Mexican Independence 200 Years

Tracy left the island and it was time to slow down a bit. Janyn and I spent slower days; we had a Banana Daquirie at Sandy Beach and went to the after school program. The last Thursday she was here was Corpus Christi day, a religious holiday.

Elvinette arranged for a large bus to take children to the Mexican Embassy. When she asked if we wanted to attend, we jumped at the idea. The Embassy had an exhibit celebrating it’s 200th anniversary of Independence from Spain.

I’ve become a night person since I retired from the corporate world in 2005. Before coming to Saint Lucia, I taught night classes. Since being here, I start my days after noon. So when Elvinette said we had to be in MoPo to meet the bus at 9:00 in the morning I knew it would be a small challenge.

The next morning Janyn and I arrived in MoPo just in time for a huge downpour. We took shelter and waited for the bus. As expected, the rain stopped as quickly as it started.

It was a happy bus ride. The children were singing songs and there was excitement in the air. For many children, opportunities to go outside the village are few and so the bus ride was high energy and just plain fun.

In less than an hour we drove past the sparkling Vigi Beach, past the airport and up a steep hill where the embassy overlooks the Castries Harbor. The Children got out of the bus and waited until everyone was ready to enter.

The Mexican Embassy is a tiny room and I wondered how long the exhibit would hold their attention.

We were in this room for a very long time. To my surprise the children enjoyed every moment.

The Mexican Ambassador was thrilled that we were there. He played with the children. They set up tables and played a game of Mexican Bingo and prizes were distributed. He showed them how to play with a top and the interaction was delightful.

The children took our camera and captured their moments.


Janyn and I were amazed at how captivated the children were at the Embassy. Confined to a small space for over two hours, they were well behaved and interested.

I thought of my own children and what it might have been like if I had taken them to this exhibit when they were young. Actually, just thinking about it gives me a headache. So lets move on.

We piled back into the bus and moved down the hill until we found a nice shady tree at the beach. We enjoyed a great picnic lunch. Of course, neither Janyn nor I thought far enough ahead to bring food, but we spotted a couple of food stands where we could buy something. Brenda would have none of that. There was plenty of food for us too. The children played American Football on the beach, collected shells and made sandcastles. The ice cream man stopped and scooped cups of cold dessert for us.


And so the day was over and it was time to pile back into the bus for the long ride home.

Janyn and I looked at each other and no words needed to be exchanged. We bid our friends a fond farewell and walked down a two mile stretch on the beach to do - well, what we do best.

The End Nears

It was a strange day today. I know that I’m coming close to the end of my service, but today there was a lot of reality in the mix.


I heard the car pull up and opened my door. Brenda was walking up my steps. A big smile greeted me. We chatted for a few minutes until there was another knock. I opened the door and welcomed two Peace Corps staff, Sharmon and Elizabeth. Every few months they come by to see how things are going. But, this meeting was different. Rather than focusing on future projects, the focus was on past accomplishments.


We spoke about the work I am doing, about a previous Peace Corps Volunteer accomplishments, about my village and then the conversation turned. Sharmon asked, "Have you thought about what you will do when your service is completed?" Have I ever! I thought about that as I pressed the send button to start the Peace Corps application process over three years ago. Do I have an answer? ABSOLUTELY!….not.


I explained that I am very goal oriented. This is another chunk of my life and like everything else I've done, I want to understand the purpose of why I'm doing it. So here I was, talking about the subject that brought me here in the first place. As we spoke in nonsensical words, I silently thought, “I was a wife and a mother. I had a long and full career. I taught courses after I retired. I hoped that I could do something meaningful for a couple of years that would spark an idea about what I might do next. Now here I am almost two years later and I am no closer to the answer than I was when I was standing in the Los Angeles International Airport waving goodbye to my family.”


Later I opened an email from a university where I previously worked. In the past couple of months there’s been conversation around my return. Although we agreed that I would come back and teach, I was stunned when I read the sentence. The words cut through me, “We are preparing for your return. Please review the note below from main campus and if you need to make changes send us an email.” I’m not sure why those words stopped me cold, but it could be mounting reality.


After reading the email, I thought about my life. It’s exciting to come to the end of service, but it’s also bittersweet. I hear Brenda talk about future projects she will be doing and I will miss the interesting work. I helped Angelina write a proposal for a Peace Corps Response Volunteer and I wish I could tackle this assignment. I will miss the children in which I see amazing daily progress at the after-school program and I will miss creating and facilitating workshops for professionals around the island.


Later in the afternoon I walked down the long road to the highway to catch a bus to Mon Repos, a nearby village. Within minutes, a bus stopped to drop a passenger. (I should note that there are two bus routes that can take me to Mon Repos; one that goes all the way to Castries, and another that only goes as far as Mon Repos.)


The bus was full and I took the last seat. Almost in unison, every passenger on the bus said, “This bus doesn’t go to Castries”. I responded quickly, “I’m just going to MoPo.” There was laughter in the bus and a woman in the back said, “She said MoPo! She doesn’t say Mon Repos. She’s one of us!” I spent a few hours with the after-school program children and facilitators. I helped with homework and answered questions. I watched them learn to play tennis and do art projects.

When I returned to my village, it was dark. I called to the driver, "stopping at the junction", paid him $1.75EC, the equivalent of $.65. It is hot and people are sitting outside to feel the cool island breeze. I love walking through the village and always get out at the far end to extend my stroll. I wave to an old man who stands at the window of his darkened home watching the world pass by. I suppose life without electricity is normal in his world. I pass by the football (soccer) field and hear the children shouting “Miss Karen!” I walk by small shacks and wonder if the people who live in them are happy. I walk by several rum shops with various genres of load music drowning out the crickets and tree frogs. I see the occasional spirited game of Dominoes being played on a makeshift table.

I see roosters protecting their hens, dogs sleeping on the streets and goats chomping on weeds. I hear people sitting on the roadside say, “Karen, are you passing?” And, then I softly climb the stairs to my apartment trying to be careful not to bother Elizabeth and John, but know they are watching for my safe return.



I have had a lot of emotions while living here, but I rarely thought I would be sad to leave. I suppose I never let myself think about this reality. It isn’t that I didn’t want to stay. It’s that I knew this was a twenty-seven month assignment and that I would leave. It’s temporary. I knew this then and I know it now. The thing is that after two years, this village has become my home.

I am not a Farmer

Yesterday I was on a bus in the bustling city of Castries. The cruise ships were docked in the harbor. At times, the ships are so big it looks like they are landlocked, docked in the city as if it were a drive-in museum. On most days there are at least two ships and many times there are more.

The streets were lined with vendors setting up to sell fruit to locals and souvenirs to tourists. In a short time, the Rum Shops will be open and serious games of Dominoes will be played on the sidewalks.

I maneuvered my way through the crowds with purpose and knowingness. I have found if I move swiftly there are less offers of taxi’s, people asking for money and others wanting to sell me a carved coconut shell made into a hanging bird. I was on my way to meet with friends at a favorite Chinese Restaurant. After some good conversation and food I was headed home.

As the bus neared the Castries Business District there was a sudden traffic jam. This was very unusual. My first thought was that there is a traffic accident. My last thought would have been that a mother hen was frantically herding her chicks to safety. With feathers flying she focused her attention on each of the five chicks herding them with skill. I could feel her panic. She knew the danger to herself, but like any mother she was focused on her chicks, not herself.

The cars, buses and trucks were stopped and drivers and passengers patiently waited while being entertained. I smiled as I realized this was just another Peace Corps moment to enjoy. It was a special moment to reflect on the difference between a city in Saint Lucia and a city in Los Angeles.

Upon arriving in Castries, I walked a few blocks and over the bridge to find the next bus that would take me back to my village. I was alone with my thoughts and thinking about the hen. One thought led to the next.

The first thing I must do is remind you that I am not a farmer and, thus, I’m not verse in farming technique and animal behavior. I don’t grow crops or raise pigs. There are only a few cows on the island and I most certainly have nothing to do with them. There are no roosters….wait, yes, there are roosters! Lots and lots of roosters.

There is a looming question which has entertained my mind since arriving in August 2008. It generally comes up around three o’clock in the morning. I’m awakened by sounds. No, it’s not the singing crickets or the tree frogs calling – I can sleep through their noise. It’s not the barking dogs – no, they are the ones who kept me up until midnight but now they are sleep. It’s not the slaughtering of pigs – that happens on Friday mornings after daybreak.

I’ve been asleep for three glorious silent hours and it’s a new breed expressing themselves. It starts with just one lone voice in the night and instantly everyone is communicating. Some are heard in the distance, but there is inevitably one intruder lurking under my window who weighs in on the conversation.

I’ve been wondering for sometime now: Why do roosters crow? The bottom line is that they are territorial. They crow to let others know where they are and to ensure they are spaced properly. A rooster’s purpose in life is to protect the flock from all threats at all costs including fighting to the death.

• Some roosters are quite docile and will sit in your lap, others will eat your kitten, puppy or small child.

• Very few roosters will get along without fighting and tearing each other up; others are highly aggressive.

• Their entire focus and purpose in life is to insure proliferation of the species

• A ratio of 10 hens to 1 rooster are needed to satisfy these creatures!

• A rooster will sacrifice himself to protect the flock.

Alright, so what you are likely saying at this point. Who cares? Well, read on. Crowing can start when there is a disturbance in the coop or when a car alarm sounds at night. A friendly neighbor simply switching on a porch light can cause every rooster’s crow in the village to sound a high alert.

As I wrote this piece, I kept thinking to myself: what is the purpose of telling people about this mundane phenomenon? Then it came to me…the message…the thing I want people to know in my village:

Will you please stop turning on your porch lights at three o’clock in the morning? I really need some sleep!

From My Cold Dead Hands

I worried before I came to Saint Lucia. What would I do without a car? I took a bus once in San Francisco with my friend Leslie. It was fun. It was a novelty. There are hundreds of miles of freeways in Los Angeles. . . guaranteed, every mile is in a state of gridlock as I write this post. Before I retired I drove eight miles to work; a 45 minute commute. Los Angeleans drive. How could I adjust to life without my car?


Several years ago, a new mass transit system was built. There are blue lines and green lines. There might even be yellow lines and red lines. I’m not sure. I don’t know who rides those lines. There is no need to figure out all these colors and schedules because Los Angelean’s have cars . . . lots and lots of cars. Everyone in my family has a car. And if one car breaks down, my son has a spare. He’s not rich, just a practical Los Angelean. Could I adjust to mass transit?


A car is a source of stress. I build in time because my keys are usually “lost”. Everyone gets up and starts looking when my keys are lost. This is even more stressful because I see the stress I’m putting on my family. The oil needs to be changed every 3000 miles. Sometimes I push it to 4000 miles, but then there is a nagging voice inside my head that says, “you will pay for this later”. I hate that voice. It’s another source of stress. Even still, I need a car.


My son, Brendan, doesn’t like to stop for gas. He runs out often. If I sneak a peak at the gas tank, he makes me feel like I’m intruding on his territory. The thought of running out of gas is more stressful than the act itself. This is just another thing we must learn to deal with, because we need our cars.


My son, Kevin, is a nightmare in traffic. A recent Facebook status on his page reads, “1:45 minutes to go 20 miles on the 405. I love L.A.?” Oh, am I glad I wasn’t in his car that day. Being in a car with Kevin would guarantee the Maharishi high blood pressure. But still, this is the price we pay to live in the Sunshine State.


I had a transponder pass for the 91 Express Lane. My transponder was pure joy. Ah, the key to a stress free ten mile drive. I willingly pay up to $5 for the privilege to race down the freeway with a queen-like attitude glancing over at the snarly, ugly, bumper-to-bumper traffic where my subjects have looks of exasperation permanently imprinted on their faces. I would sail through the fast track lane at eighty miles an hour, yelling and laughing at those who were either ill-prepared or too cheap to buy their way out of a situation that would cost them an hour of their life, only to find at the end of the ten mile privileged ride that I too would be ensnarled with the others and transformed as just another commoner stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Why would I want to give all this up?


I spoke to Jay, my oldest son, today. I explained that one thing I dreaded before leaving for Saint Lucia was not having a car to drive. I explained to him that it is likely one of the more liberating things that’s happened to me since becoming a Peace Corps Volunteer. I look forward to my bus rides. I dread having to drive a car when I return home. Having lived in Honduras as a Peace Corps Volunteer he understood and agreed. As he recalled his days in Honduras, he exclaimed with glee, “it’s so nice having someone else fight all the stresses of driving”. While he was talking, I thought to myself “Why would I ever want to drive again?”


When there is talk about car-pooling in L.A., the reaction invokes such emotion that it’s easy to envision Charlton Heston rising from his grave hold a steering wheel high in the air in one hand saying, “From my cold dead hands”. I have to admit I was one of them. But while I was talking to my son, I heard words come from my mouth that even surprised me, “When I get home we ought to explore the option of public transportation together”. He left Peace Corps and Honduras ten years ago and his Los Angelean reaction was, “I don’t think it would work out mom, we’d have to move.”

Unknown Territory Explored

It’s Monday and I need to be in Castries by 7:00 p.m. I’ve cleaned the house and prepared as much as I can. At 5:00 I head downstairs and toward the main road to catch a bus for the 45 minute ride. It should be easy to catch a bus because it’s the end of the day and drivers will be out in force looking to fill their buses to maximize their earnings.

I arrived a little before seven. Ah, enough time to go to Super J to buy a couple of bottles of wine. I pick two bottles of red and head for the Taxi Stand where I will meet Lenny. I am using this opportunity to stock up on some things I need – Mega J, here I come! Paper towels, toilet paper, large bags of coffee and drinks; oh, and two new pillows and a cucumber so large that Lenny and another man are making jokes about it. I leave them behind and go about my shopping.

The shopping spree empties out my pockets, but I have enough of some things to carry me to close of service. We pack up his taxi and head to Vigi where my sister, Janyn, will arrive at 9 p.m. She will be here for five full days and I have a packed schedule ahead. I know I will be exhausted at the end of her trip and I can only assume she will need a vacation after this vacation as well.

Her plane arrives and we wait more than an hour for her to get through customs. I’ve learned by now that nothing is easy and patience makes life seem easier. We pile into Lenny’s van and he drives through the Morne stopping at Dennery to look at the lovely view. Janyn is very photogenic, isn’t she? After an hour we arrived home and brought the bounty of goods acquired at Mega J up the stairs and into the house, along with the backpack she brought. Inside her bag were so many goodies; a new pair of flipflops, Lemon Luna Bars, Bagels, Mounting Tape to hang a new picture of my granddaughter – and a New York Pizza. Yum!

We opened a bottle of wine and stayed up late talking about what we would do while she was here. The days are packed and will go by fast.

A village tour which included Vierge Point and Sandy Beach with drinks at the Reef were on the agenda. The banana daiquiri was so good, it sent us searching for a blender to replicate the frosty drink at home.

Bus rides are an experience that most Peace Corps Volunteers like to share with guests. Loud music is a constant and swerving around vehicles can be nerve-wracking. One of the biggest surprises on the island is that Country Western is extremely popular. One explanation is that the culture is "story-telling" and so that explains their love for the stories told in this type of music. It's unfortunate that the wind overtook the sound in the video and the Country Western Music cannot be heard.

The Ziplines in Dennery were at the top of our list and we weren’t sorry. Zipping through the forest high above the trees at 30 MPH was great fun and walking up to the waterfall topped it off.

(If you are at work, I'd advise you to turn the sound down before starting this video).

After cooling off we hiked back to the road and waited…and waited for a bus. Catching a bus in Dennery is challenging and not a sport that I like to participate in. Finally, after some time, an empty taxi took pity on us and stopped, charging us only bus fare. It was there that Janyn left her camera; lost forever in the backseat of an unknown taxi.

Another volunteer had family visiting and we went along for an arts and crafts tour of the island they had planned. We stopped at Choiseul, a village known for its crafts where I purchased a doll made by a blind person for my granddaughter. After a leisurely drink at Ladera Resort and a quick purchase of purses made of wood, we stopped at Zaka Totum and Mask Studio where the artist creates amazing masks using recycled wood. Of course I couldn’t resist and picked up a simply designed mask made of Blue Mahoe, Jamaica's National Tree. Later we stopped for a taste of Cassava Bread before we headed up north to the art gallery in Castries and then to the batik and wood carving studios on the Morne.

Finally, we went to Llewellyn Xavier’s home in Cap Estate. Sometimes it amazes me how much access a Peace Corps Volunteer has. Among the locations of Llewellyn’s permanent collections are the Smithsonian and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He’s worked with John Lennon, Yoko Ono, Jean Genet and others. His work is amazing. This is one stop where I did not make a purchase.

We sipped Rum Punch and ate fish cake while listening to him tell stories. Later we drank the juice from chilled coconuts that were picked that day in our honor. His current project is to conceptualize the environment to awaken world consciousness of the destruction the earth is experiencing. He had a box brought out with t-shirts with environmental messages that he designed. We each picked one and then signed his guest book.

The next day we attended the July 4^th BBQ at the Peace Corps Country Director’s home where we met a group of Saint Lucia Volunteers who served in the late 1960s. This was their forty year reunion.

We went to Pigeon Point and hiked to Fort Rodney to enjoy the amazing view that pans the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea. It’s an old lookout complete with cannons that the English used to fight the French. The island changed hands fourteen times before the English prevailed. Saint Lucia gained independence in 1979 and just celebrated its thirty year anniversary.

Janyn left, more than likely exhausted from the packed days. I watched her plane take off while sitting on the beach nearby. Oh, the camera? Well, the driver of the taxi figured out that it belonged to the two white women he rescued on the side of the road in Dennery. He remembered the village where he dropped us off. He has a friend in my village. We are easily described and that friend knows me. The camera has been returned and is ready to ship back to my sister. Humm, do you think that would happen in Los Angeles?

Bertha and Me

Bertha called earlier this week. There’s a faculty meeting in Castries on Sunday. “Are you going?” she said. I told her I was and we made arrangements to meet at the bus stop to ride in together. She is a professor I met at Monroe College; she lives in the same village as I do. Her husband is the Pentecostal Preacher. I hope you can stand yet another bus story. I love bus rides because they give me time to meet people, reflect on being here and let's face it - being from California, bus rides aren't something I am used to doing!

Bertha called and said, “Where are you?” I told her I was just leaving my house for the five minute walk. She was worried about getting there on time and I realized my tardiness was contributing to her anxiety so I quickly locked my door and ran down the stairs. Elizabeth shouted to me just as I reached the street. I went back and talked to her for a couple of minutes. She wants to go into my house and look at the light bulbs. They are going to change them to energy saving bulbs; it’s something that some people in the village are focusing on and together they will get a better deal on the expensive bulbs. This is a little surprising to me as people are not aware of environmental issues here. Thinking about it, they are more than likely focusing on the expensive electric bills we are faced with each month. I tell her she is welcome to use her key as I run down the road.

I turn the corner and there is a young man carrying some bags. He recognizes me, but I can’t place him. I greet him with the usual “are you ok?”. In Saint Lucia that means “How are you?” It’s just a greeting not intended for an honest answer. He stops and says yes, he’s ok, but it is a challenging day for him. We agree that life is full of challenges and it’s those challenges that allow us to grow. The conversation is turning a bit deep when a jeep drives up. Bertha sticks her head out the window and says, “Get in; my friend will take us to the bus stop.” I say farewell to my friend and promise myself that I’ll figure out who he is and discover his name. I get into the back seat for the two minute ride up the road. Saint Lucians, by their own admission, don’t like to walk.

We waited at the bus stop under the shade and shelter of the bus stop for only fifteen minutes; somewhat of a miracle on a Sunday morning. Maybe this has something to do with Bertha, a Pentecostal Preacher’s wife. We got in the bus and were on our way. A man is waiting for a bus at the next village and the driver stops. I look at the window and the man is literally running while taking large leaping jumps into the air while crossing the street and heading for the bus. I’m surprised when he does not leap onto the hood and declare himself King of the Passengers. He has hair wrapped in a white cloth indicating he has long Rasta braids. He is wearing a long sleeved dress white shirt and a pair of jeans. He is happy. I hear Bertha sign and say “ah oh”. For lack of a better name, I will call him Rasta Man.

Rasta Man sits in the empty seat in front of us and the bus driver pulls out and continues up the two lane highway. Rasta Man tries to make conversation, but clearly, those on the bus are uncomfortable. I see many of them glance at me and I’m wondering if I am a contributor to their discomfort. Do they think I would judge Rasta Man? Are they embarrassed because I’m an outsider? Do they think I feel uncomfortable? Unsafe?

We stop for another passenger, a well dressed young woman. She takes a seat next to me and I make some casual conversation. She is very friendly. Rasta Man is becoming irritated that no one is having fun with him. He is becoming agitated. The bus is quiet, except for the continuing diatribe of Rasta Man. Then I suddenly hear him say “Stopping Driver”. The driver stops and Rasta Man jumps out of the bus and leaps to the other side of the street. I declare, “I just love interesting bus rides”. Everyone on the bus is now laughing and they begin an animated conversation. I feel like I’ve known these passengers my whole life. After all, we just had an experience together.

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 Sunday visit to Vieux Fort

Bea needed to get a few things for her catering business this morning. She needed things from the grocery store, such as rice, sweet potatoes, and flour. Neil drove the truck to the country where they have a farm. There he will search for fruits, avocados, cinnamon, and breadfruit (a strange fruit that is grown on a tree, cooked to the consistency of bread, and then fried – I think that’s the process, but don’t hold me to it. Anyone who knows me, understands I’m not a cook). Since they only have one vehicle, Bea and I had to find a bus on a Sunday... not impossible, but it does require patience...and lots of time!

Someone from Micoud gives us a ride to the bus stop. I’m not really sure why we needed the ride as it is only about a half block, but I don’t ask questions because I don’t think the answer would be very satisfying. We wait, and wait. After twenty-five minutes, we pile into the bus and set out for the twenty minutes it will take to get to the Super J Grocery Store. Once there, we buy just enough groceries that we can carry and check out. We take the cart with five bags to the front of the store and she counts her money. She still needs to buy drinks at another store, but she has money left. Hence, she instructs me to wait with the five bags already purchased and she goes back into the store for another round. There is no such thing as credit here and very few people have debit cards, so budgeting to the penny is important, while planning is essential.

At last we have what we need. We wait outside the store for her son-in-law, Johann, who lives in Vieux Fort and owns a truck. We pile into the truck and he takes us to a warehouse store for drinks...another half block away.

Once inside the warehouse store I quickly spot Diet Coke! It cost EC2.00 but, I want it and I’m going to have it. This is very exciting as no one here drinks anything without sugar. Lots of sugar! Think of the sweetest juice drink imaginable….ok now pour yourself an eight ounce glass. Next, add a half cup of sugar to this already sweetened juice….now that’s Saint Lucian Juice!

Bea grabs the drinks, pays for them and Johann puts into his truck. He will bring them back to Micoud later this evening. In the meantime, we are dropped off at a bus stop. There is a bus waiting, but he only has room for one passenger, so we must wait for the next bus. And wait is what we did. After fifteen minutes or so another bus comes and we pile in, bags in hand. Half way to Micoud the driver announces he will not be going to Micoud, but is going on another route. Grumbling, we lug the groceries out of the bus and wait some more.

There is a family across the street who has turned the bus stop into a business. They are roasting corn on small BBQ’s and have small plastic bags of cashews. Not paying attention traffic, cars stop to buy their goods, and I witness several near accidents. We waited for another twenty minutes. I’m thinking about the groceries in the bag. There are five bricks of cheese and a tub of margarine. I wonder how long it’s going to take before a colony of bacteria begins to occupy the contents of the bags. A truck passes and Bea shouts “Micoud!” The pickup stops and we grab our bags and run to the pickup. Bea piles into the bed of the pickup and instructs me to sit inside the cab. Rudy, the driver, lives in Micoud. Everyone knows everyone and stopping is the neighborly thing to do. So, this trip to the grocery store, which would have taken one hour in Torrance, was a three hour adventure in Saint Lucia.