvin falls on the stairs and prays as the music peaks.

The music stops and Melvin steps up to begin his sermon. “Where Art Thou?” Nudge your neighbor and ask, “Where art thou?” Everyone nudges and pokes and asks the question. And so the service had its message. Are you doing what God would have you do? Or, are you imposing your own will?

When it was time for announcements, I was asked to come up and introduce myself and say a few words about Peace Corps. It was unexpected and I was totally unprepared…but I should have predicted it.

After the service I had a crowd of new best friends: Karen, Theresa and Glenda. They all want to know more about me and are anxious to tell me about the work they are doing in their church community with children and the woman’s group.

And so now, it’s a week later and Bertha has called me a couple of times to see how I am. She’s emailed me and talks about a time when we will all have lunch together. I am grateful for these experiences. They are making my life so rich.