standing on ice

The sun was out this morning. It was a good challenge to the piercing wind and the bitter cold air. Still, it stayed around 6 degrees (F). With winds that kicked things around and made everything appear even colder.

Let’s go! – I say to Ed. I am on a “keep moving” kick. So that we don’t become permanently glued to a couch this winter. Ice sculptures. We can take a look at them.

I don’t really know that there are ice sculptures, but it seems that each year at around this time I’ve seen them just south of the Capitol. We head downtown.

No ice sculptures.

Just our capitol. And piles of snow.




We walk toward the Monona shorefront. Oddly enough, I quite like being out on the lakes now, during the bright, biting cold days of winter. Sun on face, toes losing it to the bitter cold, nose long gone, fingers hangin’ in there. It’s all sort of wonderful. For a not too lengthy walk on the snow-covered ice.









I once biked across the lake in winter – Ed tells me. Do you want to hike over to the other shore? He likes to remind me of the bigger challenges, the ones I wont consider.





I'll stick with the small steps. This was my significant nod to winter. Hello, bitter cold day.

And now I need a few days to warm myself, inside and out. Meantime, the monsters can have their romp.





In the evening, it snowed.

odds (and ends)

[In response to a blog comment:] Barry, you know I cannot fudge the photos – my rule is this: it goes up if it was taken in the last 24 hours. Unless it’s a scan of some childhood memory. So, unfortunately, I must plod on and deal with the reality of this day. Which had no Caribbean bougainville, nor flocks of green parrots flapping noisily toward the forest, nor turquoise seas and ripening green bananas. I suppose I could include a bunch of green bananas. I picked some up at Trader Joe’s today.

No, all you get is this:





It was a day of bits and pieces. Of scattered thoughts and wisps of conversation.

Did you know that if Chicago got the Olympics in 2016, Madison may then get the bicycle races?
But what are the odds?
Significant, according to some.
Fantastic!
Not at all. I’m outta here if that happens.


Did you like the movie?
Clint Eastwood played his part well.
Ah, Clint Eastwood. He has a house on Tobago. On a hill, close to where the hummingbirds congregate. But it’s not Clint Eastwood that I think about when I watch Gran Torino. It’s the scene in the barber shop when guy talk happens. Take away the swears, the racism, the guns, beer and cigarettes, and I think I have myself an occasional traveling companion who would fit right into the movie set. Ed does guy talk very very well and it isn’t a performance.

We eat one of the many soups I have cooked this season in the comfortable silence of knowing that odds are in our favor. Our lives, at the moment, are wonderfully uncomplicated.

buried

Somewhere in this photo, there is a house, right?





Not my house, but still, a house.

Somewhere in this pile of hours there is a life and I remember it – well lived (or well enough) just days ago, on an island off the coast of Venezuela.

Buried now. Pulverized and scattered in banks of chin-high snow.

How I miss my hours in the sun!

Tobago: the final one

Tuesday. My last day here. I’m tracking weather patterns back home. As long as there are no storm systems, I wont complain. I live in Madison. In the winter, my town is cold. I tell this to Alex, who basically earns a living taking people out on the warm waters of the Caribbean. How cold? I answer in both Centigrade and Fahrenheit. He shudders. You live like that?

Yes. I have always lived like that. This is the warmest winter week I have ever had in my entire life.


I have thus far avoided the southern tip of Tobago. It’s the tourist center: most of the hotels and eateries are grouped there. But I’m thinking I should at least see it. The reefs are here. And the white sand beaches. Quintessentially Caribbean, no?


My last walk from Bacolet to Scarborough. Sob.





Tomorrow I’ll be doing mind games to feel warm.

I take the bus to Pigeon Point (at the southern tip of the island) and head toward the water. The strip of sand is almost empty. One child, bathing, as her mother sells hand crafts on the road.





Up the beach, I come across a man cleaning fish. Such colors! Do we eat these?? They seem like something out of an aquarium at the dentist’s office.





Still further, I see the boats. Birds are limin’ there now, but these are the boats of fishermen.





Indeed, I see that the catch is being cleaned and bartered just off the beach. Red snapper, grouper… Big grouper! Huge grouper!
You want the grouper?
That’s a grouper for twenty.
We can grill it right here! Have some wine with it… He’s playing to my foreigness. Who the hell drinks wine here? It’s rum and beer country.
Next time. With beer.




Did I say next time? I often read guest book comments in inns and b&bs and there is always the (empty?) promise of a next time. We will come again! How many do come again? Will I come again? Which is better – to go back, or to try something new?





I find Alex on the beach, next to a handful of boats. Can someone take me to Nylon Pool? – I ask.

It’s an offshore spot. An underwater sandbank creates an unusually shallow area of water. The sea here is so clear that Princess Margaret claimed it’s as sheer as her nylons. The name stuck, but it’s a curious choice. I don’t think anyone wears nylons in these parts (lucky them). What for?

Alex tells me that the fastest and best way to get there is by ski jet. Will it disturb the reef? I know little about underwater life, but this is one of the top spots anywhere for reefs and I know that they have been damaged by people poking around.
No, we’ll fly over the surface of the water. But, can you go out like this? – he’s looking dubiously at my sundress.
Sure. I don’t mind getting wet.

He hides my camera to keep it dry and I climb up behind him.

We take off. Man, it is a thrilling ride!
Hold on! – Alex shouts. The wind is strong!

In ten minutes we are there. I jump down. My dress billows out in the water in significantly unfashionable ways. I can't be bothered by any of that. I am in turquoise heaven.





Alex urges me to find more shallow spots, but I am too content. I am lapped by gentle waves of a warm and salty sea.





And then we race back. I’m in a hurry now. There is a small wedding back at the Bacolet Beach Club. I don’t want to be late.

Except that I lost my bus ticket. The bus is insanely unpredictable, but I saw it a minute ago rounding the bend. I poke into the nearest shop.
Do you sell any bus tickets?
I don’t sell them, but you can have some of mine.
Thank you, thank you. I toss the money and run to catch the departing bus.


Last walk from Scarborough to Bacolet. I pass an old woman sitting on a stone ledge.
G’d afternoon! Saw you walkin’ by early! That would have been more than four hours ago! Has she been up and elsewhere since then?
And always the friendly advice: pull down your dress a bit. Where your bag is.

She’s right. The dress is almost dry, but it rides up a few inches where the back pack hangs down. I grin and do as I am told. She nods, satisfied. I can be sent out into the world again.


The wedding. An American pair with their two year old, the bride's mom and step dad. That’s it. (I’m there taking photos for them.) They want to exchange vows on the beach. Of course, these full moon days, there is very little beach. The priest person looks skeptical. His shoes are spiffy and undamaged. He finds a ledge to stand on.

The words of the priest person are terribly predictable but the sea holds back on the big waves. The sun dips down and the little boy throws fallen almonds at the waves. By the time it’s over, I feel a spray of misty wetness on my face and it’s not from the Caribbean or the Atlantic.





In the evening, I eat at the Beach Club. I order a rum mojito and fish soup.


At five the next morning, Beardy drives me to the airport.

Hello, Wisconsin.

Tobago: where sea and ocean collide

Is there such a spot? Where the Atlantic becomes the Caribbean? They say there is. Here, on Tobago: at Pigeon Point.

I’m traveling back all day Wednesday and so my post will be rather late. But if you want to know how it is that I found myself submerged in the middle of the sea, or maybe it was ocean, in a billowing sundress, come back later.

And now, I reel back, away from the warm seas, back to my frozen state.

Tobago: where are you goin’, girl?

Bacolet (my home for the week) is on the Atlantic coast of Tobago. The two fishing villages I visited – Castara (with Beardy) and Charlottesville (alone) – are on the Caribbean side.

I had this idea today that I should take the bus to the Caribbean side (Plymouth, for example) and then walk back across the island, using country backroads where possible.

As the crow flies, it’s nothing. Four miles maybe. But, the crow does not take backroads, nor does it slow down when there’s an incline. I’m not sure in the end how many miles I covered. But it took me well over three hours to walk home.

It was a magnificent walk. Let me post a photo from the tail end, as I neared Scarborough:





A few days back, I asked a well traveled British pair here, at Beach Club (we shared the computer room pushing on midnight many a time) – so what do you like best about Tobago? She thought for a minute and said – in the end, it’s all about the people, isn’t it?

She is so right. You can find a land beautiful and never want to go back because you sense hostility. And, you can forgive a lot in a country where the people naturally, instinctively, take your hand and lead you to where you want to be. Tobagonians want to help even when you think yourself to be managing well enough. This is not your bus. Wait for another.

People here are curious. Where are you goin’ girl? I’m taking a walk. Oh, okay. Sometimes, the quick conversations leave me no good line to throw back and so I just laugh.
Where is your companion?
At home. He decided not to travel this time.
Why?
He likes home.
Yea? Anyway, you have to have a Black one.
This was not come on, it was a tease, a friendly statement, tossed from the front yard, where the man was working along with two others.

I am the only hiker on these roads. People get rides. Where there is space in a car, people often pull over. You walkin,’ boy? (I’m in a sundress; the gender thing is sheer play.) Oh, okay.

Sometimes, I get lost. I know how to stop a car – I’ve seen it done: arm out at slight angle, hand flaps a few times. Good morning. Does this road lead to the Providence Road? Sure does. I learn also not to get the time of day wrong. Good morning until noon. Good day or good afternoon until five. Good night thereafter. If I’m wrong – good morning! (it’s just past noon), afternoon, they remind me. And then later, a car pulls over – G'day! You get to your place alright? Remember? You asked me directions back on the road.



But let me go back a little. Because first there was the bus ride. I want to get off near Plymouth. The idea is to hike from there to the Arnos Vale Beach. It’s by an old resort and I hear there are birds and gardens worth stopping for. And a nice, Caribbean side beach. With snorkeling. A half a dozen people on the bus tell me where to get off and how to proceed.

I walk past farming country. So different than Wisconsin. For one thing, they grow cucumbers in January.










After a few minutes I come to the secluded Arnos Vale Beach. It’s lovely!










But somehow, I’m not ready to plop down for the day. I bought some reading, but not enough to keep me here for hours. I don’t want to snorkel. Water seems rough. I may be the only person on the planet who actually gets seasick snorkeling in bouncy waters.

I take it in, dip a toe and turn around. But the plant life here is truly beautiful.










Really stunning.

I hit the road. At first, it’s rainforest. And very empty. Someone emerges from a riverbank and for a while walks behind me. I am aware of the two of us, walking through a forest, with birds screeching. But at some moment, he disappears and now I am very much alone. Except for the occasional car. Honk! Window down. Thank you, but it’s a beautiful day for a walk.

Eventually, the forest recedes. A cow grazes, a bird keeps her company. Makes me smile at the mismatch of sizes. And then, round a few more ends, another cow with a companion.





Coincidence. Or is it? Further still, another pair…





…and then another:





Some cows are without birds, but where there is a companion bird, it is always only one.

But I see far more goats than cows on the island.





One, maybe two at a time. I asked Beardy – what are they used for – milk? He said yes, that, but it is also tradition to have a goat. Every home needs a goat. And so there are goats.

The day is, as usual, beautifully warm, partly cloudy. The landscape is, in my mind, perfectly Caribbean.










Occasionally, a cloud will pass and sprinkle warm drops of rain. Seconds later, it will be gone.

In a small village, I pass a food hut. Bananas on the tree, bananas in the hut. And now bananas in my small day pack.










Village life. It always surprises me when places just a mile or two from the sea, lose their connection to the water. I remember this from Brittany: along the shore, everything focused on the ocean – the food, holiday homes, fisheries. A few steps in and you may as well be in the center of France. Here, too, the villages seem removed from shore life. It’s as if you must hear the sound of the ocean before you build your life with it in mind.





And now I'm in Scarborough. Busy, people filled (thank God) Scarborough. Where, I admit, I have been hanging out occasionally at a café that serves the best, indeed, the only espresso in town.





Very late in the afternoon, the beach is again overcome by waves. I hoist a chair up, (mostly) out of harm’s way and read.

Tobago explanations

Okay, it’s not a banana tree. It’s a something else. Bush maybe? Bananas do not grow on trees. (Thanks, Ed.)





Sunday. It is a day of work, a day of waiting for the computer go-to person who was to work on Internet issues at the Beach Club but decided, instead, to go to church (by his own account), and of spending an indulgent afternoon on the beach. Where I learned a bunch of things.

First, there is the matter of the waves. If it is low tide, that does not mean that the beach would not be flooded. Suddenly. A fellow beacher noted my pain as a my chair was put suddenly substantially underwater. It is the moon, she tells me. It draws the ocean to the land.





The waves, too, are significant today – or at least large enough to give bodysurfing a serious try. I really do not know anything about bodysurfing except that Obama does it well, but I have learned most things in life without lessons and so why not make a fool of myself right there on Bacolet Bay. In fact, it’s not that hard to catch for a fleeting moment the crest of a wave. (Admittedly, half the time I am submerged under it, but let’s focus on the positive.)

Some good soul offered to take this photo and I let her, thinking I may look majestic if I succeed, but of course the big wave did not come and what did come I managed to make little good use of.





It is very humbling to fail in front of a small audience.



In the late afternoon, feeling completely perked and rinsed out by the ocean waters, I decide to walk to town to the Botanical Gardens. Parks on a Sunday are, for me, a happy destination and ones that specialize in tropical plants should be a treat.

These Gardens, however, are rather a sad lot and I must suppose that with such lush flowers and trees growing without fuss everywhere across the island, it becomes less important to put resources into the town Gardens.

Indeed, at Bacolet, I am in full view of this each day:





And on my walk to Scarborough, I am enchanted with these colors:





At the Gardens, by contrast, nothing really catches the eye. All I can offer you is this tree, almost ending its season of bloom:





…and a very pretty plant with two toned leaves (no, there are no tags to help you identify the variety):





I pass on photographing the rest of the rather tame plant life, or the odd assortment of strung Christmas lights in random places.

It does not help to see Scarborough so completely deserted by the locals on Sunday and overrun by the boat people (referred to as such by Tobagonians) who are here for the afternoon. I realize (as I watch the slightly pink but basically white people in their pale white cruise shorts and shirts) that Scarborough never seemed so bland before because Tobagonians bring with them a wallop of color. Red shirts, yellow scarves, multicolored caps and headbands. Rich black and Indian brown skin tone (Trinidad is 40 % African heritage and 40% Indian, but Tobago is 90% African). Long black hair among men (dreads are extremely common here) and always intricately styled hair (sometimes with very red highlights, sometimes done in braids, dreads, curls, or carefully clipped) among women. Without its people, the town seems listless and parched. I must make do with photographing the ubiquitous rooster. Roosters and chickens don’t take Sundays off.






I walk back at sunset along the route that I have come to like so much, past the public cemetery…





… past the church and school, with no children today, just chickens, and the sounds of singing from the congregation. Oh Little Town of Bethlehem...

…past the bend in the road that offers the view of the water, with its ship, waiting for its pink people…





…past the fire station, a shop or two and various agencies providing services (for example, the Coterie of Social Workers of T&T Inc., with the slogan: “Let us lift as we climb and give the best or nothing”), and finally homes, small ones, but with lush vegetation and sounds of birds and barking dogs to greet you as you go by.



And now it is dark and time to head out with Beardy (we are on a first name basis by now) to Sunday School.

It’s an event, an island tradition, to head out to Buccoo Bay and party on Sunday night. I don’t want to stay long, but I want the street foods and the sounds of the steel band to pull me in.

I get one but not the other. With Carnival approaching, the musicians take a break from performing here. But, there is loud soca blaring and the food stalls have grills with chicken and sea foods and as I stroll and people-watch, I am thinking that this, not the Gardens is the great Sunday outing. Tobago does not do quiet time well. Tobago pulses with music and spicy food. A great backdrop for the ultimate limin'.

Roasted chicken and salads and a cold beer. A fine way to top off the weekend.

Tobago chat

wah g’wan?

You’re asking what’s going on? Well, it depends where you find yourself.

In Charlottesville, at the most northern tip of Tobago, man-o-wah (man of war) birds swoop down and take fish from the sea.





A man is gutting fish. He throws the remains into the water. You would think that the birds would swoop for these, but no. They continue to circle and dive for the live catch.





The local bus that brought me to this fishing village left Scarborough so on time – promptly at 9 – that I began to doubt all that talk about there being “island time.”

It’s not a large bus (indeed, the roads north could not accommodate a large bus), but it does fill, at least at the starting point. The men, women and children of Tobago and me.

In many countries (including my native Poland), tight rides on a hot day are bad news for the sensitive nose. Not here. As the woman next to me settles comfortably, so that we form one integral body mass across the expanse of the small seats, I can’t help but take in how cool and fresh she is. And indeed, the same could be said for all. A bus full of fresh and (likely) honest people.

If anyone is to sweat, that would be me. The road, twisting sharply around the mountainous coastline, would be been terrifying had I a chance to look out. But, the custom is to close the curtain if the sun is out. My stomach notes what my eyes cannot see.

Finally, at 10:15, we are at the last stop and I disembark. Right in front of the Charlottesville fish cooperative.





Some people mind the smell of fish markets, and the sight of freshly caught fish can be equally distressing. I can understand that. But, for some reason, I am drawn to watching and photographing people who fish (longtime Ocean readers will have noted my photos of ice-fishermen in Madison). The bravery, the patience, and here – the speed and physical strength required for a successful catch are fascinating to watch, perhaps because I am not especially adept at any of them.

And so I watch. And after plenty of chat with the fishermen about when, how often, at what point and whom I am allowed to photograph, I am given a tentative go-ahead to take some photos.




















The day’s catch? You’re seeing here mostly Wahoo fish. At other times, I am sure you would see more variety (Charlottesville fishermen supply 60% of the island’s fish). Today, what I see comes off of these small boats:





Every ten or fifteen minutes, a boat pulls up, men steady it and someone runs the fish up to the co-op. And so it continues.


leh wee lime

You’ll have noted the men sitting at the edge of the coop? They are responding to the national call: we should lime (hang out).

Men do this especially well, but women are fully engaged in it as well. Everywhere, there is liming.





I take the trail at the northern end of town toward Pirate’s Beach. I am told it is quite beautiful. Indeed. Secluded, with only a path leading to it, with the rainforest spilling down to the water's edge.










And, oddly enough (this being their high season and a week-end) – quite deserted.





There is one threesome at the edge of it – an older man, a local, and two women. Eventually the man comes over to chat. He quickly finds out where I am from and how cold it is back there right now (I revel in saying it, it always astonishes). He asks if I am a professional photographer and when I tell him no, just a serious amateur, he thinks a bit and then humbly admits to placing himself just under that. (Usually, at this point, people tell me about the perfect photo they missed taking because they failed to have their camera along. So, carry your cameras!)

Why so empty here? -- I ask him.
Oh, probably because of the elections. Meetings and rallies, that sort of thing. But you know this is one of the ten most beautiful beaches in the world?
Ah, rankings. What would we do without them! I do not inquire about the methodology, but admit that it is, indeed, stunning. According to me.

After idling away a few minutes, I ask where he likes to eat in the village. Jabba’s – he says. You know, like the basketball player.

I spend a little more times wooshing my feet in the water and then retreat in search of food. Jabba’s is not easy to find, especially since as I am no basketball whizz and so I have managed to forget the name.

Two women are limin’ by the gate and I go up and try out a few name choices. Do you know where the food shop Sabba’s is? Or maybe it's Rabba’s? After they ponder the possibilities they hit on the correct name and, laughing, they point me to it. And when Tobago women laugh, it is with full use of their lung capacity. Oh, to laugh like that back home! To explode at the hilarity of life! To bellow out mirth! I smile at the unlikeliness of it (cursed northern sensibilities) and walk to Jabba's.

The cook shop (the word used for a food place that is less than a restaurant but more than a food stall) actually has no name painted on the outside. Indeed, Jabba is only a nick name for Irwin Hercules. Peace maker, he tells me. I don’t know why they call me that! But he says it with a grin. One senses modesty here.





What should I eat? -- I ask. Vegetable soup. I am a vegetarian and so I have made vegetable soup.

Perfect. I am not a vegetarian, but to me, soups with unknown animal parts in them can be scary. I have grown conservative in that way as my travel orbit has extended beyond the predictable.

I watch him fill a bowl, the size of which, I should think, would hold enough to feed a family of four. Not too much! He smiles: I will put in more liquid. Thick liquid, where breadfruit, plantain, yellow chickpeas, yucca and potatoes have made the line between liquid and solids rather blurry.





I take my bowl to a table perched by the water. My eating companion (the rooster) watches as I manage to eat (almost) the whole thing. This, to me, is the perfect cheap food. The peace maker knows his vegetables and spices. I use thyme, garlic, and our favorite – what you call coriander. And basil. And salt. And I add celery and spinach. (Now wait a minute! You can’t have spinach too! That’s a cold weather vegetable!) Yea, I take what people around here grow in their back yards. So who taught you to cook? – I ask, but I know the answer. It’s always like that. Oh, my grandmother!


meh deh deh

It turns out that when I have been answering (the car greetings) with “I’m good, thanks for asking,” I have been revealing my utter ignorance of local custom. The proper way to say this in TT (a common way to speak of Trinidad & Tobago) chat is to toss out a “meh deh deh.”

I learn this from chatting to Keisha (not her real name, but she is from Tobago and this name is as typical here as you can get).

That I should have a long and bonding conversation with Keisha, is entirely thanks to the Tobago Department of Transport.

Naturally, I had asked back in Scarborough about the return bus.
You have to remember that there is a bus at 12:30.
From Charlottesville? (seems on the early side for me.)
No. From here. You must calculate from this the return. (Curious, since the road, though difficult, is not with much traffic and therefore, rather predictable.) Probably, it will then leave Charlottesville at 2:00, but just in case, you should be at the stop by 1:30.

I am at the stop at 1:25. Along with a German pair, waiting since 11 (they just missed the bus I came on), and Keisha, who had been on my bus. She recognized me. Of course.

The German pair is nervous. What if it will not come? Should we pay the locals (asking price $100) to take us back? We have a flight at 6.

I laugh my newly acquired hearty Tobago laugh. Like clockwork! Of course, living in Heidelberg as they do, they should take that metaphysically, but momentarily, they are reassured.

Keisha knows better. She was raised here and only after a choppy love life did she, at the age of 19, leave for New York. Only to return 12 years later to marry her childhood sweetheart from Trinidad – where she now lives. She is thus an amalgam of cultures. All in conflict with the other.

I could not live here anymore. See those people, limin' on the bench? They have been there since we came.

For reasons that are known only to the driver and possibly his friends, the bus arrives terribly late. And when it arrives, the driver gets off and walks away. The German pair is greatly distressed by this and they wonder if their premature exuberance at the sight of his arrival may have ticked him off (their joy was off the charts visible). Keisha reassures them that he would not have been disturbed. His mind was on the limin' just around the bend.

Keisha stretches in the sun. She missed this greatly back in New York. But she wishes the customer (of buses, in stores) was treated with greater respect here. Wassup. You good? Trinidad -- I can handle Trinidad. Tobago -- I come here to remember, and to see family. Man, this place is too slow for me!

Not for me. Not for the days I am here. (I say this because the bus did come after all, and I did not have to spend the night at the curbside.)