Missing the Caribbean…
Seven years in a foreign place that has become a home cannot be discarded.
I miss..
The rolling waves crashing against the shore as I watch from the bayfront… The waves looking like soap suds or bubbling champagne, the bluish tint disappearing onto the brown earth. The sea is everywhere. It is an island after all.
The fresh breeze from the ocean, my hair moving while I peer from my dad’s car window…
Sleeping at the backseat of my dad’s car as he drives me to school early in the morning. I am trying to catch some sleep before dealing with calculus and physics and computer science at the Clifton Dupigny Community College.
The cool shallow rivers…with surrounding trees that speak of some local mystery, of ghosts, of obeah (witchcraft)…
The antique looking, but updated public library…It keeps some rarities that I enjoy spending my free hours on…reading a thick book of mysteries or well-preserved classics…
Lying down on a table in our verandah in a shirt and shorts…listening to, and watching the rain pouring down hard outside… The drops feel cleansing. The air is cool. The mountains are filled with mist.
Hiking at Fort Shirley. Breathing in history…the place where the French and English have battled. Lying down on freshly mowed grass, gazing at the clouds. The sun is not harsh, but calming.
Joy rides. Looking at the contrast of mountains and nature in all its glory, to mansions built on the edges of hills…Wondering at names of places like Massacre (pronounced as Masak) which tells of its violent history. Morbidly gazing at cemeteries built by hillsides.
Taking a walk downtown, loving how the people have kept their culture intact while becoming modernized in fashion and technology…
Specialty and souvenir shops…
Rum and raisin ice cream (YUM)
passing by cricket games…loving the contrast of black skin on white uniform…
Asian gatherings. Meeting with people from Japan, China, Taiwan, India, Sri Lanka and the Philippines… uniting with people who are also considered foreigners
Creole day…national costumes…Speaking in patois (patwa), a combination of French and Afrikaans… at least they do speak patois…I listen uncomprehendingly, but immersed in their feeling of pride.
Calypso, which has annoyed me before, but I now appreciate this fast moving, sometimes political music which can well be mistaken as noise by some who cannot understand. I want to understand.
Sunday mass. Whether you are Catholic, Born Again, Baptist or Anglican, you are in for an hour and a half or more of singing and praising. Monsignor Jno. Lewis even sings his homily. Women are in dresses and hats. People say hi to everyone, and go around to hug their friends during the "Peace be with you" part.
Sitting on a bench at the verandah to watch the sun set and disappear into the sea. Looking at the seemingly endless horizon
