ladyafro-caribe
Chronicles of an AfroCaribbean woman
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Return to Shiloh
Finally! Feet achieving delicate balance between clutch and accelerator pedals, I shifted smoothly to second, then first. The toes on my right foot, like gentle massaging fingers rest lightly on the brake, I stop; neutral. Left hand engaging the oily hot handbrake lever, I exhale tension; my shoulders slump, broomstick posture broke, I inhaled; then exhaled; and again inhaled. My chest ballooning, as healing cedar bitter air feather my lungs, and my eyelashes like a butterfly’s feet drifted against my cheek; Shiloh.
Forty five minutes of driving serpent like along endless coils of roadway which clung biliously to the edge of shale rock and fell terrifyingly, almost vertical, to the turquoise-navy ombre sea that gnawed, banged and spat froth against the oily rocks that held it prisoner. Away from the suffocating cacophonous house of inordinate paradoxes, masquerade and clichés that I lived in; not lived, existed; a house, not a home; grandiose wealth, but abject poverty. Away to this place of evocation, ‘ofumwengbe', the substratum of my great, grandmother whose father purchased these lands from the Crown. We may not have lived on the continent of Africa, but here, the spirits of our ancestry burgeon. Even now, as I sit in the clearing where my great grand mother’s house once poised gracefully on wooden posts slender like moko jumbie stilts, the cool breeze wraps me in it’s embrace, and a million voices in the silk cotton tree standing sentinel whisper their welcome.
I exit the pickup truck, a guilty, placatory gift after a particularly violent encounter, It’s shiny red and black paintwork dappled by the shadowy trees, its engine tick, ticking; cooling. I close the door with a quiet snick. Arms high above my head, I tiptoe ballerina like and pirouette, eyes closed I fall into memory. Childish laughter under the poui trees as pink and yellow flowers rain down on my head, I was a princess then, and cherished.
© Stacy Herbert
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Visit to Dead Bay
Playing truant from a job that can sometimes drain my very essence, today I trekked to Dead Bay waterfall and beach. For those readers who may be aghast at the name, I reassure you that there is absolutely no need to be, as it is not commonplace to find bodies littering the shores and staining it’s sands crimson. Au contraire, as you amble along the strand, a fine textured light beige power tickles your feet and the only carcass you may encounter, might be one of a crab or some such creature that fought a battle with the sea and lost.
The name of the bay came from a moment in our islands colonial past, when an epic battle was reputed to have been waged for territorial rights to our little “Island of the hummingbird”. This battle was reputed to have occurred in another bay just off Dead Bay known as Bloody Bay, where the bay it is said, “ran red with the blood of the dead”. The bodies which were swallowed into the great maw of the deep was vomited onto the shores of this Bay where I now stand eyes closed, face upturned, mouth and arms spread wide in a scream of release and unassailable pleasure.
We started off at 8:30 am from Parrot Hall in the Parlatuvier community, and made our way up Bamboo Hill to the original coastal road that once snaked through the villages of Bloody Bay and L'Anse Fourmi. The track is quite rough and overgrown in most areas, but we could still see the cinnamon turmeric hued outcropping of rocks that we call “Sisters” standing resolute against the sea that raked white fingers over them in an attempt at drowning with washes of furious foam. We came to a river and slid down the bank, carefully picking our way across. Over mossy boulders crusted with shell creatures clinging for dear life, sharp edges worn smooth by the polishing, incessant, imperceptibly grinding water to the other side. The rotting bones of a bailey bridge tells a story of broken, or perhaps dead communication between the island’s Infrastructural authority responsible for such things and the communities who once used this passage as the main thoroughfare. Apparently, we had missed the usual track that takes you to the beach, but we found another one further along. My gosh that one was steep! For people born here in this hilly area of the island, it might not be that bad but for me who originates from the low lying area of south west Tobago, that declivitous terrain was uncomfortable! I have lived in the community of Parlatuvier for the past 9 years or more and I am still not used to the hills, but I love it anyway.
My voice is almost engulfed by the sounds of the sea raging against a large chunk of tarry rock that stands impassive in the bowl of the bay, and the constant wind snatches my locs from the confines of a rude knot fashioned atop my head. Each rope writhing madly like Medusa's snakes sting as they lash my face and back left bare by my vest. Len, my partner in outdoor adventure, is seated in the cool shade of a breadfruit tree whose roots claw deeply into the unusual marriage of loam and sand, it’s leaves nourished to an intense green by the cool river that whispers it’s hellos' as it hustles by rattling the stones in it’s bed.
The river and the sea mates on these shores, so I took the opportunity for a ritualistic bath, washing away the negativity and frustrations of the weeks and months past. African tradition describes this place of amalgamation of river and sea as Sweet water which is the shrine of Oshun, the goddess of beauty, fertility and healing. These traditions have been passed down to me by my great grand mother, at whose feet I sat on Sunday evenings on the red painted floor of her veranda as she regaled me with stories.
I exited the restorative, and made my way up the beach to Len who was by then resting supine under a leafy mango tree. On jaunts like these we give each other space, as we use this time as opportunities to commune with nature and release pent up tension. If you can find someone that will afford you space to just be in times like these, offering help if needed but not imposing, then keep that person as a lifetime friend.
I let him know of my intention to follow the course of the river up and he decided to accompany me, following at a distance but always in sight. I occasionally stopped to check out the various plants that wave at me as I ambled by. I am very interested in natural medicinal plants so I am always on the lookout for ones that I may need. Sometimes I even meet unfamiliar ones and research them for their value.
There is a roar that becomes louder as I go further up the rivers’ course clambering over boulders, sometimes jumping from rock to rock avoiding the mossy ones. Heliconia Bihai promenade in the suddenly forested environment and nettle plants thrust themselves in my path. Ahead, a fallen tree offers a gangplank of sorts to a dark wide stony overflowing cauldron that caught the torrent of water which spewed from the mouth of a gargoyle like rock about 10 feet above. I pause, as my skin goose pimpled in the suddenly cool air and I shivered. I felt like I had entered a whole new world from the one that I was in mere seconds before. The forest seemed to crowd in with giant shady trees blocking out most of the sunlight. In the half light, I could see rocks crouched like witches around the pool, its dense contents resisting light. There is an uneasy hush. Even over the quiet roar of the waterfall I noticed the stillness. No birds or coco moth entered, when moments before Mot Mot and Barred Antshrike flitted and called from the tree canopy. I am strangely disquieted and I turn as Len caught up his eyes roaming around. “Do you want to leave?” He asks, I nod and turn, heading back.
© Stacy Herbert
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