An Unexpected Gift - Part I

This post is a two-part series. It’s an attempt to explain the work I am doing in my village.

I could describe my work in one compact paragraph. I am working with the Village Development Foundation to help them address the needs of villagers. I am working with secondary school students to teach them principles of business through Junior Achievement. I will likely teach a college course at Monroe College. That’s the resume version, but I want to give you the reality of what this means and how difficult it can be. I feel like I belong here and with each new day, I make progress and it becomes easier.

I left early for Castries three days per week during training. I walked up the hill, past the gas station and across the street to the gravel and dirt roadway to wait for the bus, a vehicle with a green license plate and letters on the windshield that spelled “Vieux Fort/Castries”. I saw many of the same people every day. One woman wore a security guard uniform and worked at Sandals Resort; others wore suits and carried brief cases, some were shop owners. Many yelled, “stopping driver” when we reached the shipyard. Some villagers had cars and drove to work. Angelina, one of my new friends, drives to Vieux Fort where she holds the job as principal of a school. Other’s work in the village cutting the weeds that grow along fences or ironing clothes or driving trash trucks. Some are beauticians and others are teachers.

But my village is primarily a fishing and agriculture village. Bananas have sustained this village for decades. The banana industry is depressed, the cost-of-living is high and, most people don’t have skills to transfer to another occupation. They grow things besides bananas, however, they are no substitute for the profit that can be made by exporting bananas. There are peppers and cucumbers and pumpkin and onions. They have trees in their yards with ripe star fruits and oranges and mangoes. Villagers display these items along the streets to sell to people passing by. They scrape enough money together to get through another day.

Smart young people are leaving the village, some leaving the country. They are seeking better jobs, education and a better life. This leaves the village with a large population of unskilled labor and people who are least likely to create a new and prosperous reality. Some refer to my village as “the new poor”.

I spent Thanksgiving in Dennery, another small fishing village. We had a nice dinner with about 35 volunteers and staff. Elaine spent the night at my house.

The next day I showed her around the village. Although I’ve described a few things in my village there is a deeper view. I begin this piece with the reality people are facing each day by inviting you to take a walk with Elaine and me.

We walk to the sea, a block from my house, and marvel at the small fishing boats used to catch enormous fish. There is a fisherman nearby cutting fresh fish into steaks to prepare them for sale. We stop to talk with him. The people who live in the village comprise his total market. He leaves early in the morning returning in the afternoon with a few fish to sell. If he is lucky he may come back with a Marlin or a Dolphin. Most of his fish is sold by the sea, although sometimes he packages them and puts them in a cooler. While riding his bike with the cooler on his shoulder, he stops periodically to blow a large shell like a horn. It’s the simple signal heard throughout the village that he has fish for sale. This man will likely do this work until he dies or can no longer work. He has no retirement, no sick leave and no vacation. Most likely he has no savings and most certainly no 401K plan. The catch of the day is what he has to offer.

We pass by men and women sitting in front of buildings trying to catch some shade. Some are drinking from large bottles with labels of Rum or smaller bottles of Pitons, the local beer. Others are selling a few oranges, bananas, peppers, okra and cucumbers they have grown. Still others are just passing idle time, having nothing else to do.

Occasionally I am asked for money or bread for the children; a practice if started would become a hindrance in getting my job done. I always tell them, “I have little money, but if your child doesn’t have bread, send them to me and I will feed them”. When our eyes meet, we both know it’s not bread they are seeking.

A barefoot woman exits a rum shop. She is holding three oranges, she smells of rum and she is wearing a torn and faded housedress. She wants to know when I will buy her some slippers. Looking down at her dirty and worn feet, she explains that she sometimes steps on broken glass while walking on the asphalt. Smiling, I respond that it will happen when one of us wins the lottery. She smiles widely revealing a mouth of decaying and missing teeth. She tells me to have a good day and moves on down the road.

We pass by the health clinic and said hello to an elderly woman. She responds, “are you enjoying your holiday?’ We explain we live on the island and that starts a pleasant conversation. The clinic is open on Tuesday’s and there is always standing room only to see the doctor. Saint Lucians enjoy National Health Care, even so, there are problems. If someone needs physical therapy they must go to Vieux Fort or Castries. There are little resources, no x-ray machines and other equipment needed for diagnosis. It is likely villagers may not have the money for the bus ride. If they are wheelchair bound, they are less fortunate as buses are not equipped for the handicapped. Those who are mentally or physically handicapped are viewed as unfortunate and unable to contribute to society.

We walk by the Infant School and children came running to look at us. We are the only two white people in the village and we are a curious sight. Although the children are curious, there is a man carefully supervising them while keeping an eye on us. I have been inside this school before. It is hot and noisy inside the building. They are learning in an environment that has no air-conditioning and only partitions marking the beginning of one class and the end of another.

We walk through the public graveyard. When a loved one dies, a small amount of money is paid for grave space to the Village Clerk. The family is responsible to dig the deep hole in the ground before lowering the casket and saying good-bye. Then they return the sandy soil to the ground. Later they go to the Multi-Purpose Center and drink cups of rum. The headstones and monuments are crumbling, it is muddy from tropical rain and there is trash strewn about. There are dirt paths, no grass, and a beautiful view of the sea. Many have fresh flowers carefully set upon the decaying cement monuments and simplistic gravestone markings. I let myself think about burying my mother, my father, and my husband. I had a different experience in the final moments and goodbyes. It was hard to say goodbye to them; there are days when I still shed tears. I realize how fortunate I am that I can grieve without having to dig their graves and place them into their final resting place.

We walk to the outdoor market where they sell vegetables on Fridays. I purchase a bundle of cinnamon, something relatively inexpensive on the island. I will use it to make cinnamon tea. It’s not really tea, it’s just cinnamon sticks boiled in water. Left to cool, the cinnamon tea has a strong refreshing flavor and something I always have available in my refrigerator. The people who sell these vegetables, spices, and a few local fruits are the farmers that grow them. This is their source of income. Again, they have no retirement, no sick leave, no vacation. Their promise is placed on the vegetables displayed on the cement at the market.

We walk past the public bath houses, for which there are no pictures; it would be an intrusion to capture this aspect of their lifestyle. Villagers who don’t have running water use public toilets and showers. They wash their dishes and clothes there. The bath houses are always busy when I pass by. Imagine a permanent state of camping.

Some homes we pass are puzzling. Sometimes I wonder how they manage, other times I see a curious beauty. There is likely an interesting story that each of these homes holds secret. I would like to hear these stories and maybe if I develop enough trust I will.

Integration is difficult and slow. Villagers see me as a curious white woman with long blond hair (although I think it’s gray – they call it blond). Darnley, my point person requested me to come here. The others did not. Some are happy I’m here. They want to know who I am and readily strike up a conversation. Others ignore me. I know some want me here while others wish I would go away. Children stare at me and want to touch my hair. I asked one little boy, “If you could be anything you want to be when you grow up, what would you be?” He responded with enthusiasm, “A fisherman!” This is all he knows; it is his reality.

Our walk is finished and Elaine is on her way to Castries.

Saturday I will go to church. I attend the church my host family belongs to, Seventh Day Adventist. Although organized religion is not something for me, I am moved each time I watch the congregation come dressed in their finest clothes walking down the streets of the village and up the hill to the fellowship that will sustain their purpose. They are welcoming and church is one of the best places to gain trust and meet new friends. It is different than any church I attended while growing up. Their faith is genuine and carries them through the week. It is an emotional roller coaster to listen to a sermon or sing their hymns. I listen with curiosity when the sermon becomes interactive. When the collection trays are passed most contribute although some don’t. The men collecting the coins pass quickly so as not to make anyone feel unwelcome. I remember gifting as a contest when I was growing up – who could give the most. Those were the most important. When I was young, they were building a new church in town. We donated the money to pay for a pew. I never understood the focus on money.

I find there are people who have enough here, but more than likely a greater percentage are in a daily struggle for basic living conditions. I walk the village each day – and although it doesn’t feel like it, this is part of my job. I need to be accepted and trusted in order to do the job I came here to do. It is more difficult than I anticipated. It’s a cultural thing. So that’s a look at my village.

Part II of this story will be up in a few days. In it, I will explain the specific work I do and reveal why the post is named “An Unexpected Gift”.