The Gas Station

A foreign non-profit organization has come to Saint Lucia looking for opportunities to help local village economy. They have selected two villages and mine is one of them. The Village Development Foundation will participate in identifying local influential people and businesses; interview them and invite them to an action planning workshop.

It’s Monday and I’m waiting at Esther’s Restaurant, the gathering place for the teams to meet before going out to talk to the people. It’s a good opportunity for me to meet people. There are three teams and each team arrives in a separate car. The second car that arrives with the team I will join today.

The first person we meet is a retired principal. We are invited into his home; we take our shoes off and enter the living room taking a seat on the sofa. His home is comfortable. Opposite the sofa is a coffee table and beyond that are shelves that house his television, pictures, books and a certificate from Monroe College. He’s a pleasant man with good insight into the community. The interview is concluded and I hand him a letter inviting him to Friday’s Action Planning Workshop. Almost everything is done with formal letters, a process that I’m not accustomed to. In the United States, we pick up the phone, here they sometimes call people, but always follow up with a formal letter.

Our next interview, the owner of a gas station, catches me by surprise. We pull up to the gas station on the highway and pass by a man who looks like a mechanic. He’s talking on his cell phone and I wonder if this is our contact. The woman inside the mini-mart confirms he is the owner. He concludes his conversation and enters the mini-mart. He leads us into a small office, continually apologizing to us for the small quarters. He explains his operation is just a small business. It takes several minutes, but eventually we all have a chair and we sit down and the questions begin.

This interview highlights what I already know about people in Saint Lucia: I never know who people are until I talk with them. In the United States, many times the first thing we ask people is, “What do you do?” meaning what kind of work do you do. Then we put them in our mental boxes. Their dress and how they speak help us box them. We might look at what they are driving or where they live to ensure they are boxed appropriately. Saint Lucians are more interested in social systems; the music they listen to, the activities they engage in and their family structure; who is related to who . . . and they are all related in one fashion or another. They live, rich and poor, in the same area community. I don’t hear them speak about money or their next promotion.

He is a humble man with no formal education. We didn't ask him about his education; he volunteered it. Behind his unassuming character is a man who is proud of his accomplishment. As a young child he worked in fields with his father. They had a roadside stand. He attributes his upbringing to his understanding the business world.

As we talk, we discover that not only does he own this gas station, but he owns the restaurant and min-mart as well and upstairs are offices used for other businesses. He is the owner of several businesses around the island. He owns a heavy equipment business, a waste sanitation business, and numerous other businesses. He helped one of his sons establish a thriving business. His wife helps with the business and is responsible for automating those businesses. His sons all have college educations from major United States and England universities; they are lawyers and engineers. He is well connected and knows how to use the system which gives him a competitive advantage as a businessman. He has a passion for business and is still looking for opportunities to develop new businesses. He has the ability to see the business system and know what people want.

When a bank said they would loan him money to build a bed and breakfast, he told them he wasn't interested. He knows at present, there is no market for it. Then he said, "Maybe a nightclub would be better. The people of this village would come."

During a recent ride to the capitol, Angelina and I spoke about him. She described him as very generous. She spoke about an employee who stole from him. Someone asked him “Why don’t you fire this employee? He stole from you.” His reply was, “Then who would be the donkey?” He kept this employee who became loyal and eventually re-gained his trust.

My impression of the man I passed when I entered the gas station and the man I knew when I left was quite different. I wish I could bottle his intuitive business sense and sprinkle it around my classroom.

Formal Letters

I volunteer at Monroe College in Castries, teaching Business Policy and Strategy. Teaching is a secondary assignment. It is an American institution and the textbooks are the same used in the United States. A chapter in the text I’m using describes generational differences, noting the values of Baby Boomers and Gen X. It points out how these differences intersect with the business environment. This is a typical undergrad business issue that generates lively discussion. However, we are not in the United States and it is difficult for the students to understand. When I asked them about it, they said, “Oh, we are Gen X”, but they had no depth or real understanding of the meaning. To my knowledge, there is no similar research for the generations in Saint Lucia.

In another capacity, I am working with the Village Development Foundation; this is my primary assignment as a volunteer. One thing that surprised me is that formal letters are sent for every request. Recently, I was asked to phone twenty-five people in the community and invite them to a meeting. Each of them agreed to come to the meeting, but the telephone conversation would not be recognized as “official” until they received a formal letter confirming our conversation. There was no time to mail the letters so they had to be hand-carried. Even if there was time to mail them, there are no house numbers and consequently, they would all just end up at the post office waiting for them to pick them up. One never knows how long that will take so hand-delivering them is really the only method. OK, now the circular motion of this concept is complete and I’m sure you understand. Don’t you?

I have questioned Darnley, the Foundation Chair, about the need for formal letters on more than one occasion. I explain to him that the invention of computers, technical gadgetry and in the interest of speed there are better and more efficient ways to communicate. I explain to him that the wording in the letters causes misunderstanding which leads to written sparring. I’ve said many times, “Can’t we just walk across the street and talk?” The response is always the same. “That is a good idea, but we will have to follow it up with a formal letter.”

It’s an inside joke between Darnley and me. Whenever anyone mentions a formal letter he always looks at me and smiles. He knows what I am thinking. I nod knowing what the response will be if I voice my opinion. So I don’t; I keep quiet now. But Darnley, is walking across the street to talk to people more frequently. We are both moving toward the center of the discussion. I like that.

Last week I showed my students the timeline I created of Saint Lucia History. It is the beginning stages of creating generational differences for Saint Lucia. This is a gift I want to leave behind. I’m not sure how I will introduce it, but I know I will find the right moment.

I gave my students an assignment. They were to talk with people of different generations. I asked them to uncover values, heroes and differences through hearing the stories heard in their interviews. The end result is for them to understand differences and why these differences should be considered in planning corporate strategy.

They came to class well prepared today. I got them into group discussion; each group taking one generation to explore. The conversation was rich, well researched and fun. What began as “just another homework assignment” for them turned into an exciting learning experience. And, as more than one of them pointed out, I learned with them.

Prior to 1950, life was exceptionally difficult on the island. Many left in search of an easier life. I learned that Saint Lucia didn’t have telephones until late 1959. They dialed the operator and asked for a three digit number. Rural priests, mostly white, traveled on horse and when they passed people would make the sign of the cross and bow to pay reverence.

A couple of months ago, I went to an exhibit of artifacts shown during Jounen Kweyol, translated: Creole Day. The things displayed were used prior to the 1950s. The stories I heard today gave real meaning to the things I saw two months ago. Most people in Saint Lucia did not have indoor plumbing. Families would use a bidet at night. Each morning a vehicle was dispatched through villages to pick up the “night soil”. Most did not have indoor cooking facilities and so they cooked outside on coal pots. These stories were interesting, but it was this next story that stopped me cold. It gets to the purpose of this post.

Years ago, when a man decided to propose to a woman he was required to ask her father for her hand in marriage. He had to follow a formal process. The man would write a formal letter and send it to the woman’s father to request a meeting. Now that puts a big grin on my face. I can’t wait to tell Darnley about this!

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.