Travels in Dominica, 2005 - Beach Time

Moro Beach

Sunday was absolutely wonderful. I joined up with some new people at the guesthouse to spend the day at a black sand beach in ‘Moro’, about a half hour's drive from Roseau. It was a truly international multilingual group. There was a French couple. He spoke excellent English. She spoke only French and Italian – which was good, because there was Marina, the Italian, who spoke good English and Italian, but little French. And I spoke only English, with a smattering of French. You can see that this was an interesting confabulatory day!! Especially when we all sat down together to consult and compare our travel 'bibles' the Lonely Planet, published in three different languages. Since it was Sunday, there no bus transport. Busses were on the road, but they had been booked to take campaigning Dominicans to various political meetings. So we hired a cab for the day to take us to this small, black sand beach, where we settled in for the day.

The water was amazing, beautiful, warm, and Marina and I were in and out all day. We all took separate wanderings to dry off, and I settled down to paint a fisherman's hut and boats. We took a break for lunch and a beer or two, and then more people watching and swimming. It being Sunday, there were lots of families down, with huge picnics and lots of small children who were absolutely delightful. The day ended and when the cab picked us up, and delivered us back to Ma Bass’, suitably sated with sun.

I had picked up a few groceries earlier, and planned to do omelettes for Marina and me, but when we met in the kitchen at about 6, the power was out in the whole city. Apparently this is not uncommon. So we all donned our little head flashlights, lit the gas stove, and managed to pull dinner together.

Roseau is truly dead on Sundays. Religion is important on the island, and there are huge Catholic and Anglican Cathedrals as well as many large and small Protestant Churches. In the evenings, sometimes I am serenaded by wonderful singling wafting from a small evangelical meeting somewhere in the neighbourhood. Ma Bass is determined to take me to church this coming Sunday. She is some sort of southern Baptist. If the music and singing is good, I might consider it.

Travels in Dominica, 2005 - Keeping Busy

Pre Carnival Parade

The actual carnival doesn't start until next week, but today there was a parade planned, so along with the French couple, I went down to take a look. Lots of people milling around, but nothing started on time and the structure of the parade was distinctly casual.But nothing happened.Several bands and people with amazing costumes were standing around doing not much for about 45 minutes. People meandered into these groups from the sidelines, also dressed in costumes or carrying instruments. Meanwhile there was a battle of the bands happening from the three bands already congregated there. It was a cacophony of Caribbean rhythm as they all played at the same time, the huge drums being played by one big fellow dominated and overwhelmed. He passionately abused it with a drumstick duct taped to his hand and wrists. Sweat poured from his body, as he drummed non stop.

Cracks, almost sounding like gun shots, and there were the ‘whip snappers’ again, wielding long black whips, snapping them on the ground. Unlike the 'whip snappers' in Guadeloupe who were dressed in layers of banana leaves, these men were all dressed in black, covered from head to foot with lampblack or shoe polish, wearing nothing but a loin cloth. Groups of bizarrely masked creatures danced in the streets. They wore tall, conical hats and danced like dervishes. An amazing lady of massive girth appeared, wearing not much, but what little there was glittered and shook all over the place. Even her well worn sneakers were covered with sequins and glittering fake jewels.

After an hour of waiting around, the parade finally got under way. There were flag waving teams marching to the pounding beat of Caribbean rhythms. Gigantic sound trucks belted out ear shattering music, and there were endless princesses ensconced on convertibles or mopeds competing for various titles, including Queen of the Carnival. The beer companies had their own floats and the beer flowed freely. Everyone was very, very happy. My new French friends followed the parade to the end, and I doubt if I will see them tonight.

Once the costumed part of the parade was finished, there were only so much I could take of pubescent princesses sitting on the back of pickup tracks that I could take. It went on and on and on and I finally had to escape as I had a strong hunch that my eardrums would be permanently damaged. I retreated to a quiet boring night at the guesthouse -which I don’t mind. The days are full, I am quite happy to relax with my feet up, watch bad movies on tv, and finish a painting.

Champagne Beach

I joined the French couple for a day trip to Champagne Beach. Dominica does not have good sand beaches, but we were told there this was a good snorkelling beach. It's called Champagne Beach because of hot gasses from underground volcanic vents that cause the water to bubble like champagne. Flora made sandwiches, Matt bought fruit from the market, and I provided bread and cheese.

We walked to the centre of town to catch a mini van bus. We waited for more passengers, and then cruised around town picking up people until it was full. Generally, navigating around the town in a car is unnecessary because you can get anywhere faster by walking. The tiny one way lanes are very narrow and when two cars have to pass, clearance can often be measured in millimeters.

We were dropped off in the middle of nowhere. We climbed down a path to a rock strewn beach that was being pounded by gigantic breakers. I guess different cultures have different ideas of what makes up a 'good' beach. This was not too promising from our point of view, however we found a spot clear of rocks, covered with fine black sand and settled in.

We were joined shortly by a group of French tourists. I put on my new snorkelling gear, and headed out to see what could be seen. The water was pleasant and warm, and I swam for a while, but because of the waves the water was too murky and visibility was poor. I didn't realize how difficult it would be getting out of the water. Every time I tried to climb out, I was knocked down by the waves and pulled back by the undertow. I was tiring when I was hit by a HUGE wave, pulled under and tossed onto the rocks.

I didn't panic, but when I came up for air, I saw the French coming to the rescue from all directions! I was grateful for the help, as the undertow was really strong. I didn't realize until I got back to the guesthouse that I had a black eye from where my goggles had been hit when i was being tossed about. The right side of my body was black and blue, and I lost a small silver ring.

That did it for the day. We had our picnic and headed back to the road, where we sat in the shade and ate large, sweet island grapefruits. We flagged down a bus, and returned to town. I showered, and pounds of sand fell out of my hair, ears, armpits and various other orifices. I dressed in fresh clothes and went out to find dinner.

Roseau really closes down after five pm. By six it is dark and the streets are deserted. It is sometimes difficult to find a restaurant open for dinner. The hotel restaurants are always open, but expensive. Staying in a guest house with kitchen privileges has definite advantages.

Travels in Dominica, 2005 - Reflections 2

Reflections 2
Walking through the town is always interesting, because I almost 'know' it by this time. I recognize some of the shops, and I discover new ones, ones that I hadn't looked past the darkened door into yet. This seems to be a country of small shops - shops inside of shops, and shops outside of shops. Sometimes there are peddlers of fresh fruits and veggies sitting on the doorsteps and the streets are lined with sellers of spices, snacks, fruits, clothing and what have you.

I have been reading a wonderful book of short stories by a local writer, and I think I am beginning to better understand the world of Dominica, their culture and their relationship to the world around. When I finish this book, there are several more by local authours that I want to read. Perhaps I will join their wonderful, oceanside Carnegie library (I can do that) and just borrow them. The shelves of the bookstores are well stocked with local writers. Local people seen amazed that I buy and read the biweekly newspaper. I love it. The headlines are all about local events, and there is no worldly international stuff in at all - except as it might apply to Dominica. And believe me, there is not much in the world that applies to Dominica!!!

I am convinced that hair styling has reached a new, high art form in Dominica. I now understand why there are all those hair salons. I have never seen so many diverse , intricate, and amazing hair styles as I have seen here; braided, twisted, pouffed out, dreads contained in a gigantic two foot high crocheted hats, two and three foot long dreads flying in the breeze on passing bicyclists. Little girls with twists of ribbon brightly entwined in their hair, babies with little cherry sized pom poms of hair on their tiny heads. It goes on forever.

The school kids are a delight. Every morning. I stand on the balcony and watch them head to school. Every school has a different coloured uniform, but they all seem to have a variation of white or brightly coloured shirt, dark pants or skirt, and super white sneakers. The older girls are gorgeous. They seem to be mostly very tall, willowy slim, with heads held high, they have a walk that would knock any guy dead. Their whole bodies exude adolescent sexuality as they walk in giggling groups of three and four down the streets. The school boys are more conservative. Their hair is not complex, but is short cropped, almost shaved. While at school, their heads are contained by the rules. As soon as they leave school, they let it grow, and the heads of the recent graduates explode into dreads or sculpted or shaved concoctions that are a constant wonder.

The food here is not that good or interesting. The local specialties seems to be things like pigs snout and salted fish -neither of which I care to try. You can get fresh fish, and there is always chicken. But the chicken is always drumsticks. I asked someone if they had chicken farms here, and he said no, they import from Trinidad. It seems strange, because you would think that in this climate they could produce almost anything they need. I think all the breasts and thighs are exported to richer countries. I haven’t seen any big farms, but then I haven’t been to the interior yet. Maybe tomorrow.

And then, maybe not.

This is definitely NOT a place for a high energy person. There appears to be little night life in the main city, restaurants mostly close at 5, and life seems to be quite home based. Music is the biggest thing, and it pulses through the city from the doors of the houses and shops and the boom boxes carried down the streets. Music becomes totally encompassing during the Carnival festival from when bands that cruise the streets day and night. If you like to hike, climb, explore the outdoors, and people watch, it is a great place to be. Since I do not depend on pristine white beaches or wild night life to provide the highlight of a vacation, I am very happy here....

Travels in Dominica - Cartwheel Cafe

Reflections
There are special pleasures in staying in one place for a month or more. There is no hurry to 'do' things, to go here and there, to make sure you have seen all the 'sights'. One of the special things about staying in one place for a longer period, is the opportunity to spend time just sitting around and listening to people tell their stories.

Today I had nothing planned. I rarely do. I got up, organized my daypack, washed some clothes and threw out some others. I made breakfast, sat on the balcony and painted the city rooftops. The waterfront was dominated by a massive Holland America cruise ship berthed in the harbour. When I finished, I wandered down to my favorite restaurant for a lunch of grilled fish in garlic ginger sauce, vegetables, rice and a couple of beers.

The waterfront itself is a marriage of new and old. Many of the newer buildings are built on the foundations of earlier structures. The tiny Cartwheel Café is tucked into the foundations of an old warehouse. The walls are constructed from boulders, brought over as ballast on early sailing ships. In many places the walls are three feet deep, and this means a cool, un air conditioned interior. The windows have heavy wooden shutters to protect it from the summer storms. Open only for breakfast and lunch, it is run by the owner Jacqui, descended from a French family, who were amongst the original settlers of Dominica. They own many of the old buildings in Roseau, and are activly trying to maintain the heritage buildings. Reading about the well maintained architecture was what attracted me to this charming island.Dominica has had a chequered history. In the battles for ownership of the Caribbean islands, ownership has bounced back and forth between England and France. The English won, and as a result, while English is spoken, there is a veneer of French panache that is delightful.

The Cartwheel Cafe
.The waterfront itself is a marriage of new and old. Many of the newer buildings are built on the foundations of earlier structures. The tiny Cartwheel Café is tucked into the foundations of an old warehouse. The walls are constructed from boulders, brought over as ballast on early sailing ships.

In many places the walls are three feet deep, and this means a cool, un air conditioned interior. The windows have heavy wooden shutters to protect it from the summer storms. Open only for breakfast and lunch, it is run by the owner Jacqui, descended from a French family, who were amongst the original settlers of Dominica. They own many of the old buildings in Roseau, and are activly trying to maintain the heritage buildings. Reading about the well maintained architecture was what attracted me to this charming island.

Dominica has had a chequered history. In the battles for ownership of the Caribbean islands, ownership has bounced back and forth between England and France. The English won, and as a result, while English is spoken, there is a veneer of French panache that is delightful.

Wandering aimlessly through the town leads me to discover all sorts of surprises. The Library is one of them. Built at the turn of the century, with funding from the American Carnegie foundation, it sits in a seaside garden, with wide porches and benches for contemplative reading. The road from the library leads down to the main street that runs the length of the waterfront. Modern and new, it is the berth for visiting cruise ships. These giant people carriers extend from one end of the town to the other. There is only room for one of these giant boats to berth at a time.

There are special pleasures in staying in one place for a month or more. There is no hurry to 'do' things, to go here and there, to make sure you have seen all the 'sights'. One of the special things about staying in one place for a longer period, is the opportunity to spend time just sitting around and listening to people tell their stories.

Today I had nothing planned. I rarely do. I got up, organized my daypack, washed some clothes and threw out some others. I made breakfast, sat on the balcony and painted the city rooftops. The waterfront was dominated by a massive Holland America cruise ship berthed in the harbour. When I finished, I wandered down to my favorite restaurant for a lunch of grilled fish in garlic ginger sauce, vegetables, rice and a couple of beers.The waterfront itself is a marriage of new and old. Many of the newer buildings are built on the foundations of earlier structures. The tiny Cartwheel Café is tucked into the foundations of an old warehouse. The walls are constructed from boulders, brought over as ballast on early sailing ships. In many places the walls are three feet deep, and this means a cool, un air conditioned interior. The windows have heavy wooden shutters to protect it from the summer storms. Open only for breakfast and lunch, it is run by the owner Jacqui, descended from a French family, who were amongst the original settlers of Dominica. They own many of the old buildings in Roseau, and are activly trying to maintain the heritage buildings. Reading about the well maintained architecture was what attracted me to this charming island.Dominica has had a chequered history. In the battles for ownership of the Caribbean islands, ownership has bounced back and forth between England and France. The English won, and as a result, while English is spoken, there is a veneer of French panache that is delightful.

Travels in Dominica, 2005 - Scott's Head

Mountains, Beaches and Oceans.
Yesterday the plan was to hike to the highest waterfalls in Dominica. The Europeans hired a guide, and asked me to come. I kept asking whether it was high, and if there much climbing. Of course the guide said ‘not high, very easy’, however based on past experience, I decided not to take a chance. I decided to go with them to the village of Laudat, where the trail started, and sit and paint.

We got to Laudat, after a hair raising trip via many switchbacks on a narrow road through the jungle. Only it really wasn't a village, but a scattering of huts housing about 200 souls. The bus would not return for four hours, so I there wasn't much else to do but to join the climb. The guide lied. Need I say more? It was not only straight up for 45 minutes, but we had to climb stair like logs, wade through streams, creep along precipices, and slog through the jungle mud, through the mountain mist and rain.

I was not a happy camper. I struggled valiantly, but my knee began to give out, my breathing faltered, and water poured out of my body in streams. We met park rangers, and they kindly cut me a walking stick Not thinking I would be hiking, I had left mine at the hotel. This enabled me to continue, but my tether reached its end when I discovered that to get to the water fall we had to go DOWN to a valley, which meant I would then have to go UP again to get out.

I told them to go ahead, sat down, wrote in my journal, and slowly, slowly, slowly made my way back along a trail that was steeper and more treacherous than I remembered. I was shaking by the time I reached to a point where I could stop and wait for them. And on the 30 min trek to the road, they were all busy planning the NEXT day's hike to Boiling Lake. I made plans to do something else.

The next day, after they left, I spent a leisurely morning finishing a sketch and then flagged down a bus to Scott's Head. It was a lovely drive south, passing interesting villages hanging on the mountainsides on one side of the highway, and perched on stilts hanging over the ocean on the other. Scott's Head is located on the southermost point of the island. The village is one of those bucolic picturesque fishing villages and I will definitely return. I walked down a long rocky spit, sat down with the Atlantic on one side of me, and the Caribbean on the other and painted all afternoon. There is a small beach, and decent snorkelling, although I wasn’t prepared to swim today. I ate lunch at a small waterside cafe, and headed back to the guesthouse for a shower.

The hikers returned and reported that Boiling Lake had stopped boiling. I had missed nothing. Tomorrow, I may accompany Marina up north to Portsmouth.

Travels in Dominica, 2005 - Arrival in Roseau

Guadaloupe to Dominica
My luggage finally arrived, but too late to catch the ferry that afternoon. So I spent another night in Port au Prince. The ferry is a hovercraft catamaran, nothing like the ferries am accustomed to. Seating was like on an airplane, and there was very little room to sit outside. The speed of the hovercraft made being outside unpleasant, so I sat on an uncomfortable, preformed plastic chair for most of the two hour trip. The boat was full of French tourists and Dominicans returning home.

We disembarked in Roseau, and lined up for customs and immigration - but there were no officials at the desks to meet us, so we couldn't enter the country. They didn't show up for another 45 minutes. Standing in line with friendly locals, I had a lesson in current politics. There was an election coming up, and there was a very noisy rally last night, probably attended by the immigrations officers. The parties were: the 'blues' (socialists), the 'Reds' (communists of course), and the Greens (right wing conservatives). The customs and immigration officials probably slept in or decided to work to rule. No one seemed bothered by their absence.

The officials finally turned up, rather grumpy and sleepy eyed. I entered with no problem, and took a taxi to Ma Bass Guest House for what I knew would be a short ride that I would probably be overcharged for. It was, and I was, but the driver did carry my pack up three flights of stairs for me.

The town is a cluttered, crowded hodge podge of narrow streets better suited to horses and carriages than four wheel drives. They are lined with well preserved 19th century stone houses. Roseau has been lucky in escaping the fires, tornadoes and wars that have devastated most Caribbean cities.

Ma Bass is a friendly, garrulous Creole woman who runs the four story Guest House with an iron hand. The first two floors are a general store and meeting place for her family and church members. The church plays a big part in Ma's life. 'Bas', her husband is a retired cabinet maker who built the Guest House and much of the furniture. He smiles a lot, speaks little, and lets her rule the roost, but he opens up and loves to chat when she is not around. The crowded, small General Store on the ground level sells everything from groceries and brassieres to farming tools. I was welcomed with an ice cold home made sorrel drink and left to cool off on the balcony.

There are only 8 rooms, so you get to know the other guests quickly. My room was small, and very simple, but clean, had a fan, and a bathroom across the hall. When I arrived there were six other guests: a man from Florida, another from Texas, a Danish couple and a dread locked Frenchman with his girlfriend. There is a small living room on each floor with a tv, a communal kitchen and a balcony where you can sit and watch the world go by. The rooms were very reasonable at $25 a night.

A Day in Roseau
I wake every morning to the roosters crowing. It starts with one, and soon he is joined by dozens of others. This morning symphony is punctuated by barking dogs. It is pre festival time, and the boom boxes are going day and night, the same insidious song is played over and over again. I find out that it is one of the songs that is competing in the festival for the top award. Pretty soon, it is implanted in my brain, and I am humming it all day, and moving to its beat.

I spent the first two days wandering the streets and getting my bearings, finally settling on a door step of a doctor’s office to paint a complex shabby old house. As I sat there, an older woman stopped to see what I was doing, and told me the house was over a hundred years old. The house is still lived in, but was patched and pasted together with a gaudy mixture of styles and materials - linoleum, corrugated iron, boulders, and shingles.

This set a pattern for my days in Roseau - wandering the streets, stopping to paint and interesting building, shopping in the market or in one of the two ‘super markets’. I enjoy wandering the streets of this town. It is lively and friendly. I pass the same shops and vendors and sometimes get a smile of recognition since they recognize I am NOT from a visiting ship. By virtue of having been in Roseau for over a week, I ‘belong here’ and I am longer hassled by the touts.

The town has hair dressing salons and barbershops on every block. The hairdressers hang over the railings of the balconies and chat with each other. When a customer appears, she is often served by the hairdresser and five or six ‘assistants’. This is necessary in order to complete the complex braided hair creations in a working day. The barbers congregate with friends beside vibrating boom boxes. Music from loudspeakers, placed in front of nearly all the shops starts at about 10:30 and goes non stop for twelve hours. Occasionally a truck with a bullhorn passes by blaring political speeches. There will be an election in a week or two, and all the parties are out campaigning.

Travels in Dominica, 2005 - Guadeloupe

Point a Pitre
There is something about waking up stark naked in a strange country, with a small day pack as your only luggage, that lends a certain insecurity to the day. I arrived in Port a Pitre Saturday night after 24 hours of travel encompassing four time zones and four plane changes sans luggage et sans Francais. As we waited for our luggage to appear, we were entertained by a great four piece jazz bad welcoming us to the new air conditioned airport. The music was interrupted several times by a persistent announcements. It took several repeats before I realized that hidden in the incomprehensible (to me) French was my name. A kindly Quebecoise translated, and directed me to the dreaded baggage claim desk where I was told both my bags hadn't made the flight. They would arrive, I was told, maybe by noon on Sunday.

Before leaving, I had searched for a cheap hotel for my overnight stay, but could only come up with one hotel downtown, close to the ferry dock. The taxi took me to the John Perse hotel and it turned out to be rather tacky, and vastly overpriced. There was a balcony and a fan, but far too expensive. Point a Pitre is an overnight stop for many travellers - some travelling on to Domincia, and some boarding a cruise ship, so travellers are a 'captive market'. They did do an excellent French breakfast, with my favorite croissants. I spent a hot and muggy night (naked) and then had to dress the next day in my 'winter clothes' that I had already worn for over 24 hours.

I spent the morning wandering the hot and humid streets. It's a shabby little port town, covered in graffiti, but tucked here and there were a few interesting older buildings trimmed with cut metal gingerbread trim. Returning to the hotel for lunch I chatted with two French doctors who were working at the local hospital. I was so engrossed, I forgot to ask about my luggage, which had arrived. As a result, I missed the two o'clock ferry. So I changed, and continued to investigate the town. There wasn't much to see.

That evening, I heard what sounded like firecrackers outside the hotel. This was accompanied by a loud, pulsing drum beat. Looking over the balcony, I saw a gyrating, wild looking parade of young people wearing bizarre sugar cane leaf capes, and cracking long whips which sounded like firecrackers. Behind them was a troupe of dancers, covered in costumes made fron banana leaves that flapped as they danced with cow horn head dresses on their heads. They were followed by a band. I grabbed my camera and dashed downstairs and joined them dancing to the wild music in the streets. Apparently these parades happen every Sunday before Carnival. In the end, I was glad I missed my boat.

From the beginning.....

Air Letter From England, 1961

I get stuck when I write down the places. I can't remember where I went in what years. I have to go to my recent photo albums and read the dates on my photos. Then I remembered it's not just the photos. There are the letter and postcards I wrote when I first left home to travel back in 1961. Those were the days when airmail was an expensive way to communicate - we wrote tight little letters on pale blue, tissue thin, pre-stamped 'aerograms' Each country had their own design, and I delighted in putting as much as I could on its foldup, one sheet page. Long distance phone calls cost a fortune and mothers went mad worrying about their 21 year old daughters wandering aimlessly through Europe on their own, clutching the latest travel guide 'Europe on $5 a Day' to their breasts. And in those post war days it was possible to exist... to eat and sleep and tour around for even less than that.

My solution to 'mother angst' was simple: I would send her a postcard every day. She would recieve them several weeks later, but they would be coming more or less consistently, thus allaying her worst fears. Unfortunately, had I been kidnapped by white slavers, this would hardly be current, but it kept her off my back. My mother, a classic packrat, saved every postcard, and every letter. I found them when I was visiting Winnipeg and rummaging through some old boxes. I was delighted to recall the adventures of the novice traveller.
The challenge is, is to remember where and when, But these early letters express the beginning of what became my dromomania and islomania.

Blogging...

'Blog'
What a weird bobbly word that is! Until a few days ago, I had heard the word, and knew what it meant, and had even ventured into viewing a few. But it wasn't until I was incapacitated and housebound that I discovered how addictive and self indulgent this can be! I had been looking for a way to record my travels that included some of the sketches, and this week I had the enforced time and leisure to figure it out. It wasn't easy. I rate just above 'luddite' when it comes to doing anything more than Googling, checking mail and using my Publisher programme. It wasn't until five years after I had bought it that I was able to properly use that programme, and now it is the foundation of my card producing, poster producing, and sign producing life!

So I decided to try and list places and years... not so easy as senility sets in:
Tahiti, 2008

Churchill, Man. 2007

Ghana, Burkina Faso, Mali, Senegal, 2007

Dominica, St. Lucia, Barbadoes, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, 2005

El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, 2003

Curacao, Panama, Cocos Islands/C.R., Galapagos/Ecuador, Easter Island/Chile, Bolivia, Peru, 2001

Colombia, 2001

Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, 1999

Mongolia, 1998
China kite festivals, 1997

Australia, kite festivals 1997

China kite festival, 1996

Kite Festivals, Washington, Oregon, California, Nevada, Texas, B.C., Alberta, Sask., Manitoba 1990-2000

New Zealand, 1984/85

Cozumel, Mexico 1983

West Coast of U.S. to Baja, Mexico 1982

Antigua and Barbuda, Guadaloupe, 1981

New Zealand 1979/80

Hong Kong, Thailand, Nepal, India, Kashmir, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey, Greece, Egypt, England 1977

Tours, France - French Immersion 1975

Paris, France - Art History 1974

England, Holland, Germany, Poland, Russia, Czechoslovakia, Belgium, France, Spain, Portugal 1977

Mexico 1965

England, Denmark, Holland, France, Luxembourg, East & West Germany, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Israel, Yugoslavia, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland 1961/62

WHEW!

I am exhausted!

I get stuck when I write down the places. I can't remember where I went in what years. I have to go to my recent photo albums and read the dates on my photos. Then I remembered it's not just the photos. There are the letter and postcards I wrote when I first left home to travel back in 1961. Those were the days when airmail was an expensive way to communicate - we wrote tight little letters on pale blue, tissue thin, pre-stamped 'aerograms' Each country had their own design, and I delighted in putting as much as I could on its foldup, one sheet page. Long distance phone calls cost a fortune and mothers went mad worrying about their 21 year old daughters wandering aimlessly through Europe on their own, clutching the latest travel guide 'Europe on $5 a Day' to their breasts. And in those post war days it was possible to exist... to eat and sleep and tour around for even less than that.

My solution to 'mother angst' was simple: I would send her a postcard every day. She would recieve them several weeks later, but they would be coming more or less consistently, thus allaying her worst fears. Unfortunately, had I been kidnapped by white slavers, this would hardly be current, but it kept her off my back. My mother, a classic packrat, saved every postcard, and every letter. I found them when I was visiting Winnipeg and rummaging through some old boxes. I was delighted to recall the adventures of the novice traveller.

The challenge is, is to remember where and when, But these early letters express the beginning of what became my dromophobia, an islomania.

Rangiroa and the Journeys End

November 12, 2008
A full day of sailing on the open Pacific - endless ocean, endless sky. We are a dot in the middle of the Pacific, slowly moving to another archipelago... the Tuamotos. Rangiroa is the largest atoll in the world. A magnificent, jewel like lagoon, circled by a ring of land with the still clear waters of the atoll on the inside, the very active Pacific on the outside. We entered though a narrow channel, anchored in the middle, and we boarded the barge to go ashore. It was a small, but adequate beach, and all the lucky ones quickly donned their diving or snorkelling gear and headed into the water. Since I could not swim, I was looking forward to the promised trip in a 'glass bottomed boat'. However a large nasty zillion person cruise ship had 'stolen' our previously booked excursion!

A visit to a pearl farm had been arranged, and the drive took us along a road that often had the lagoon on one side and the ocean on the other. The pearl farm was interesting, and of course there was a shop where we could purchase indvidual pearls or finished jewellery. I finally got the single pearl stud that I was looking for, and we returned to the beach where we had a picnic lunch.

We were on the last leg of the journey, back to Papeete. That night at dinner there was a special dance performance by members of the crew in the dining room as we sadly said goodby to many newfound friends.

We arrived back in Papeete around breakfast time. Goodbyes were said, luggage scooped up, taxis hailed, and Sophie, Pierette and I headed back to the Ahitea Lodge. Our original plan was to stay there overnight, and head to Moorea the next day. Pierette was leaving at 11 that night, and she came to leave her luggage with us, and to accompany me to the hospital to have my leg checked by a surgeon.

We didn't have to wait long at the hospital. The surgeon came, looked, and told me I had to head home for surgery and a skin graft. We left the hospital, went straight to the Air Tahiti office, booked the flight, and returned to the Ahitea where we tried to use the phone to call my insurance company.

And the rest can be read, back at the beginning this blog.

Farewell to the Marquesas

November 12, 2008

Sadly we had to leave these magic islands. I stood on the deck and watched them disappear as I sketched as their craggy peaks fading into the mists. People came up to the top deck, wearing their flowered 'crowns' or leis, leaned over the edge and tossed them into the wake.

While I would have loved to bring my lovely bright green leaf 'crown' home, I knew it would never get past the eagle eyes of customs at LAX, so I joined them, and tossed it overboard, with the wish of a speedy return.

Nuka Hiva, again...

November 11/2008

We return to Nuka Hiva for a brief stay, as the Aranui picked up the now empty containers, and goods to be sold back in Papeete. The bus tookus to town, and dropped us off by the craft shops. Today is a holiday, we call it Rememberance Day in Canada, and everything but the craft stalls were closed down. Many stayed on board, and others chose to walk to town, so I was able to go into the markets pretty much on my own. But just as I was making up my mind to buy something, the hordes arrived. In the end, I preferred to sit outside and sketch the old jail.

I was quickly surrounded by kids, and after 'tattooing' them all with Canadian flag tattoos that I always carry with me, I was finally left in peace. Except for a charming young man named Gustav, who was 7 years old, and proudly counted to ten for me in English. He and his small cousin were delightful, and we engaged in rudimentary 'two year old' (me) French conversation. This was our last stop in the Marquesas. I wish I had more time to spend on this island, as there were many places we passed in the bus that warranted visiting.

We returned to the ship, and set sail back towards Tahiti. We sailed all afternoon, and all the next day. It is always great to be able to lie in the sun, read trashy novels and dip occassionally in the pool.... except of course I had to stay dry (sigh).

It was on the evening visit to the doctor that I found out that things were not going well with my leg, and that I would have to see a surgeon in Papeete. Sophie and I had made contingency plans for the remaining two weeks that took into account that I might not be able to swim, but I was having serious concerns about my ability to continue.

Ua Huka

It was pouring rain as we entered 'Invisible Bay'. Aptly named, the bay is accessed through a narrow space between towering cliffs that the Aranui3 could not sail through. The ship anchored outside the entrance to the bay. We got up early to watch an amazing maenuevre as the whaleboat sailed first to the left and then to the right, trailing massive cables attached to ship that they attached to permanent 'stakes' embedded the rock walls in order to stabilize the ship so it could be unloaded.

It was a difficult, but thankfully dry landing. Islanders were waiting with leis and/or beautiful seed necklaces for everyone. It had become a given that there were always flowers to tuck behind our ears at every landing, but the necklaces were something new.

The fleet of 4x4's were waiting and took us up to a small museum (and shop of course). Many of the drivers were women, as were the musicians. This island has a history of a matriarchical society, and the recently retired mayor of over twenty years was a woman. According to the French lecturer, while this is one of the most remote islands, it has been the best managed.

Again, according to him, the economy of this island has been badly battered by international exploitation. Copra had been the main export, until the marketers and health food types 'discovered' the magic of the 'Noni' fruit. Touted to be the end all cure of everything, a large Amercian investor encouraged growing and farming of this fruit for production and sale via a pyramid like sales campaign in the U.S. The island had a growth in its economy that allowed it to build better roads and facilities, but it proved to be too expensive to raise the product in French Polynesia. So the seed, and business was moved to South East Asia, leaving the islanders with little more than the poorly paying copra to sustain their economy. The visits of the Aranui, with its approximate 200 tourists contributes a lot to maintaining the economics of the island. In addition, these islands are famous for their large, beautiful wood carvings that they regularily ship back to Papeete to sell.

The island is also known for its freely roaming wild horses and goats. Unfortunately, free roaming grazers have seriously depleted the undergrowth, and the islanders are now actively engaged in reforestation. There was an opportunity for passengers to continue by horseback, and many did, meeting up with us at the next stop which was an arboretum. It had been raining, and there were sporadic showers. The paths were slippery and muddy, so I chose to stay behind and sketch some of the tikis that resided at the entrance to the gardens - one with and one without a penis. Church people don't like penises, and in the past had the habit of chopping them off!

This is definitely my favorite island. It seems different from the others - perhaps due to the matriarchy! It is very bare in parts, but the reforestation has been successfull, and there seems to be a balance of lush greenery with the more arid parts.

Everyone arrives back at the entrance with muddy feet, and slightly damp. We head off again through some amazing hair pin curves, and many stunning viewpoints to the town of Hane for another excellent buffet lunch. After lunch, we visit several craft stores. The vehicles disgorge another feeding frenzy of shoppers into the small buildings and I am again totally overwhelmed. Despite seeing several small items that I might want to buy, the clutching and grabbing and constant babble rendered me powerless to spend money. I gave up, and waited outside.

We then headed to beach, where we would be returning to the ship by whale boat. It was definitely a wet loading, and despite wrapping my leg up, the bandages got wet. It was one of those boardings where the giant polynesian sailors grabbed you and tossed you on board... rather scary!

I had the dressing changed, and then dressed up in my new pareau, lovely crown of leaves that I had recieved earlier in the day, my temporary tattoo, and headed to the Polynesian evening.
This is the main 'gala' of the voyage, held out on the deck around the pool. Everyone is encouraged to 'dress Polynesian' and since by this time we all seem to own at least one pareau or, for the men, a wildly flowered shirt, it isn't difficult. It is an evening of good food, drinks, lots of entertainment by the staff, but after a long day, I didn't stay til the end, and headed to bed early.

Tahuata

Nov.10, Sunday: Tahuata
Dry, easy landing, and a short walk to the small town. The island has a small population of about 650, and no air strip or regular connection to the nearest main centre in Hiva Oa. Small private boats do the trips daily, and it is sometimes possible to get a ride over in them. It is the smallest of the Marquesan islands. It was the island of first contact between the Polynesians and the Europeans, back in 1595 (Mendana)

Since it is Sunday, everyone is heading for the Catholic church, mainly for the singing. The town is a pleasant place, with a small stream running through it. I pass a small, simple wooden church on the way to the Catholic church, but when we get there, I am totally overimpressed with its size and pomposity! The Vatican provided the money, and it is built of concrete, covered in rock, built to last a zillion years. It overlooks and almost overpowers the small village.

People slowly arrived for services, the women in white muu muus, flowers in their hair. In the background I could hear the children singing in Sunday School. Most of the people from the ship arrived, and entered the church. Some were turned away for being dressed inappropriately, despite being reminded to dress respectfully. All I can think about is the small, modest little Protestant chapel down the road. So I headed back down the road to sketch it.

I had barely started when it started to rain. A group of women sitting nearby motioned me to join them out of the rain, and I limped over. It turns out they are the craft vendors, and they invited me into the traditionally built building where they had tables of their wares set up. For a change I was the only customer! I was able to look at the carvings at leisure and without 'the hordes'. I quickly spotted what I wanted: a pair of carved bone earrings, with a tiki, combined with the traditional fish hook design.

The rain stopped, so I returned to finish the picture. As I worked I was joined by parishoners leaving the Protestant Church, including the Minister. They laughed and pointed to the people sitting in front of the church, included in the drawing. Francoise, the French lecturer came by with his wife and they talked to the minister, translating for me. The small church is old, and riddled with termites, and it will soon be torn down for a new one. The minister is happy I am painting it, and I will send him a copy of the picture.

When services end at the Catholic church, we return to the ship. They have off loaded the cargo for this village, so we sailed to Hapatoni where we had lunch. As we walked up to the place where we will be eating, there was a long line of tables with large and small wood and bone carvings. Everything was so tempting, but either too large, or too expensive. Sophie succumbed and found a pair of bone earrings. Each table was being swarmed, and I felt very happy that I made my purchase for the day.

There were all kinds of small finger foods and goodies waiting for us, and another wonderful lunch, this time provided from the ship. The men put on the best performance I had seen so far, but most people were charmed by a five year old who held centre stage whenever it was empty.

Some people headed off for a hike, but Sophie and I returned to the ship. I found a lovely private, quiet spot away from everyone up on the stardeck. I stayed up there, and watched an amazing sunset before heading to the obligatory 'information meeting' with 'The Hun'.

The Hun was a tall grinning German young man, whose English really wasn't up to presenting the next day's programme. Every third word was 'yah', used like those maddening people who fill their sentences with 'like' or 'fuck'. His presentations were done with a huge grin and lots of hand waving. He was well meaning, but rather ineffectual and sometimes maddening.

Hiva Oa

Nov. 8/08
We returned to Hiva Oa. Places are beginning to blur together, but I think we landed at a different place. We boarded the four wheel drives and headed up to an archeological site where there are some significant tiki ruins. They stood on pae paes almost covered by the jungle's growth. They appeared be sprung full grown from the earth, not made by man. I sat and started to paint them, when the French guide and group surrounded me. The English lecture was being given further away, so I decided to stay in the midst of the French and was able to paint in relative peace... since I didn't understand a word he said.

A large, massive ovoid Tiki was of the Butterfly Princess. She was much beloved of her sculptor husband and when she died in childbirth, he sculpted this massive piece to commemorate her.

We visited another, lesser site where the last ruler was buried, and while some walked, I of course went to the beach by car, where nearly everyone (except me) went swimming. I wished I had my kite in my pack, because there was a nice spot to fly it, but instead I retreated to the sketchbook again.

Sitting quietly by myself, one of the Germans who had walked down came by, stopped and gave me a nice neck/back massage. I really missed the opportunities to do some walking, past the homes and through the countryside, but it would not have been wise. I was 'willing' my leg to heal as fast as possible. Unfortunately, it didn't work.

Spent the afternoon chatting with new friends, finishing sketches, and fending off nasty European types who looked over my shoulder at the open sketchbook as I worked, and photographed my pictures!!!