January 2023 – the Dig and Flow

The Heat Is A Balm

Content warning: This post contains unabashed gushing about life on a Caribbean Island.

If you are deep in winter and will be triggered by mention of sunshine, warmth, or beaches, please skip this post. Take care of yourself.

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It is about a six-minute walk from our door to the dark, pebbly sand of our favorite beach. This beach might not be everyone’s favorite. The sand is not pristine white. The waves can be rougher, and they break onto rocks and coral. This beach is used mostly by locals, and is often nearly empty. We adore it.

During our first week here, the ocean was calm and clear. Time disappeared while we snorkeled, trying to hold all the fish characteristics in our minds until we could look up their identities. We kept going back each day to check our memories and because there were too many kinds to remember. We compared notes about the wide ones with vertical stripes or the ones with a yellow stripe from mouth to tail or that one I still can’t figure out with dark above and light below and maybe a bluish tail. Since that week, the water has been vigorous and turbid, allowing limited snorkeling.

We love the beach even without snorkeling. We can walk there in the evening after school and stay until the sun sets around 6pm. Stella loves to hunt for shells or build little houses of sand and rocks. Sam and Andrew often take their fishing rods. One evening, Andrew fished up a gorgeous flame box crab. Its claws fit against its body perfectly, so it could fold itself into a box or open up like a transformer, claws blazing, which is how it bloodied Andrew’s finger. He set it on the sand, and the crab immediately burrowed by pushing its claws outward and tucking its body fast into the scooped out spot. I could have watched it for hours, but we returned it to the ocean.

Lining the beach are sea almond trees, shading us with their large dark green leaves. We can hang our hammock between them and spread our beach blanket. We lie there, cool in the wave sounds. With my eyes closed, the waves remind me of a storm—wind and thunder—but with no worry about the roof that leaks or what might blow down. The ocean, when I’m lying on the beach, is the antidote to worry. I want to bottle this feeling and send it to everyone I love. I want to feel it forever.

On and off the beach, I am feeling fully present here and fully lucky to be here. Now my body accepts the heat as a balm. It soothes me. With exertion, I still sweat like a horse, but I cool down fast. My ears accept the roosters crowing and the reggae remixes and the night-whistling frogs and barking dogs and the weed-eaters as background rhythms. Even my nose is growing accustomed to a cornucopia of smells—brush smoke and laundry detergent.

My legs understand the dance with traffic. I no longer flinch constantly as I walk. Honks mean something. The first loud bus honk lets me know it’s coming up behind me, then a short, uplifted question honk, asking if I need a ride. I level my hand and give it a small “no” wave or meet the hustler’s eyes and shake my head just slightly. Most days I am walking.

Each weekday, I walk about a mile to pick up Stella from school. I take off my sandals for the middle third of this walk, along Grand Anse beach. I walk with the waves around my ankles, sometimes splashing my knees. As I dodge cruise-ship tourists in the busiest section, I think, Don’t mind me, I’m just heading to parent pickup. Then I angle away from the water and sit in the shade on a horizontal section of tree trunk. I slap the sand off my feet in my habitual sets of three short slaps, two long brushes. I pull on my sandals.

I cross the busy road, pass the Food Fair, and climb the hill to the Montessori. Standing by the gate, I am the sweaty mom who cannot stop myself from grinning at the little kids, sharing our joy. Soon, Stella fast-walks down through the school yard. She holds my hand on our way back down the hill. Sometimes, she wants to visit the koi pond in the Food Fair courtyard. Then we cross the road to the bus stop. We know how to slide into the farthest-back available bus seats. We let our bodies sway and the loud music wash over us. Stella gives me a glance when it’s time to rap my knuckle on the bus window, signaling to let us off at Grey Stones Road. We will have a snack and homework. Then we might head to the beach.

A Boat Called Feelings

A Grenadian woman walking to work keeps herself together. She seems fully aware of her surroundings, but not distracted by them. Each foot steps with intention; this is not meditative but necessary on the road-edge terrain. She is not walking loosely like I am with my arms swinging and my long strides in my airy skirt and sneakers. This woman does not waste movements; she is keeping everything together.

Her work requires a professional look. Her blouse buttoned up and her skirt snugging her hips. It is a miracle to me, her steadiness in those fine shoes. This woman is not in a rush, but she moves right along. She holds her space on that road. The buses honk but move out of her way.

I am thinking of her on my walk to St. George’s in the intermittent light rain and morning coolness. I have cut through the Eric Gairy Botanical Gardens. Perched in a large pavilion, I watch pedestrians climb the hill to the Ministerial buildings—the Ministry of Education, Immigration Office, Cabinet. When the rain crescendos to a brief downpour, the Grenadians pop up their umbrellas without breaking stride.

The end of January is nearly the dry season, and I wonder if the rains will stop entirely for a few months. I have been loving the way you can hear them building. They cut the heat. They rinse the air. All of the colors seem brighter when the sky clears.

This island is fully saturated in color. If color were audible, it would be full volume with a complex range of notes and chords. A visual concert. Back home at this time of year, the world is gray and brown and white. I crave color, so in winter I dabble with paints or knit with bright yarns. Here, I am content with words on a page to balance the world outside. Here, the world outside is a feast.

As this rain tapers, I scrutinize the large tree near the pavilion. My first impression is pine tree, but I realize its long needles are segmented, reminding me of plants called horsetail (Equisetum). Its little cones are actually knobby balls. At its base, the trunk looks like the tendons in a person’s neck, straining. When I am in a new place, everything is a wonder or a mystery, or both.

I look up the tree and learn that it is not from here. It’s an Australian pine (Casuarina Equisetifolia—I see how it got its species name), which is not really a pine tree nor is it from here. In some places, especially the southern U.S., the Australian pine is considered a weed. It was introduced far beyond its native range because it can stabilize soil, fixes nitrogen, and makes good lumber. This not-pine tree has its own story.

When I am in a new place, my impressions are just the surface. My observations catalog so much of what I see and so little of what is actually there. As a human being, all of my judgements are colored by the things I already assume to be true.

Although I am watching closely, I do not know the Grenadian woman on her way to work. Or if she is actually going to work. Or what all she carries or how she keeps it together enough to walk up the road. She is a wonder and a mystery, just like everyone.

Christ of the Deep does not always hold festive flags, but he does right now.

What is this plant with the drama flowers?

We Fry A Puddingwife

On the way home from Grand Etang, we stopped at the downtown fish market and bought produce from the street vendors. Our countertop back home that evening held thirteen types of fruits and vegetables, some of which I knew how to eat.

I’d purchased a bunch of green plantain-looking fruit. The seller assured me they were not plantains, but bluggo—a starchier banana relative used in soups or stews. When I asked if I could fry them, she advised me to slice them thin and eat like chips. They were indeed not quite plantains. The thick peels were hard to remove and left a residue on my fingers reminiscent of how astringent persimmons feel on my teeth. I sliced them thinly so the hot oil could do its work.

Meanwhile, Andrew addressed the fish. We used our Caribbean coastal fishes field guide to identify the largest blue beauty as a puddingwife (Haliochoeres radiatus), which we had hoped to see sometime while snorkeling or to reel in while fishing. The red fish with tiny blue spots was a coney (Cephalopholis fulva), a species Sam briefly caught while fishing last week. The other two were red hinds (Epinephelus guttatus). Our guidebook noted that both coney and red hind are hermaphroditic, just for our information.

Lucky for me, Andrew was glad to make sure the food had no eyes by the time it arrived on our plates. He dusted the filets with Fish-Fri we had brought from home for just such an occasion, then pan-fried them to perfection. They were all mild in flavor, and the puddingwife was slightly sweet, just as the fish market lady had promised. Sam had them in a bun. Stella had her bun with melted cheese.

The fried bluggo chips tasted like nothing, so we made a dip for them using Green Seasoning sauce. It’s a mild, thyme-based puree, useful as marinade or as a condiment for just about anything. We’ve also been putting the local scotch bonnet pepper hot sauce on just about everything. We boiled some potatoes to have with hot sauce and ketchup and chopped a cabbage salad.

For tonight’s supper, I have decided to use the rest of the bluggo in a stew, as recommended. I’m learning.

Monkeying Around in the Mountains

Grand Etang National Park and Forest Reserve is a chunk of over 6,000 protected acres of mountainous forest in the middle of Grenada. Yesterday, we took the #6 bus from the St. George’s terminal up to Grand Etang Lake, the water-filled crater of a volcano that last erupted around 12,000 years ago. The Grand Etang (French for “large lake”) sits at 1740 feet above sea level.

On the way, our bus driver had a particularly heavy foot and willingness to pass slower vehicles on the narrow road that folded on itself up and up. My soul left my body halfway there.

We tumbled out of the bus into cool breezy weather. Two vendors displayed their colorful fabrics and spices beside the parking lot. The visitor’s center perched on a hill, and strings of red, green, and yellow pennants—Grenada’s colours—adorned the path leading up to it. After I lowered my head between my knees for a bit, I could appreciate how beautiful it was there.

We walked down the paved road from the visitor center towards the lake. A park employee in a booth asked if we had seen the monkeys yet, then emerged from his booth with a bag of banana pieces. He led the way, scanning the treetops and saying, “Hoom hoomm.” A group with a tour guide stopped their van and joined us, so we embraced being monkey-seeking tourists.

With coaxing—the bananas and mangoes pickpocketed from Andrew’s backpack pouch—two Mona monkeys clambered onto the shoulders of willing participants. I cannot deny my complete delight in the soft padded foot-fingers and balanced weight on my arms and shoulders, even though the whole thing was contrived. Their tufted ears and the piercing dark eyes. The cheek-beards!

From there, we finished the short walk down to lakeside and admired the Koi fish rising around the dock. Local lore said Grand Etang was bottomless, but it measures about 20 feet deep. Marshy grasses rim the lake, then the land rises steeply to surrounding peaks.

We left the pavement for the shoreline trail to walk around the lake. This is one of several trails, and we hope to return to hike the one leading up to Mt. Qua Qua (elevation 2,339 ft). The shoreline trail, a classic narrow, muddy rainforest path, wound through boisterous vegetation. We spied an Antillean crested hummingbird, and got a good binocular-aided look at its purple mohawk and iridescent green back. Skipping the full loop, we backtracked our muddy sneakers to have PBJ’s by the visitor’s center.

To my intense relief, our return bus driver took it at half the speed and careful on the turns. I was able to enjoy the views from a front seat as we dropped back to sea level and the now-familiar heat and bustle of town.

Launching Our Kids

Sam left first today. It was his second day of school, and he’s already confident hailing the #1 bus all the way into the bus terminal in St. George’s. This ride is a rollercoaster, up to the top of the hill town and hairpinning back down again. You are certain that any minute the bus will clip a parked car or pedestrian on one side or dip a wheel into the deep concrete gutter on the other. It seems like in Harry Potter, where fixed objects jump out of the way of the careening Knight Bus.

At the terminal, Sam gets the #7 bus around the bend, past the national cricket stadium, and uphill on Tempe Rd. Around 7:30am, the bus carries many students, all in various versions of a school uniform, which gets them a discounted fare. It’s pretty neat to see how the bus drivers and tenders look out for all the uniformed school kids as they disperse throughout the city. Sam knocks a knuckle on the window for a stop just steps from his school.

Sam is attending St. George’s Institute. It’s a private secondary school of just over a hundred co-ed students, mostly Grenadian. The school has multiple buildings with large classroom windows to catch the breeze across the hill. The system has British origins. They nominate student leaders as prefects and have a house system for good-natured school competitions. Sam has sorted into the Amber Lions, who face off against Turquoise Tigers and Sterling Stallions. Their informal uniform is a gold polo shirt with dress slacks. On Mondays, though, they wear white dress shirts and a tie. They change into shorts for physical education.

Stella left second this morning for her first day of school, wearing her own uniform. She dresses each day in a navy-blue polo shirt and pleated khaki skirt. It’s her new favorite outfit. I accompany her in hopping on a #1 bus, heading towards Grand Anse, in the opposite direction from Sam. It’s a quick ride, winding down the busy main road. We knock the window at the Food Fair, across from the Radisson Beach Resort, and then walk about five minutes uphill to her school.

Stella is attending Island Montessori school. It has students from pre-primary through primary school (6^th grade) and some secondary school students. Stella’s in a classroom of twelve students, aged 9-12 years, and is lucky to have air conditioning in that classroom. The Montessori school also has houses: Earth (Stella’s house), Fire, and Water. When I picked her up outside the school gates this afternoon, she had just finished Kung Fu—their Thursday physical education.

Neither of our kids has ever been the new kid in school before. It’s big. Plus, there are schedule surprises and different maths and a Grenadian dialect to which to tune their ears. We’re rooting for them as they practice doing hard things.

For my part, I got my first solo time since we left New York. From Stella’s school this morning, I walked downhill and across to Grand Anse Beach. It was people-quiet. Most of the rows of lounge chairs were empty. I walked that piece of firm, damp sand with the waves just covering my ankles and splashing my calves. I walked to the far South end where the waves got bigger and broke on the rocks at the base of the cliff. From this view, I could see the entire curving beach. Grand Anse was moody today. The waves were a bit rowdy. Big cumulus clouds moved across the sky, looking like the breaking waves. Rain mist clung to the distant hills. The whole place mirrored my own mood after launching our kids.

Then I walked North, stopping once for a swim and once to buy mangoes and starfruit and golden apples. I walked to the other end, where concrete steps led up to the main road. I stood on the steps under a sea almond tree just in time for a cloudbursting rain. Watching the scenery disappear in heavy rain, I felt invigorated and also like I could take a nap. Everything is so much here. I was dripping wet from sweat and the swim and the rain. I wanted to drink in everything. The rain passed. I walked home.