How to get angry in French

I've heard you truly know a language when you start to dream in it. I'm now wondering if being able to express your anger also qualifies!

This morning I had a 8 am shift helping to cook the traditioanl Egyptian meal being served for lunch today. So I went to sleep good and early. (2 am, much earlier than most of the group, who stay at the cabaret and go to bed around 4am.)

At about 4, I began to hear loud music very close to my head. Our group's large communal tent is about 10 feet from me, if that. It was the traditional French music group, and some others, jamming with their accordians and medieval hurdy gurdys etc, and of course drinking a lot and talking loudly. There were about a dozen of them, and only Pepe from our group. After a while, I went and stood in the doorway of the tent. Pepe immediately came over to me, very drunk but very apologetic, saying he didn't know how he could ask them to stop or be more quiet. And then said, with his heavily Spanish accented French, ( you were young once, right?) It's very hard to be angry with Pepe, and I wasn't. But I never fell asleep until 6, after they stopped, then turned my alarm off when it went off, didn't get up until Laure started yelling at me because I was late for my shift. So I yelled back that it was hard to get up after 1 hour of sleep. She said that everyone had trouble sleeping. Yeah, but not everyone had to get up at 7, or had their tent right next to the party.

So the upshot was that I cut garlic for an hour very grumpily, having also learned from Didier, the chef, that you have to halve them and remove the tiny seed, which is not easy to digest. And then had to work several hours more than the one hour shift I was supposed to do this am, in additional to my 4 hour shift tonite. At the same time Didier and we were preparing today's meal of chicken with rice, tomatoes, onion, garlic, cinnamon, etc. several people from the Canery Island group were preparing food for tomorrow's lunch. They don't speak any French, so I was serving as translator from their Spanish, which was kind of amusing. Things like, do you have any aluminum foil, and, do you have a container I can put these almonds in until tomorrow.

Oh, and I nver had any breakfast either. But Didier was frustrated with Laure as well, because he thought we were supposed to work more hours with him. So I think her anger at me abated a little. I really think it was Laure and Romain's responsibility to quiet the party, and sure hope it's not going to happen again.

So now, I am writing in the office at the Maison de Folklore, while downstairs in the restaurant the meal for which I cut garlic is being served and eaten, and some of the Egyptian performers are playing music and dancing, and I can hear the very contagaious music as I type.

I do enjoy most of the work, even the more tedious tasks, like washing all the tables at the festival after the previous night's festivities. It's really neat being a small part of something so big.This afternoon I work at Chez Helene again, the African food stand at the festival. Helene is a real character, and works hard and long, as do all the people at the stand. They are there the entire day and evening, preparing and serving. My first time there was in the morning, and it was all cutting and chopping. This time should be prime eating time, so I imagine I will be serving. The food is accra, which are delicious fish fritters, couscous, and a chicken dish made with mustard which I hope to try tonite. In general, we've had so much food to eat, all good, two big meals daily at the high school. I haven't even had the appetite yet to try the waffles, crepes, or ice ice cream. Looks like some interesting flavor, including mixed berries with chocolate, which I have my eyes on.
Oh, Helene also runs the adjacent African clothing stand. Yesterday morning, she gave me a beautiful scarf as a gift, and lots of people have already commented on it. I of course have told them all where I got it.

Yesterday was an incredible day. Everyone, all the performers, all the volunteers, everyone except the folks that worked at the stands, went ot a picnic on the grounds of a chateau. The chateau itself seemed abandoned, although someone told me it was privately owned. The grounds were lovely. We were all served a packaged lunch of hard boiled egg, tomato, bread, cheese,chips, and nectarine. And we were all served grilled steak which they cooked right there. The French certainly know how to cook meat right!

The best part of the day was all the performers, many of whom had brought their instruments, singing and dancing together. We had the South African kids dancing and drumming while the elegant young Khazastani women did a combination of African moves blended with their own graceful arm movements. And the Hungarian musicicians playing under a tree while some of the dancers danced, in their bathing suits! And then singing Happy Birthday, in English, apparently to someone in the group.

And then there were the Chinese musicians playing songs like Down by the Riverside, with accordian and guitar, (which are actually part of their band, not instruments I would have associated with Chinese music.)

A French coordinator tried to tell the Chinese teens something about the Chinese ambassador in Paris. She spoke in English, because apparently none of them speak French. Well, they didn't speak English, either. It was like a game of charades. Someone came over with an electronic translator, and they eventually got the word embassy after she tried passport, visa, etc. But I don't think any of her actual content ever got conveyed.

As we arrived, our group began to walk toward the chateau and Jean Roche, the director and originator of the festival, 37 years ago, arrived in his distinctive hat. It was the first time I had had any real interaction with him. He paused a the small ancient looking house of an equally ancient looking woman. She is 89. From what I could gather, he considers her somewhat of a national treasure, and often visits her. She is somewhat of a poet, and recited several poems for us. We noticed one of the festival posters on her outside wall. She and Jean roche gestured toward it simultaniously, Jean saying, good advertising!

I have to say that the official performances, in the big tent each night, have almost become background to the behind the scenes experiences. I have enjoyed them, but at this point have seen each group several times. It's the more informal and spontaneous events, and especially the interractions between the groups, that are the most intersting dynamic of all.

Today is the first time I havaen't gone to eat at the cafeteria, and I won't go tonite, either, because it's during my shift Chez Helene. I have to describe an intesting tradition that has somehow evolved there in the last few days. Someone came over to Dominika, in our group, several days ago at lunch. He handed her a fork which was stabbed into a piece of bread, and kissed her on both cheeks, then said something which the rest of us couldn't understand. He is with the Slovakian group, and she is Czech, so the languages are quite similar. She then went over to someone else and did the same thing. The idea is to go over to someone from another group, hand them the fork, and kiss them, and then it just gets passed along. So now we have at least two people roaming the cafeteria at each meal with bread on a fork, and sometimes someone else with s piece of cheese or fruit. The kitchen staff have gotten into it to. I am really curious as to how it began, but don't know who or how to ask. I don't think it's any kind of tradition from anyone's culture, but don't know that for sure. Just another example of international communication!

There have been, and will be, a number of different music and dance workshops during the ten days. Yesterday I went to one by the group from Provence, which was wonderful. Some of the movements and formations are not that different from contra dancing. The dance we learned, which the group performed for us first, was very long, and it took nearly an hour just to learn all the parts. Unfortunately, I hacd to leave before the end because I didn't want to miss my group's bus to the picnic.
So I didn't get to do the whole dance together. Last night, that same group performed at the cabaret. Again, they taught dances, but the atmosphere was entirely different, many more people, much more freeform and lively. But both were great.

Last night I finally got to see the Egyptian group. Their dancing was great, a mixture of bellydance type moves and more folkloric. It turns out they are from the American University in Cairo, and so all speak excellent English. Then they performed at the meal here a little while ago. In a day or two, they are doing a workshop, which I hope to go to, along with the Slovakian one. They are, somewhat unfortunately, on the day our group has off and is going on a trip. But I think I'm going to forgo the trip for the workshops.

I met a man yesterday at the picnic who didn't seem t be with a group. I asked him where he was from, and he told me Romania. He apparently had been part of a group performing here last year, and now came back as a volunteer photograhper. I told him I'd been in Romania a few years ago on another volunteer project, and turns out he's from the city I spent two weeks in. Strangely enough, it's the second time recently I've met someone from Cluj Napoca. The head of the Westchester Advertising club, where an award is presented in honor of my father each year, is from there as well. It's not as though I meet many Romanians, and to meet two from the same town in Transylvania!

Well, things have quieted down downstairs, and I think I'll go see if there is any of the food I helped prepare early left for me to sample. If not, maybe today's my day to sample some of the festival junk food, and/or to have something Chez Helene.

One last note - Didier, the chef just came by and I explained about this blog. He said I should put something in about how the cook is tres sypatique. (and he is!) So there you go, Didier!

A parade, a spectacle under the chapiteau, a cabaret

It's Sunday morning, the third day of the 10 days of festivities. The first night featured all the European groups, in a 4 hour long performance. I had managed to find a seat in the third row, after moving up close just to take some pictures. The groups include Slovakia, Albania, Khazistan, the Canary Islands, 2 different French groups, and more. Most feature both singing, dancing, and live musicians. The Albanians are just 4 singers, a woman and three men, who sing in a strange, monotonal drone. I wasn't too enthralled at first, and am sure most of at least my group wasn't, but it did begin to grow on me. Very hypnotic.

Some of the groups include children, some are just children, some are all youngish adults, some have quite a mixture of ages. I find them all pretty wonderful.

Yesterday there was a parade through the downtown streets, which was exhilarating. It seemed like the whole town of 6000 turned out. This must be such an amazing event for them. It's a pretty quiet town, then two weeks of intensity and people from all over the world. During the parade each group stopped multiple times and performed, not just a brief hint but a full dance. I was at the beginning of the parade, and then walked forward so saw some of the groups several times.

Last night was another show under the big tent, including all the groups. I stayed until 11pm, then headed over to the cabaret, where different groups perform each night, until 3am. I lasted until about 1;30 am, I think most of our group stayed until the end. It was really phenomenal, watching first the Brazilians, then the Irish band, play, with everyone from people in their own group to dancers from the other groups to local folks of all ages, kids, teens, older adults. There were GAnnatian (?) teenagers moonwalking to Brazilian music, South African kids doing breakdancing to Irish music, little local kids running around in circles, people doing the polka, etc, etc. One of our groups tasks is working at the cabaret, and my shift is tomorrow. I signed up for it, but am having second thoughts. It's not so much the hours, but it's very noisy and I don't know if I'll be able to hear and understand to take orders. But Dominika and Harold looked awfully cute walking around with their trays last night!

My job yesterday was to work at the restaurant. Lina, our 16 year old German volunteer with blond dreadlocks, and I spent about an hour cutting up carrots, and ten another three hours cutting up onions. Quite fortuitously, I had put in my contact lenses that morning for only the first time, and had no trouble with the onions. It really does make a difference. Lina, on the other hand, had tears running down her cheeks the whole time. Our veggies went into couscous and a couple of other African dishes. Helene is the queen of the kitchen, and quite the character. She is half Nigerian, half Togo, but I believe she lives here. She rules the kitchen, but quite benevolently.

I have much more to tell, about our meals with the performers, my trash detail this morning, my new friends the South African kids, etc. but it will have to wait because one of the staff just arrived to claim the computer. A bientot!

The festival starts now!

Finally, I have a chance to write. Things have been going great, only real problem is that it has been almost impossible to find find time to get to a computer. I am at the Maison de Folklore, adjacent to our tenting ground, and whose kitchen we have been using. They have a computer I can use after 6pm, but we usually haven't beeen around at that time. I am now sitting here, which is right at the entry of the offices, so it looks like I am the receptionist. people keep coming by, some in costume, to ask me questions that I can't answer!

The festival is literally about to start, this minute. But we still will go to dinner, and then to the "chapiteau,", the big tent, for the opening ceremonies. So whatever the first thing is, the guinette, or something like that, I guess we will miss.

Everything has been slowly building up over the past 5 days. It has been fascinating to watch, and be part of, all the things, large and small, that need to be done to put on an event like this. We have done tasks from cutting tomatoes to cleaning all kinds of things and places, to cutting plastic rolls into 500 tablecloths to use in the cabaret. We have also spent a lot of time waiting around to be told what to do, which is more tiring than doing it, of course. We spent a couple of days painting clothing racks for costumes, and signs for the different countries, which I am guessing they will use tonite during the procession of all the groups. We saw a woman walk by with the Slovakie sign this afternoon, and got all excited because we had made the stencil and then painted it.

All the stuff that's been stored in the old brewery, now atelier, where we worked the first few days, has come slowly out of storage and been trucked over to the festival grounds. Yesterday we mounted on the metal fences dozens of painted portraits, all different, so the whole festival field is now encirled by them. I was so taken with them that I took dozens of photos of my fellow volunteers in the process of mounting them. And yet today, seeing them all, I must say I was less impressed, or just didn't notice them as much. So I am happy to have had the perspective of watching them individually go up.

All the merchants arrived over the last couple of days and set up their wares. There are clothes from India, Cambodia, Nepal, sseveral African countries, jewelry, musical instruments, etc, Some of the people seem to be from the countries whose wares they are selling, but more are not. It's not any different from Americans selling stuff from any of those countries, of course. I started speaking with a man who had beautiful Indian sari skirts and other things, from whom I will no doubt purchase something before the end of the week. When he asked what my role was here, and I explained, he said, still in French, oh, I'm from Scotland, we can speak in English. He has been doing this festival for five years.

Some of the merchandise is items I haven't seen before, for instance, pottery from Lithuania. When I walk by this afternoon, the pieces reprenting people were blowing smoke! I think it was incense, but am not sure!

There are so many details involved in putting up the tents, setting up the sound systems, etc. I can't think of when I 've ever been involved in such a large project, watching it evolve.

Have I mentioned Lulu? He's an elderly man, who was introduced to us as the mascot of the festival. He's tiny, and toothless, and everywhere, helping with setting things up. I hear he dances at the cabaret every night. The cabaret, by the way goes every night after everything else has closed, from 11 pm until 3 am. It's one of our responsibilites to staff it, although we aren't sure just what we'll be doing. Probably serving drinks. We are also at least partly responsible for the recycling barrels, and for the restaurants and frites stand. We've all signed up for various shifts, making sure we don't have a real early one right after one at the cabaret the night before. One of the volunteers very sweetly asked me if I was sure I wanted to staff the cabaret. I do usually go to sleep, or at least to bed, several hours before the rest of them. But I do want to give the cabaret a try, at least once!
There will be live music there every night, some of the regular groups that are perfroming at the festival, some that are just doing the cabaret.

So let me mention some of the groups. There are groups from China, South Africa, New Zealand, Slovakie, Hungary, Yakoutie, ( which is a group from or near Siberia) and more. Some are groups of children. Everyone is wearing regular western clothes, jeans, t-shirts, sneakers, etc. Of course they will look totally different in their traditional costumes. Some of them have never been out of their country before.

The first few days we cooked our own meals. But now that the performers are here, everyone is eating at the high school cafeterial. I don't know if this is the normal cafeteria food, but it is sure good. The problem is, there's too much of it! Two large meals a day. This afternoon we had what I thought was fried fish and potatoes, but it was actually some kind of meat, maybe turkey, and cheese, inside the fried dough casing. And the "potatoes" were actually cauliflour in a cream sauce. Salads, cheese, fruit, yogurt, and ice cream at most every meal.

But the best part of the meals is getting to meet some of the performers. i've already become friendly with the director of the South African group.. He has studied dance of many kinds, including ballet, now directs the program and only dances at times. The kids seem somewhat shy but sweet. One boy is a fantastic djembe drummer. I asked him how old he is, and how long he has been playing. he's 13, has been playing for a year. Two of the boys have hurt themselves, in France but at another festival before they got here. One broke his leg dancing, the other fell down some stairs. So neither of them can dance. But they can still sing. I feel bad for them, but am not sure how bad they feel. I imagine it's still pretty exciting to be on the trip. The director has big plans. He says he'd like to mount a really big production, along the lines of The Lion Kind, and take it touring. I don't know if he's overreaching or not. But I am certainly looking forward to seeing them perform. One funny moment - they had left their instrucments on a table outside the cafetera last night, including something that I later found out was an antelope horn used in a traditional dance. Some people from another group, perhaps the Slovakians, came along, tried the drums, as many peolple had, and then put the horn instrument on their heads, laughing. I of course was taking pictures.

I talked to a woman at a stand who was selling silk scarves from Cambodia. The profits go to fund an orphanage in Phnom Phen. I asksed if she had a brochure, which she did. I read it and found out that she and her husband had been victims of the Khmer Rouge, and started a program for children in a refugee camp in 1987. She's won two awards for her work, a French one, and one that's descrbed as the Southeast Asian equivalent of the Nobel Peace Prize. She hadn't told me any of this herself,and only gave me the brochure after I asked if she had one. Well, I can see I'm going to be buying some of her scarves!


I'm getting hungry, despite the large lunch,which is good because we head off for dinner in about 15 minutes. And then to the big chapiteau, where I watched some rehearsals earlier today. Things will go into an entirely different gear tonight, I imagine. I'm excited about the festival beginning of course, but also have to say that the experience of watching and helping with the set up has been incredible in itself. From now on we have definite assignments, and will each work a 4 hour shift each day, plus an additional morning clean up one hour shift some days. Other than that, we'll be free to wander the festival, sleep, party, whatever. Oh, I didn't mention that we, and all the volunteers(who other than us seem to be all locals, some who have obviously doing this for years, and some, like some of the folks serving us our meals, who are kids) all have badges that allow us into every event and to have free food and drinks. The individual events are pretty pricey, between 15 and 20 dollars, although there are also lots of free things happening. There is also an open stage every day. I have a feeling that at least one of the folks in our group, Pepe, from Barcelona, is going to be heading over there. He drove here from Spain, participating at another music festival before this, and brought his own djembe drum. And he's not at all shy about playing it, on any occasion.


One last thing I want to mention - our Bastille Day excursion. We went on a trip to a nice lake less than an hour from here, and then to Clermont Ferrand, the nearest big city. I'd heard CF was an industrial city, not very interesting, so didn't have high expectations. The city center is actually quite nice, lots of neat architecture and a black church built of volcanic stone. There is a chain of volcanoes in the area, which I think we are going to visit on our other day off. The lake was filled with picnickers, and though crowded was very nice. I spent a half hour or more in the water with my favorite toy, which I am so glad I brought - my swimpy3, my underwater mp3 player.

Well, time to go, I hope the bus didn't leave without me!

Once again in France

Well, here I am, once again in France, once again doing an international volunteer project, or chantier, as they call them here. For those who might be checking out my blog for the first time, this is the 7th such project I have been part of, over the last 8 summers. (the one summer I skipped I spent three weeks in Paris, living with a host family and going to French classes in the quartier latin.) If you are interested, you can go back and check out my previous adventures in France, Thailand,Peru, Ukraine, and Transylvania! Oh, and our most recent family trip, to Jamaica, as well.

As always, I am the grand-mere of the group. (everything sounds better in French!)
I will briefly list the other participants, and then, later on, try to fill in more details of their personalities. We have three French, including the two group leaders, two Spaniards, two Czech, two Germans, one each from Morocco, Turkey, Korea, and Belgium, and myself. Most of them are pretty young, several under 20, most of the others under 25. This is the first French speaking program I've taken part in, so have spoken virtually no English since arriving four days ago. Most people speak at least as much French as I do, or more. The Morrocan young man, Ayoub, really wants to practice his English, so keeps talking to me in English. He's very sweet, but I would prefer that he didn't. I'm very pleased that I understand most everything people say, and we've been having some interesting discussions, as is always the case.

Our project is to work at the upcoming International Festival of Gannat, a small town near Vichy. This is its 37th year. There are groups coming from a number of places, including China, Brazil, Albanie, etc, about 15 groups in all. As with all of these projects, I choose after reading a brief, one paragraph description, and never know exactly what I am getting into until I arrive.

This time, what I knew was that we would be helping to set up and break down the 10 day festival, working at the festival, and sleeping in tents. When I arrived last Friday, three days ago, most everyone was already here, and had set up all the tents. There are 14 of us, and 10 or eleven tents, so most of us have our own two person tent. What luxury! Then there is a huge canvas tent, which is our living/dining room. We've got a large table, chairs, and a fridge! There's a building right next to where we are camping with toilets and showers. And down the street, at the Maison de Folklore,where I am now, there is a small art gallery, the offices of the ten paid staffers who plan and run the festival, and a huge industrial kitchen. So in some ways, this is a lot cushier than some of the other accomodations I've had during these projects, even though we are camping. Just one problem - my tent is the closest to the living room tent, where most of the volunteers stay up, noisily, until very very late! The first night, I was too tired to notice. The second night, I was wide awake until 5 am, not because of the group, but, i think, because of the time change, so basically outlasted everyone else, and read pretty much an entire book. So far it hasn't been a problem, and if it is, I'll just pick up my tent and move it!

We have been making stencils and painting signs with all of the names of the participating countries. All the performers, by the way, pay their own way here, which is incredible. We were working at an atelier, a building that is a former brewery, and huge. It is the staging area for the festival, and is filled with everything from fridges to furniture to stuff of all kind from previous years of the festival. Today we cleaned fridges and shelves that had been collecting dust and spiderwebs for a year. Then we went to the festival grounds, where a number of white tents, the kinds you see for weddings, etc, are already set up. We were assigned the task of cleaning out the "frites" stand. That is also one of the places we will be working at the festival. There are different teams, and our team is responsible, or partly so, for the frites stand, one of more of the restaurants, and at the nearly all night cabaret! Oh, and also the recycling project, which is fairly new to the festival. This is the second year, so they are still working out the kinks.

When we are not working, we can go the various workshops, and performances, and our id badges will let us in free, and I think give us a discount at the restaurants. Plus, there will be another kitchen with food just for all the volunteers, and maybe the performers,which will be free.


Thursday, or is it Wednesday (it's so easy to lose track of time) is Bastille Day. No work, fireworks here (and everywhere) at night, and we get to go on some kind of excursion. We haven't decided where, yet, perhaps swimming somewhere. The weather has been intense, very hot, like at home, and also some spectacular, and not very far away, thunderstorms. And we are camping in a field with two very large trees hovering over our tents. The most incredible thing, though, was the hailstorm we had this afternoon, the largest hail I have ever seen, about the size of large grapes.

Oh, didn't mention the world Cup last night. At least partly because of the two Spanish volunteers, it seems that everyone in the group was rooting for Spain. Pepe had even found a large Spanish flag among all the stuff in storage, and marched through the streets shouting viva Espana on our way to the neighborhood bar where we watched the game. As many of you know, I am not the biggest of sports fans, and don't think I have ever watched an entire game, of any kind, much less in a bar. We were about half the folks in the bar, the rest were obviouly neighborhood folks, plus the bar owners and family. I had thought I'd be rooting for Spain, given the crowd, but definitely found myself wanting Holland to win!

Needless to say, Pepe got more and more rowdy as the night went on, and was even louder, of course, on the walk back from the bar to chez nous than he had been on the way there.

Pepe is an interesting guy, loves all kinds of music and will start dancing at the drop of a hat (actually, he is usually wearing a hat,) whenever the mood strikes him, which is often. He drove here from Barcelona, so we have his cd player n the car to provide music. His tastes runs from Janis Joplin (that's your music, right?) he said to me, to flamenco, and a lot in betweeen. The group had a very interesting discussion, some would say argument, at supper tonight, when Pepe was still hungry after the food was all gone, and went to the fridge to get a package of cold cuts that Laure had bought for our Bastille Day picnic. This led to a discussion about how we spend our food budget, and who gets to decide, which has come up once or twice in some of my other volunteer projects. I'm too tired to do it justice now, so will wait until another time when I hopefully have more energy! But the group dynamics is always an interesting part of the projects.

Well, that's all for now, folks. Bon nuit!

Of jerk chicken, the blue lagoon, a calypso maypole dance, and Errol Flynn

Our second sojourn was in Long Bay, on the other side of the island, past Kingston on the east coast. We stayed at a small house called Coconut Isle. It was also directly on the beach, in a small village. This house had three bedrooms, certainly adequate for the six of us, and a small living room and porch. It was also in a beautiful location, with the waves practically lapping the porch at high tide. Spoiled by the wonderful expansiveness of Cacona, we weren’t quite as taken with Coconut. But it was wonderful enough! I think we did quite well in picking our two places to stay. Neither was pretentious, neither was expensive, and you couldn’t beat either for the location and views, nor the friendliness of the people.

The owner, Ted, is a Californian who spends several months of the year in Jamaica. He is a teacher, retired from Howard University. I feel bad that he doesn’t usually stay in his own place, if it is rented. But I don’t know that he minds. We spent some time with him a couple of days, sitting on the porch, just shooting the breeze. I had asked about his own heritage, which he said was part Jamaican and part Haitian, where he also spends time. I told him it was a place I would be very interested in visiting. I have often thought of making a combined trip to Haiti and the Dominican, the two countries that share the island of Hispaniola.

The next day, we turned on the TV just about an hour after the earthquake had hit.

None of us had watched any tv the first week. I can’t even remember if we had one at Cacona that worked. The following few days, we were glued to it, as I suppose many people here at home were also. Jamaica sits on the same fault line, and the 1907 earthquake that hit Kingston was on that line, which is named for a location in Jamaica. About half the people we talked to in Jamaica had felt the quake, although we hadn’t. Ted, the house owner, had been contacted by some Americans who wanted to rent the villa when we left, and wanted Ted to locate a charter boat to take them to Haiti to bring supplies. I wondered if they had relatives they were going to try to get out. Our cab driver, more cynical, said it was probably drug traffickers taking advantage of the situation. I am curious and will email Ted to find out what happened.

When we returned home, I looked up the name of the fault line that caused the quake. It goes from a place in Haiti to a river in Jamaica called Plantain Gardens. The river is in the area of the Bath hot springs we stopped at on the way to Kingston. It goes almost directly thru where we were staying in Long Bay.

This tragedy has hit me in a particular way, just because we were so close when it happened, in another poor country with a largely black population. One of the things that impressed me most in our last few days in Jamaica, in Kingston, were the number of collection points for people to contribute money and goods to Haiti. Sometimes it is those who have the least who are most willing to help and donate to those in more dire circumstances than they are.

Well, back to happier things…

Again, we spent several days just on our beach. The weather, however, was cloudy and rainy until the last couple of days, which put a damper, so to speak, on things. Nevertheless, we enjoyed ourselves, going down the beach for drinks and/or dinner at the Chill Out, sitting on the porch, etc.

Port Antonio is the large town nearby, once known as a hang out for the rich and famous, and apparently the first part of the country developed for tourism, in the early 20th century. I wouldn’t have known that without having read it in the guidebook. Now it is a thriving although slightly down the heels town. There are apparently cruise ships that dock there, and tourist shops along the wharf, but we didn’t see any evidence of that, or for that matter, any tourists beside ourselves. There was, however, an internet café for the online deprived (myself included) and a KFC. (which I couldn’t have cared about, but which was a big hit with our younger contingent as well as the locals.)

We took route taxis several times into town, and to some of the other points of interest around the area. These are cars and vans, apparently licensed, who cram as many passengers as possible into their seats and pick up and drop off passengers anywhere along the route. They are pretty cheap $130 Jamaican ( about $1.50 US) for the ½ hour ride into Port Antonio, a bit less for other places along the way. More than once, what looked to us like a fully loaded van stopped, assured us they could fit all 6 of us, and did!
Other times we split up, hoping that we’d all make it to the same place alive and well.

Boston Beach was one of our destinations. It is known for its jerk chicken and other meats(smoked for hours on a barbeque grill covered with corrugated tin.) Everyone, not just locally but everywhere we went in the country, said the the Boston Beach jerk was Jamaica’s best. I have to say I liked the first jerk chicken and pork we had the first day, on the other side of the island, better! Boston Beach is also known for its waves, supposedly the best in the country. There’s a small cove there, with a bunch of Rastas and/or faux Rastas hanging around, smoking and waiting for customers to give lessons to, and a small hand painted sign nailed to a tree, Here is where you learn to surf. Meg and Alanna both took a lesson. (Alanna’s teacher had a joint in his mouth during the entire hour.) They both did well for first timers. Max surfed a bit, Carolina and Loring have decided they don’t like surfing. And I sat on the beach and took pix, including our infamous family “tush “picture. This is a tradition started years ago on a Bahamian beach when Carolina was a toddler. We have continued it over the years, not just on beach trips but in places like Prague, on a park bench, as well.

Also at Boston Beach is an unusual resort called Great Huts. I had originally considered staying there, but came to the conclusion it would be too expensive, especially as our travelling group grew from 4 to 5 and then to 6. It is an enclave of about fifteen huts, tents, and treehouse accommodations built on a cliff overlooking the bay, with steps down to the water. The accommodations are elegantly rustic, in a way like Jake’s in Treasure Beach. The one that we were shown, the only one unoccupied at the moment, was the most spectacular of all, with a living room, bedroom, and Jacuzzi tub all overlooking the ocean. Nothing is closed in, all is open to the elements. The furniture is artistic and locally made. This space, the most expensive, could accommodate 4 and was about $350 nightly. There are others that are more basic and much less expensive.

The owner of the place is an American guy originally from Brooklyn! He is a doctor who had spent much time in Jamaica before building the resort and eventually marrying a Jamaican woman.

The woman who showed us around Great Huts also mentioned that Saturday nights they have dinner and a cultural show, music and dance. Saturday was to be our last night in Long Bay, and we decided to come back, not knowing exactly what to expect as far as performance. I have seen too many hokey cultural shows in a variety of countries. but also some really terrific ones.

We decided to forgo the dinner with American prices, opting instead for more Boston Beach jerk for our last Long Bay dinner. We arrived at Great Huts just a man was announcing that their usual mc was sick and that he was subbing. I was pretty sure he was the owner, and was right. He began to sing, crooning an old Carpenters song, totally at odds with my impression of him from our emails, and from the place itself. I began to have serious doubts about the show to come.

I needn’t have, though. The performers, who came out shortly afterwards, were terrific, probably one of the highlights for me of the entire trip. They began with some drumming, then one man did a balletic solo, again at odds with my expectations, but great. The rest of the performance was traditional Jamaican, including a fantastic Maypole dance, calypso style. I had really wanted to talk to the performers afterwards. They came from a small village just down the road from where we were staying. But our driver was the same person who was transporting them, and he had to bring us back so he could return for them after they’d had their dinner. I’m still curious about them and may try to contact them online.

One more Long Bay expedition: we hired a driver to take us to Reach Falls, about a half hour from our house in the opposite direction from Port Antonio. It was supposed to be beautiful, as well as being the site of a scene from a Tom Cruise movie. We were told you could hike up the falls with a guide, or drive to the top. I chose to drive up, planning to meet the rest of the gang there. Arrived there with our driver, Rolex(everyone in Jamaica seems to have a nickname) and waited, and waited at the scenic falls. They never arrived. Turns out if you go up with a guide you can’t go all the way, because they aren’t official. So we never rende-voud and they never saw the famous falls or experienced the massage of sitting under them. Nor did I, waiting for them. They did have an interesting experience, though, hiking up thru other falls along the way. The most impressive part, apparently, was when their Rasta guide suddenly burst out into song at a point along the way, which they were able to capture on video. And although the guide, himself, was apparently not a necessity, they did seem to have a good time. And the $50 they paid him for the 5 of them, though pricey, was equal to what we would have paid going in thru the gate, as I did. ($10 American per person, $3 for Jamaicans, fair enough.) Quite a few attractions charge what seems to me a high price, including the Bob Marley museum, which cost $20 for non Jamaicans. I go back and forth between feeling ripped off and feeling they deserve whatever they can get from us rich foreigners. It depends on how they use the money, I guess.

Speaking of rip-offs, or anyway misrepresentations, I must recount our experience of the Blue Lagoon. It is promoted as the place where Brooke Shields cavorted, nude, in the film of the same name when she was fourteen. The movie was quite controversial at the time My supposedly trusty Rough Guide described it as so, and I am pretty sure it is widely believed to be the place. We had rented the film before leaving home, but didn’t get around to watching it until we returned. All thru the movie we kept watching out for something recognizable. Nothing was, and in the credits they mentioned an island in Fiji as the site of the filming. At which point Carolina said, “you mean we watched this whole movie for nothing?!”

Our visit to the Blue Lagoon was pleasant enough, though. We rented a boat for $20 and were given about a half hour ride around, seeing a number of impressive villas along the way. The water didn’t look blue or clear or appealing enough, though, for any of us to want to take a swim.

One last thing before leaving Long Bay and environs. I must mention the dashing and decadent actor Errol Flynn, who was largely responsible for making the area well known in the earliest 20th century. He bought an island, built a house, invited all kinds of celebrities, and is still very much associated with the place. His wife, who is in her 90’s, still lives here, on a working ranch just outside of Long Bay. She would have been interesting to meet. I hear the place is for sale for $4 million.

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Stay tuned for the last lap of our trip, our two days in Kingston.

Sand on the snow

Sprinkling sand on the snow…

I wasn’t trying to melt the snow, exactly, and it wasn’t an obscure ritual, although it felt like it could have been, a melding of cultures and climates.

I returned from Jamaica two days ago, and am slowly unpacking and readjusting. Just noticed the sand collected in the bottom of my daypack, and so shook it out onto the snow on the front porch. This return has been particularly jarring it its contrasts. I always used to have a slightly dislocated feeling upon returning after a time away, but in recent years that feeling had subsided. This time, though, the contrast has been especially unsettling.

Perhaps it is the extremeness of the contrast, although I have certainly experienced that before, particularly in our many visits to the Bahamas years ago. I don’t have an explanation, just an observation.

There is a stark beauty here at home, too, with the snow covered lake and the sharp, crisp air and sunshine today.Nevertheless, I would prefer to still be on a porch on the beach in the tropical sun, listening to the waves! Even the snow aficionados in the family (that’s everyone but me) are sighing with regret that we aren’t still back on the island, even as they make plans to ski next weekend.

It was an unusual trip in that there were six of us, Loring, me, Max, Carolina, plus Max’s girlfriend Meg and Carolina’s friend Alanna. We’d never met Alanna before, (Carolina made her "interview, poor thing, via skype as to how she'd been to Peru and loved it!) and Max and Meg had broken up a couple of weeks before the trip (and then reunited) so I had a certain amount of trepidation about how things would play out. But it couldn’t have been better, all six of us got along very well, enjoyed just about everything we did, most of it all together ( except for the kids’ late night forays down the beach to the beachfront bars – the Chill Out in Long Bay, and Jack Sprat’s in Treasure Beach. I declined the slippery hike up the river to the waterfalls (probably a good idea, although I missed the Rasta guide’s impromptu song along the way.) And Loring and my early mornings on the porch, from sunrise until the kids woke up 4 or 5 hours later, a shame on all the beautifully sunny days.

It was Loring’s turn, to choose a winter beach vacation, after our recent summer travels to Europe, Italy and France, Krakow and Prague. And I needed someplace with some culture to explore. I hadn’t considered Jamaica as a destination before. My major impression had been of upscale resorts with high walls, separated from the mainstream of Jamaican culture. And hedonistic winter and spring breaks. All that does exist, of course. But we never saw it, the closest a couple of busloads from Montego Bay visiting the same waterfuls that we were at.

We never ventured to the northern part of the island, where the major resort areas are, except for our flight into Montego Bay. We went first to Treasure Beach, along the south coast, and then to Long Bay, outside of Port Antonio, on the eastern side of the island. In both locations, we stayed at villas right on the beach, each in a glorious location in a quiet, small community. The villas were the most rustic and most inexpensive I had been able to find. Although both had managers and housekeeper/cooks available, in neither place was the cook a necessity. Most villa ads brag about the staffing, and many about being part of a gated community, neither of which we wanted.

Cacona Villa is a four story (more about that in a minute) villa with more than ample room for all of us to spread out, 4 bedrooms, spectacular views from the porches. Alanna’s first incredulous comment was “did you realize it was g oing to be this nice?!” Mott, the owner, had mentioned that the gate was always kept closed, and the manager, Clint, lived on the property. There was a faded, barely legible sign resting on the gatepost reading “please keep gate closed at all times.”. In fact, the gate was never closed, which didn’t bother us a bit, and didn’t look like it had been in years. We never felt at all concerned about security.

We were greeted by Clint, and his four year old son, Ocean, a little sweetie. Our ears hadn't adjusted to the lyrical Jamaican accent and patois yet, and it took a couple of tries before we undertood his wonderful name.Unfortunately, we didn’t see much of Ocean after our arrival. We met Nadine, (that's Nah-dine, not nay) the cook and housekeeper, the following day, and arranged for her to cook supper for us a couple of nights. She lives about a twenty minute walk away. We told her, after she’d made all the beds, swept, etc, that we didn’t need her to come more than a couple of times to clean(once we’d ascertained that she was getting paid in any case.) She made us wonderful pumpkin soup, curried fish, coconut rum cake.

Villa Cacona is a work in progress, as is much construction in Jamaica. As in many other poor areas we’ve travelled to, people begin construction, and continue it as they have the funds, or sometimes never at all. Wherever you travel in the country, (aside from the wealthy enclaves) you see buildings with rebar sticking up as the beginning of the next level to come. So, at Cacona, there was a lower level with three bedrooms and two bathrooms, where all the kids settled in, a street level with kitchen, dining room, living room, bathroom, and best of all, the expansive porch with hammocks and chairs and magnificent views. On the second story, where our bedroom and bathroom were, there was also a walled in but not completed second bedroom plus a large porch. And, there were steps leading up to an additional level, which perhaps will one day have another bedroom, or perhaps just open air roof space.

I kind of liked the incompleteness, it gave the place an air of potential! It isn’t the deluxe villa that most people would prefer, I imagine, and for that reason was priced very reasonably for something directly on the beach. As Mott said in his online ad, “ if the fact that the third floor isn’t complete concerns you, we should talk.”!

By the second day, Carolina and Alanna were already discussing how they could swing coming down next year with a bunch of friends, and they are still talking about it.

There is also an outdoor/ indoor fish pool that runs thru the living room, bathroom, and down to the lowel level and is the home to a turtle and a bunch of little fish. And, an outdoor shower nestled in between the coconut palms! Heaven!

And there’s a separate apt. attached to the house that is rented out to Dennis, a Peace Corps volunteer. For the first few days, we didn’t know his name, and so just called him”Peace Corps Guy.” There are a number of PC folks in Jamaica, but he’s the only one with a room on the beach, and admits he’s got the cushiest location. He’s working with various community groups, on establishing an internet café, among other things, and helping a group of women with a crafts cooperative they’ve begun. I want his job!

My mother tells me her well travelled friends have said to her “ 17 days in Jamaica? What could they do for all that time? They must be terribly bored.”

Well, let’s see, for several days we didn’t leave the beach, perhaps walked down the left to a calmer swimming spot than the one directly in front of the house. Or to the right a ways for supper and drinks at the restaurant down the beach a piece. It was especially nice, and romantic, to walk back up the beach after dinner in the dark with the waves lapping at our toes.

Every day, before and after hanging out on the beach, we sat on the porch in hammocks and lounge chairs and read or played cards or Scrabble. One day, we rented a car and driver for a day long trip up into the mountains, to Jamaica’s oldest rum distillery, Appleton Estates, to a spectacular set of waterfalls to swim and play in, and to a national festival in a small village mountain where the descendants of the runaway slaves still live. Another day, we went by boat along the coast and then up a jungle river where a number of crocodiles live. (we saw one, spotted by Alanna, not by our guide. Good going, Alanna!) There was also a rope swing, used mostly by locals, from which to jump into the river. While we were there, a couple of teenage boys soaped themselves off, climbed the tree, swung from the rope and jumped in. Our gang, other than me, did the same, just sans soap. On the boat trip back, we stopped at the famous Pelican Bar, a building on stilts on a sandbar in the middle of the ocean. Surrounded by a few tourists, a few locals, a large number of pelicans, and several rays, we drank our beers and sodas and relaxed.

One day we walked down the road instead of the beach to check out the few other restaurants, shops, villas and inns in the small community. A couple of times we went to the little” shopping center” (internet café, hair salon, liquor store, two grocery stores without much for groceries, a bit of produce when the truck came in.)

Jake’s Hotel and restaurant are the tourist hub of this tiny community. The accommodations look wonderful, kind of SoHo beach primitive, chic and expensive. I think we were all happier in our own private enclave, with its expansive space, privacy from one another as well as others, kitchen, etc.. I did meet a couple from Manhattan at the fruit stand across the road, who had arrived the night before, as we had. They seemed impressed at how “organized” I was. I’m not sure what that meant other than that I had a daypack to put the fruit in!

Jake’s is owned by Jake and Sally Henzell. I believe he is the son of Perry Henzell, who produced and directed the film “The Harder They Come” with Jimmy Cliff, in 1972Loring and I saw it back then, and again just a few days before we left the States. For some reason we both thought Cliff was dead (had we somehow confused him with Marley?) but he is very much alive and about to be inducted into the R and R Hall of Fame.

Suffice it to say that we weren’t ready to leave when our eight days were over. Bored? Never!

Of mice and cheese

Two rather unrelated incidents from the last lap of my Paris sojourn, the four days I spent there after the mosaic project, and after my travels to Germany and Colmar, France.

As I mentioned previously, there was a delightful restaurant attached to the hotel where I stayed. (El Dorado, I do recommend it if you like funky places.) The restaurant was next door to the hotel, with a bar that also served as the breakfast room at the other end of the day.(Where the wait person apologized to me for being out of bread; they only had croissants and pains au chocolat that day, poor me.)

The restaurant had a lovely courtyard, which is what made the place, for me. A courtyard which I would never have discovered if my room (#26) didn't face it. I ate there my second night, and then again on my fourth, and final, night in Paris. The meals were delicious, but it isn't the food that I wanted to write about. But rather, a little mouse, who scurried from under one table to under another, noticed at first by just me. A few minutes later, others also noticed, as the mouse continued to scurry around the courtyard. No one seemed bothered, everyone seemed amused, and I heard a woman comment "mignon." Which means cute. I agreed, since I am a lover of mice. Have always had a hard time with putting poison in our cabinets in Maine, even after they have ravaged our clothes, food, etc. And more than once, Carolina and I have rescued infant mice, tinier than the fingernail on your thumb, and once even brought one home, where it survived several days.

Well, like I say, no one seemed the least bit perturbed about the resident mouse, which I don't expect would be the same here at home. It certainly didn't prevent me from going back two days later. Sure enough, same mouse(I assume) same reaction from patrons. I don't know what, if anything, this says about the difference between French and American cultures. I just thought it was amusing, and that the mouse was mignon.

Second incident: at the Paris airport, heading back home, during the usual shoes off, everything in the bucket, walk thru the dectector routine, a guard pulled me over for an additional inspection. I didn't think anything of it. He searched my carry-on. Then, asked if there was anything that I shouldn't be carrying, such as a knife, perhaps a cheese knife? I immediately remembered the two cheese knives I had purchased, and readily fessed up. But how had he known to ask about a cheese knife? Was that just a typical item people carried on by mistake? I pawed thru my stuff, unearthed the two knives, and presented them to him. One - cute little cheese knife (mignon) with the handle the shape of a slice of holey swiss cheese, and running along it, a little mouse. It was truly innocuous, though, with the blade of a butter knife,, not at all sharp. The other, however...the second knife was meaner looking, with a serrated blade, and, cut out into the metal of the blade, the letters f-r-o-m-a-g-e. Need I translate for anyone? It was rather obvious that this was a cheese knife, and I assume it would have shown up quite clearly on the x-ray. That explained the "perhaps a cheese knife?" question. But why had he not just directly asked or told me. Oh, these customs people. He must have been scoping me out and making sure my intentions were honorable. There's one place that it seems American culture and French do not differ, in the approach of their customs inspections. I will say, though, that he was quite cordial, and, best of all, that he let me keep the knife. Perhaps that is a difference between the two cultures.