Minor "inconvenience"

Of my recent interlude my poetics are compelled
When my wife received the call her jaw was suddenly felled
From the bar at Purple Turtle in a thick Carrib accent
The caller broke the news of thievery repent
Seems the seas have still been plied and pirates come ashore
Neath the sand there's buried treasure I tell you galore
Musta been a starry night and diggin' done with booze
Cause the treasure that they found was my glasses, keys and shoes
Twas a glorious moment to be relieved of sin
Left a poem for me to write of the lurch I's in.
Blindly each day I'd get all dressed in a shirt that says I'm Sooner
Unfortunately for me my britches are Nelle's bloomers
I'd swagger out the door hair that looked disheveled
Tiptoe down the cobbled streets cause her heels are beveled
Now reclothed in my own digs I begin to act burly
Believe I'll take an evening stroll to go visit Fort Shirley.
A little muscle on the cannon and some powder in the barrel
The wideness of the pirate's eyes will certainly look all scleral
Light'r up and let'r fly I'll be giggling with glee
Yellin' at the fleeing pirates "You don't steal from me!"

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!

Photos associated with this blog entry are at http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=ShelbyFamilyOK&target=ALBUM&id=5332717114230203969&authkey=Gv1sRgCMuh-ZOhvJ6J1gE&authkey=Gv1sRgCMuh-ZOhvJ6J1gE&feat=email


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.

Thanks!

This is a story based on real facts. The names of the characters have NOT been changed to protect their identity for reasons you'll soon see.

March 28th, 2009

I was "told" to say "Thanks" this morning.


You might say the story started last night. But then again, does it really have a starting point or an ending point? It's a story about a young native Dominican in a red shirt and hat and black pants, but it really doesn't start with him, nor does it end with him. He said "Thanks".

Last night, Lanelle fixed a wonderful supper of fresh blue marlin, seasoned with fresh chopped garlic and fresh squeezed lime juice. Along side was steamed rice and this wonderful cooked cabbage seasoned with the "skillet leftovers" of lunch's fried chicken. Delicious. Except in the opinion of a pair of boys aged 6 and 3. Nevertheless, they made a showing by eating enough to avoid starvation. Afterward, Lanelle began washing the dishes as I sat down to read them a book. It dawned on me that they (we) had forgotten something. That something was "Thanks for supper, Mom". A little something that can set us as a group apart into a family. A little something that can set humanity forth from the organic muck created by an seemingly endless cycle of birth and death.

Speaking of birth, this young native Dominican was born in a little wooden shack with a tin roof about 30 years ago. I don't know that to be factual, but it's the best estimate I deduce from his surroundings and appearance. He said "Thanks"; that is a fact.

A young native Dominican saying "Thanks" to John Beyer for getting up on those cold October mornings in northwest Iowa to go start the ol' Case International combine to harvest the last 40 acres of corn. Apprehensive that he'll be unable to finish before the gathering clouds bring an early snow. Corn that he won't need to feed his hogs; left over to "feed the world" as the political pundits like to say. It really fed the "Thanks".

A young native Dominican saying "Thanks" to Scott Tyler for for placing that order to the feed mill in western Arkansas. Ordering feed made from corn that had arrived by rail from northwest Iowa. You see, Scott has chickens. Lots of chickens, like maybe half a million chickens, maybe more, maybe less. But more than he can eat.

It was certainly by chance I met this young native Dominican. I had left the apartment about 7:30 AM to go fill the car up with gas then go on to campus to study as my Saturday mornings usually go. I had finished filling the car at Texaco, paid for the EC$9 per gallon gas, and was casually driving along the coast enjoying the waves splashing ashore in the early morning sunshine. I turned the corner and the car moaned as it began the climb up the hill away from the ocean. That's when I first saw him.

Thanks to Brian Henderson and Damon Birkhofer for hitching their shiny John Deere's up to the 50 foot long air seeders. There is a lot of uncertainty for farmers out in western Nebraska. Who knows if the last rain they got in May will be enough to sprout the crop sown in September. You see, these guys farm a lot of ground. Between them, they probably farm more area than the whole area of Dominica. Well probably not, but you get the point. The thing is, it's all wheat; more wheat than they can possibly eat.

He was walking away from me. From the back, he was indistinguishable from most others we commonly see walking. Quietly going about their daily routines, most not aware of a world beyond the shores of Dominica that wasn't brought to them by television. Hearing my car, he turned to face me, putting his arm out.

A few weeks ago, construction workers finished a new restaurant between main campus and annex where first semester classes are held. It sits up a small hill from one of Dominica's 365 rivers, close enough that when you're sitting on the front veranda, you can hear the water babbling over the rocks in the river. It is the second restaurant here on the island that gives us the "taste of home". It is built in true Dominican style; concrete cinder blocks then coated with a thin layer of masonry to give a smooth finish. As being true to company colors, this one was painted red and black.

"Thanks", Mom for teaching me my colors, Charlene Cantrel for teaching me the alphabet, and Julie Brookshire for passing out a little blue card in 5th grade, all of which ended up making a difference today. I bet most of my 5th grade classmates and Ms. Brookshire have forgotten the blue card. Fortunately, I haven't, but if I had, I would have missed the "Thanks".

Putting an arm out is "Dominican" for "would you give me a ride?". From the front, he was indistinguishable from many others as well. I've been taught not to give rides to strangers from early on, but things operate a little differently here. I've often been picked up by strangers, even without putting my arm out, so I felt motivated to do the same. A quick assessment of his red and black uniform, general appearance, time of day, and a million other factors that can fly through your mind led me to believe he just wanted a ride to work at the red and black restaurant with the KFC on the front. I turned on my left blinker, pulled off the road, unlocked the door and let him in. "Hi, you going to work?" I asked. He hissed. Literally. Then he put up a fist, but that is a Dominican handshake to offer to bump fists. So I bumped his fist with mine and again asked "Are you going to KFC?" Again, he hissed and this time pointed down the road. So away we drove. In silence.

About a half a mile down the road, we arrived at KFC. Now what? I pulled off on the assumption I'd judged his character and appearance correctly. Again he hissed and pointed. This is where the little blue card comes in. You see, this time he pointed at his right ear. Born into conditions some 30 years ago that certainly put him at a disadvantage in his world: Poor people, lack of education and health care for his condition, playground taunts, missed job opportunities and any number of other things that could have left him bitter. But slowly he made a fist, putting his thumb between his first and middle fingers: "T", next, thumb parallel to fisted ring and little finger with index and middle finger extended: "H", and onward: "A", "N", "K", "S". The little blue card that had rudimentary pictures of the American Sign Language, not a class assignment, but interesting to a curious 5th grader. Our paths may never cross for more than that short, silent, half mile ride, but he said "Thanks". Another bump of fists, and he slipped into the morning sunshine and another day of work cooking a corn fed, flour coated chicken, leaving me with a "Thanks" heard round the world.

I don't have the email addresses of any of the real characters in this true story. If you do, please forward it to them.

Thanks, Lyndle

Missed view

I realized that I showed only the view from the back of our apartment in my earlier post. We do have a nice view from two other sides of our place too. This first picture is what we see from the kitchen window.






Standing on the front porch, looking inland. It seems to be impossible to get photos that aren't full of electric lines and poles.








This one is looking across the street from the front of our apartment. We get to look either at mountains or at the sea here.

Broken arm

As many of you already know, we got to experience the Dominican medical system a little bit lately. Logan fell down while running at school. He got a green stick fracture to his right arm. This quickly turned into quite the experience! He PE teacher, Mr. Theo, took him to the Ross University Health Clinic and called us. One of the doctors there wrapped his arm up and sent us to Roseau where we could get x-rays taken. It's an hour drive from Portsmouth to Roseau and then there was some waiting time at the radiology clinic. (Photo to the left was taken while we were waiting for xrays.) There was some misunderstanding about what was to happen from there. The radiologist was supposed to let us know that the arm was broken & needed a cast which would have sent us to a specialist in Roseau for a cast. Instead they left us with the impression that there was no fracture & no cast was needed. So we drove back to the Health Clinic at Ross in Portsmouth to find out we should have gotten a cast in Roseau. Since the clinic is not set up to do casts, they sent us to the Portsmouth Hospital. Let's just say it's NOT like a hospital in the US! We did have to wait again for our turn. Finally a doctor there put a cast on Logan's arm. His little accident happened in the morning by 8:30 or 8:45 am and it was 5 pm or later before we had the cast on his arm. (Photo below taken on the steps of the hospital as we were leaving from getting the cast on his arm.)

The doctors originally thought that the cast could come off after 3 weeks. We were referred to the specialist back in Roseau for removal of the cast. We took most of another whole day to make the trip to Roseau for this. Apparently appointments are not used here so we showed up at the clinic shortly after the doctor had told me the day before that he would be there. It turned out that there was some emergency that morning that he had to attend so it was after noon before he ever made it to his clinic. That was a long wait with 2 little boys who had more interesting things on their minds than waiting at a doctor's office! The doctor removed the cast (it was so loose that he just slipped it over Logan's hand to remove it) and examined the arm. It wasn't quite healed so on went a new cast for 2 more weeks. The doctor gave orders to just remove the cast here in Portsmouth on March 12 - 5 weeks after the break happened. (Photo below taken after the new cast was put on his arm.)











On the day we were to have the cast taken off, we took Logan to the Health Clinic at Ross University who referred us back to the Portsmouth Hospital to take the cast off. So back we went for a trip all over the hospital - with waits in between each place that we were sent. Finally, after about an hour and a half there we were told that the machine for taking the cast off was broken. They offered no other solution, just that they couldn't remove the cast. So we went back to the Ross Health Clinic looking for someone to remove the cast. There we were told that the only other machine for removing a cast on this island is at the hospital in Roseau! By this time we'd spent almost 2 hours trying to find someone to take the cast off. Now it was going to be another 2 hours of driving plus however long we had to wait in the Roseau hospital for someone to remove the cast & probably 30 seconds to actually cut the cast off. I wasn't really looking forward to making a trip there - possibly only to be told that their machine was broken too. Since the doctor had already written orders to remove the cast & no doctor was supposed to be looking at it nor were more xrays needed, we did the American thing....we found another way to take the cast off. :-) Lyndle and a friend found some trauma shears and cut the cast off themselves. By the way, these are the old plaster casts that they use here. It was pretty easy to cut in the palm of the hand and up by the elbow, but it was pretty hard in between. Good thing those men with the shears were tough. :-)

Logan's arm is doing well. He was a little nervous to have the cast off at first but he quickly started acting like he's never broken a bone in his body. By the next day he was showing me a new trick on the playground where he could swing from a rope by the monkey bars. That right arm doesn't seem to be too weak.

We're driving again.

We're glad to have a car again. It's made the trips to and from school much easier for all of us. This was especially good for Ethan coming home in the afternoons. It also allows me to come home and work a little bit between lunch and the time that Logan gets out of school. The walk with the boys is about 25 or 30 minutes as it's close to a mile and a half. It's great exercise though & I miss that, but I'm glad for the extra time to do other chores.

We have a 1992 Nissan Bluebird. Never heard of it? We hadn't either until we got here. It's actually pretty nice as cars go here among med students and even the locals. It was interesting to learn to drive on the left side of the road & I still remind myself of that when I'm behind the wheel. The driver sits on the right side of the car in most vehicles here. I'll post a picture. And yes, I realize it's parked on the wrong side of the street. I'm learning to drive like a Dominican. Look out when I get back to the US! Oh, and they DO drive on the sidewalks pretty often.

All that being said, we are driving less this week. When living in the Caribbean, don't let your gas gauge drop below half a tank. We haven't been able to find gas in either station here in the Portsmouth area for several days. We still have a little, but we're conserving until we can fill up. The walks have been nice and friends have offered rides in some instances. We're doing okay with it. We hope we can fill the gas tank this week though so Ethan doesn't have to walk home in the afternoon without a nap. Otherwise, we'll be walking everywhere again.