Travel - Meanderings

Howler Monkey Club, Slothfulness and O Canada!

There were 17 travelling companions – 12 Canadians, three from the USA, one tour guide and one driver. We were on a one week safari followed by one week at La Costa Resort in Costa Rica.

Off the plane in San Jose and there is our Tika Tour guide, the beautiful Patricia, our driver Manuel and our bus. We are not staying in San Jose so luggage stored, we are on our way to our first safari stop Manuel Antonio Park then to our lodge the Costa Verde. We stop at Biologica Carara Park for snacks and are surrounded by these squawking, extremely loud monkeys. Patricia tells us these are howler monkeys and they are found all over Costa Rica, can be quite mischievous and will spit at you. They emit a loud, grunting cacophony.

A group swings near and I grunt back trying to ape their sound. Our group follows suit and hence was born the Howler Monkey Club. For the next 14 days we started the day with a howl, ended it with a howl and howled at every howler monkey we saw.

Costa Rica abounds with exotic wildlife, enumerable birds unbelievable flora and fauna. It is all there and accessible. You will get a front row seat, or choose a back row, to observe mammoth crocodiles, huge iguanas, beautiful hummingbirds, toucans, macaws, armadillos, snakes and more snakes and more.

Our driver stops abruptly and points up into a tree. Ah! There is a sloth! Here is the confirmation that slothfulness is in truth a deadly sin. The sloth was going from one limb to another a distance of maybe two feet. Manuel parked so we could watch it. We watched, and watched, and watched. We howled at it. No change just s l o w as molasses movement, almost undetectable. The sloth had moved maybe ten inches after 20 minutes. He had not rested. Watching its slow progress was painful and awesome.

Every day of the safari was memorable. Every day the Howler Monkey Club got friendlier and more connected. Every day we perfected our howl and soon Patricia was sending word ahead that she had the greatest group of mostly Canadian tourists who had become Howler Monkeys. We were not shy going into the next lodge or inn and howling to all and sundry. It was obvious that we were a happy bunch and that happiness spread. Soon everyone was talking about the group of happy Canadians who were Howlers.

Then the group split with tears and laughter and hugs and promises to keep in touch as The Howler Monkey Club. Addresses exchanged, I was given the complete list as First President. Our three single ladies were spending the next week at a bird watching sanctuary, others were on safari only and eight of us Canadians were on to La Costa Resort. We howled our farewells.

Patricia had called ahead to let our tour representative at La Costa know the ‘Club’ was on the way. We were greeted with a banner: “Welcome to the Howler Monkey Club.” We needed no encouragement. We did our howling with gusto to the delight and no doubt the horror of some guests. We had the usual introductory talk and bought tour tickets.

The resort was wonderful and at dinner we declared that this was the kind of camping we liked. We had had an incredible experience roughing it on safari and would not forget the amazing sights but were ready for a bit of sybaritic vacation living.

After a long day of boat riding and barbecue we were eating pizza and having beer. Our guide told us the next stop would be at the Pirates Cove a new restaurant and inn. The owners greeted us and we discovered they were Canadians and the business was opened only two days. Our tour guide had added this stop knowing we were all Canadians. Instead of howling, I started to sing O Canada and all the Howlers joined in. The owners cried as they and their two young children sang along. They were from Vancouver, had visited Costa Rica, fell in love with the country and sold everything they owned to buy the bar and inn.

We wished them luck. Hugs were in abundance. Next stop Cocos Bar, and then back to La Costa where we closed out the disco.

The Meander: Travelling is freeing and full of surprises. The Howler Monkey Club existed for about five years. We are still in touch with the young honeymooners. Some years ago I read the obituary of one member and sent a card to his wife. She wrote back a lovely letter reminiscing about our Howler Monkey Club. We travel for moments like these.

Iguanas and Me

If you travel in Central and South America it is almost a given that you will meet upon an iguana or two. I have met a few.

Bert was behind the wheel in Venezuela. It is one of our favourite adventures: rent a car, look at a map and choose a path not yet travelled to see what we may find. We were assured that roads leading from Puerto La Cruz were all well maintained, even the unpaved ones. We headed out and it was a beautiful secondary road that wended its way through high grassland, rolling hills and forests. We passed some tiny villages but were looking for a particular one which, according to the road signs was having a fiesta and rodeo.

We rounded a bend and there in the middle of the road was a magnificent iguana. It was huge and brown. It calmly turned its head as Bert braked and looked at us. It spread its dewlap which to me looked like a menacing warning flag signalling: “Beware!” I looked out the window and said: “Shoo”. Brilliant! Obliquely staring back at me with an insouciance that seemed scornful, the iguana just stood there. Bert could not go forward, had no room to go around so we just sat and looked at the iguana. Bert blew the horn, I continued with my awe inspiring ‘shoo’, we threw it a half banana which it sniffed, ate but still it stood motionless. We too sat immobile.

After perhaps thirty agonizing minutes the iguana waved its head from side to side and with one last supercilious look strolled across the road and disappeared into the bushes.

Our visit to the Galapagos Islands was taken with immense anticipation- Darwin, Origin of the Species, huge turtles, wildlife endemic to the islands. WOW! We scrambled over some rocks and came upon an imposing marine iguana just lying there, basking in the sun. It resembled its prehistoric dinosaur ancestors. The guide was saying this was the only lizard that can live and forage in the sea and is found only in the Galapagos. He also said something about them sneezing salt but I did not hear much as I was just gazing at the fantastic creature that seemed to hold the patent on looking seriously bored. Soon he had had enough sun and so abandoning his warming ritual he slid into the water and soon was out of sight. He was ready for lunch and had gone to feed on the algae that grew on the rocks in the sea.

Now it is some years later and we are Colombia. We were admiring the peacocks, amazingly beautiful parrots, macaws, swans and flamingos. What a show this was. We kept finding more and more beautiful birds with different coloration. Far up in a tree there was a rustling. We looked up and there was the mother of all iguanas calmly jumping from one branch to another. This was a green iguana. They call this the ‘common iguana’. Nothing about it looked common to me. It seemed that it was much too large to be jumping from branch to branch which swayed as it landed.

As I looked up, the huge lizard jumped DOWN to the ground. “Jesus, Maria y Jose.” I thought I would die. The guide calmly told us they can do that kind of jump without injuring themselves. Forgive me but I was not concerned about any injury but thinking about one landing on me. I noticed the only calm one was the guide. I saw one fellow putting his wife in front of him. Some knight! Many in the group looked up to see three more calmly eating the tender shoots seemingly oblivious to the stupid tourists gawking at them in fear and trepidation.

The first iguana I ever met I ate. It tasted like chicken? It was being digested before we found out we had eaten iguana. We were High School students from Jamaica in Mexico City at an International Youth Conference. We were busy most of the day but had lots of time for sightseeing and cultural visits arranged by the conference organizers or by our host families. This night we were to be taken to an authentic Mexican restaurant for a fabulous dinner. The meal was absolutely delicious and we tasted many different dishes. We all loved the meat enchiladas.

On the way home we asked our driver about the great tasting enchiladas. Our driver did not speak English and was rather silent but suddenly he spoke with animation and very fast but we all heard ‘lagarto’, ‘ muy grande’ ‘delicioso’. I had stopped listening at ‘lagarto’. Iguana is food. I asked: “Iguana?”. “Si, si. Iguana. Es muy delicioso.” There was a collective gasp. One fellow threw up immediately. That was good as we concentrated on the clean up and not the iguana meal.

The Meander: When I consider other culinary delights I have tasted on our travels this is by far one of the least strange though it headed the list for a long time.

Incidentally, the fiesta and rodeo featured a few heads of cattle for auction, some sway-backed horses and a girl of 14 years old who had the voice of an angel. Her family surrounded her and collected tips as she sang. We could have listened to her forever.

Alone But Not Lonely

When Ross Weber came on board he was a hirsute, grizzled, denim clad man who seemed rather diffident and cautious in his approach to people. Soon the whispers and rumours began. Our floating village was abuzz.

“Did you hear that the lanky, grizzled man is a multi-millionaire?”

“I heard he owned an island that he sold for $32 million.”

“He has never worked in his life.”

“He was a hermit and is just coming out into society.”

It was like a game of Gossip. In fact that $32 million had grown from $7 million in about three days. I was fortunate to be among those who got the truth from Ross himself.

I had not paid much attention to Ross except for the usual pleasantries in passing. Then one night he asked a friend about my origins and she invited him to join our group which met to talk out on deck or in a cozy lounge almost every night. He came but still does not know much about me as we were too interested in his story. He opened up to us, speaking in brief sentences and then he said:

“I have two tapes. They are documentaries about my life. They have been shown in New Zealand and Australia on T.V. If you can arrange it you can see them.” We surmised he was either tired of talking or did not want to go into any details. He was very shy.

Our Cruise Director was most accommodating and set up a viewing for the next sea day. We told a few people and it was also announced through the ship’s public address system. We garnered quite a crowd.

So here is a synopsis of Ross’ story. Ross had a dream to own a farm. Farmland on the mainland was very expensive. At 27 years old he was able to buy his farm and a boat because his farm was the very picturesque Puangiangi Island off the coast of New Zealand’s South Island in the beautiful Marlborough Sounds. Most small islands resemble a cup turned down in a saucer, Puangiangi however, seems to undulate in the incredibly blue waters of the Sounds. Ross shared his island with his flock of 60 sheep and the local birds. The sheep provided meat, which he dried as he had no refrigeration and he grew vegetables. He also grew his own herbal teas and grapes from which he made wine. After 47 years he sold his island and was cruising around the world for a year. The interviewer tried to get him to divulge the selling price of his island but was not successful.

While viewing the tapes, my interest peaked when I noticed the number of books in Ross’ rustic home. The walls were lined with books. There were books in boxes and other reading material everywhere. Ross said he spent more than $1000. annually on books and magazines. Ross showed his watch which he had got with a magazine subscription. It had no wristband so he carried it in his pocket. He found no need to get another because: “It still works.”

As Ross fielded questions we learned more about him. He said he was never lonely; that loneliness was for those who had nothing to do. He said he worked hard and sometimes through the night caring for the sheep, battening down during bad weather, tending his crops and doing the myriad chores necessary for one man, living alone on an island.

Ross was adamant that you should not call him a hermit. That he was not. He had yachtsmen and deep sea fishermen visiting him to walk the trails on his island. A few became friends whose arrivals he anticipated each year.

“They brought me practical gifts and had tea with me. I had friends. I had books”.

His conversation was current with a broad view of the world. He did have television in the last few years and one room with electricity powered by solar power, but the books were what kept him informed. They were his constant companions.

He was asked about needing companionship. His response was that he met some very nice women but they had other interests, jobs, relatives and did not want to live on his island. He ended with: “I just didn’t find the right one. However, I could always find the right book.”

There were those on board who wondered how soon some unscrupulous person would try to separate Ross from his money. Those were the ones who did not sit with him and see those wise blue eyes look steadily into yours and see beyond the surface. When asked what would have happened to him in an emergency with a look of surprise he simply said: “You just take care or you die.” That was literally true as for the first 10 years he had no telephone.

The Meander: Among the many fascinating people we have met on our travels, Ross is one of the most interesting. He is living proof that you can live your dream. He attests to the fact that the best non-human inanimate companion is a book. As he so often affirmed: “I had my farm. I had my books. I lived alone but was never lonely.”

Note: A version of this post first appeared in the summer 2005 Access, a journal of the Ontario Library Association.

Fishing Among Baby Alligators in Venezuela

“Hi. Have you picked another tour as yet? We are looking at this Life on the Ranch – Gaucho Day tour. It looks interesting.” Our Canadian pals greeted us at the tour desk

“That’s a coincidence. We booked that one last night. We are here to find out about rental cars as we want to drive around the countryside before going hone.” I answered.

“OK. We will book the Gaucho tour too. That should be fun.”

Highlights of the tour were fishing with baby alligators, horseback riding, watching and learning about mechanical milking of cows, a ride across the vast ranch and a fabulous barbecue lunch at a Gaucho camp. Bert was ecstatic with the fishing. I was skeptical. After all if there are baby alligators then where are the mamas and the papas? I posed said question to the tour representative who laughed. In my mind I am thinking, he who laughs last laughs best.

It is going to be another long day but we are up for it. Our guide tells us that we will be taking a scenic route to our base camp and he will point out areas of interests while the driver will give us opportunities at designated areas for photos. We settled into our seats. Drinks were distributed. On the outskirts of the city we started a sing-a-long.

The drive was scenic. We had started out at 8 a.m. and were parking at the base camp just before 10.a.m. The camp was a very large covered area which included the kitchen, a large dining area, lots of easy chairs and woven hammocks hanging from the uprights. Gosh, they looked really comfortable. My Goan pal and I immediately grabbed two side by side and deposited our paraphernalia in them. We both had brought books as we were not into fishing, especially with baby alligators.

Two aluminium boats with outboard motors were on the shore of the lagoon. Nearby were four handsome Venezuelan Gauchos each leading two horses. The plan: half go fishing, half go horseback riding and then a switch so everyone had a chance at the activities. Eight opted for fishing, six for horseback riding and my pal and I settled into our hammocks with our books. We were offered a tall mixed alcoholic drink by the cook who told us refills were always available or we could ask for something else. She was mixing up a sauce which smelled so very good. Ahhh, life is good!

Not one hour later there was a commotion on the shore. I said: “Oh my God, I hope they did not disturb a mama or papa alligator.” We left our hammocks and were met by swearing, wet, mud covered men and women. Bert blurted out the story. The boat in front had engine trouble and his boat went to their aid. Fishing lines still trailing one look down saw an alligator which was definitely a parent not a child. She screamed, another stood up in the boat which tipped it dangerously, another uttered some choice words which were not ‘Gadzooks’ or ‘Zounds’ or even ‘Jumping Jehosaphat’.

Afraid the boat would tip everyone else shouted at the boatman and guide to leave the stranded boat, take them back to shore and come back for the dead boat. No doubt uppermost in mind was self preservation. Fortunately, in the melee, attaching a tow line to the sick boat was accomplished and both came back without fish, without a few lines, without two sunhats, one pair of sun glasses but with fingers and toes intact, bruised egos, wet clothes, muddied feet and shoes and a stray weed or two here and there.

As the fishless fishermen tried to come back to a semblance of normality (the tall dinks and beer helped) we heard horse hoofs coming. “I hope they got a good ride and are coming back happier than our men.”

A woman was the first off her horse and she rushed to her fisherman husband and almost in tears said: “Please get the damn ticks off me”! The kitchen help got busy with tall drinks and beer. They also provided cotton and what smelled like kerosene with the advice to: “Just put a bit where they are and they will drop off.” Even my pal and I and our fishermen husbands were employed to help though the ticks were sometimes in places best administered to by a spouse or very close companion.

My Pal and I could not look at each other. We were being very solicitous until Bert said: “You two got the best of this deal, no alligators, no ticks, just getting drunk, reading and sleeping.” We laughed, and could not stop. We were not the most popular persons.

Lunch saved the day. It was a fantastic barbecue and it seemed they expected us to eat like a Gaucho after a day herding cattle. Good food can be a panacea. The grumbles were few, the drinks flowed, the chatter increased. When it was suggested that it was time to switch activities there was a loud, collective and heartfelt; “NO!” Instead, we had a fine siesta. Most had to be shaken awake to go for the ride on the ranch that would end with the milking of cows.

Yes, the ranch was huge. Yes, it was a bumpy ride but a scenic one and yes, we all looked on in awe as a huge herd of cows were milked all at the same time. We were as placid as the cows as we got back into our minivans for the long ride home. It was a shorter ride as the highway driving though dull, was so much faster than the scenic route of the morning. As we dropped off the first group of four the tour guide apologised and said she would ask her company for some kind of restitution for the aborted activities.

“Nah, don’t worry. I bet by the time we get home everyone would have caught a big fish, saw a ten-foot alligator and ridden across the fields like a real Gaucho. Right guys?” Everyone agreed.

The Meander: What I did not tell you? Both my Goan pal and I had not been to the bathroom all day. Why? When we asked for the key to the main lodge which was designated for our use, the cook added: “Please walk in the centre of the path, as there are sometimes a few small snakes around and their bites though not bad can hurt a bit.” I finally found something else in common with my Goan pal. We both have snakes phobias. “Snakes, did she say snakes?” We handed back the key. We no longer wanted the bathroom and the mind is so mighty we never did want it again the rest of the long day. We just NEEDED to go. At our drop off we left the social niceties to our knowing husbands and high tailed it to the bathroom. How do you spell relief?

Angel Falls

Before bucket lists became the flavour of the month Bert and I visited Angel Falls, Venezuela, the highest waterfall in the world. If one can back track on creating bucket lists then this is one adventure we would have included on our list.

Angel Falls is located in Canaima National Park which covers an area the size of Belgium. My book and brochures told of a place sacred to the indigenous Pemon Indians who had built camp accommodations for tourists who came from all parts of the world to see Angel Falls, though at the time of our visit you were not allowed to go to Angel Falls but could view them from boats, helicopters, light planes or take a six day guided hike to the base of the falls.

The trip from our hotel to the Simon Bolivar International airport would be about one and a half hours. The tour included the flight from Caracas to the airstrip at Camp Canaima during which we would view the falls. After refreshments at the camp we would take a two hour hike over a mountain, speak with a hermit, if we were lucky, gaze at spectacular vistas and get back to the camp for lunch. We could swim, fish, have a siesta, watch some craft making, shop for souvenirs and generally relax until our plane came for the return trip. We would again see the falls from a different perspective on the way back.

We spoke to a young Canadian couple, she from Goa he Canadian born. All were excited to be going to see Angel Falls.

At the airport, our tour guide led us quickly to our waiting area which was quite a trek from the entrance. As we walked to the waiting area Bert looked out the window and saw a small, somewhat decrepit airplane sitting on the tarmac.

“With our luck, I bet that will be our plane.” He said with amazing prescience. We laughed and one German guest said: “That is a DC 3 which is one of the safest and best airplanes ever built and though old I would trust it more than some of the newer ones. You can trust a DC 3 to get you where you are going.” Obviously an airplane buff he told us more than anyone wanted to know, but it was a paean to the craft so all positive.

That was our plane. The stewardess placed an empty beer case on the ground. That was our step up into the body of the plane. She had an upturned orange crate for a seat placed between two straps for her security. The plane took off with a loud back fire. The pilots seemed to be sharing a joke. Oh, did I reveal that there was only an open curtain between the cockpit and the cabin? The plane rose and settled with a sound that was reminiscent of a buzz saw. I looked around. The German seemed to be praying. Our Canadian couple was a study in contrasts. He was slightly green, echoing Bert’s new hue while his Goan wife was eagerly looking out the window, bursting with curiosity. The tension was palpable.

We leveled off and immediately our intrepid stewardess came around with beer, juices and water, all part of the impeccable service. She never ceased serving the entire two hours it took to get to our destination. Throughout the flight the two pilots joked, listened to the radio and only interrupted the cabin chatter and prayers to announce that there was heavy fog and we would not be able to see Angel Falls on the way in but we would on the way back. Speculation as to which was the better side to see the falls became the new topic of conversation.

It was a relief to land. Comments varied. The Pessimist: “I just hope we can get back. We are in deep jungle here.” The optimist: “Well, if Mr. Angel and his WIFE (his emphasis) could make it down from the top of the falls then we can get out of here too.” Me: “Yes, but it took them 12 days and by that time I would have missed my flight home.”

The scenery was breathtaking! We were climbing up a ridge overlooking the lagoon. We saw the hut, but no luck. The hermit was not at home. The local guide told us he was from the USA and that he could be around but not wanting to receive visitors today.

We rounded a bend and the guides brought out large strong plastic bags.

“Please put your bags, cameras, anything you do not want to get wet in these. We will be walking under a waterfall. Also we would like you to walk in single file and stay close to the mountain.”

Carrying the bags and armed with waterproof flashlights, we were led over large wet rocks and boulders, on no defined path, a watery screen on the left, wet craggy outcrops as hand holds on the right, and a sheer, extremely hazardous drop to the lagoon, if you make it. The worst possible walk for anyone with acrophobia (read Bert! We followed instructions closely except for our Goan pal who was scrambling all over the boulders, peering through the falling water, standing on the edge exclaiming about the views. Her husband meanwhile had joined the praying group.

“Were you not concerned when your wife leaned over the edge of the cliff?” I asked.

“Oh, no. She is a mountain goat. She does this all the time. She is really adventurous.” He laughs. She laughs. I shudder.

The hike continued. Wonderful vistas all around, but I was happy to see the Camp and lunch and the plane sitting comfortably on the tarmac. Lunch was very good.

Our languorous, supine selves are rudely aroused by repeated back fires. Smoke billowed from the undercarriage of our aircraft. The stewardess beckoned. No one rushed to board.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the weather is beautiful for our flight and views of Angel Falls.”

The views of Angel Falls are spectacular. Unforgettable. We were being flown though an opening between two hugs mountains. We flew in one way, turned and flew the other way. The pilots did some dips and turns and gave us spectacular views from all sides. At times you felt you could touch the sides of the two mountains on either side of the aircraft. A green Bert soon exclaimed:

“That’s enough. Let’s just get the hell out of here.” Both cheers and groans are heard when the pilots announce the last sweep.

The stewardess continued her beer rounds. We are invited to see the cockpit. There are quite a few takers, including me. The pilots are great. I accept the invitation to ‘fly the plane’ while they announce: “We have a new pilot flying the plane”. Such fun.

“Did you really fly the plane?” Bert asks. All around answered: ”Yes.” We laugh. We are more relaxed. The gambit worked.

We are back at Simon Bolivar International airport. We find our waiting minibus. On the way in it was quiet, on the way out we cannot stop talking about our wonderful adventure.

The Meander: I would not want to go to Venezuela now. I am grateful we have been there, done that!

On our way home we changed aircraft at La Guardia. We went from an airbus to a DC 3. Updated, of course. Serendipitous?

I Looove Lettuce!

It took this snowbird fleeing our Canadian Winter to make me realize I love lettuce. The year was 1996 when we fled to Indonesia to spend three unforgettable months in Bali.

We lived in Sanur village within walking distance to the beach and its many famous restaurants. Kuta Beach, only about a half hour away, is the more famous one. Crazy nightclubs crowded streets, restaurants, shopping, tourists, and the place to party and have fun. Sad to say Kuta Beach was also the site of a terrorist bombing on October 12, 2002.

It was in Bali that we met our Dutch son, Duncan (See post: A Most Unusual Birthday) and together we discovered Bali. We had some remarkable experiences among which were:

Attending a funeral rite including the burning of the body;

Visiting Pura Besakih, the Mother Temple, while an important religious ceremony was in progress;

Being served tea on the beach in raised, open, luxurious Japanese tea house tent-like structures at the magnificent hotel in Nusa Dua;

Getting a spontaneous invitation to an afterbirth ceremony and family celebration;

Getting up close but certainly not personal with a Komodo dragon on Komodo Island;

Watching the amazing carvers in Ubud bring out the most intricate art from pieces of wood;

Dining on fresh caught fish at Jimbaran Bay.

Our travels took us everywhere. Duncan was our intrepid driver, bobbing and weaving among the multitude of motorcycles carrying entire families on one small scooter.

But back to lettuce. When we had arrived in Bali we were given brochures full of information for foreigners. They stressed drinking bottled water and not using ice that was not made from purified water. In fact, in our apartment, though there was a fully functioning bathroom, we were brought pitchers of boiled water every morning to brush our teeth.

In Balinese culture there are the sacred elements of which water was perhaps the most revered. It was the lifeblood, the cleansing power, a major highway to Nirvana.

Every rite involved water. Everything was done by, in or near the water. Everything!

All three of us, as seasoned travellers had not drunk any water nor ate anything that was not peeled, boiled or cooked. Sure there were ‘western restaurants’ and very upscale hotels which we frequented.. However, even in those establishments I could not and would not eat anything raw. Thus for three whole months I did not have a raw salad. You can cook tomatoes, pickle cucumbers and boil all kinds of vegetables but, as far as I knew no-one yet had discovered a way to boil lettuce.

We had arranged to stop in Hawaii for two weeks on our way home. The plane landed. We got to our hotel and as we registered I asked about restaurants with a salad bar. Hotel receptionists are used to a variety of interesting questions. I was told that there were quite a few restaurants in Honolulu with salad bars. I smiled politely and told him that after unpacking we would come for directions to one of those restaurants.

After a 12 hour flight from Denpasar to Honolulu we were tired and hungry so it was not long before we were ready to go out for dinner. We went to the Reception. There was someone new at the desk.

“Hi. Would you direct us to a restaurant near…”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am….

“Excuse me. It must have a salad bar”

A curious glance then: “Sure, ma’am. Do you want seafood, a steakhouse or one with local specialties?”

Bert: “We are not fussy. Any of those will do…”

“But it must have a salad bar”, I interjected.

The look has gone beyond curiosity. “Should there be anything special on the salad bar”?

Now I am wondering about that question but decide that maybe she thinks I am a vegetarian.

“It must have lettuce.” The woman behind us giggled. The Receptionist’s eyes blink, no doubt to contain her own laughter. I reviewed the whole conversation in my head and thought perhaps they would decide to ask this crazy woman who seems to have an abnormal fixation on lettuce to vacate the premises.

I laughed and said: “I have not had lettuce in three months and have discovered that I really do love it. There was an undertone of relief as with a smile she said: “Then we must get you to a salad bar right away.”

The Meander: Prior to our Bali winter lettuce was just lettuce. I ate it. It was a triviality. However no food has ever tasted as good as that lettuce on that salad bar. We take so much for granted that sometimes it takes loss for us to appreciate what we have.

The Threat

Today we are off to The Seychelles. The island is Mahé home of the capital city Victoria. The port does not have a dock big enough for our cruise ship so we have to go in by tender. On the long ride to shore there was quite an animated discussion as to how small this place was. The port talk on board had mentioned that Victoria was perhaps the smallest Capital City in the world. Having been to Pitcairn Island I argued that Adamstown, Pitcairn Island, with a count of 54 as total population for the country was the smallest. The question became how do you define a city?

The next observation concerned the name of this city, Victoria. We were on a world cruise and could recognize whenever we arrived at a former British territory, because in every one there was a Victoria town, city, clock, square, street, mall, building, or market, take your pick. Another marker was the left hand driving. It gave new meaning to the sun never setting on the British Empire.

On shore, we (two couples) hire a driver/guide who told us he would show us the entire island and take us to the best beach restaurant in Mahė for the Sunday Brunch.

Mahė is beautiful and Sergio our driver/guide was knowledgeable. He drove up to high mountain rain forests, down into deep valleys. He showed us beautiful beaches, amazing rock formations and pointed out exotic flowers and birds. A most interesting sight was the Coco de Mer which is a twin coconut indigenous to the Seychelles. They are a protected species. On seeing the male plant (L) and the female (R), overheated imaginations brought waggish comments, titters and guffaws. We were nonchalant having been given the heads up, er..bottoms up? by Sergio.

We walked through a part of Morne National Parc, once a large slave plantation. There is a viewing pavilion which was opened by Queen Elizabeth II in 1972 and from there the view was absolutely stupendous.

We drove by the very rich and secluded Baha’i compound and Sergio told us the current wife of the President was the daughter of the leader of the Baha’i Community. He was quite proud of the fact the Baha’i Faith was founded in The Seychelles.

It was a very hot day and we were hungry too. Thankfully Sergio announced we were only fifteen minutes from Anse Takamaka beach where we would have lunch. What a relief! A gorgeous beach, an indoor /outdoor restaurant set with bright tropical linen, flowers on every table, long cold drinks being made by the bartender. We looked over at the villas and all decided this would be a perfect place for a relaxing holiday. But now, on to the Sunday buffet where everything looked wonderful.

“Hello my friends. What would you like to try first? You may come back as often as you like.” The smiling serves welcomed us and gave information about how each dish was cooked.

“Seychelles cuisine is a fusion of Creole, African, French and more. We have something for everyone. This huge fish is a red snapper and there are four curries, many Creole salads, chicken, pork, curried octopus, different kinds of rice dishes, fried plantain, curried bat which is a specialty….”

“Hold on, curried BAT!!!???” I asked in astonishment.

“Oh yes, they are fruit bats and they are delicious.”

I shuddered. I would pass on that dish, but adventurous Al looked at it and said:

“Curried bat? I think I will try it.” Immediately, Peg, Al’s wife, looked at him in horror and said: “You put that in your mouth and you will never kiss me again.” It was not only the vehemence of the statement that got us laughing but the look on her face of consternation, disbelief and other emotions that defied description. The depth of her abhorrence gave a gravitas to the statement that far outweighed the situation. It was a profound, heartfelt and dire threat.

Lunch was absolutely delicious. We ate, and ate. Al never touched the bat. Obviously, he preferred the kisses.

As we were leaving, Sergio walked us over to see the giant tortoises, indigenous to The Seychelles resting in their enclosure. They were indolent. They are HUGE.

Sergio delivered!

The Meander: The Seychelles will always be remembered not only for its beauty but for this experience I call the threat. I have yet to meet someone without a phobia. How were we to know that for Peg, it was bats. For Peg, eating the enemy was just not on. For me, another page for my story book of travel adventures. Unforgettable.

Gibraltar and Dreams

“Phew! That piece of fish was as big as a surf board. I can’t believe I ate the whole thing and most of the chips too.”

This was perhaps our fourth or fifth visit to Gibraltar, The Rock, and as usual we had just finished a late lunch at Roy’s Cod Plaice (sic) in the main square. It was almost a ritual.

Another ritual was to walk to the corner where this jolly, Cockney fellow sold inexpensive watches. The first time we met he offered me one of his $10.00 watches. I told him I had just bought one in a store just up the road. “Hahah, I bet you paid a lot more for it and it tells the same time.” Everyone laughed. Again we listened to his spiel before buying another $10.00 watch. But now it was time to return to our ship.

Too full, read lazy, to walk to the shuttle service pick up point, we hailed a cab and requested to be taken to the pier. Immediately, and as is his norm, Bert started a conversation.

“Where do you think we come from?”

“America”

“No, no! We are Canadians but I want you to guess where we were born”. After a few tries Bert told our driver he was from the Netherlands then asked him: “Where do you think my wife was born?”

The driver smiled and said: “America”. A laugh and then: “Wrong again. My wife is from Jamaica.”

“Jamaica! Jamaica! Do you know the Papine Market?” I looked at him in amazement. “Of course, I do. How do you know it? Have you been there?”

“No, my lady. My mother was an evacuee to Jamaica during World War II. She lived in Gibraltar Camp and every Saturday she would go to shop at the Papine Market. She always talked about her time in Jamaica, about the food, the fruits, the wonderful, kind people. She loved it.

There were tears in his eyes as he spoke of his mother who had died recently. He refused our fare. He kept holding on to my hand and shaking Bert’s hand for a long time.

A year later I was introduced to Dr. Diana Cooper-Clark, a Professor at York University and Jamaican by birth. We bonded immediately. It happened that Diana was in the middle of doing research on Gibraltar Camp, Jamaica’s role in the Holocaust and the Jewish refugees, most from Poland and the Netherlands who were housed at the Camp.

The recently published (2017) Dreams of Re- Creation in Jamaica: The Holocaust, Internment, Jewish Refugees in Gibraltar Camp, Jamaican Jews and Sephardim, is the result of Diana’s more than 18 years of meticulous research and her commitment to bring this little known piece of Holocaust history to light. It is at once a paean to her Jamaican background, a lifeline for the survivors, education for Jamaicans and the world, a moment in history captured for posterity and recorded with love and respect for the survivors, their descendants and the Jamaicans who enfolded them in love during a terrible time in history.

Dr. Cooper-Clark took some survivors and descendants to Jamaica for a reunion in November 2016. Yes, they visited Papine Market, the camps and St. Andrews Girls School, one of the schools the children attended courtesy of the Jamaican government and the generosity of Jamaican Jews. She tells of the many tears shed as they remembered. Observe Diana as she talks of the reunion and you can see this is one moment in her life forever indelibly engraved in her heart.

The Meander: Serendipity? Coincidence? I do not know. Gibraltar Camp is now part of the Mona Campus of the University of the West Indies, Jamaica. Many students have gone to lectures at Gibraltar Hall, have walked Gibraltar Lane and Path have seen the old ruins, remnants of the little city on the banks of the Hope River without knowing their import. Diana has given face and substance to the place, the buildings, the people, and the times. This is history with heart.

Just one more thing for me to do to close this particular circle: I will be sending a copy of Diana’s book to the John Mackintosh Hall Library – the only public library in Gibraltar. Who knows? Maybe that taxi driver will see it and read it and fill in the gaps of his mother’s story.

The Dodo is…

We were all excited. Next port was Mauritius and we had decided that one stop we had to make was to the Museum of Natural History to see the only complete Dodo bird in existence, stuffed of course, as the last reported sighting of this extinct bird was in 1682. We were a small group of world cruisers who in no time had become as thick as thieves.

“The dodo is in the Museum of Natural History right downtown Port Louis. It is in a park. We can take either a water taxi or land taxi into town.” There was some joshing as they were used to my having a modicum of knowledge on ports and sights. The fact is that I go, and listen, to port talks.

Bea pointed: “There is a water taxi, but that does not look safe at all.”

“I agree. I think we have to go the land taxi route. At the port talk there was a woman who has been here before explaining that getting out from the water taxis can be dangerous and involves climbing vertical iron steps.” I reminded them.

We opted for the land taxi. The drivers were not the most hospitable bunch as each one demanded we take a tour before being dropped off in town. We finally settled on a tour costing $20.

The tour was worth it. Mauritius is quite beautiful but you have to go away from Port Louis to see that. Once we left the port area and started on the road which wound between sugar cane plantations, up to the beautiful church on the hill and drove into the country we were pleasantly surprised. We drove by the City cemetery, library, Hindu Temple and various consulates. But the dodo was our objective and soon we were dropped off in town near the park gates. Our driver/tour guide told us how to find the museum.

“I wonder why we say as dumb as a dodo?” Jay asked. For the first time our driver smiled.

“Because they are stupid and look stupid too!” he exclaimed as he drove away.

(Dodo – Illustration)

The museum exhibit cleared that up somewhat. Apparently the Portuguese named it ‘doudo’ which means ‘fool ‘or ‘crazy’. But the dodo is also to blame for its name. They were not used to humans so when the first settlers came the dodo were fearless and also curious. They went up to greet these strange new creatures. The Dutch, who were the first settlers looked at these fat funny looking flightless birds and saw MEAT! The hungry Dutch sailors and first settlers ate them to extinction. That is a popular theory. The more reasonable and scientific explanation is that the rats, cats, dogs, pigs, goats and deer brought to the island by the settlers contributed greatly to the dodo’s extinction. The dodo was meat for one and all.

There is an entire gallery devoted to the dodo which is the national bird and which you see on stamps, clothing, souvenirs of every form, coins, buildings, and a very colourful statue of the dodo in the park. Mauritians are very proud of their museum and of this bird which is synonymous with extinction and obsolescence.

We left the museum transitioning from the somewhat ridiculously sublime to the ridiculous as after only a few steps to the market we came upon outlet stores for Hugo Boss and Ralph Lauren. We knew that both these companies had factories and ergo outlet stores here in Port Louis. Here they were.

Eureka! Jeans from Hugo Boss! T-shirts from Ralph Lauren!. Buy, buy, buy at some ridiculous prices too.

That night on board ship, as we rehashed the day we decided that seeing the stuffed dodo in Mauritius was not a bucket list item but rather a ‘bragging rights’ travel story. What’s the difference? We toured Port Louis, Mauritius and the Museum of Natural History on March 30^th. Just six weeks prior we had attended the opera at the Sydney Opera House, Australia. Now THAT was an item on all our bucket lists!

Which would you choose for your bucket list?

The Meander: Travel to discover. It is an education. I do not believe that the Mauritius Museum of Natural History appears on any top ten list of museums. However, read about the history of Mauritius and about the extinction of the dodo and you cannot help but think about how man can and does encroach on nature with devastating results. The Dodo did not stand a chance.

Mutiny on the Bounty Lives on in Pitcairn Island

As the longboats slowly pulled away from our ship, the islanders were singing a hymn. Those not pulling on oars were waving to the cruise passengers lined up along the open deck. It appeared that every passenger and crew were waving back. I turned to savour the moment with Bert and saw there were tears in his eyes.

“Why are you sad?” I asked.

“What are they going back to? Nothing.” he said. I wondered at that observation but kept quiet.

Pitcairn lived up to its billing. You are in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean midway between Chile and New Zealand. You finally realize how the mutineers could ‘disappear’ as we are in fact in the middle of nowhere. It is also the place that proved beyond a doubt that “you can find a Jamaican in every corner of the world”. Yes, the social worker on Pitcairn was English of Jamaican descent.

There were 49 permanent residents plus an administrator, his wife and two children, a nurse and the social worker who are contracted workers. That was the total population. Pitcairn is a British Overseas Territory administered from New Zealand.

By name and nature they are Christian as almost half the population, Caucasian or Polynesian in appearance carries that surname and when the expedition left England to search for the island there was a Seventh Day Adventist Missionary on board who baptized them all. Pitcairn Islanders are all Seventh Day Adventists.

We learnt this and more from a Christian, the great-great and more greats grandson of Fletcher Christian, he of the famous Mutiny on the Bounty. It was a most informative talk. We learnt that they were not totally isolated as they could and did have the means to connect to the internet for two hours most days. The 45 minute talk became a more than two hour session as the questions flew.

Questions: “What do you eat? Where do you get your food? Do you make anything on the island? Where do you get any money? Who looks after legal matters?”

Answers: “A supply ship comes from New Zealand. It also brings mail and whatever we have ordered. Cruise ships like yours stop and bring us things like toilet paper, potatoes flour, soap. We are grateful for all that. We fish, have a few goats, pigs and chickens. On the island we have a barter system, trading everything and sharing everything. Our administrator looks after the official duties.”

“Our biggest export for money is our stamps. We have brought our post office on board so you can be proud owners of a Pitcairn Island stamp. Better yet, write a card to yourself and we will frank it and mail it to you. They are being traded on E-Bay! We also make crafts that are for sale in the market set up in the lounge.”

If the Administrator was the Governor then Steve (or was it Tom?), Christian was the Mayor. There was no question he could not answer and is often invited to speak about life on Pitcairn internationally. He shares his fees and gratuities with the islanders. I would guess he has to pay for excess baggage after each engagement.

The current major topic of conversation concerned the recent judgment passed down from the highest court in England. The islanders were accused of incest. The islanders lost. They were to be jailed. A six-cell jail was built, duly inspected and opened ready for the incarceration of the convicted incest offenders. The jail, perhaps the best built structure on the island was being put to good if unintended use as follows:

One cell was the general activity and exercise room

One room was used by the social worker for one on one consultation

One was a sewing and craft room

One for a meeting place

One was the medical facility

One was used for its intended purpose, though it was rarely occupied.

An excellent use of resources I thought.

As the longboats rowed to the small island and Bert wiped away a tear an announcement was made that Captain Erik had given the order for some earth and sand from the island be brought from Pitcairn and placed on the aft deck. Passengers were invited to walk on Pitcairn soil. Since we were unable to walk on Pitcairn, Captain Erik did the next best for his passengers. He brought a little sample of Pitcairn to us. We did walk on Pitcairn soil. Thank you Captain Erik for an unforgettable experience.

The Meander: As I stepped in the soil, I looked out at the shrinking longboats riding the waves. The singing waned. I think I understood Bert’s tears. Do these Islanders live a life of only minutiae? What do they dream about, hope for? What do they plan for? Are there any big ideas or desires to be explored or is every day distilled into just the immediate, bare necessities for existence? I want to think they are rowing home to more than nothing. I still ponder that.

Oh yes, we did buy postcards and stamps, mailed a few to friends and to ourselves. Maybe if I can remember where they are I will sell them on E-Bay – Nah!