As the month of June closed up shop for another year, and before we forgot to truly celebrate, we decided to recognize our wedding anniversary by getting out of town – just for a couple of days – to a small guest house in White River, which is close to Ocho Rios in St. Ann, on Jamaica’s north coast. The house is snug, encircled with flowers, a soft powder blue like the sky. A forest stands behind, filled with birds. The hosts are kind and the staff gracious, and the food – well, I could devote several blog posts to the meals we ate, but you, my dear readers, would be salivating too much, and that’s not healthy! Or is it?
An account of a very lazy two or three days may not be exactly riveting for the reader, but this is really a hymn of praise to the innkeeper, Ms. Elise Yap, and her brother – known as the Barefoot Chef. I would prefer to call him the Incredible Amazing Gourmet Chef, or something like that – although, in truth, I did not see him wearing footwear of any kind. It is hard work keeping such high standards as these, and the Yaps succeed admirably. The rooms are all tastefully furnished with sturdy, local hand-made furniture that we much admired. The colors are bright and cool – tropical pastel blues, greens and earth colors. The garden is a carefully cultivated riot of green, dotted with pinks, reds and golden yellows.
And, most importantly for a guest house, it feels like home.
We settled comfortably in within minutes, with a warm welcome and a complimentary Ting (Jamaica’s best soft drink made with real grapefruit juice). We stayed in the Cozy Cottage, at the back of the house, which has a private and secluded feel. You can laze in a hammock under the arbor in the daytime. You can sit outside in the evenings with candles burning and listen to the astounding orchestra of tree frogs, backed up by the occasional chorus of cicadas. We also indulged in some football – the Euro 2012 semi-finals – as the house has cable television. Later, we stirred ourselves, still a little stiff from the two-hour drive from Kingston, and walked down to the White River, which is just a couple of minutes away from the house, walking past a lovely spreading guango tree down to the water’s edge.
White River is well named. It has a light, almost silvery quality as it froths over the stones. Even the deeper pools shimmer like polished metal. The rock is bone-white limestone and the tree roots curl at the edges of the water like knuckles. The water is cold – there is nothing more delicious than river water on a humid summer day in Jamaica. We did not bathe there this time, but you can. It was tempting.
Instead, we walked back and moved to the swimming pool for a leisurely afternoon swim. The water was deliciously lukewarm. My nose, of course, instantly burned red – as it always does – with my forehead also emitting a pinkish glow later that evening (not quite bright enough to read by). I retreated (too late, damage already done) to share the shade of an arbor draped with sugar-pink bougainvillea with my husband. This is one of those pools where you don’t need to bake on an expanse of achingly hot concrete, unless you are seriously into tanning; there are shady spots, which we appreciated.
As I said earlier, to write about the tantalizing breakfasts and delectable dinners, cooked by the afore-mentioned Barefoot Chef, would take me a very long time. But just close your eyes and try to imagine cassava pancakes with caramelized banana and walnut topping; lychee cake and the most mouth-melting chocolate cake you can imagine; sweet and sour fish, piles of stir-fried Chinese vegetables, flavors of lemongrass and other fresh herbs and spices; grilled mahi-mahi (which Jamaicans unfortunately call “dolphin,” but it’s not) with feta cheese and watermelon salad; French toast and juicy jerk sausage. And of course (always very important for me) really good coffee. A sustained period of rousing applause for Mr. Yap!
So yes – we were lazy, self-indulgent, deliberately indolent, in fact. I was barely energetic enough to lift up my very interesting and amusing book – a novel called “The Sly Company of People Who Care” by Rahul Bhattacharya (I must write some more book reviews, and soon!) It was an effort to find my camera and try to focus it on the antics of the hummingbirds on the upstairs verandah where we ate. A feeder with syrup hung at each end of the verandah. Two Mangos – no, not a fruit, the Jamaican Mango is actually a hummingbird – had taken it upon themselves to patrol the verandah from dawn to dusk, doing their best to prevent the slender and glossy Red-Billed Streamertail (Jamaica’s national bird, the “Doctor Bird”) from taking even the tiniest sip from the feeder. The Doctor Birds always give themselves away with the whirr of their wings, so find it hard to sneak up incognito. The Mangos position themselves one at each end of the verandah – one on the telephone wire, the other on the top of a tree of suitable height – and stand guard, it appears all day long. The only thing that cramps their style somewhat is when human beings like us appear on the verandah to chat or feed ourselves. Jamaica’s national bird hardly gets a look in. Having said that, the Mango is an appealing bird – stockier, darker, but equally graceful. When the light catches its feathers, it shimmers with dull gold and magenta and purple, like an old piece of jewelry that needs to be taken out of its velvet box to be appreciated.
Of course, there are more birds, and a place full of birds is bound to score high marks with me. Tall trees with vines hanging like strings from their branches, with untidy bunches of wild orchids festooning their trunks, stand like a regiment behind the house. It is marvelous to see a group of parrots, their crooked silhouettes swinging on the topmost branches against the pale early morning sky , and to hear them argue with each other in crochety old man’s voices. Or to watch the wayward flight of a Jamaican Crow, cawing loudly as he flies, as he tries to avoid the persistent attacks of a small mockingbird, swerving like a mini bus that is being steered badly, but never managing to shake off the much smaller bird.
There are also flowers, in abundance, pouring over arches, dipping over walls, standing like glorious colored sentinels in the front garden of not only The Blue House, but those of its neighbors. The neighbors are, indeed, engaged in the orchid wars. One house is almost hidden behind a stand of dark purple, white, burnt orange, butter yellow, and startling pink orchids. Orchids stand like soldiers along both sides of the path leading up to the front door of another neighbors. It is a war of flowers.
The Blue House is a home, and it is also a place of intense magic. A clap of thunder cracks the sky; the sun sails behind paper thin clouds; the river flashes across the stones; the tree tops soar. It is not Frida Kahlo’s Blue House, but it could also inspire art. If I had a week to spend there, I would be able to write, and write. No distractions, just to focus on the real things.
Thank you. And do visit there soon. Soon, you hear!
- Earth Day Plus One: Postscript from the Garden (petchary.wordpress.com)
- Jamaica, She is Royal (theislandjournal.wordpress.com)
- Jamaica’s Rich Biodiversity Faces Multiple Threats: International Day for Biological Diversity (petchary.wordpress.com)
- A Taste of Jamaica: A Recipe for Mango Smoothie (trifter.com)
There has been much talk about gas, this week. It seems to go hand in hand with its first cousin, oil. The Petchary is growing increasingly fearful of both these substances, despite their inherent “naturalness.”
Why this feeling of unease? Well, as the Petchary has noted in earlier blogs, the oil is still out there, churning into the Gulf of Mexico, washing onto beaches in a slow-moving, nauseous, purplish tide. It has become an evil creature – a monster that cannot be tamed. This week, it has seeped into our consciousness – no longer subliminal, but (literally) on the surface. It can be clearly seen from space. Scientists say up to 60,000 barrels a day are being vomited out into the once-blue ocean. More than they thought.
Perhaps it’s more than 60,000 barrels? How much is 60,000 barrels? Can we imagine it? If Mr. Tony Hayward of BP was floating in 60,000 barrels of water (well, let’s say oil), would it be enough to fill his swimming pool? Would it slop over onto his lovely green lawn? Would it creep up to his patio? Well, this weekend he will be getting his life back. He can dip his toes in the fake Florida blue water of his pool, if he so desires.
Now there is the other fear: gas. A recent report has pointed out that the fiery collapse of the Deepwater oil rig was caused by a “methane bubble.” Methane is an “important” component of global warming, scientists say. In other words, it is already helping to turn our planet into a greenhouse.
The word greenhouse always reminds the Petchary of her grandmother’s garden. The greenhouse was a wonderful little world, sweet-smelling with ripening tomatoes, dusty and dry, untouched by the wind and damp of English seasons, with a lingering memory of summer even on the coldest days. Nowadays, greenhouses are plastic; Granny’s greenhouse was made of thick, smeared glass that was never cleaned, gently filtering and spreading the sunlight (even the thin sunlight of winter) onto delicate young seedlings.
Now, the words “greenhouse” and “gas,” put together, are a disturbing combination. But in truth, gas has always had its sinister connotations. Combined with the word “chamber,” it conjures up the horrific image of a room full of naked people, clutching each other in the finality of their fear. Gas seeps through tiny cracks and slips under doors, and pours from exhaust pipes; like smoke, but largely unseen. A gas mask - that twentieth century invention of war and disaster - pulled over the face, turns humans, even children, into aliens with huge lifeless eyes. Desperate soldiers in the mud-filled trenches of the First World War lived in fear of its sulphurous embrace.
Now there is another reason to fear this creeping thing with no color, no shape, no sound (at least to Petchary, who is no scientist, so this may not be an accurate description). The methane gas which created this evil tide of oil in the first place, it is now said, may somehow suck the oxygen out of the already polluted sea, and create “dead zones.”
Dark emptiness where nothing moves, nothing stirs the surface. Nothing breathes. No gills flutter. No turtles soar. No pelicans dive and swoop and settle.
Methane, by the way, is created by landfills, by herds of cattle, by fossil fuels, of course, and by…rice farming. It is hard to imagine a gleaming, richly green paddy field breathing out the second most potent greenhouse gas after carbon dioxide. And perhaps we Jamaicans should all stop eating stew beef and rice and peas.
Meanwhile, Jamaican politicians are saying, “Gas is the answer.” Liquefied natural gas, that is. Is this what they call “alternative energy”?
Yes, it’s an alternative to oil. But strangely, it sounds like more of the same. Gas, oil – don’t they go together? Or is this a safe, happy gas – even the kind that makes you laugh and talk in funny voices? But perhaps it is something we should also fear – will it, too, swell into a threatening, exploding bubble? Will it heat up our world, create hurricanes, poison us slowly, create dead zones?
Yes, the Petchary is in a doom-laden mood. But let us end with one of those quirky quotes from President George W. Bush – one that will cause us to ponder, long and hard:
“Natural gas is hemispheric. I like to call it hemispheric in nature, because it is a product that we can find in our neighborhoods.”