Will You Be My Friend?

Making friends in a new place can be hard. Especially if there isn't some activity that provides a built-in system for making friends, like work or school. Its not really a surprise, therefore, that despite arriving nearly 9 months ago, I have made no friends. M.'s colleague-friends don't count. And certainly not the imaginary ones who compliment me on my colombo.

Of course, email and online telephony make it incredibly affordable to keep in touch with far away friends. Since my town has been equipped with high speed internet for over a year now, my friends can not email and not call with an immediacy that is striking.

Thankfully, I am married to my best friend. But, one friend is not really enough. How else to complain about the other?

Inevitably, there is what could be considered a lowering of standards. Not in quality, mind you, but in what kind of relationship constitutes a friendship and who, in my new system of categorization, is considered a friend.

So, with the new standards in place, here is my (modest) list of new friends:

Our vegetable lady
The woman who sells us our vegetables every week at the market in BasseTerre was perhaps my very first friend. Like most of my new friends, Marie-Denise (that's her name) did not immediately become my friend. She remained polite but distant with me and M. But after buying from her stand consistently every week, she has warmed up appreciably. She even calls me by a term of endearment, doudou. Of course, I've heard her use doudou for other customers, but that doesn't diminish her obvious affection for me in particular. We are now so close that she occasionally gives me produce for free, and her husband makes off-color remarks with ease.

The driver for the little bus in our town (the skinny one)
This was my first friend that I made on my own. Not daring to cross the threshold my first week here, I finally mustered up the courage to take the bus to the bourg. Fears conquered, I went with some frequency to the bourg, to buy bread, to pick up the newspaper, to go to the library - just to get out. And more often than not, he would be the one to drive me there and back. Sometimes, I'm not quite sure what he is saying when we chat since he has a bit of Antillais accent, and he also tends to mumble, but friends don't need words to understand each other. Unfortunately, now that I go to BasseTerre quite regularly, I go to the bourg far less. But, there is no risk of losing him as a friend; when we pass each other on the road, I wave and he gives me a friendly "ça va?" flash of his headlights.

The secretary at my driving school
I've only been going to the driving school for about a month, but I can already see that the secretary is going to be my new best friend. She's about my age (or older...her generous curves makes me think she might already be a mother). She's got an adorable chuckle and laughs easily. I like for my friends to have a sense of humor. And since I had to submit an application full of personal information before beginning my lessons, she already knows my life story. Now, I just have to learn hers. Yesterday, I discovered her name is Madeleine. I'm sure there's quite a bit more - who doesn't have a complicated life story? - but I've already got a good start.

La Kaz à Delices

La Kaz à Delices is a cosy and casual restaurant on the street facing the Rivière-Sens Marina just outside of Basse-Terre. It is a perfect lunch place for workers from the surrounding area. The restaurant serves just a few dishes, but the menu changes every day. The day I ate there, there was a dishes such as tomato tart, quiche, chicken in white wine sauce. The cuisine is not spectacular, but it is honest and prepared with care.









See also: Le Sentier du Houëlmont.

Le Sentier du Houëlmont

Like most masses found on BasseTerre, Houëlmont is an ancient volcano. No longer active, Houëlmont plays the plain older sister to La Soufrière. Houëlmont is not without its charms, they are simply much more subtle.

Above, left to right, the trail cuts through dry forest before winding through dense humid vegetation.

The trail begins on the western side of Houëlmont. This area constitutes the rain shadow, and the vegetation is uncharacteristically dry for BasseTerre. The wide trail climbs slowly but steadily up to circle the summit. The vegetation becomes lush, deep green. It grows dense, and the change in moisture is palpable. It is here that hikers are reminded of Houëlmont's origins, with massive boulders of black volcanic rock forcing the path to twist and turn.

Above, a cluster of mushrooms on a tree stump.

There are a few things to look out for. There are two small plots of colonial era graves, one located at the beginning of the trail, and one at the end. They are untended, and the undergrowth threatens to cover the first plot almost entirely. The ONF guide also notes a Mahogany planatation, and several remarkable examples of local flora, but a human guide is probably necessary to pinpoint their location.

Above, left to right, the easy bits and the difficult bits.

The trail varies wildly in character. The trail begins wide in the dry forest, then stumbles over and around huge boulders in the humid forest. There are sections which have been paved for vehicles, as well as wide path strewn with rocks the perfect size for tripping over.

One major shortcoming of this trail is that it isn't a real loop. At the bottom of Houëlmont, the trail exits the forest to join a public road. The road is lined with private residences and small hotels, all with remarkable views of the ocean. It is pretty enough, but the walk is unshaded and the heat can be suffocating. The trail re-enters the forest, and its a steep climb back to the car. After almost 2 hours of hiking around the summit of Houëlmont, the last leg will seem uninteresting, and ultimately unnecessary. If a second car is available, it should be parked at the Rivière Sens Marina.

If you are determined to finish the hike and close the loop, it is still possible to make a detour to the Marina of Rivière Sens. If you want to stop for a bite or a drink, La Kaz à Delices is a perfect lunch spot.




Le Sentier du Houëlmont
A loop trail circling the peak of Houëlmont through both dry and semi-humid forest, passing two small colonial era cemeteries. Possibility of taking a detour to visit the volcanologic and seismologic observatory (L'Observatoire Volcanologique et Sismologique de Guadeloupe).
Location: Basse Terre, Gourbeyre, in the section of Bisdary.
Duration: 2 hours
Difficulty: Medium. The trail is littered with volcanic rock in certain sections.
Parking: Yes, park alongside the municipal sports field at the beginning of the trail. If a second vehicle is available, park it at Rivière Sens Marina to avoid the last bit of trail which is somewhat tedious.

Sugar Cane Juice

The color of sugar cane juice certainly isn't very appetizing. The murky greenish brown liquid could easily be mistaken for very dirty mop water. The taste, then, is somehow even more remarkable for its unattractive color: sweet, crisp, and very refreshing.

We bought a bottle of freshly pressed cane juice this morning at the market in Basse Terre from a man and his truck. It comes in reused 1L water bottles for €3.50.

I had my first taste of cane juice in December. M. and I had driven to Baillif to see a special Christmas market. It was no more than a regular market, with vegetables and fruit, but with a few tables selling cakes. Somewhat in the center of the temporary market, there was a truck with the words 'jus du canne' wriiten in large bold red letters across the side. An old man was noisily extracting juice using a sugar cane press. M. and I were excited about buying a glass each to accompany the snacks we had purchased. Unfortunately, you had to bring your own bottle. Having none, we could buy no juice. A steady rain began to fall so we remained next to the truck to take shelter. And the old man, seeing us still there, told somebody to fetch two cups from the bakery across the way. He then served us two plastic cups of cane juice. When M. tried to pay him, the old man shook his head. It was free, he said. This was the famous Antillais hospitality.

Afternoon Nap

Morning Routine

A colleague of M.'s came back from Easter vacation with a special souvenir for me: a copy of the New York Times...the Sunday edition too, no less - nice and thick! I'm guessing he picked up a free copy on the plane, since it was delivered to me in a duty free plastic bag.

What a pleasure it is to be able to read the paper with breakfast!

Burgers and Fries

There is perhaps nothing more American than a plate of burgers and fries. It’s a real shame, then, that most people think burgers always come wrapped in paper or served from a rectangular cardboard box. Indeed, fast food ‘restaurants’ have done a great disservice to the burger by associating it with inferior quality, stinginess, and poor taste. In fact, a well-made burger - with a nice thick patty made with top-grade beef and a good crusty bun - is both satisfying and incredibly tasty. Certainly, a burger is still rather humble fare (and I do find burgers on menus at expensive restaurants to be rather ridiculous), but it merits a better reputation that it gets outside the US.

I had a craving for a nice cheeseburger for some time. Guadeloupe, unfortunately, serves no other burger than those from McDonalds. Their fries may be unbeatable, but that was definitely not the kind of burger I was craving. So, like my cravings for Korean food, I've had to take matters into my own hand.

The strike, and the subsequent shortage of meat, put those burger-making plans on hold...until last week, when ground beef could be found. To that, I bought some sesame seed hamburger buns (specifically, l'Américain brand buns), and cheddar cheese.

Above, my burger and ‘fries.’ (I forgot to buy some pickles...dommage!)

After an intro lauding the culinary heights of the burger, I am bit ashamed that my burger isn’t made with top USDA grade organic grass fed ground beef, that the bun wasn't a freshly baked bakery roll, and that the cheddar wasn’t from Wisconsin, etc. But, I make do with what I can get, and my humble home-made burger was pretty tasty anyway.

I used a patty of steak haché, with minced onion, garlic, and parsley mixed in. I also added some tomato paste since I don't actually have ketchup in the house. Steak haché is not ideal (something about the texture) but I’m afraid it’s probably the best I can get here. The cows that dot the landscape seem to have more of a decorative or landscaping purpose than providing a local stock of high-quality beef.

The buns came in the traditional package of 8, so I'll have to make a few more burgers to use them up. But, I'm going to investigate some other, crustier, possibilities. It seems somewhat scandalous that my burger has such a bun when supposedly the best bakery in Guadeloupe is the one in my town.

Pre-sliced cheddar was all that was available since the French associate cheddar with hamburgers only. I thought lovingly of the cheese refrigerators at Fairway where I would often get a small orange block of Wisconsin extra sharp cheddar. It’s a bit surprising that the cheddar available in France isn't sharper since the French certainly like their cheese strong. If I was in France métropole, I might investigate whether a better quality cheddar might be available at a well-stocked cheese monger, but I think such a search would be fruitless in Guadeloupe.

The fries were perhaps the one concession to Guadeloupe. They're slices of banane légume (plantain) fried. Maybe I'll let the bananas inspire the burger next time. Guadeloupean burgers, anyone?

That Elusive Carte

Settling in France can be quite a challenge, and a perhaps bit of a surprise for Americans who are accustomed to the visa-free access they enjoy when traveling to the country. I've had the pleasure of getting to know French bureaucracy both as a student and as a jeune fille au pair. M. and I signed a PACS some years ago, and we married last year. All required a long list of documents, photos, certificates, even a chest x-ray, a blood test...The long list of required papers for a titre de séjour was therefore no surprise:

• Valid passport;
• Birth certificate and its certified translation;
• 3 ID photos;
• Proof of domicile dated within the last three months;
• If you are being accommodated, attestation of accommodation by the person accommodating you dated within the last three months, their national identity card or titre de séjour, and proof of domicile;
  
• Proof of your resources and your spouse's resources (tax statements, work contract, pay stubs dated within the last three months, etc.);
  
• 2 22cm x 11cm window envelopes;
• Long-stay Visa bearing the mention of (D) overseas département - Guadeloupe - family member / Spouse;
  
• Customs (police aux frontières, PAF) entry stamp specifying the date of arrival in Guadeloupe;
  
• Family record book;
• Marriage certificate;
• If the marriage was celebrated outside of France, the foreign marriage certificate with its transcription;
• Copy of the national identity card of your French spouse;
• Sworn statement of a shared life;
• 2 documents proving shared life (rental agreement, bank statement, tax statement, social security statement, etc.).
  

Plus photocopies. And of course, they reserve the right to request further documents.

Despite having everything in order, I did not receive my titre de séjour yesterday. Instead, I received what is essentially a receipt documenting the fact that I began the official steps towards getting a titre de séjour (une récipissé de demande de titre de séjour). It can be a maddeningly frustrating to jump through hoop after hoop, and have nothing in return. M. and I often wonder what an absolute nightmare it must be for people with much more complex situations, lack necessary papers, etc.

The highlight of the five hour wait at the Bureau de l'État Civil et des Etrangers was the man who wore a large oversized red tshirt emblazoned with the raging face of Al Pacino as Tony Montana in Scarface to his appointment. I have the feeling that the absurdity was lost on the man.

Springtime

The temperature has been getting incrementally warmer as the cloudless days of carême are slowly swept away by the rain storms and heat of hivernage. For some reason though, I was wrapped in a feeling of spring-time today. Perhaps it was the color of daylight; white clouds spread thinly across the sky have been passing over Guadeloupe the entire weekend, softening the usually stark light of a Caribbean sun. It might be an internally-timed recognition of the coming of spring. Though, it was probably sparked by reading a description of the first game day at the new Yankees stadium - a beautiful April day with temperatures nearing 60°F. I was surprised that it was so warm already. I had forgotten it could be warm elsewhere also.

Lolling about on a lazy Sunday morning, the open windows framed a blue sky. I couldn't see the ocean, the palm trees. Just a bit of green from the large breadfruit tree and a blue sky. Funny how a blue sky can resemble another. I was overcome with memories of spring in New York. After so many months of dreary gray cold, the exhilaration of feeling the first breath of warmth, or the unchanging joy of tiny buds of green suddenly unfurling into leaves and flowers.

I miss the seasons; the renewal, the movement, the change. There is no more efficient reminder of death, but no greater reminder of life. Of course, there are seasons here, too. Two as opposed to four. I wonder how many carêmes and hivernages will pass before I learn to love these seasons.

Chat-bin

Neither of us can now remember when he first came. He came onto our terrace at dusk, and I must have given him some leftovers. He returned the following evening, and every evening since. He comes, of course, for the food. There were leftover bits of ham, then some unwanted portions of fish, merguez that we didn't like. Milk, too. But his brothers and sisters pass from time to time and accept food given, but they remain wary of us. They dash out to take the morsel and steal away into the night. From the very beginning he seemed to lack the instinct to fear.

We were reluctant to call him our cat. When M. suggested that we buy him cat food, I said it would be equivalent to claiming him as our own. Buying him food now, I said, was a commitment to buy him food always. And so we agreed to provide him only with scraps on hand. He continued to come, padding along silently, his piercing blue eyes appearing suddenly. And then one evening, M. said to him, "And what should we call you?" He scratched the cat behind the ears while he thought. "Blanc-la"? It was an obvious name, 'the white one' in French Créole. He continued to scratch and think. And then, suddenly, "Chabin." He turned to me, entirely amused, "You get it? Chat-bin." He laughed softly at his stupid cleverness.

A bit of explanation is required, perhaps. The word for cat in French is chat, pronounced 'shah.' The word chabin is pronounced 'shah - bahn.' Using the word for cat, therefore, does not change the pronunciation of the word chabin.

So what is a chabin? In this one word exists a complicated tangle of history, race, anthropology and sociology.

The Michelin tour guide (1) has a short section on race in Guadeloupe and writes that, "the chabin, a term that originally applied to the cross between a goat and a ewe, designates in principle a person with negroid features and light colored skin and eyes" (2).

That such a term came into usage reveals the necessity - actual and perceived - of classifying people with African descent for Guadeloupeans during colonial (slave-holding) times. Chabin is just one of many terms used for that purpose. As noted earlier in the same section in the Michelin guide, "the subtlety in vocabulary goes very far in distinguishing the nuances in skin color" (3).

Originally, chabin carried strong negative connotations. As unnatural as the mating between goat and ewe, so too between Black and White. Children born from such a union - and, specifically those born with features as described above - were considered abnormal.

The associations, however, go beyond race taboos. Marie-Christine Hazaël-Massieux, a professor at l'Université d'Aix-en-Provence and a leading figure in the study and research of creole, explains the ambiguity of the chabin:

We clarify directly what summarizes fairly well the particularities of chabins with the most frequent contextual uses: ‘mauvais chabin’ (bad/evil chabin) is very common, or a ‘sour chabin’ (ill tempered) expressed by the bitterness or aggressiveness of a male chabin. La chabine, often described as ‘tit-chabine’ (little chabine) is particularly appreciated from a sexual point of view, but is also considered as worrisome, because as is sometimes explained “I ka mòdé zòrèy” (she bites the ears). We find somewhat frightening "powers" of these beings who are neither white nor black, but who must be placed rather on the white side, who have taken the features of one and the other, not ending with an intermediate coloration as in usual metis, but keep their black and white features, almost juxtaposed: frizzy hair, but blond or red, pale skin but black facial features, etc. In literature, references to chabins or chabines are always conscious of the fundamental significance and when an author writes in a chabin or chabine, we must understand the character to be a worrisome character, endowed with strange powers, himself/herself perturbed by nightfall, a moment when quimbois and mofwazé (people who transform themselves, generally into dogs). Their somewhat pathological sensibility predisposes them to anxieties and to uncontrollable actions. They are usually given the 'bad' roles (4).

I am not sure that the historical or literary significance is pertinent in casual usage. As M. has remarked, any attractive light-skinned Antillaise is a called a chabine. At least in Guadeloupe, true chabin(e)s are hard to come by, though the media might try to convince us of an alternative reality. Once, while waiting on line at the pharmacy, a dark-skinned black woman called out to the pharmacist behind the counter with a 'hey, chabine.' The pharmacist was indeed quite pretty, and light-skinned, but without the characteristic blond or red hair, and without the light-colored eyes. She didn't seem bothered at all, however, and perhaps even pleased.

Heavy stuff for naming of a cat. But the wordplay was too good to pass up.

*EDIT*(April 25, 2009) Ay! It should actually be Chatbine; the cat is female!


(1)
Rideau, F. and S. Barbaza. Guadeloupe. Paris: Michelin Éditions des Voyages, 2006






(2) "Le "chabin", terme s'appliquant au départ au croisement d'un bouc et d'une brebis, désigne en principe une personne aux traits négroïdes et à la peau et aux yeux clairs. Ce qualificatif revêt souvent une connotation ambiguë, car si l'apparence physique du chabin est séduisante, les préjugés l'ont doté d'une personnalité violente ou imprévisible" (96).

(3) "La subtilité du vocabulaire va très loin dans les distinctions entre les nuances de couleur de peau" (96).

(4) "On précisera tout de suite que résument assez bien les particularités des chabins les usages contextuels les plus fréquents : on parle volontiers de "mauvais chabin" , ou de "chabin sur" (acide) manifestant par là l'aigreur ou l'agressivité du chabin mâle. La chabine, souvent qualifiée de "tit-chabine" est particulièrement appréciée au plan sexuel, mais est aussi considérée comme inquiétante car comme on l'explicite parfois "i ka mòdé zòrèy" (elle mord les oreilles). On retrouve les "pouvoirs" un peu inquiétants de ces êtres ni blancs ni noirs, mais qu'il faut situer plutôt du côté du blanc, qui ont pris des traits d'un côté et de l'autre, non pas pour obtenir une coloration intermédiaire comme chez les classiques métis, mais gardant des traits du noir et des traits du blanc, en quelque sorte juxtaposés : cheveux crépus, mais blonds ou roux, peau claire, mais traits du visage d'un noir, etc. Dans la littérature, les références aux chabins ou chabines n'ignorent jamais ces significations fondamentales et quand un auteur place quelque part un chabin ou une chabine, on doit comprendre que le personnage est un personnage inquiétant, doué de pouvoirs étranges, lui-même perturbé par l'arrivée de la nuit, temps de tous les quimbois et des mofwazé (personnes qui se sont métamorphosées, généralement en chien). Sa sensibilité un peu maladive le prédispose aux angoisses et aux actions incontrôlées. On lui attribue classiquement des rôles de "méchants" (full text here.)

Cashew Apple

Above, left to right, unripe cashew apples and a single ripe cashew apple.

Yesterday, our granny neighbor offered us a perfectly ripe cashew apple that she and her daughter had picked from the great cashew tree growing at the end of the street. When the tree first bore fruit a few months ago, M. and I marveled at the bright red fruit with the cashew-shaped 'tail.' We hadn't known that it was a cashew tree. And, actually, at the time, we took one of the fruits that had already fallen off, thinking it wouldn't be missed.

I took a picture of it, with the intention of eating the fruit that evening. But it sat on the table on the terrace, forgotten, and eventually thrown out. There is certainly some reluctance to eat something without knowledge of it being good, at the very least confirmation that it isn't downright unpalatable. A fearless explorer, I am not.

Left, the uneaten (stolen) cashew apple. What is eaten was done so by the bats that flock to the tree.


But this time, the cashew apple was offered as (tasty) food by an Antillaise. She told me to eat it skin and all. The fruit was extremely soft, like a ripe tomato; I felt as if I could squish it entirely in one fist. I cut the fruit in half and was surprised to find that the inside bore an uncanny resemblance to flan or egg custard. M. watched as I placed a wedge in my mouth and chewed. It was smooth and soft like flan, except that there were rather tough fibers. Almost as if someone had placed baked bits of cheesecloth in their flan. Eventually, the fibrous bits went down, but for subsequent pieces, I spat those bits out.

It tasted like very sweet apple. Surprising, given that most of the time, the name of the fruit bares no resemblance - in taste or form - to its namesake. For example, the caimite or star apple neither looks or tastes like an apple. More likely, its name characterized it as an edible fruit.

M. hesitated much before trying it, and did not like the texture at all. I suppose my description of cheesecloth baked in flan wasn't very appetizing. I admit that while it tasted good, the eating was strange. An alien fruit - even when sweet - is somewhat hard to swallow.

Instead of heading to the beach on Easter Sunday like most Guadeloupeans, M. and I went to Morne-à-l'Eau for la Fête du Crabe. Every Easter Sunday for the past 17 years, les Mornaliens have celebrated the mangrove crab with an all day festival with live music, boat rides in the mangrove, ox rides, and of course, lots of crabs.

Above, left to right, a demonstration of quadrille on stage and the various stands participating in the festival.

This is the kind of event that people who grew up in small towns disparage. I revel in this folksy kind of stuff, and made M. bring me. There were some big-name sponsors, including the Bologne distillery and Capès mineral water, and had the support of various regional and local agencies. The entire festival is organized by the clunkily-named Association for the Protection and Development of the Crab and Other Resources of the Mangrove (l'Association pour la Protection et le développement du crabe et des autres ressources de la mangrove, APRODECARM).

Above, the sleek in-color program that was entirely ignored. Click on the image to read.

Manjé krab. Bwé Capes.

Ostensibly, the raison-d'etre of the festival is to to increase awareness regarding the ecological, economic and cultural importance the mangrove. This is perhaps necessary since the largest light industrial and commercial zone in all of France is located in Guadeloupe on razed and drained mangrove. But, everybody knows that the whole point of the festival is to eat some crab.

Smaller fare included crabe farci (stuffed crab), crab puff pastry. Main courses were spooned out from large vats, including Matété, Kalalou, Dombré, and Colombo. According to this recipe, the distinctive flavor of Matété comes principally from West Indian Bay seeds and leaves. For the kanalou, crabs sat in a swampy green sauce made with taro leaves. The dombré was the only dish not to be served with rice. In its place, little balls of flour – perhaps like gnocchi – which are boiled separately, then cooked with the crab stew. This recipe describes the sauce for dombré as tomato-based.

It would have been nice if a tasting plate was offered. Since that was not available, we had to make a choice. M. chose the Matété and I got myself a stuffed crab.


Above, left to right, Matété and stuffed crab.

Both had deep woodsy flavors, and that characteristic smokiness of Caribbean cooking.

I am not a huge fan of seafood, having only begun eating fish in the last few years. I made an exception today because it would be idiotic to attend a crab festival and not eat the crab. I was also encouraged by the fact that I had a very tasty king crab once. Though I do admit I was a bit put off by the little hairs (?) on the crab legs, and the beard. I got a little squeamish when M. purposely toyed with the eyes of my stuffed crab.

The festival spilled out beyond the square and past the police barricades blocking traffic on the street circling the square. On one of the side streets, somebody had decided to make a bit of a political statement:

Left, to catch a political crab...

In a patch of unused dirt, a collection of wooden crab traps, each with the names of political figures. Willy Angèle, the spokesperson for Medef; Nicolas Desforges, Préfet and Yves Jégo, Secretary of State for the Overseas Territories; Jacques Gillot, President of the General Council and Victorin Lurel, President of the Regional Council; Elie Domota, leader of LKP; and Colette Koury, President of the Chamber of Commerce and Industry. Above the crab traps, a play on the abbreviation of Lyannaj kont le profitayson (LKP), Lyannaj Krab Pak.

Besides the crabs, there were a number of stands occupied by artisans, most selling jewelry made from seeds and coconut shells. In the past, I associated this kind of stuff with the 'beach' look of Midwestern teens who live hundreds of miles from the ocean. Or, rasta-hip trendy types. But I've noticed a lot of the Antillais wear this kind of jewelry, to great effect.


Catch the Crab Fever

It was a bit like a New York street fair, except without the funnel cakes and $10 massages. I think that had the festival taken place in the US, there would have been crab balloons, a man in a crab suit, crab magnets, crab ashtrays and more, so much more. Some people might balk at such commercialism, and I would never buy any of that stuff myself, but I believe in going all out. People should really leave with crab-themed household items that clash horribly with everything they own, completely crabbed-out by the end. There is no sense of crab fanaticism, and there is certainly no passion. The feeling instead was more akin to affection, the same kind one might feel towards chicken breast. Maybe that is why one vendor, set up on the fringe of the festival to sell sorbet coco and pineapple cake, said that every year there are fewer and fewer vendors.

Let's hope people catch some crab fever next year.

Regret and Longing

In the evening the port became beautiful for perhaps five minutes. The laterite roads that were so ugly and clay heavy by day became a delicate flower-like pink. It was the hour of content. Men who had left the port for ever would sometimes remember on a grew wet London evening the bloom and glow that faded as soon as it was seen: they would wonder why they had hated the coast and for a space of a drink they would long to return (1).

Every day is almost perfect during carême, but one recent Saturday the skies were particularly clear, and from the national road the ocean sparkled like a million diamonds. I could even see the individual houses on les Saintes islands facing Guadeloupe, the islands themselves made up of pleasing green and brown slopes surrounded by blue. And this scene framed by the lush vegetation of volcanic Basse Terre.

I am not blind to the beauty of Guadeloupe. But, having been somewhat obliged to move here, I have been somewhat resistant to the island's charms. During my first few days, I would look bitterly out the balcony towards the ocean, and considered the view unequal compensation for family and friends left behind.

But, if limestone cliffs can be worn down by the Atlantic over time, so too can a heart momentarily hardened by sacrifice. How could I ignore the charms of island paradise forever? There are even moments now, when my family and friends absent themselves from my thoughts, that I feel lucky to live in Guadeloupe. What an opportunity it is to live here.

It makes me wonder how I will feel if I ever leave Guadeloupe and make my life elsewhere. Will I regret the beautiful island days and long to return?



(1)
Greene, Graham. The Heart of the Matter. New York: Penguin Books, 2004.

The Problem with Hello

Having lived most of my life in New York City, I am conditioned to act in particular ways - a characteristic which I share with all people who live in large metropolis. There are just so many of us in a city, crowded together, on top of one another, in such small spaces. Those unaccustomed to this kind of living must wonder how it is possible to maintain sanity and composure. It is possible because every person is encapsulated by anonymity. Moreover, an unacknowledged agreement exists between every person that that anonymity must not be compromised. That cloak of anonymity, in fact, provides physical space by effacing the existence of others. To acknowledge the other is to deprive ourselves of physical space.

Years of living amongst friendly Midwesterners, I'm afraid had absolutely no effect. But of course, I had no reason to change my habits since I was just passing through. Guadeloupe is different because I intend to stay, at least for a while. M. and I live in a quiet little neighborhood far from the larger cities of Pointe-à-Pitre and Basse Terre; there is simply no physical pressure to provoke the need for anonymity. And of course, there is island culture, which almost demands a certain degree of familiarity and friendliness amongst strangers.

Still, habits die hard. The confrontation of my city attitudes and expected behavior is best illustrated when I pass a stranger on the street. It is absolutely normal - and indeed expected - to greet anybody that one comes across with a simple 'bonjour' or 'bonsoir'. But lacking the habit of doing just that, I find myself in a slight panic whenever I cross somebody else's path. When should I greet them? When our eyes first meet? When we're within arms length of each other? And what happens when we're on opposite sides of the road? Are women expected to initiate, as they do for handshakes?

Even the most insignificant social interaction is a intricate combination of expected attitudes and behaviors. I am completely awkward when it comes to hello. I underestimate the distance my voice will carry and often my greeting dissapates in the air before the person has heard. I hesitate, and there are moments of tense eye contact. I stumble and begin again, greeting them twice. Sometimes my silence is misjudged and the stranger's hello comes too late for me to respond in kind. So lost was I that in the beginning, I ignored adorable grannies and had warm hellos for louche individuals. I am getting better at it; most of my hellos pass now with studied ease. Though I wonder how long it will take before these hellos become an ordinary reaction, and not the result of intense analysis and speculation.

Green Sauce

I had always considered parsley to be simply the decorative bit of green found on the meat-heavy plates of American cuisine. I did not think of it as a herb, at least not in the way I thought of sage in roast chicken, or cilantro in a Chinese stir-fry. And in any case, I found its taste soap-like.

But tastes change and mature. Otherwise, I would still think ketchup the ultimate condiment, and a great accompaniment to a bowl of white rice. M.'s mother uses parsley occasionally in her cooking, and the taste has grown on me. I found I rather liked the taste of parsley in an omlette, for example.

I do believe, however, that I am about to embark upon a love affair with parsley. Recently, I ate at the restaurant La Paillote du Pecheur, where I had an incredibly tasty parsley and green onion sauce. It was set on the table in a small bowl. I assumed it was for the salad and spooned some onto my tomatoes and lettuce. It seemed like it might have also been placed there for our fish, and so spooned some onto my grilled mahi-mahi steak. It worked equally well for both. Indeed, I liked it so much that I decided to try and make it at home. It seemed easy enough. La Paillote is a typical fisherman's restaurant in Guadeloupe where the food is simple but fresh and carefully prepared. There couldn't have possibly been any surprise ingredients.

I made a small bowl and kept it in the fridge. I used it first as a salad dressing. Over the coarse of the week, I found other opportunities: as a dressing for some boiled pasta, then topped with Romano cheese; a spoonful in a creamy baked pasta for some extra flavor; the remainder used to sauté green beans. I was really pleased by its versatility, and its ability to add some extra flavor. Instead of adding a tablespoon of olive oil, I would add two tablespoons of the sauce.

There is nothing particularly Caribbean about the sauce, but since I had it first at a local restaurant, I thought it could still make the recipe list.

Ingredients:
onion
green onion
parsley (flat or curly leaf)
olive oil
salt

1. Finely mince onion, green onion, and parsley.

2. In a small bowl, combine onion, green onion and parsley.

3. Add enough olive oil to submerge mixture.

4. Add salt.

I'm fairly certain you could keep the sauce in the fridge for at least two weeks, but we've always finished each batch within the week, so I cannot say. There aren't any quantities, because its really a matter of taste. I make it with about equal parts onion, green onion, and parsley. M. likes onions a bit less than I do, otherwise I might increase the quantity of onions. I've been using regular yellow onions because that is what is available here, but I think red onions would work really well.

*ADDENDUM* (April 7, 2009) Works really well in chicken salad too. One part green sauce to one part mustard to two parts mayonnaise.

La Case à Fernand

La Case à Fernand is located in Anse Bertrand in Grand Terre. Here, one gets the impression that décor isn’t just paid lip service. The restaurant is painted in pretty pastels, and decorated with watercolors of local scenes.




The view from the terrace is spectacular: the turquoise waters of the Caribbean playfully wash up against the main road. To come for just a drink and the view would be quite sufficient, but happily, the food is also very good.





The cuisine is not entirely traditional créole - not surprising since the restaurateur is a métro from southwestern France. I had grilled thazard (a type of mackerel), served with white rice, lentils and mashed yams, whereas M.'s brother had a plate of ceviche, thinly sliced.

Above: My bento box of grilled thazard.

La Porte d'Enfer

The imposing cliffs of the north eastern coast of Grand Terre have been carved by the unrelenting wind and waves of the Atlantic Ocean. The limestone admirably withstands the crashing waves save one particular spot: Hell's Gate.

Above, the mouth of La Porte d’Enfer.

Here, the Atlantic has managed to find a weak spot, carving out a wide-mouthed fjord. The waves crash into the fjord, pushing the water into the interior, tumbling over rocks and licking the shores of both sides. The water calms by the time it reaches the very end of the fjord, the Atlantic having lost its force to become gentle ripples that caress the white sand beach.

Above, the ocean water cuts a winding path through solid rock, ending at a small protected beach.

La Porte d'Enfer pleased me immeasurably. I felt as if I were witnessing the timeless battle between water and rock. Only here, the battle takes on enormous proportions, two titans fighting to the death before my very eyes. The way in which the ferocity of the Atlantic is controlled and tamed by the limestone walls is impressive. The race of water is absolutely mesmerizing.
Left, along the shore, traces of the rock's former life as coral reef.

There were sheltered picnic tables at the beach, and a absolutely illegal (1) informal restaurant has been set up along side the road. I would have loved to stay, to see La Porte through the different hours of the day. But we had come unprepared, and so we drove to Anse Bertrand and ate at La Case à Fernand.


(1) See Loi Littoral in this post.

Door to Door

Yesterday, in the afternoon, a man in a blue car drove up to the house, honked his horn, and got out. Thinking it was for our neighbor, I paid him no mind; we rarely have unannounced visitors. But he climbed down the stairs to our terrace and met me at the door. He was heavy-set white man with the look of a laborer. A slurry of words came out of his mouth. I caught just enough to understand he was selling stores - those descending aluminum shutters that we might find on a store front in the US but are used on houses here and in France métropole. He asked without reserve whether or not we were owners or renters, but his eyes wandered already having guessed the answer. He got back into his car, and I heard him barking his same introduction at the neighbor's up the road.

He had unnerved me somewhat. I thought traveling salesmen were supposed to be clean-cut, slick. This man was rather too grimy to be slick. And he had breached the steps of our terrace without having asked permission. Even the police aux frontières, whose job it is to be intrusive, stopped at the steps! But, I did not think much more of it.

Until today. When in the morning, a white delivery van drove up to the house, and honked his horn. This time, I did wait to see who it was for. I went out to him. He remained in his van and politely explained that he was in the neighborhood making a delivery. Thinking he was in need of directions, I began laying out a map in my head and prepared to give him what clumsy direction I could. But no, he was not lost. He was, in fact, delivering a mattress, and he had additional ones in his van which he was offering for sale at 50% off and was I interested. I said no, and he drove off to the neighbor’s up the road.

How strange! There have been no salesmen except for the Jehovah's Witnesses selling their God. How strange it is to have one immediately after the other. One selling stores, one selling mattresses. Not your usual door-to-door fare. I can only think that the month-long strike has delivered a horrible blow to certain businesses, not simply those related to tourism, and their owners are desperate to bring in income.

I do regret that M. was not at home when the mattress man came by. The two mattresses in the house are not very comfortable. We might have gotten a good deal on a much better mattress.

I am wondering who might show up tomorrow selling his wares. I am in need of a blender.