Roosevelt Roberts Farm

Thursday, April 30, 2009

I've been telling our landlord that I would come visit his farm on break sometime, but today was the first day that it worked out to go....had to give up a beach trip, but it was well worth it! It is quite interesting how Dominica changes just a few blocks off the beaten trail. Roosevelt and Leona Roberts, our landlords here in Glanvillia, own a piece of property inland from the main campus of Ross University. You leave the main paved road onto a dirt/gravel trail, pass the supply barns that Ross has, then into the jungle on the trail. Just a few hundred feet into the jungle and you can feel the difference. Sounds of buses on the main road fade and your just left with the dull roar of the river as it races over the rocks. It's flat walking at first and unfortunately people use this trail side as an illegal dump. Further in, the trail becomes much steeper and is cut into the side of the mountain. In some places, the river rages nearly 200 feet below the trail. The trail side is strewn with ferns, palms, flowers, citrus, lemon grass, dasheen, and the like. The lemon grass exudes a rich, almost sickenly sweet scent in the damp, cool jungle breeze. Roosevelt's first cousin, Felix I believe he said, is building a guest house/bar/restaurant about a half mile in. The scenery is beautiful there; it overlooks the Caribbean some 2 miles distance down the valley. The structure is being built on concrete stilts about 5 feet off the ground. Below, the valley levels into a banana plantation before falling into the rocky river. The timber, 6 inch by 6 inch by maybe 12 feet long is rough hewn from trees harvested higher up the mountain above the estate. Felix was telling me that they sell some of their bananas to the Shacks at Ross, but most go for export to Montserrat and Antigua.

Further up the mountain trail is the Roberts Farm. There are only 2 buildings there. One has "current" (electricity) and is used for storage of fertilizer and tools. The other is the livestock barn which houses approximately 300 laying hens in 4 pens and further in, 12 pigs that he is growing out for slaughter. These are the last pigs he's planning to raise, but is keeping the layers active. He gets 2 day old peeps from Trinidad, keeps them through their laying life then sells the old hens and starts over again. I looked at the feed bags he had there and wondered if some of that corn may have come from Iowa, too! Nutrimix Feeds out of Catana, Puerto Rico was the label on the bag.

We hiked a short distance up a small valley into Roosevelt's vegetable farm. This area is so steep that you barely have to bend over to do the work! There are green beans, cucumber, cabbage, lettuce, carrots, celery, yams, dasheen and a few other vegetables that I'd barely heard of. The stream at the base of the farm formed the boundary with the neighbor and served as a water source for the livestock below. Roosevelt had dammed the stream and piped water to the livestock. Above the dam was where he took his water can to get water for the vegetables when the rain didn't provide enough. Lizards scurried everywhere...help in keeping the bugs under control. There is quite a bit of land, higher up the side of the mountain, that has been cleared but not used for farming now. High overhead, Jaco parrots circle on the mountain updrafts. They apparently do some damage to the grapefruit, so not entirely a welcome guest.

Roosevelt drove me in his little 4x4 Nissan pickup higher up beyond his brothers farm to the water supply reservoir. This structure supplies water to Picard, Glanvillia, and Portsmouth. He told me that sometimes the river is much higher and roars over the top of the dam!! The road ends at the dam and miles of steep jungle lie inland from there. It's amazing the feeling there. At 4:30 in the afternoon, it is dark in the jungle. It's not pitch black, but it is a darkness you feel. The air weighs damp and heavy which contributes to the feeling.

We wiggled the pickup around and headed back down the trail. I thanked him for the tour and walked further down the trail to the bustle of the streets below, thankful to see another piece of lifes puzzle.

Don't Miss The Boat!

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Anticipation is a wonderful thing isn't it? We'd heard back early in the semester that Kendell and Brenda Henderson would be coming to visit us via cruise ship on the Tuesday right after Mini 2...perfect timing for a little break from studying. Just as exciting was the fact that several other couples were coming too: Craig and Noreen McConnell, whom we've known for a long time, and 2 other couples we'd never met -- Tim and Myrna Johnson along with Steve and Joann Blank.

Lanelle went to work lining up things to do, people to see and places to go for the 6 or 7 hours that they'd be here. We knew Travis Carlile had a driver that he worked with in Roseau, known as "Uncle Ash" to their kids (and ours too, now!) and "Mr. Sweetness" to the rest of us. Not sure Henderson's believe the relation to be from their side of the family, but it's all good! Uncle Ash did end up setting me straight on my terminology that day: "You're a resident...you ain't a native!" Gotcha!


The Tuesday morning they arrived was beautiful! We got up and bustled around getting ready to head to Roseau, 30 miles and an hour drive south of Portsmouth. A call to Andrew Palmer let us know he'd be riding his new motorcycle to Roseau that morning to register it with the Dept. of Inland Revenue, the equivalent of the DMV only slightly less efficient (didn't know that was possible, but it, in fact, is). He'd meet up with us when the business was taken care of. We left here around 8 to make sure to allow for enough time to find a parking spot in Roseau. That is quite the task especially when there are 3 cruise ships in town! At some point that morning there must have been a veritable landslide of natives heading into Roseau from the surrounding hillsides. By the time we arrived, we had to park across town from the dock near the corner of Cork and Great George streets due to the amount of people already in town.


About half way to Roseau, we could see a cruise ship off to the west and wondered if it might be them! They had told us the name of the cruise line, but the ship was too far away to see any writing and we were unfamiliar with the logo so that didn't help either. Nevertheless, it was exciting to speculate that it might be them and it had a couple of little boys straining their necks to check and see if we'd win the race to Roseau! Considering the roughness of the road, the ship stayed in the race pretty good! We parked then walked over to the pier and up on to the sea wall. We strained our necks and eyes to see the faces looking over the railing of the ship. What we were looking at was a cruise ship sized equivalent of a human purple martin house reminiscent of a hot August afternoon on the Hart Valley Ranch in Stratford, Oklahoma at Grandpa and Grandma Shelby's. We never picked our visitors out of the crowd, but some of them saw us. Not too hard considering we were the blobs of white against the dark gray of the sea wall and the only ones on the wall as well. That fact came much to the consternation of the two Port Authority guards, whom on more than one occasion chastised us for our horrible parenting in allowing our kids to run the wall, certain they would fall and dash themselves against the rocks below. We appreciated their concern...then moved further down the wall away from them. Horrible parenting to live for another day thank you very much!

Tim and Myrna, whom we didn't know before, were the first ones off the ship. We recognized each other pretty quickly, though. It is quite a scene at the gates when the ship is birthing forth her fare. Locals plying their wares from t-shirts, purses, and other trinkets under colorful canopies along the sea wall. Musicians provide the local beat and melody hoping for a kind hearted tourist to reward them. Over the din of horns tooting, bus drivers cry their tours to various points of interest. Among the wafting scents of sea water and diesel smoke, the smell of local fare of rice, plantain, dasheen and fish drifts through the sun soaked air. Craig and Noreen soon followed, then Kendell and Brenda. I wonder if the Port Authority was wondering if they were moving in? They had brought us lots of goodies, so were weighted down with a couple of over sized bags. "Never mind that your new shoes are wet, Lyndle, but Craig wanted to go water skiing!" Steve and Joann soon followed and away we went looking for Uncle Ash and his bus. Sweetness had the funniest lop-eared light tan hat on, so was easy to find. Trevin Carlile had come down to the pier to coordinate the process, and soon directed us to the right bus in the lineup. Quite the task to fit in 14 people, and the ladies seemed quiet pleased to be in close quarters with Craig...like discrete elbow throwing close quarters! On the way out of town, we passed Travis awaiting a bus ride home, so slammed on the brakes and leaned out the window to holler at him...now 15 on the bus. Remember, these buses are the size of a large minivan! Away we went heading toward Trafalgar Falls, across Roseau River and a right turn at Palm Grove. Cross the river again and begin the drive into the rain forest heading toward Woten Waven...just follow the Screw's Spa signs! Just past Woten Waven is an extremely steep downgrade, past the steaming cave, cross a creek, then the steep climb back up the other side. Just at the top of the hill, we stopped to get out and go see the boiling springs. There are several bamboo walled, tin roofed huts where locals sell trinkets. One of the locals parted with a couple of bamboo flutes to the ladies for a small fee, then we hiked a short distance back into the boiling springs. I believe Craig's ribs appreciated the lull, but it didn't last long. Back in the bus and away across the river again and a right turn at the "Obama for President" billboard. Once we arrived at the entrance gate of Trafalgar Falls, again we spilled out, bought the tickets and headed for the hike back into the river below the falls. Quite the pilgrimage of humanity moving, sometimes single file, over the log supported steps and large boulders. A few arrangements of photo op's later and the hike begins back out to the bus for the short ride to Carlile's. Poor Sasha probably felt terrified of the influx of tourists looking for a potty stop, but soon we were on our way again...this time with Sasha and their other 4 kiddo's making for a total of 20 on the bus.

We headed toward Champagne Bay, presumably so named for the volcanic origin bubbles that pervade the water there. Apparently, the water is some warmer there for the same reason, and schools of interesting colored fish are abundant. This draws divers, snorkelers and the like to the area and we soon joined them. Before we got to the Bay, we stopped at a roadside/seaside cafe for lunch of turkey (or that seemed to be the majority vote of identity anyway), rice, plantain, cabbage, lentils, and dasheen. Meat and provisions as it is called locally. Someone caught the perfect picture of me about to be drenched by a wave. I had crawled through the banister and down to some rocks to attempt to catch some crabs for the kiddos. After several attempts and near misses of waves, one finally caught me, drenching me head to toe. I did manage to catch a small crab, and after a small theatrical protestation of the pain being inflicted by it's claws on my pinched finger, I tried to pass it off to the kiddos, sending them screeching in the other direction! Andrew had caught up with us on his motorcycle and joined us for lunch and the following swim.


We had to get the travelers back to the boat by 5pm, so the swim was cut shorter than most of us would have liked. We soon learned of their rush...some "real" food to be served on "formal night": prime rib!! They wanted time to get cleaned up from the days bustle and presentable for the elegant affair. We gathered around for some group photos, and pair by pair they again walked through the Port Authority gate down the long wooden dock and aboard their ship. We waved our sad goodbyes before they disappeared into the depths of their ride for an evening that we could only imagine.

As we turned to leave, I noticed that the activities of the day along the sea wall were drawing to a close as well. Canvas was coming down and being folded. Unsold trinkets were being stowed away in boxes for the next visitors. Guitars and drums were quiet. Buses no longer tooted their horns and revved their engines. We slowly walked down the streets of Roseau, a town now veiled in relative silence. We got in our car and pulled onto the empty street to return home. That's when I saw them. That's where the story begins.

"They" are three little ol' Dominican ladies. Based on what I've observed since that time on different visits to Roseau, I don't think they actively participated in the days bustle of activities. "They" probably are more likely to fall into a group that I've observed, weathered faces full of Dominican life peaking out the broken window in their front door. An unaccustomed bystander would never see them...I barely have. When you wave, they shyly wave back and disappear into the darkness of their little homes. Little homes made of weathered lumber with a rusty tin roof, built up on stilts with front doors accessed by weathered, broken, old concrete steps. That's where they were...sitting in the calm of the late afternoon on the old concrete steps. My vision seems to go to slow motion, my thoughts storming with the scene in front of me. Three little old ladies. A different story begins to unfold in my mind. A story of the ages; one of pairs of people coming from afar. A story of pairs of people, having tasted of the fine things of Heaven, walking the wooden planks to the bustle of the world around them. Seeking those, who in the despair of the broken stoops of their life, long for something, a ticket of sorts, to partake of the elegance of shores beyond this life. A pair, leaving homes and earthly possessions for a calling beyond themselves, describing the taste, the fullness of Jesus. I got a taste that day. Not a taste of what this special message brings, I've tasted that and I love it. The taste I got that day was written on the faces of those three little old weathered Dominican ladies. I got a taste of the absence of that fullness. A taste of a time when the whistle will blow. A taste of the sound of an iron gate clinking shut, finding me on the wrong side. A taste of streets hushed in a quietened realization that something happened. I can now speak firmly from experience: don't miss the boat.