The ghost of blogs past sent a previous blog from 2009 out last night. Is it a sign? Whatever the reason I don't know why it happened and I apologise on behalf of said ghost. If you are interested in what The Husband is up to look at the Labour Party's manifesto. The Robin Hood tax proposal is his.
I am working through my bucket list – that compilation of desire and ego. It was a less wise me that made the list. It has everything from the pretentious to the downright foolish. But a list is a list and unless checked off can haunt a person with OCD. The itch was becoming unbearable. Playing mas in Trinidad was the last thing I ticked off and that was a few years back. Halfway through Carnival Tuesday I remember thinking I should convert the bucket list into the f*#k-it list. What was a middle-aged, over weight, entirely too sober person doing trying to chip down the road when all around me were simulated sex scenes worthy of the best the porn industry offers? And don’t ask how I know that.
Still the list haunted me. One particularly treasured and distant desire was to walk the Camino de Santiago de Compostella. It was a safe addition to the list. When would I, mother of demanding teenage boys, ever get away for long enough to go to the bathroom alone much more have time for days or even weeks of walking? Then suddenly life changed. Instead of wanting to get away from the boys, the boys wanted to get away from us. They declared they were off to Spain in July to attend Spanish language classes and would be gone for three weeks. I tried the “who do you think is going to pay for that” line. They knew the hollowness of that threat. Grandma and grandpa are wrapped around their pinkie fingers and of course would cough up. I tried the “you’ll miss me.” Nada. I tried “you’ll miss daddy.” Smirk. “You’ll miss the dogs.” At least this extracted a brief hesitation swiftly followed by a chorus of “Vamos!”. Undaunted I appealed to self-preservation. You might be attacked, mugged by vile strangers. My tall, athletic sons laughed in my face. Avila, the small, walled city they are heading to, is home to the police academy and crime is low.
Then it occurred to me. If they can go to Spain then so can I. And I’m taking The Husband. We can leave home too. Tomorrow, on my 49th birthday, I will arrive in Sarria where my Camino begins the walk into my 50th year.
I have been so caught up in the symbolism and sense of destiny of the Camino that I forgot one incy-wincy detail. You can slice it and dice it and add cherries on top but it is still a long walk. Of course each Camino is personal. My chosen Camino is just over 100km - the distance necessary to legitimately claim the “compostela”. If you are Catholic this gives absolution. Atheists can still get a compostela but its sort of third party confirmation of walking the walk after all the big talk.
Most, knowing a long walk of up to 20km each day lies ahead, might consider, perhaps walking a little bit before. Build up stamina. This week I was hiding in a corner cutting my finger nails to the quick when The Husband found me.
‘Why are you cutting your nails so short?’
‘For the Camino.’ I said trying to root out a rough edge. ‘I won’t have time to keep them manicured.’
He stepped back, arms folded.
‘So let me get this straight. Your sole preparation for the Camino has been cutting your nails?’
Since then, out of shame and fear, I have done three walks of between 70 – 115 minutes. The walks have been ok but the bone tiredness and deep aches in re-awakened muscles that followed each of these outings has been a reality check. How am I to cover 20km a day after day after day? But it is too late to back out now. Walking shoes and bits of gear have been bought and packed. Even worse I will have witnesses to my demise as a couple of equally deranged friends are joining us.
I’ll write about it along the way – if I can lift my hands each night to tap on the keys. Now for one last check if I have packed enough blister plasters and ibuprofen.
Hilda Ramkhelawan was 92 so this state of grief is not really acceptable. Hers was a long, full life and the end brought relief from incurable pain. We are told to be happy for her. The funeral was billed a Service of Thanksgiving in celebration of her life. I want to celebrate but I cannot. Not yet. Not today. My grandmother's death is the end for an extraordinary woman who was the glue that kept a dysfunctional family from shattering into tiny, unsustainable splinters. As her coffin disappeared beneath the shovelled earth my extended family were also quickly vanishing before my eyes. If this seems grandiose then you did not know the woman we called Ma.
So how did Ma keep us together? After all she was ordinary, educated only to primary school level. She fell in love with a married man and had two daughters and seven sons with him even though he never quite left his wife. When he died unexpectedly at the age of 50 she was plunged into caring for her kids – the youngest ones being four and three – completely on her own. I never heard her complain that life was hard and she never brought another suitor to her bed.
Instead Ma embraced life and swaddled her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren in warmth and love. Growing up I did not realise we had little because her simple house was the embodiment of security and largesse. You could always find a bed for the night or an ear for your troubles. Couple this with a constant stream of the most delicious food and it was the prefect haven when life was overwhelming. Call in at breakfast time and you would be given hot Sada roti and pumpkin choka without reference to your affiliation with the household or state of hunger. Swing by to say hello anytime after noon and it might be curried channa and stewed chicken. No one could visit without having something to eat or at least a cold drink. And love was also personalised. Her son Denis believed in her fried chicken and always knew it would be left in a covered dish in the oven come Saturday afternoon not matter where he had spent the week. My childhood Sundays were marked by Ma’s return from the market with a little brown paper bag of warm rice cakes with my name on it. Steaming hot bowls of lentil soup would appear late morning and I cannot sample this soup anywhere in the world without silently comparing it (unfavourably) to her pot. Ma’s hand was sweet. Oh and I almost forgot to mention her sponge cake. For some reason she refused to make any other kind of cake and for some reason it remains my favourite.
While life took us in all directions there was something solid about the fact that Ma had been born at 70 Union Road, Marabella; had lived her whole life at 70 Union Road, Marabella and, after a brief hospital stay, was due to be taken back there on the day she took her last breath. Alexander Pope’s description of the happy man as someone “[C]ontent to breathe his native air, In his own ground” was Ma to the core of her being. Some of her sons have never left that home while others go back and forth with the vicissitudes of love and life. I never understood if she tied these adult men to the hem of her dress or if they stubbornly refused to quit the security she exuded. What I know is that even after not living in Trinidad for over thirty years it was her home, 70 Union Road, Marabella that was my True North.
There are a few things I should have learnt from Ma that I only appreciate now she is gone. I chose clothes without much thought and consider a lick of lipstick making an effort. Ma refused to be seen, even when bedridden, unless properly groomed. It was a matter of pride that the lustre of her hair was black without a hint grey. When asked about this feat she would cheekily reply,
“Dou-dou darling, you can’t see me hair is natural black?”
In her wardrobe were boxes of hair dye sent by a son in New York all labelled Natural Black. In the rush to attend her funeral I showed up with an inch of grey roots. Ma would never have allowed such slippage. It won’t happen again Ma – I promise. And of course it was her son Steve – the second to last of her babies – who faithfully did the root touch ups. I say of course because her sons were everything to her. They were her constant confidants, helpers and companions. Lovers and wives entered the lives of her sons fully conscious that they came second to Ma.
Ma’s bit of fun was the horses and like most small time gamblers she lost a little and won a little. Lady Luck once sent twenty five thousand dollars (then worth about $6000usd) her way with three winning horses in a major race. Being Ma she immediately shared her winnings among her children and a few lucky neighbours. The only point of having money, food or love was to pass it on to those without.
The deep well of her love meant that when her middle-aged son, the second-born, Hugh, died suddenly of a massive heart attack, she grieved so hard and for so long that her tear ducts were permanently damaged. Those were tough years for the family as no one could admit how depressed and withdrawn she had became. Our pillar of strength was cracking but yet again she somehow held herself and us together.
The memory of her I keep sacred is from the last time I saw her – laughing and smiling and repeating the same stories as if she had not just told them minutes before. She wanted me to know that life had been kind to her. When she needed help in the aftermath of my grandfather’s death a young neighbour filled in the forms and got her the meagre welfare she was entitled to. Ma also insisted that she was blessed because her children had been respectful, loving and devoted. And in case we had somehow forgotten she reminded us that her plot at the Marabella Cemetery had been bought over half a century earlier for the princely sum of $24.
Now that she is gone how will those who have held her at the centre of their world cope? These sons have lost their mother and best friend. Who will be the peacemaker when this brother say he don’t have nothing to say to that sister and was only talking to she for Ma sake? And will that other sister take any interest in her siblings now that Ma is gone? Will others who live far away come back to visit 70 Union Road? Will they be welcome? Ma, my generous, big-hearted grandmother, where is True North now that you are gone?
I have never cared much for Sunday. It harbours the threat that Monday is imminent. For a goodly majority of Bajans it is the highlight of the week as they head to church – men in sombre suits and ladies parading in elaborate hats and even white gloves. Church attendance might be declining world-wide but this rock is steady in its faith. That I have been an atheist since the cradle, and The Husband a humanist, makes us a distinct minority. It’s been an issue since we first arrived on island. The children’s school was not pleased with “humanist” on the entry form. Desperate to get them in we went from no religion to many regions. I explained that my mother was Catholic, father Anglican and The Husband’s parents Hindu. We also have Presbyterians and Jehovah Witnesses as kin. With so many religions at our disposal we had as yet failed to settle on just the one. Satisfied that between Jesus, Vishnu and Jehovah our souls would eventually be saved, a line was drawn through “Humanist”, “Christian” inserted and thus First and Second Born duly received a primary school education.
But on this rock religion is more than an entrance requirement for school. It is an entrance requirement into society. Sitting in a government office The Husband got chatting with an elderly gentleman who wanted the answer to two key questions - his name and what church he attended. When he said none the man assumed that he had simply not found one yet and proceeded to recommend several churches that might be suitable. It was unthinkable that anyone could be on the island for six months let alone six years and not be affiliated with an institution. And being full of island kindness he of course invited The Husband to his own humble church in St. Phillip.
The majority of churchgoers seem to have genuine faith. It is not uncommon for complete strangers to greet you with “a blessed good morning”. If you let someone in the queue ahead of you, or give someone a lift, they will usually respond with “the lord will bless you”. For a jaded Trini/Londoner this politeness from strangers is a delight and I would be happy if it that was the extent to which religion invaded my life. But on this rock most major meetings or conferences – private or public sector - cannot begin business without a prayer or formal blessing being proclaimed.
Most march off to church Sunday after Sunday in search of a bit of comfort from the slings and arrows of this old world and for this I am envious. In the space of 24 hours I managed to loose my no-claims bonus of a zillion years in not one but two car accidents. One car ploughed into my left side and by the next evening another car had matched the damage on the right side. None of the attending police (you must wait on the police for all traffic accidents – even the most trivial fender-bender) offered comfort from on high but I did notice that the accident involving a tourist was handled with greater decorum. Combined with family illness and general strife I wished there was someone watching over me who was going to kiss it all magically better. My helper had other thoughts.
‘I don’t know why but the devil working pon you steady these days,’ she stated seeing me hiding in a corner.
‘So what should I do?’ I asked.
‘I does pray hard for you and this family every night.’
‘I’m grateful,’ I said weakly.
She went off to peal a pineapple but returned quickly.
‘When was the last time you shine up yourself?’ she inquired.
I thought of my unwashed hair and jam-stained T-shirt.
‘I’ll go have a shower,’ I replied, slightly ashamed.
‘No girl. I mean when was the last time you shine yourself?’
Shine myself. Shine myself? What bit of self-love was she referring to exactly? Before my dirty mind strayed any further she interrupted.
‘Every time I go back Guyana I does go and get the blue and the lavender and the grass and a calabash. You don’t have to go by nobody to shine yourself up. You could buy everything and do it home.’
She smiled as recognition fell over my face. She was planning a bush bath to wash way the evil she perceived around me.
‘I going in town this week self and get what you need. Plus it have a calabash tree in The Belle. I going send a body to get one give me.’
While she is collecting an eye of newt or whatever else I will be required to immerse myself in I took to the Internet to establish the efficacy of this treatment and the main ingredients. Facebook friends knew of potential ingredients and some had even had a bush bath or two themselves. No one was completely sure if it had made a difference to their lives although my sister-in-law had seen a documentary about African babies learning to walk at eight months after a medicinal bath that, along with certain exercises, stimulated leg muscles.
From this collective wisdom of friends, and a calypso by David Rudder, it seems a decent bush bath should contain some or all of the following:
- Blue (used in laundry)
- red lavender
- Bois cano
- Black sage
- Chadon Beni
- Cousin Mahoe
- Soursop leaves
Option extras include a couple silver coins, holy water and soft candle.
I think there is a performance art work here begging to done. If you have any of these ingredients in your yard you know how to find me. I’m preparing for a bath that will clean the places other baths don't reach.