This weekend, M. and I had a chance to hear a local group, Soft, play live at a festival celebrating native Caribbean culture and history. Soft released their first album, Kadans a péyi-la, in 2005, selling more than 11,000 copies in four months. Vocals are led by Fred Deshayes, who is also lead guitar. Base is played by Joël Larochelle, saxophone by Phillipe Sadikalay, and percussion by Didier Juste.
I'm not sure how to categorize Soft's music but I believe smooth jazz, defined as a sub-genre of jazz that is "influenced stylistically by R&B, funk and pop," seems close. But, 'smooth jazz' makes me think of curly-maned Kenny G. There are surely similarities: Kenny G plays the soprano saxophone, and so does Sadikalay, giving the music that distinctive elevator quality. But I think it would be more accurate to describe it as smooth Guadeloupean jazz, a sub-genre of jazz stylistically influenced by zouk, gwo ka, konpa, even some biguine - all music from Guadeloupe.
Unlike Kenny G, it could be said that Soft has an agenda. Their lyrics, written mainly in creole, focus on social issues of Guadeloupe. The top hit from that first album, Krim cont la Gwadloup (Crime contre la Guadeloupe, Crimes against Guadeloupe), for example, criticizes local politicians for their contributions to the various social and economic ills of the island.
Below, the single Kadans a péyi-la and the lyrics. Unfortunately, I don't know any créole beyond a few words and simple phrases, so I cannot give you a translation. If I work it out, though, I'll post it here, too.
Kadans a peyi la
Yo enmé nati-la Yo pa enmé pèp-la An vérité yo pa/pa’a santi kadans a péyi-la
Yo pa vlé Sentélwa Yo pa vlé tann Mawsèl Lolya (Marcel Lollia An vérité yo pa enmé lokans a péyi-la
Mé soufriyè pa ka dòmi Kon vou kon mwen i ka bouyi Nenpòt ki jou sa ké pété
Sé li ka chayé mwen Sé sa ka brilé mwen Sé li k’ay menné nou pli wo, pli wo
Refrain/rèfren Padon manman padon papa Nou pa vlé péyi-la konsa Si dlo vini an zyé an nou Féblès pa k’ay pran kò an nou woy E pa k’ay ni mélankoli E nenpòt ki filozofi Lèw vwè péyi an nou ké lévé
Tam pi tam tam pi tam tanbou ké woulé
An péyi-la pa ni pon rèv Ji lèspérans nou mèt an grèv Ni twòp moun ki ka ralanti Kadans a péyi-la Sé tèt vid, sé nwa séré Chanté pawòl malélivé E sé nou menm ka mènasé mizik a péyi-la
Mé soufriyè pa ka dòmi Kon vou kon mwen i ka bouyi Nenpòt ki jou sa ké pété Soufwans a péyi-la
(refrain)
Two years after their stunning success, Soft (minus Juste) released Partout étranger. The group then released a 'best of' album (though it seemed hardly necessary, given they've only released two albums previous). The song Lanmou o piyaj featured on their second album, but an accompanying music video - their first - was released this past May:
For Toussaint, M. and I went for a 5-day trip to St. Barthélemy, or variously known as St. Barth (in France), St. Bart (in the U.S.). St. Barth is located approximately 125 miles northwest of Guadeloupe in the Eastern Caribbean. With only 21 square kilometers of dry hilly terrain and no natural water source, it is affectionately called The Rock by some residents.
Above, the port of Gustavia.
First discovered by Christopher Columbus in 1493, St. Barth was settled successfully by the French only in1648. These first settlers were predominantly fishermen from Normandie and Bretagne. The island prospered as a port for French buccaneers, who eventually settled and became merchants, tradesmen, farmers. In 1784, the island was sold to the Swedish King Gustav III in exchange for trading rights in Göteborg. The following year St. Barth is made into a free port and shortly after, the largest town is named in honor of the king. A short period of prosperity began as regular conflict between neighboring possessions of French, English, and Dutch rule made St.Barth an important supply point. Waning conflict in the Caribbean and the introduction of motorized ships made St.Barth redundant. In 1878, having become a drain on the public finances of Sweden, St. Barth was offered up to France for repurchase. St. Barth remained isolated and poor until the development of tourism in the mid-twentieth century.
Unlike Guadeloupe, this tiny island of France is well known by Americans. Indeed, St.Barth has been a longtime winter playground for the American rich. Having experienced rapid decline in the late 1800's to early 1900s, and more or less forgotten by the national French government, St.Barth turned to tourism for economic growth. However, St. Barth staked out a destiny different from its neighbors. Having few resources to exploit and waste, St. Barth made a conscious decision to pursue the wealthy tourist.
Wealthy we are not. But, the plane ticket is fairly inexpensive from Guadeloupe, and we found a very reasonable price for hotel and car rental combination. It would not have been my first choice for a vacation destination, and probably not M.'s either. But, we had other reasons for going, which I may write about in some later post.
Above, a plane descends to land at the airport in St. Barth (1).
The plane ride from Guadeloupe is short: a little less than 1 hour. The landing in St. Barth is world-famous. One end of the runway begins at the bottom of a steep hill. The other end stops on a narrow slice of St. Jean beach. With only 2,100 ft of runway in between, planes that land here must be made for short fields, such as the de Havilland Twin Otter (seating 20), the Cessna 208 Caravan, or the Britten-Norman Islander (both seating 9). Most planes land heading east, so after clearing the hill, the pilot must quickly bring the plane down and to a stop before reaching the beach (2). A pilot for St. Barth Commuter explained that the wind conditions determine the direction that pilots must take for the runway, as the wind must always be moving against the aircraft (3).
St. Barth is a dry, dry country. With the sun reverberating on hard, dirt-covered hills, the heat is clearly hostile. Plant life is reduced to small prickly shrubs, or grotesquely large thorned bushes. How different from the lush prolificacy of Basse Terre, or even the gently rolling fields of Grand Terre! It is St. Barth's saving grace that the sea and the ocean should turn so mesmerizingly blue on its shores.
We visited five of the island's twenty-two beaches. St Jean was a milky turquoise blue. The inhabitually strong waves churning the fine white sand made the water sparkle, even in its depths. Large modern houses imposed on the narrow stretch of sand at Flamands. Gouverneur was quiet save for the whistle-like calls of a pair of red-billed tropicbirds, which were diving and gliding in front of the cliff face. The tinkling of shells being turned over in the sand by the waves on Shell Beach was magic. My favorite was Salines, rugged and empty, a beach for the imagination. Above, the old lighthouse over looking the port of Gustavia.
Thanksgiving officially begins the season in St. Barth, so the island was still relatively quiet. Inventory sat in full boxes outside shop doors. Waiters, unfamiliar and extremely pale, had only arrived from continental France the previous weeks.
Driving around on the small winding roads, one of the first things that I noticed were the walls and prominent gates that mark the property of hotels and private villas dotting the island. The walls were often beautiful mortared or veneered stone walls, the gates closed. Its an odd thing to notice, perhaps, when there are magnificent sea views, quaint shop streets, and rugged countryside to admire. But such accessories of wealth and demand for privacy are not common in Guadeloupe. Instead, a low concrete wall might separate the property from the street, and if there is a gate, it is often left wide open. Walls are built from cinder blocks, often left unpainted, occasionally complimented by strips of corrugated metal, propped up with some sticks, at the very ends. More often than not, there is simply no fence at all.
I picked up this tourist booklet (3) in a restaurant or shop. I was struck by the quality in design and photography. Its sophisticated, sleek. The photographs provoke a real desire to complete the sensations which the eye has begun: touch, to smell, to taste...
(Click on the images to enlarge.)
Unfolding the pages of the booklet, I found contrast to Guadeloupe. Indeed, it seems to me that St. Barth is everything that Guadeloupe is not, and vice versa. Where St. Barth is friendly and inviting, Guadeloupe is warm and generous. St. Barth sparkles at night, Guadeloupe wakes at twilight. St. Barth moves with ever increasing rapidity towards the future, Guadeloupe keeps turning back round to come forward again.
(1) Article and photograph by Roy Furchgott for The Washington Post (here) (2) "...speed management is crucial for a successful landing at St. Barts, because slower than required speeds will have you hit the hillside short of the runway, while excess speeds will cause you to overshoot the runway and splash into the crystal clear water of the lagoon" (Unusual and Dangerous Approaches, Part II). (3) A pilot recently failed to put down the plane quickly enough, overshooting the runway to be stopped by the beach.
The history of the Beauport plantation begins in 1813, when Guillaume Rullier-Beauport buys a sugar cane plantation north of Petit-Canal in Grand Terre from Simon Babin. The abolition of slavery at the end of the French Revolution prompts the seizure of numerous plantations, and in 1836, the plantation of Beauport is sold to Dr Armand Souques. Beginning in 1863, under competitive pressures from beet sugar, Souques begins to buy neighboring plantations to create economies of scale. To link the vast tracts of land, Souques constructs a rail system, thereby creating the first industrial structure on the island. Even a port is built - Beautiran - from which sugar cane is shipped out and coal and fertilizers are shipped in. The plantation falls into bankruptcy in 1901 after nearly seven decades of ownership by the Souques family. The plantation would change hands numerous times until its definitive closure in 1990. The factory is now the site of a historical museum (1).
Above, the trail begins on a dirt path.
The trail first follows a dirt road, passing a few houses, but quickly leaves inhabited areas behind.
Above, an enormous figuier maudit.
The trail crosses a giant figuier maudit - a cursed fig tree - which has completely swallowed the ruins of a stone windmill. Both the tree and the windmill are impressive for their size. The trail turns here, passing by a small marsh.
Above, the trail follows a dirt road cut out by the tires of farmer's trucks.
The trail begins to skirt plots of sugar cane, which in late June was uncharacteristically high. Normally, all sugar cane would have already been cut, but the harvest this year was postponed by la grève. Still, the sugar cane is not high enough to provide shade from the sun, which at 10:30 in the morning beat down with determination.
Above, a mango tree and its unripe fruit.
Above, cows loll and chew all along the trail.
Above, pastoral countryside.
The trail climbs and descends gently sloping hills. From the top of these hills it is possible to see for miles: the seemingly endless plots of sugar cane, an occasional windmill ruin, and towns beyond.
The trail eventually leaves behind the sugar cane and crosses uncultivated countryside. Old trees shade the raised trail - the steel rails of the railroad having been long torn out - with views of meadows of green grass and marshes as small as large puddles wherever the land dips too low.
Above, the close quarters of the mangrove.
The trail enters sparse forest with roots in wet marsh-like soil before finally meeting the mangrove. Even at mid-day the mosquitos buzz ravenously and hikers pause at their peril! The mangrove grows sparse and the trail arrives at the coast. Ruins of both stone structures and steel transport system remain. A small modern chapel keeps watch for fishermen who set out to sea from Beautiran.
Above, vestiges of the past.
The day we hiked Beautiran, there dozens of men standing knee deep in the water - often fully dressed - , searching. Suddenly, they plunged their one gloved hand into the water to pull out a large crab, quickly throwing it into a sack. It was, according to one, mating season for the crabs and consequently, hunting season.
Above, left, flowers by the shore, right, the day's catch in crabs.
Le Sentier de Beautiran A one way trail running alongside fields of sugar cane, with picturesque views of meadows and marshes, then crossing dense mangrove to end at the disused port of Beautiran. Location: Grand Terre, near Petit-Canal; Leaving Petit-Canal on the N6 by the north in direction of Port-Louis, trail head is a road on the left marked by a bus shelter on the right. Duration: 2H40 hours Difficulty: Easy. Parking: There is no designated parking area. Park along the road before or after the bus shelter.
Above, left, a passion fruit (Passiflora edulis), right, a water lemon (Passiflora laurifolia).
I tasted my first passion fruit during my first trip to Guadeloupe. Before that, I had only known passion fruit as an artificial flavor, like the way most city kids - myself included - know the taste of blue and red before they've ever had real blueberries or cherries.
Passion fruit (fruit de la passion in French, but known locally as maracudja after the Spanish name) are quite common on the island, found in backyard plots, or its vines running along a roadside fence. For those who do not have their own passion fruit vine, or who do not benefit from friendly relations with neighbors who do, passion fruit are also sold in local markets and sometimes even in supermarkets. There are also a range of food products with passion fruit derivatives, such as passion fruit-flavored yogurt, passion fruit juice, or passion fruit mousse tortes at the patisseries.
Far less common is the water lemon (pomme liane in French), another variety of passion fruit from the genus passiflora. This water lemon was purchased at the market in Basse Terre from a woman from Dominica who specializes in selling native fruit.
Passion fruits and water lemons are quite similar. The passion fruit is round to oval in form with an airy foam-like rind and a very smooth light yellow skin. The water lemon is round to ovoid in form with three distinct sides with an airy foam-like rind and flocked goldenrod-colored skin.
Above, left to right, a passion fruit and a pomme liane, both cut in half.
Inside both fruits, a mass of small black seeds encased in thin sack of juice. At first glance, it is not convincingly appetizing, the insides resembling embryonic creatures - tadpoles, maybe - , something vaguely sinister.
Above, a close-up of, top, passion fruit seeds, and, bottom, water lemon seeds.
The difference in flavor is advertised by the difference in color. Passion fruits are tart, acidic. Water lemons - in opposition to its name - are sweet, floral like roses. Because I like my fruit to be sweet but sharp I prefer the taste of passion fruits. I dislike water lemons for the same reason I dislike Turkish delight - I don't eat soap. M. happens to love water lemons precisely for its less aggressive flavor and so keeps the woman at the market in a steady business.
Write. Write poetry, - write in rhyme, - if it is only "One, two, Buckle my shoe, Three, four, Open the door." Form the habit. It is often convenient. It is a refuge from ennui. It may do good. Any one of you who refrains from writing for fear of ridicule, is a coward. Don't be a coward ... If your heart is stirred within you to write, write!(1)
I have been avoiding this blog since I came back to Guadeloupe after a summer in New York. I had come back with a new determination to succeed...
You see, I have no intrinsic need to write. I have not filled notebooks with first poems or scraps of a novel. It took me over a decade to fill half the pages of a journal. Instead, I write to satisfy a need. As I wrote some months ago, "Blogging is a way of saying, I exist! ... It is an outlet for my creative and intellectual energies, which otherwise would surely wither and die inside of me, making me very sick." In that same post, even as I was affirming my need to write, I foretold its end: a more complete and satisfying life would eventually supplant that need.
Not writing, then, became a proxy for that more complete and satisfying life. Eager to succeed in that goal, I got ahead of myself and choose not to pick up writing again. Its a distraction, I told myself. Truthfully, not to write was a blunt demonstration of will. But, who was I fooling? I would have gone on fooling myself if I had not come across Hamilton's words in Elaine Showalter's book "A Jury of Her Peers: American Women Writers from Anne Bradstreet to Annie Proulx" (2), a literary history of American women writers. It is difficult not to feel moved by womens' early struggles to express themselves through writing. I may enjoy privileges and rights that were only imaginable to Hamilton and her fellow women writers, but I find myself in a situation where I am bound by similar constraints and where 'emotional needs and frustrations drive me to the pen'.
I am still determined. Really, I have no choice. But there is a place for writing in my life and I do myself a disservice to hasten its obsolescence.
This is so serious for my simple posts on my tarts and my hikes. Dickensen and Brontë it is not. But such is the power of writing, where quality nor longevity determines the value to the author herself. And so, I begin again...
(1) Hamilton, Gail. Country Living and Country Thinking. Montana: Kessinger Publishing Ticknor and Fields, 1863.
(2) Showalter, Elaine. A Jury of Her Peers: American Women Writers from Anne Bradstreet to Annie Proulx. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009.
