How do you handle illness? I try to take every opportunity to learn something about myself, something I am sure I can apply later down the line, but I do not like to be sick. We woke up a few days ago to a computer riddled with virus. A computer that while we had discussed and planned to back up and make disks of sentimental material, we never did and now do not have the chance. Everything we had on there, is gone. If we'd been living in NYC, I would have just called the Geek Squad immediately and had them come over and do a diagnostic. But we are in Barbados and I have not heard too many great recovery stories when it comes to computer viruses and breakdowns. I panicked and was wounded, hurt, frustrated, and mostly angry. At myself.
I have moped around the house for the past two days not just devastated at the loss of our photos and videos, but raging inside at myself for failing to realize that the computer was going to crash before I had the chance to get the photos saved and documents backed up. Completely irrational, I understand, but I can be rather unforgiving of myself. The computer has a virus. With a hardly secured line in this country, out in the woods really, according to our provider anyway, we cannot get more secured than we are and yet, I was shocked to find us with some sort of crazy virus wreaking havoc. I was angry and I think, I must admit, I did it all wrong. I punished myself, could not chalk it up to fate or bad planning. I thought of everything we'd lost and hated myself for losing it. I said, why didn't I just do this or that, couldn't I have taken the time to back up, copy, save, whatever. I didn't want to see anyone and saw the beautiful images of Lily and Virginie smiling at me, melting into the void. I seem to have forgotten that the images and not the girls were gone.
The truth is, I will back everything up in the future, but for now, the pictures, the videos, the documents are gone and we are, technically, not the worse for it. There is another camera with files and photos on it. The girls do not have to have 500 photos of themselves on any given day. And I am human. I made a mistake. I have to find a place where it is OK for me, and for everyone else really, to be so. And herein lies the lesson.
When I was nearly destroyed by post-partum depression, I was furious with myself for not being able to pull it together. I hated myself more each day for failing to show my babies how I loved them when I hated myself and nearly every breath I took. I couldn't believe how difficult it was for me to just reach for them and cuddle them without being exhausted or weepy or completely put out. I didn't ask for help for myself, thought that if no one could see my pain, then it wasn't really so. I said things like, you idiot. What kind of mother are you? You have the most beautiful children and you don't seem to realize it. Get it together. Women have been doing this forever. Who are you that you need more than everyone else?
When I fell to the floor with a kidney stone, I begged, please protect my children, and tried to keep a cool face for them and wondered, how the heck did I do this? I looked for fault, for what I had done wrong to cause this. It was even worse when my body was unable to endure the pain and I vomited for hours on end causing me to need admittance to the hospital, having been refused a release to my home on my own recognizance. I was pissed. At myself again.
Now, with a virtual illness, I have come back to my usual punching bag, myself. I am trying to let it go. Let it go. Let it go. I was sick. The computer is sick. Everyone is getting better and you go forward from here. I have to forgive myself for being human, for being imperfect, for making mistakes, for fucking up some times, or I will always be sick, unable to heal, or grow, or connect to a deeper, more spiritual place. While it is difficult to release myself from this inherent cruelty, withholding even the smallest kindness to myself, the thought of Lily and Virginie feeling the same makes me want to heal.
I have done fewer absolutions than usual and have not denied myself small pleasures. I have not reconstructed all the events of the past months when the computer started acting a little crazy and had to be rebooted. We are just going forward from today. And each day. And the next, until we are just living and being. All in good health. With an external hard drive and back up disks.
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
(Pictures will start up again on the next posts. Thanks for your patience. I am only human.)
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
La Fete de Holetown
The Holetown Festival commemorates the arrival of the first English settlers, eighty in all along with ten slaves, some time between February 18th and 20th, 1627 in Holetown, a small town on the West Coast of what would become the English colony of Barbados. The first celebration of this event took place in 1977 and has since developed into a week of activities that include a parade, the dooflicky, stalls selling traditional Barbadian crafts and tourist trinkets, food and drink, and music from gospel, tuk band, calypso, and anything else one might want to dance to. I missed the festival last year because I just couldn't see myself walking with Lily and Virginie through the crowded streets and pathways of Holetown on my own, and to tell the truth, I wasn't really all that interested. In my new lease on everything, I thought, why not? Lily would surely find something interesting and anything that changes the weekend program is a good thing for us.
We took the first bus that stopped for us, that would be the fourth, as we were warned that traffic would be difficult. As traffic is usually a pain in the ass in Holetown, I heeded the advice. We were dropped just outside of town at the Limegrove Shopping Centre, and made our way over on foot, Virginie sitting comfortably in her stroller. There were stalls with shells and coconut sculptures, leather shoes, necklaces, and the usual crap--Dora balloons, bubbles, pinwheels, bouncy balls, and other silly toys and trinkets. Food and beer stalls were in abundance as well and I partook like a fool. Hot dogs, burgers, and the highlight, really the only thing worth trying, the fishcakes. Definitely not something one can eat every day, but when they are made well, oh my, they are like little fish beignets or donuts. Fried on the outside, soft and doughy with little fish bits inside. When they are bad, they are horrendous. We had some of those the next day.
I was pretty well prepared for all that was sold in the Holetown stalls, vendors selling trinkets and other stuff, for lack of a better word, from my years attending street fairs in Manhattan. Except for the Peruvian sweaters, all the usual nonsense was there--sheets, compilation CDs playing reggae and dance hall, bras and underwear, shoes, sandals, dresses, tshirts, silly artist crafts, and YES, I mean silly. I am not knocking the work of any artist out there moved by materials, but I think a bobblehead turtle made from a coconut shell can surely be called ridiculous. There was face painting, cotton candy, ice cream cones and snowcones. You know, all the stuff that says historical celebration.
To cover that arena, there was the antique car show and the dooflicky. A dooflicky, by West Indian definition is a special event or thing and this thing was...special. Scheduled for 2 pm in the afternoon, it was delayed due to rain and rescheduled for 4 pm. I would like to tell you it was worth the wait. Seeing the guys up on the stilts and a little wild dancing made it so. But the one and 1/2 minute show, and this is no exaggeration, left a little to be desired. Before I could even begin to establish just what was going on, it was over. I do know this. There was a bride, some guys dressed up as green monkeys, mascots of Barbados, two dudes on stilts, and lots of wiggling and music. Over and out.
The meltdown of Lily began shortly after that. She was dying for some full on attention and demanded more toys, cotton candy, and face painting at just the moment that I was about to lose my cool. It was hot out there. Had rained. On us. I had two demanding girls on my own and it was time to go home. Only thing was, getting home was to involve another bus ride, carting a stroller, toddler, preschooler and now two big blow up horses that I had been suckered into purchasing. Lily's total freak out would generate stares and snickers from the nosy busriders, more than usual because now she would not just be a mixed little girl with black momma going for a ride, she would be the badly behaved little spoiled 1/2 white child with her clearly poor disciplinary mother who was so out of control, she was carted along in a stroller when she should be walking. (Didier and I often joke that once a baby can stand up, that's it, no mercy here in Barbados. Get them walking on the street.)
So I did what any fool would do. I walked home from the Holetown Festival, about a mile or so, pushing Lily in a busted, broken down stroller, and wearing Virginie in a "Hip Hammock," a kind of sling for larger toddlers. It was totally insane, and as a gesture, I made Lily walk the last few yards so she felt like she did something and I did not feel like Doormat Mommy. And even though my body was killing me the next day, I still enjoyed the whole thing. Meeting up with friends, celebrating in the country that we have not adopted, but in which we live, watching the crowds, and exposing my children to something new, I felt like I had accomplished something and had given Lily something to discuss in her "news" at school on Monday. For the rest of my life, I can share details of the Holetown Festival in Barbados the way other people reference Mardi Gras or Carnival around the world. OK, maybe not that good, but you know what I mean.
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
(A crashed computer with loads of photos has prevented me from being able to share images of this event. My apologies. I can assure you that I am more devastated than you.)
We took the first bus that stopped for us, that would be the fourth, as we were warned that traffic would be difficult. As traffic is usually a pain in the ass in Holetown, I heeded the advice. We were dropped just outside of town at the Limegrove Shopping Centre, and made our way over on foot, Virginie sitting comfortably in her stroller. There were stalls with shells and coconut sculptures, leather shoes, necklaces, and the usual crap--Dora balloons, bubbles, pinwheels, bouncy balls, and other silly toys and trinkets. Food and beer stalls were in abundance as well and I partook like a fool. Hot dogs, burgers, and the highlight, really the only thing worth trying, the fishcakes. Definitely not something one can eat every day, but when they are made well, oh my, they are like little fish beignets or donuts. Fried on the outside, soft and doughy with little fish bits inside. When they are bad, they are horrendous. We had some of those the next day.
I was pretty well prepared for all that was sold in the Holetown stalls, vendors selling trinkets and other stuff, for lack of a better word, from my years attending street fairs in Manhattan. Except for the Peruvian sweaters, all the usual nonsense was there--sheets, compilation CDs playing reggae and dance hall, bras and underwear, shoes, sandals, dresses, tshirts, silly artist crafts, and YES, I mean silly. I am not knocking the work of any artist out there moved by materials, but I think a bobblehead turtle made from a coconut shell can surely be called ridiculous. There was face painting, cotton candy, ice cream cones and snowcones. You know, all the stuff that says historical celebration.
To cover that arena, there was the antique car show and the dooflicky. A dooflicky, by West Indian definition is a special event or thing and this thing was...special. Scheduled for 2 pm in the afternoon, it was delayed due to rain and rescheduled for 4 pm. I would like to tell you it was worth the wait. Seeing the guys up on the stilts and a little wild dancing made it so. But the one and 1/2 minute show, and this is no exaggeration, left a little to be desired. Before I could even begin to establish just what was going on, it was over. I do know this. There was a bride, some guys dressed up as green monkeys, mascots of Barbados, two dudes on stilts, and lots of wiggling and music. Over and out.
The meltdown of Lily began shortly after that. She was dying for some full on attention and demanded more toys, cotton candy, and face painting at just the moment that I was about to lose my cool. It was hot out there. Had rained. On us. I had two demanding girls on my own and it was time to go home. Only thing was, getting home was to involve another bus ride, carting a stroller, toddler, preschooler and now two big blow up horses that I had been suckered into purchasing. Lily's total freak out would generate stares and snickers from the nosy busriders, more than usual because now she would not just be a mixed little girl with black momma going for a ride, she would be the badly behaved little spoiled 1/2 white child with her clearly poor disciplinary mother who was so out of control, she was carted along in a stroller when she should be walking. (Didier and I often joke that once a baby can stand up, that's it, no mercy here in Barbados. Get them walking on the street.)
So I did what any fool would do. I walked home from the Holetown Festival, about a mile or so, pushing Lily in a busted, broken down stroller, and wearing Virginie in a "Hip Hammock," a kind of sling for larger toddlers. It was totally insane, and as a gesture, I made Lily walk the last few yards so she felt like she did something and I did not feel like Doormat Mommy. And even though my body was killing me the next day, I still enjoyed the whole thing. Meeting up with friends, celebrating in the country that we have not adopted, but in which we live, watching the crowds, and exposing my children to something new, I felt like I had accomplished something and had given Lily something to discuss in her "news" at school on Monday. For the rest of my life, I can share details of the Holetown Festival in Barbados the way other people reference Mardi Gras or Carnival around the world. OK, maybe not that good, but you know what I mean.
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
(A crashed computer with loads of photos has prevented me from being able to share images of this event. My apologies. I can assure you that I am more devastated than you.)
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Moon Town, Clowns
Moon Town was quite adorable actually. A tiny makeshift dining place on the edge of the sea, past Speightstown in the North of Barbados, tucked in by Earl's Funeral Home which also runs a taxi service and St. Elmo's Enterprises, Inc. The hanging Christmas lights gave the place a sparkly, twinkly glow, perfect for sitting by the sea after a day of sunning, swimming, turtle chasing, snorkeling, diving, or for the locals, working. Perfect if you have lots of time to spend and are able to imbibe like a champion, because speed and efficiency are not part of the program in Moon Town (or anywhere in Barbados really) and speed and efficiency were, unfortunately, exactly what we were looking for on Friday night.
We got there past 7 pm, another bad sign. Everyone got there past 7 pm as everyone tends to do when it comes to dinner. In Manhattan, the witching hour is 7:30 as my years as a restaurant hostess, maitre d', and manager can attest. Uh, we'd like a reservation, not too early. How is 7:30? I am sorry, sir/ma'am, but we are booked at 7:30. Would you like 7:45 or 8:15? What? I cannot believe you don't have 7:30. We'd really like to come at 7:30. Well, in a place without reservations, everyone comes at the time they'd like. Moon Town, Friday evening? 7:00.
Watching many tables order and get served, I started to get nervous as I realized that our table with five children, four of them five years or under, had not even been approached. While Lily and Virginie had had a nap after school pick up and had woken up at 4:30, I 'd never really tested the theory that late nap would mean late bedtime. I can say now that it was a pretty bad assumption that this would be so. My people decided to start the meltdown pretty immediately. I'd gotten a ride to Moon Town and man was I thinking I might need one of the funeral home's taxis home. We did need to eat and we were celebrating, but I was alone with the girls (big surprise there) and I was coming to my wits' end. The getting up, rolling on the floor, taking off of clothes, crying, begging to nurse (Very nice. In the middle of a busy dining room full of ogling Bajans, my child wants me to whip my boobs out on the table to give her some comfort. I need to get her off these things.) I'd like to say that the commotion at our table inspired our waitress to get a move on, but nothing of the sort. We ordered with my friend Wendy and I both standing at the ready in the hopes that our vigilance would inspire her attentiveness and a little speed. Again, not the case. Over an hour after ordering, dinner was served.
Dinner, for Lily, Virginie, and me was chicken and chips/fries and pork, macaroni pie (a Bajan specialty, really macaroni and cheese with ketchup), and salad. For everyone else, different fresh fish, the pie, chips. On Styrofoam plates. With plastic forks and knives. Not my bag, but I do understand the charm. It feels authentic. The food is hearty. One imagines one is eating "like a Bajan," whatever that means. But I ate frantically, just trying to get something in my belly before the kids fell apart. I got in a couple of bites and it all went down from there. Wendy, who'd been holding Virginie for me so I could eat, saw her littlest fall on the floor and hit her head causing her to scream in agony and from complete fatigue. She then had to pass Virginie back to me so she could tend to her baby.
Much of the food in Barbados for me, save the fishcakes, is like eating ramen noodles late night in college. You can take it or leave it, but often eat it because you are bored. All the imagination about life on the island, an abundance of fresh food, fruits, veg, fish is just a myth, much of the food being imported. There is fresh fish which is nice, but there is no celebrated national cuisine, so going out "Bajan" just means sitting with them and liming the night away. All that to say, I wasn't really that hungry anymore and was certainly not inspired.
At least there was consistency across the board. We had to ask for the check twice and stand up as if to leave to finally get someone over to settle the bill. It wasn't expensive at all, which is surely part of the draw, and while our visit was not ideal, I would still recommend a trip for people visiting. It is definitely a little slice of Barbados. But if you want to eat in a timely manner and keep the peace, take your kids long before 7.
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
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