Bequia: Christine on the Belmont Walkway

Along with my guidebook to Bequia, which I will never finish, I’ve been working on a series (OK, one so far and it is far from done) short stories set on the island. I finished a very long first draft of the first, which was to be titled “Island Girl,” after the Elton John song. I was tremendously pleased with it and ready to ship it off to the New Yorker who I was sure would take it despite its great length and first draft status, because obviously I am a prodigy, or whatever the prodigy moniker is for an old women.

Then I read it again and realized that (1) there were a lot of words and not a whole hell of a lot of story (though that is not usually a disqualifier for a New Yorker piece); (2) the characters were not that compelling or even necessary, and I couldn’t imagine anyone really caring what happened to them (as long as they just shut up and got off the page); and (3) these dull characters were actually in the wrong story.  They may have a story some other time or place, but not here.

Which left me with several pieces of shrapnel from my original piece – some descriptive writing that I still quite like and think captures the feel of the island well, and a decent ending in search of the correct characters to play it out. The latter is my problem and I am working on it. The former is, if you are still reading, your problem, because I think I will pull a couple of the descriptions I liked out and put them here. Below is the first one and introduces Christine, the now furloughed main character of Island Girl.

Christine on the Belmont Walkway

Christine made her way to the hotel’s outside restaurant and lowered herself onto a brown-lacquered picnic bench under a wooden awning. She stretched her legs away from the table, pushing ridges into the sand floor, and contemplated her mosquito bites, sunburn, and chipped pedicure.

            Just a few feet beyond her legs ran the Belmont Walkway, an uneven path that separated a line of small guest houses and outdoor bars from Admiralty Bay – certainly the most stunning natural anchorage in Bequia, and probably in the entire Grenadine chain. The car ferry from St. Vincent cut a path toward the port at the bay’s mouth, the hulking steel rectangle creating surprisingly little wake to disturb the private sailing yachts, gleaming white and flying vaguely familiar European flags, and local fishing skiffs, painted carnival hues of purple, yellow, and orange, emblazoned with names like “Fat Man,” “Muscle Flex,” and “No Complaints.”

Resting her back on the table edge, she watched two older Bequian women standing waist deep in the mottled turquoise water past the walkway, modest one-piece swimsuits and bathing caps. They laughed at a friendly remark from a shirtless, sculpted young black man on the shore. Christine wondered what it would be like to live in a place where you could step off the sidewalk of what was essentially the main commercial drag into a bathwater warm, crazy clean sea, and bob companionably as neighbors passed by on their way to work.

            Christine wondered what it would be like to live in a place where being fat was an asset, or at least no big deal. The two women, one with jiggling arms raised high, joined a debate that had sprung up between three young men on the sidewalk arguing about the best way for a befuddled German tourist to maneuver his dingy into the small dock.

            “They are fat,” thought Christine, practicing using the word, because the women were her size, and she was not used to calling herself “fat.” She contemplated why the island women’s fat looked so much better on them than on her. Was it because they were so very black and, especially in the water, looked sleek, like sea lions? Her own pale white skin was mottled – with uneven sunburn, scabby bug bites, weird, teeny bruises that appeared in new spots each morning -- like she spent the night being beaten by an enraged elf -- and shadows in various places where her skin bulged, folded, or puckered.

            “Good morning, love, have they brought the coffee round yet?” A heavy (not fat, thought Christine, like me) woman, doughy face surrounded by a halo of graying brown hair, groaned as she maneuvered in the picnic bench. “Wouldn’t you prefer a proper table for your breakfast, love? I am afraid I will rip my shorts getting in here.”

            “Good morning Sybil,” Christine didn’t turn to face the older English woman, not ready yet to leave her imaginary participation in the saga of the German guy’s boat, which now involved a lot of rope, three more people in the water, one a fully dressed, possibly drunk or, more likely, high, Rastafarian complete with machete and knit cap, and several school children massed on the sidewalk, white, button-down shirts untucked from black pants and skirts, alternatively offering incomprehensible advice and shouting “Squid! Squid!” at what must have been a squid hovering around the small craft. The German, who, if he understood English at all, certainly did not understand the patois spoken on this particular island, sat in his boat, nervously scanning the water where the children pointed (what did he think they were saying?) and limply holding one end of a rope that the Rastafarian was inexplicitly wrapping around the engine.

A loud splash and excited chatter and laughter from the dock heralded the tableau’s inevitable conclusion and attracted a young waitress close enough to their table for Phyllis to snag her.

“Do you think we could order breakfast, dear?”

The waitress, “Stacey” according to her nametag, stared at the couple with the languid, slightly amused detachment that seemed to come standard issue to the young women on the island.  Phyllis then began her morning ritual of describing in great deal how their meal should be cooked (“coddled, dear, then you must let it drain in a slotted spoon – you’ve have those here don’t you – for a least a minute, then slip it next to, but not on, one buttered piece of wheat toast…”).

“Did you get that dear?” Phyllis pressed. Stacey smiled slightly and widened her eyes with a look that said both “Do you really think I am that much of an idiot?” and “Nope.” The eggs would come, as they always did, over easy, yolks cooked solid, toast in a basket on the side, butter for the asking, if Stacey could be found.

Bequia: Where to Eat, Part II – Breakfast

The Fig Tree Restaurant in the thriving metropolis of “the Belmont Sidewalk” (see last posting on the many towns of Bequia) just this week started serving traditional Caribbean breakfasts (see menu above). In what could be called an act of “research for my guidebook” but is more accurately described as “being hungry,” I went yesterday, accompanied by my sidekick Nick, who is always up for a good breakfast.

We had about an hour an a half before an appointment two towns (or one city block) over and knew that was cutting it pretty close, since there was one other customer there and only two waitresses, one of whom I believe was also cooking. One we had had serve us before, and knew that she was a very fastidious drink preparer – like a good half hour to bring bottled water, a lot of the time spent standing stock still in the bar and distressed at all the possible places the water might be. Soon (not really that soon, but I need a transition here) she would bring over a large and a small bottle to make sure we understood our choices (large is fine, we’ll share it). Then she has to return to the bar with BOTH bottles, because, I guess, they were only the demo bottles, and bring back a different large water bottle (“you said, large, right?” – though we might not have, dehydration starting to affect our memory).

Side note: When Nick and I go to the Fig Tree, we often do so because they have the most reliable Internet connection on the island, which is to say, not very but better than most. Because we are taking computers, we will sit at one of the large tables (see picture below, taken on the very day in question). So scene is set – 1000 words saved.

On returning with our actual large bottle of water, and not the demo large bottle of water, she stands with it, again silent and distressed, then (look at the picture again) asks Nick to move his computer because she can’t figure out where else to put the water.   After he does that, because it is better not to argue since there might be some sort of unknown feng shui reason that the water can only sit directly in front of Nick, she waits a couple of beats, then asks: Do you need glasses? No, no, this is great we assure her, we’ll just slug from the huge bottle, being so tight on space here at our enormous table.

So yesterday morning, when we saw the careful drink preparer on duty, I knew that I had to get my coffee order into the other waitress on call. But as she was heading toward us, Nick – damn him – asked, is the Internet working….

…Noooooo, it was like it was happening in slow motion. I moved to clap a hand over his mouth, but without caffeine, was too slow. Our waitress turned in mid-stride and without our coffee order. She wandered silently back toward the router and started checking the connection with her iPhone. Turns out, the Internet WAS working, just not on her iPhone, until about 30 minutes later – at which point she brought us the menus (or Nick tells me that’s what happened. I was face first on the table in coma).

Like a good set of smelling salts, the specter of breakfast with salt cod or boiled fish snapped me out of it in time to hear the blessed words: We don’t have any Caribbean breakfast.  She said both the smelly fish and the breadfruit deliveries were held up, or were never ordered, or were never even contemplated (this is communicated by a vague hand gesture which is the island signal for “something, somewhere, I really have no idea and don’t care”).

For me, this was tremendous news. While I would not say no to a nice bake (like flat rolls, freshly baked to order, and excellent as long as someone doesn’t put a bunch of boiled fish on top of it), I am not big on fish for breakfast, especially fish like salt cod which is preserved for lengthy sea voyages and meant to be eaten with a tankard of rum. And I can’t stand breadfruit, which tastes like neither fruit nor bread and has the consistency of Play-do but without the flavor.

And, in a later rare bit of research, I looked up what bush tea was – and the first entry I find (which means, as I understand, it must be accurate) is from the Jamaican Observer online edition and reads in part:

POPULAR bush remedies, or 'bush teas' widely consumed in Jamaica and other Caribbean nations have been found to be potentially harmful in recent scientific studies and appraisal by the University of the West Indies (UWI), Mona, St Andrew. Among the bush teas identified by the studies as favourites across the Caribbean are cerassie, annatto, peri-winkle, dandelion, vervine, guaco, cashew bark, coconut shell, aloe vera, and cannabis satira (marijuana). The studies said that although these "bushes" had possible beneficial ingredients, they also had potential toxins which could be harmful to individuals. It noted that use of bush remedies had greatly impacted the health of the region.

Dodged a bullet on that one…

So the menu that was on offer was the same selection found at every other restaurant on Bequia that serves breakfast: Eggs with bacon or not, toast (usually excellent homemade bread), pancakes, or an omelet (vegetarian OR cheese but not both, since I believe there is a law against it). Fruit juice or coffee.

We had omelets, which were quite good, and the rest of breakfast went off smoothly, though Nick asked not to have peppers in his omelet then joked that I could have his peppers. Ordering being a serious business here in the islands, that caused a delay while our waitress tried valiantly to figure out if there were not some sort of policy against pepper swapping (and whether that violated at least the spirit of the vegetable/cheese omelet distinction) and then spent another good while marveling that someone would joke about such a thing. Another brief snag occurred when the coffee showed up, hovered in its Holy-Grail-like silver pot on a tray with our coffee cups (we didn’t even have to ask for them!) right above our table, and then the waitress pull it back and went back to the kitchen because she had forgotten to put the milk on the tray (I don’t take milk! I don’t take milk!). But in the end, all was well, and we were only one half hour late for our appointment.

Note: The Fig Tree serves up some of the best West Indian cooking on the island, it is reasonably priced, and its Friday fish dinners are legendary (fish cooked any way, take out available, which is rare on the island and, if requested, usually leads to a leaky plastic bag of mixed up food some of which is bound to be breadfruit).  In addition, the place is a bit of a local hang-out, because of the good Internet and because owner Cheryl Johnson runs and hosts there the popular BequiaReading Club staffed by volunteers from the ex pat community and visiting yachters.

Other places for breakfast (same menu, without the fishy stuff) include the Gingerbread Restaurant (Belmont), which has a fabulous upstairs covered porch which gets a nice breeze and looks out over the bay (Internet costs $10 EC here, though, and involves a lot of work, a consultation with the manager, a trip for him back to some secret Internet room to get a printed receipt with your multi-character username and password, and that takes several entries to get the thing to work because the receipt printer is almost out of ink); Gingerbread also has a lovely outside area right on the water and under a big tree and a small bakery where you can get specialty coffees, fresh squeezed juices, and all manner of baked goods, including, not surprisingly gingerbread; The Frangipani (Belmont), which serves up the unexceptional standard fare unexceptionally (my next post will be a spot of creative writing about the Frangi); and Maria’s French Terrace (Port Elizabeth) where the omelet just edges out the Fig Tree’s for first place, but that is because the owner is French and really lays on the butter.

Bequia: Where to Eat, Part I

Port Elizabeth, Hamilton, Cemetery Hill, O’car Reform, and Belmont from Old Fort Hamilton, Bequia

[NOTE: I am cross-posting this to my Active Voice (writing) blog and my Green Fence Farm (farming and eating) blog, which means that the 14 of my Facebook friends who signed up for the Active Voice and Green Fence Farm pages will get multiple notices. I’m a little bit sorry for that because I know you liked both pages, not because you actually LIKED them (in that junior high school crush sort of way), but because you felt sorry for my feeble attempts at taming the social media lion and wanted me not to go back to sending you updates, many of which looked like manifestos from psycho-killers, just not quite as well written, typed on my (self-correcting, mind you) electric typewriter from college.  I’m only a little sorry because I do like the impression the multiple posts (of the same piece) gives of great productivity on my part.  And the reason this is ending up on the Green Fence Farm page is that, though I am on an island (Bequia) and nowhere near the farm right now, I am still eating and writing about it.]

When I last wrote, I was pondering the impossibility of ever writing my planned guide to the island of Bequia because I had discovered I was going to have to do research, which could involve a lot of work (THIS is why I know I am destined to be a fiction writer, or one of those essayists who just looks out the window and writes about birds, because I am much better at making shit up than researching, especially if it involves leaving my chair, which I take great pains to put in an interesting place (Look! Birds!) and pillow up adequately).  

This whole research problem reared its ugly head when I realized that my “Where to Eat” chapter was going to involve more than just going to a bunch of restaurants and eating a bunch of courses (something I am particularly good at). No, I would have to taste Nick’s food too, which will be a struggle because one of the tenets on which our marriage is based is a commitment not to share food. I’d have to interview the owner or the chef – who around here is either going to be a native Bequian or a Scandinavian (and I can’t understand either accent) and get some quaint story about how they wanted to continue their dear mother’s tradition of boiling the crap out of stuff in crockpots or how their grandfather always dreamed of coming to the tropics and smoking fish. And I would have to RESEARCH (see? That word again) the hours and addresses of the places.

I know what you are thinking – “you’re going to the places, you must at least already know the addresses” – but you would be wrong, which is why you have not yet written a travel guide (unless you have, in which case, it is why you have not written a travel guide to Bequia). There are no addresses here; there is no mail delivery (see previous post on guy handing mail out of the back of the ferry) and only one main road, which was built, I believe, by the Romans and hasn’t been maintained since (OK, you homeschoolers, don’t write that last part down, I made it up: the bit about the Romans, that is, not the maintenance).

What there are are many, many, many “towns.” Most of these would fit into what we on the mainland would call “a block.” Some would fit into what we would call “two huts and an abandoned rum shack with a goat living in it.”

For example, the main grouping of towns (which the locals refer to, confusingly, as “town”) consists of the following: Port Elizabeth, Hamilton, Cemetery Hill, O’car Reform, and Belmont. There cannot be more than 100 structures total in these towns, and from any place in anyone of them you can pretty much see all of all the rest of them.

The ferry from St. Vincent arrives in Port Elizabeth, which is also referred to as the capitol of Bequia in any tourist guide you can find. So, the traveller coming into the port would assume, as I did, that the groupings of houses and a couple restaurants to your left; the half pedestrian mall, half street (with a boundary that is fluid and the subject of vocal controversy, mainly among pedestrians who have just had their feet run over and the taxi drivers that did the running over), shops, stands, and a government building in front of you; and the waterside cafes and small hotels to your right were all part of the thriving Bequian capitol, Port Elizabeth.

You would be wrong.

In fact, as far as I can tell, Port Elizabeth includes only the port itself; the tourist information building right as you exit the port, the lady selling knitted Rasta hats to its left; the tree under which the taxi drivers hang out and discuss how much they hate the current government and why tourists keep sticking their feet under their cabs’ tires; the government building across the street; and a small canal of festering runoff from the gutters. If you walk from that government building less than a dirt road block to Knight’s Food store, you are in the town of Hamilton. A block to the right and you are in Belmont. A block the left you are in O’car Reform. Cemetery Hill? To the right and up another block from the port, near the cemetery (duh). The whole metro area can be walked in about 10 minutes, 15 if you stop for ice cream.

The Port Elizabeth/Hamilton distinction really tripped me up our first week on the island. We had asked Cass, our housekeeper and native Bequian, where to get groceries. She informed us that Hamilton had a Knights (the Bequian version of Safeway, except without the parking lot, pharmacy, produce section, soda section, meats, or pretty much anything but rum, fruit juice, canned beans, and staples tied in small plastic bags without labels so you have to smell everything to make sure it is salt, for example, and not laundry detergent. Knights deserves and will get its own post later).

Nick did the first shopping trip on his own, and later that day, as we were driving to a restaurant in O’car Reform, he pointed out the store, which is about the size of a White Castle, and I said, “So that is why you came home with only a can of pigeon peas and a small bag of laundry detergent. You were supposed to go to the store in HAMILTON,” which I assured him was no doubt a fabulous marvel of megastore efficiency, with Whole Foods-like displays of local fruits and Starbucks coffee.

Despite the fact that, by the time I had finished saying that sentence, we had arrived at the restaurant that was in O’car Reform – and despite the fact that I knew from Cass that O’Car Reform came after Hamilton – I still insisted that we go the next day to find the real supermarket in Hamilton.

We took the main road over the pedestrian mall, by the port and the restaurant from the day before, around herds of goats, school children, and a guy carrying a fish on his head, persevering even when it really seemed the road had turned into someone’s driveway and finally got to – a dead end at a lookout and a historic plaque about the fort that used to be there (also a couple of old canons, which made the trip not a waste for Nick).

So, yeah, the Knights in Hamilton is the Knights that is 20 feet from Port Elizabeth, and Cass had a huge laugh over us driving “all the way” to Old Fort Hamilton (like we drove from DC to Beckley, WV looking for a Sam’s club). The island communication network being what it is, that story made the rounds pretty quickly, and I think I heard a local guitar group singing a ballad about it a couple nights ago (“Oh the stupid white man and his fat wife, drove all the way to Old Fort Hamilton looking for a store, do dah, do dah), though it could have been Day-o. I really have a hard time with the local accent.

Apologies for my Green Fence Farm readers that I have yet to get to anything about food yet, unless you consider laundry detergent a food, but I will in the next post, at which point you will, I assure you, appreciate all this essential background information.

Next post: Bequia: Where to Eat, Really This Time, Part II