It’s my Cugina’s special birthday today. Wendy is closer
than a cousin to me. We have spent our whole lives together. As little girls we
played dolls and sand castles and swam at the cottage and pretended to be
motorcyclists (ala Marlon Brando in The Wild One). Later we plastered our walls
with posters of teen idols, played our favourite 50’s and 60’s music, and
mooned over the cute boys. She and I got married far too young; hers stuck,
while mine did not.
Now she is sixty-five, has been with Dennis for forty-five
years, and I am awestruck. I can’t believe all that time has passed. To me, she
looks young; I can still see my childhood friend in those beautiful eyes. She
is a gorgeous woman, with exquisite taste in clothing, design, food, and places
to visit. She’s funny, has an infectious laugh, is generous and thoughtful and
kind. I don’t know if she has any idea how wonderful she is, though I try to
tell her now and then. We can pretty much confide totally in one another, no
subject is too sensitive, and we know it’s going to remain between the two of
us forever. Best friends, sisters, might be better descriptions than cousins.
Ever since we went to Italy and tried to learn some Italian, we have been
calling each other “Cugina”.
Unfortunately, during the night of November 27, 2003, my
younger sister died in her sleep of massive heart failure. Of course any date
on which this tragedy befell would have been awful, but it’s such a shame it’s
on Wendy’s birthday. Cugina doesn’t forget, though – this morning, as we pass
this day in Barbados, she lifts her juice to toast Candace. I tell her about my
nephew’s Facebook posting: a picture of Candy, his mom, and my Dad, who also
died too young, held in Nick’s arms, along with this new baby son, Owen. I
cried, naturally, and Cugina gets tears in her eyes, too. On November 28, 2003,
as soon as I called and told Wendy about our loss, she came right over to hug
us and cry with us. Just one example of her kindheartedness.
Today, though, we are in Barbados, and after a nighttime
shower, it’s bright and sunny and hot. This morning I watched birds playing on
the grass below the balcony, looked to my left through green palm leaves to the
aqua sea. Now we jump into the car again, determined to find St. Nicholas
Abbey.
On the way, we traverse a myriad of roundabouts once more,
but this time, we know we’re on the right track. Although the signage and the
maps don’t seem to align, we’re getting used to reading the highway posts very
quickly. We pass fancy malls, tiny homes, large mansions, broken down and
closed shops, and obstacle course construction. The roundabouts shout Give Way!
And I imagine it’s in an English accent. We think we feel so at home here
because the area is similar to southern Ontario – built upon British sensibilities
yet independent and proud too. We drive through a shower, marveling at the
lovely tropical raindrops that nourish the lush vegetation. Soon enough, it’s
sunny again and the cloud is an astonishing blue. Suddenly, we start seeing
signs for St. Nicholas Abbey. We made it!
Despite its name, the site is not really an abbey and never
was. It’s an old sugar plantation that has been well preserved throughout its
350+ years. Recently it was purchased by a Bajan family, the Warrens, who have
restored it and encouraged tours. We reach a very narrow road swarmed on all
sides by over-our-car-roof stalks of sugar cane and have a moment of misgiving.
Then the Abbey laneway appears, framed on both sides by huge mahogany trees and
other bushy, entwined vegetation. At the end, we find the large, pleasant white
house that fronts the plantation. Stone posts stand guard on each side of the
walk. We enter a beautiful garden, fragrant and filled with orchids,
bougainvillea, hyacinths, and many others that I cannot name.
A lovely Bajan woman takes us on a tour through the house. I
wish I’d asked her name, for she is a delight. She’s proud, funny, talks a blue
streak in fast Barbadian English, and knows her stuff. The house was built in
the 1650’s of rubble, stone, shells and mud. The walls are three feet thick,
but because of the mud and stone, they soon began to sprout mould. When a
hurricane felled many of the mahogany trees in the past, they used the wood to
place a façade over the walls and blocked out the mould. Our guide laughs and
says, it works, though we “don’t want to know what’s going on underneath that
wood”. The furniture and contents are mainly from the 1800’s, including china,
and were all included in the purchase price. Mr. Warrens bought it in 2006 and
our guide (I’ll call her Keisha, she looks like a Keisha), well, Keisha is
delighted. She talks about the history of the house in relation to Barbadian
history: through the many conquests and the advent of slavery. She’s descended
from African slaves and so is Mr. Warrens: in fact, his ancestors worked as
indentured servants on this very plantation. How fitting that he now owns it!
Keisha tells us she’s not bitter about slavery; in fact, she says, look where
she lives. She considers Barbados to be the best country in the world and is
glad her ancestors were brought here. She tells some of our group (whose
English accents tell of their roots) that it’s “ours now and we ain’t givin’ it
back”. All the while, she laughs and winks and practically dances as she tells
the history of the land and the home.
Keisha relates the fact that all people brought to Barbados used to go
through Pelican Island. During an outbreak of cholera, sick people were
banished to that island until they recuperated (or not, presumably). Now the
water separating the small island from the big one has been filled in and forms
the harbour from which cruise ships – and our Jolly Roger – come and go.
There’s an herb garden just outside the living-room window, where a soft breeze
flutters the curtain. Two birds, which we can’t name, strut through the bushes.
We are fascinated by the gentleman’s chair, the judge’s chair, the 1950’s radio
that still works and is playing Bajan music. The oldest piece of furniture,
built in 1696, is called a “settle” and is made of dark oak, with exquisite
carvings. Keisha shows us the indoor washroom – it’s an original Thomas
Crapper! Outside, we find lovely bricked pathways, which Keisha informs us were
made from the bricks of a fallen sugar cane tower. Now I discover what those brick
towers that dot the landscape are! They were the chimneys that let off the
steam from the sugar process, which looks pretty complicated to me. Keisha says
the plantation stopped making sugar years ago when a huge company took over
most of the business on the island, but they’ve started again, producing a
small amount for tourists and personal use.
Also out here, Keisha points out
the original outhouse – it has four buckets inside, which she says were used
for “potty parties”. I think of Leslie and I in Tanya’s outhouse and Wendy and
I as little girls (more on that later). The Warrens have transformed the
stables into a lovely area for tourists, a gift shop, and a small theatre.
They’ve also begun making rum once again, which we sample in a delicious punch.
After that we watch a movie that was shot in 1934 and edited by the younger Mr.
Cave, who were the previous English (and mostly absentee) owners. It’s very
informative and I wish I could remember enough to tell you how that sugar
process works.
Next we get a shot of their new white rum, but I’m not a fan
of it without punch. Wendy and I do some damage in the gift shop, then head
toward the front door. We both have to use the washroom. Keisha says to use the
pathway to our right and we follow her directions. The toilet looks like a
brick outhouse. And here’s where Wendy and I have our laugh. As little girls up
at the cottage, we’d go on a hike with a picnic lunch. More often than not,
we’d end up at the outhouse, which we thought was miles away from the house. It
was a two-seater, so it was a perfect place to sit and eat lunch, door open,
gazing into the trees. We both use this outhouse, too, though not to have
lunch, as it’s only a one-seater. We marvel over the interior. Once again, it’s
an original Thomas Crapper toilet, with chain flush, and sink too. Wish we’d
had the camera!
From the abbey, we travel toward Cherry Tree Hill. Whenever
we get lost (which isn’t often this trip), we are assisted by cheerful,
friendly people who can’t do enough to set us on our way. We reach the hill and
the view of the ocean is spectacular. It’s more navy than turquoise, tossed
with large white waves, surrounded by wild trees and hillocks. We stop and take
pictures of a little monkey, who dangles in the trees and palms. Her owner is
incensed by the response of a tourist, who argues that he shouldn’t be asking
them for money to take pictures. We give a good tip and privately call the
other tourist an asshole.
On the way back, we see more brick chimneys and
storage towers. One of the fat squat ones looks much older that any of the
others. It’s been reclaimed by weeds and flowers. We watch as slender white,
orange-beeked egrets follow a tractor through the field. We pass the Alleyne
School, which Keisha told us about. It was the first school to educate the
slaves’ children, something begun by a St. Nicholas Abbey plantation owner.
It’s still providing great education; Keisha herself went there.
Back at the Butterfly, we lounge by the pool, bob in the
ocean, get massaged in the whirlpools. Sensational.
Tonight is a perfect, round, white moon. Oneal picks us up
for dinner once again and we traverse the island once more, it seems, to reach
Daphne’s. The place is beautiful. Constructed of light brown wood, the balcony
reaches out over the shore. Our table is exquisite, sectioned off from the
others, private and lovely. Our meals are excellent, but we have to admit: not
as creative or lively as Pisces. However, they do present Cugina with a
firecracker candle and a chocolate-engraved Happy Birthday dessert.
When we get back “home”, we drink champagne by the pool,
toast Wendy, and howl for a while at the full moon in the warm dark night.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
We have to leave today! Though there’s a bit of rain in the
morning, once more it’s that lovely translucent water that refreshes. The
breeze from the ocean is warm and gentle. The ocean waves rock us in a way we
want to recollect for meditation times; up and then down again, just a swell,
almost tender. We stay in as long as possible, then go upstairs to shower,
complete the packing, and then check out. We’re cheered by our housekeeper,
Wilma, Jefferson at the desk, and any other staff who passes us: I hope you
come back some day! So do we, we answer sincerely. Wendy and Dennis drive us to
the airport and we kiss and hug good-bye. They’re so lucky to be staying three
more luscious days.
As always, though, we’re happy to be going home. We love our
family, our house, our cats. I love my second career.
We check in at the airport and are lucky enough to get the same emergency
seats we had on the way down – two alone in an aisle made for three seats. But
once on board, the stewardess approaches us to see if we want to move back one
row. Here we will have an empty seat between us, empty seats in front of us,
and an aisle for Vince to get out if he needs to. Talk about your upgrade! Wait
‘til we tell Wendy and Dennis…
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