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We have two very good friends and their son visiting us for two weeks. I brought them to a favorite happy hour spot on Friday to meet some of the "gang" as all of us in said gang have done whenever someone is visiting. Having people visit us in Barbados is like showing our true faces, who we really are, something many here seem to be hiding. Here, we are something else, like holograms on Fantasy Island. There are not often moments where we sit in truth and really show ourselves. It's sun and sea and happy hours, PTA and teacher meetings, work personas and playdate smiles. I suppose one could be whomever one wanted to be here, abandoning the lives they'd come from and starring in a new role developed especially for expatriate, island living. Because we are transient, I don't feel like I will be here long enough to share myself, and visitors from home are proof of who I once was and might still be, to myself as much as to my friends and acquaintances here.
It is not just me, but I can admit it. I can see it on the faces of the friends and family who visit as they try to figure out some of the relationships developed here, showing on their faces that they never would have seen this match up or that friendship. Wondering what a nice girl like that is doing in a place like this. I am and have always been a tough nut to crack, so I am not implying that I am or have been insincere here, but at 41, my resume is now long, much longer than the recommended one page and I have not provided many of the smaller details or fine print. For many, I have been written more in broad strokes or dramatic flourishes. With the arrival of my girlfriend and her family, the little things, the moments that have shaped me come flooding back to me and I am comforted by the knowledge that someone close to me knows me.
When we first moved here I invited everyone, EVERYONE, I knew to come and visit, in the hopes that keeping my people close would keep me in touch with me. I was identifying entirely with where I was from, something New Yorkers definitely do, and trying to live in Barbados like I was on an extended vacation. And then people didn't come. Sure, some did, but many said they would try and I believe they tried, but they couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't be able to make the trip and I found myself further and further isolated from all that I'd had to define myself. I have made friends and lost friends during this leg of the journey, come closer to many who came to my aid whether physically visiting Barbados or writing, chatting, Skyping and lost some too scared, tired, or bored with my struggle to define and defend myself in my new existence. This has been a unique opportunity for me and my family, but when I consider my own spiritual journey, it has been a true awakening.
Discovering who I am when not defined by the place or the people around me, not by the work or the clothes or the neighborhood in which I live, has been eye opening. I have reached out and reached out in despair really, especially in the beginning. Called my parents more than ever, Skyped with them under the pretense of letting them see the girls as they were rarely interested in me without the girlies, set up a Skype number with a NYC cellphone exchange to make it easier for people to call me without charges, emailed and Facebooked like a maniac, sharing pictures and anecdotes and impressions. I was not just feeling lonely. I was alone. A-lone. Alone with one's self as the only company can be a tough place to be. I know it was for me. Craving a break from the constant demands of the girls and taking care of the home, I'd begged for some time by myself and then I was overwhelmed by the silence of being alone. Of the sudden awareness that even with all my friends, even with family, contacts, schedules, and events, I, all of us really, just have ourselves. Nearly two years here in Barbados have shown me a lot about how I have presented myself, how my history has shaped me, how I have navigated the world and how I hope to once I leave here.
It really is a shame that more people did not come to stay with us as the house, the garden, the beaches, the surfing, the landscape, and being able to experience them with a "local" perspective rather than as a tourist tied to hotel or travel agency suggestions, rental cars, and meal tickets, offer an opportunity not to be missed in any country. Those who did make the trip, save one, have grown closer to us while having an amazing experience in a country they may never have considered exploring. As for me, I will try next time, if there ever is a next time, when living abroad, not to be a stranger in a strange land, a visitor, but to free myself of my definitions and live, live, live wherever I am. I have done much to improve my lot here in Barbados, but the original feeling I had when I arrived is still there.
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
Lily has started feeling sick again on the way to school. It is a bit different this time as she does not feel sick on the ride, but as we are getting closer to school, having already gone through Bridgetown. When I ask her if she likes school and her classmates and her teachers and the activities, she says she loves them. That is is supremely happy and her teacher, the gorgeous Mrs. Young, has confirmed that. Lily is well-liked, friendly, kind, attentive, all of the qualities that make up a good student and a good classmate and friend. I have been more gentle with her this time, as I know she is tender-hearted and that if something is bothering her enough to make her sick, she is letting it weigh on her little heart without having the words to express it.
This morning at the school drop off, I discovered our problem. There is a young woman at school each morning who has been assigned to tend to the smaller children before the bell rings. She looks after them, draws pictures with them, holds their hands and wipes their tears. Her name is Miss Lucas and Lily loves and adores her. This woman has made drop off not only easy, but pleasant. Lily gets kisses and hugs from Mommy, Papa, and Virginie and then jumps into the waiting arms of a hip, young Bajan lady who lets Lily listen to her iPod and teaches her schoolyard songs and games. Miss Lucas is loved by many and a group of older girls, read 6 year olds, has returned to her side each morning.
At first I thought that Lily felt edged out, but the problem is more subtle. This group of six year old girls has been fawning over Lily, petting her, trying to carry her, playing with her hair, in the morning and again at recess. They have taken out the braids I have put in in the morning and brushed her hair to craziness and given her little trinkets of love and friendship and told her that they are her best friends. She does not even know their names.
Lily's safe place with Miss Lucas is now threatened. At four and a 1/2 years old, she does not understand this kind of relationship. Some of the girls are so in her face that she loses all of her personal space. They are nearly cheek to cheek or mouth to cheek. They touch her face, pet her like a doll, try to manipulate her position so they can be closer to her or hold her. She does not have the courage to tell them to back off, nor does she have the language to express her concern about their adoration. When she came running to me this morning complaining again of an upset stomach, she looked like a deer in headlights, completely terrified. I will confess that I was not quite sure what the problem until I saw one of the girls trailing behind Lily, trying to grab her legs to lift her and carry her though she was already in motion! When Lily sat down at a bench to draw, this little girl sat almost on top of her and tried to help her draw as though she were a baby. I interceded and told her to give Lily some air, but the crazy mommy was about to come out. Before I said something I knew I shouldn't, I went straight to Mrs. Young and gave her my impressions. I thought it safer for all involved that I say no more to the little girl. She is, after all, a little girl too, but my concern right now is for my child. My child who is terrified and confused and freaked and I did not want to speak too harshly or aggressively during what is obviously a strange situation for all involved.
I was hoping I had a little more time to talk about the complexity of female relationships. We do not talk about beauty or call people special because of how they look. Lily, like most children her age, does not know that some people get more attention than others based on societal ideas about looks, beauty, charisma, charm, all that stuff. All she knows is that it feels yuck and that she just wants to play with her friends. Well I want her to play with her friends and be a regular little girl full of charm and charisma and beauty, without having to even think about it.
To be continued...
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
It's not rocket science, you know? If you want to keep your relationship alive, you have to commit to it, tend to it, keep your life in balance. It has been pretty darn tough doing that as we've had to navigate life with two small children, Didier's demanding job, drop offs and pick ups and after school activities, homework, my need to write or do anything for myself, really, sleep. Petty fighting and snippy comments, OK mostly from my end, had taken their toll on us and I must admit, I was starting not to recognize us. The "us" that was "we" before "them." Now I love our lives together and feel truly blessed to have this family, but I also loved being with Didier when all his focus, his love, his energy, his effort was directed towards me. I am seeking balance.
When you finally meet someone who tickles your fancy, someone with whom you wouldn't mind spending more than a day or two, someone with whom you not only could consider spending your life, but could not imagine not spending your life, all kinds of magic begins and there is light and sparkle. I remember it so well and catch glimpses of it when I peer at Didier as he sleeps or when he is looking at the girls as they explain something very, very important to him yet again. But I am certainly not the first, nor will I be the last to say that children, demanding work, lack of intellectually challenging work, can dampen that burning, yearning fire pretty quickly. It is not to say that we do not love each other as we surely do and say so often, well more often than we once did, but the expression of that love is often different.
Where we were once able to just pick up and get away, take the day off to roam the city, stay in bed, go to a cafe, there are now new demands. Getting to school on time, having reviewed vocabulary words, read the assigned books, packed lunches, packed backpacks, planned for after-school activities, wiped tears, calmed fears, taken one, two, three trips to the bathroom before getting in the car and then having to go once strapped in, washed dishes (by hand as we have no dishwasher), taken care of household chores and details certainly changes the morning routine. There are fewer opportunities to stare into each others' eyes, hold hands, have a conversation about ideas and thoughts and dreams rather than the minutiae of family life.
While children are often adorably narcissistic, they do actually get a little twinkle in their eyes when they see their parents in love too. They feel safe, secure, protected because their parents are a force guiding the family team. My girls were watching morning battles over seriously insignificant details of our day and wondering what Mommy was yelling about in the car. Again. And I really wasn't yelling about anything other than the fact that I was tired, dissatisfied, overworked, overwhelmed, and lonely and wanted validation for those feelings.
And then it happened. One Monday morning after dropping both Lily and Virginie at their respective schools, we found ourselves alone in the car. Without needing to go to the grocery store, pay any bills, open the gate for the gardeners, cleaning ladies, or plumber. A free morning to be together. Alone. As a couple. We walked on the beach at Paynes Bay, near the fish market and marveled at all the fish heads on the ground and manchineel apples dropped from the trees. The turquoise of the water is just luscious at that spot and we took it in, holding hands and smiling. We took a drive to Brandon Beach off Spring Garden Highway and joined the groups of old Bajan men soaking in the water chatting, Rastas bathing, young mothers splashing their babies at the shore. We walked and laughed and watched young couples playing hookie from school in the throes of early love. We remembered.
On the drive home, I put my hand over his and without uttering a word we reconnected. Warts and all, this IS the man with whom I want to spend my life, raise my children, discover the world. I just needed to see him again, to look at him, and be with him. I hope we can do this at least two or three times a month. I know it doesn't seem like much, but it is a real start. Virginie attends nursery school for just half a day right now to get back home and have her nap, so we will have three hours at best. But that three hours, that day, was pure magic. And it brought us back to love. Of course, that night there was chaos and screaming and vocabulary words and giggles and story time and dinner, dishes, and bedtime. But there were also smiles. There was peace. And there was balance.
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
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.)
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.)
I think I should have listened to my gut and heeded Wendy's warning. After the sunset ritual at Zaccios happy hour ended, a group of us, celebrating Rachael's birthday and needing to feed our children, chose Moon Town, a tourist spot, sweeter, smaller, more authentic than Oistins, to continue the festivities and have some dinner. Wendy did warn, multiple times, that it was later than she usually went and that a Friday night during season might not be the best time to go. But we went.
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.
Now this is what I am talking about. The winter in Barbados, some time from December through March, is meant to be pleasant. Gorgeous warm sun, blue skies, azure sea and beaches at which sight one just sighs and relaxes. While it has rained nearly every evening, something not typical of this "dry" season, the morning sun breaks through to provide a beautiful day with nice breezes. The sea has been calm with just enough surf to make it fun here on the West Coast, something we have definitely tried to take advantage of on Didier's days off. This, I will miss of Barbados.
Last year at this time, it was already getting hella hot, the sun laserbeaming through your skin as soon as it was approaching the top of the sky and our house, not the best place for cooling down, could reach sweat lodge temps by early morning. But these days, we have had the windows and doors opened with a cross breeze that puts this huffy puffy mum on the verge of sleep or at least lulled to a state of calm and has Lily proclaiming that she is cold. If you can believe that.
One of our new goldfish, Lemon Shortcake, picked up last weekend at the Brighton Farmers' Market and still alive five days later, thank you Jesus (RIP Plum Shortcake), is loving the atmosphere and the billowing curtains. This past Sunday afternoon, we went in search of the "Lobster man," a guy who dives for the blue spiny lobster on the sea, sometimes as deep as 150 feet with his snorkeling gear, to see if he'd caught anything that morning and while we'd not found him, the drive to his little spot was lovely. We'll get him yet.
As I have spent a little more time in the car, I have passed cricket matches, football/soccer pick up games, Sports Day Color Wars, kids flying kites, along with the usual liming crowds at rum shops and chattel houses. These images will stay with me when Barbados just becomes part of my history and no longer my present. I know it is coming because I have made some sort of peace with the place. And that is usually one of my signs. We've got guests coming in March, for nearly then entire month and this time, I want to share with them the secrets and treasures I have discovered rather than the things I despise or that kick me into a frenzy of stress and frustration. There is much that is beautiful about Barbados and like a traveller getting ready to leave a tourist destination, I can look at the time here with nostalgia, if not longing, and recall images of my babies learning to swim here, learning to stand, to walk, to talk (Virginie), to read, to speak properly and politely (Lily and Virginie), and chatting with a tiny Bajan accent that will follow them wherever we go next.
This is the place where Lily's memories are strongest, where she will recall her first school, her garden, pool, walks on the beach, collecting shells and coral each weekend, sunny afternoons liming about. Though Virginie, still a baby really, won't have much memory of it, the countless photos and videos will prove to her one day that she was indeed an island baby. Barbados was just a stepping stone for us (not sure where we are stepping to, but we are stepping), but for the girls, it was truly a place called home and in their eyes and their hearts, it was beautiful. Barbados.
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
