These are a few of my favourite things…

All December long, I have been listening to Julie Andrews vivaciously and repeatedly tell me a few of her favourite things, and while most of her favourite things seem fairly reasonable, I do think some of her worries are a little low on the radar, given that I’m pretty confident that their real problems comprised trying to escape the Third Reich. I mean, it’s not to say that being stung by a bee is the most pleasant thing to happen, but it might be easier to get over than say, Hitler’s regime.

So while I don’t necessarily side with her on all points of the song, she has inspired me to share, with anyone who is still reading, what my favourite Bajan things have been this Christmas.

When we left the shores of Blighty back in August (well, Terminal 3 runway but the shores sounds so much more romantic), Tesco were already putting out the Christmas cards and treats, which in my book is a very early worming bird indeed. As we landed on the shores of Barbados (the Grantly Adams runway) things were very different.

In Barbados, the run up to Christmas begins after Independence Day – 30^th November, and shops and folk alike are not supposed to decorate their houses or places of business with anything other than the Barbados flag colours. So the Bajan run up to Christmas is short and sweet, rather than the usual 3 month UK slog. This, coupled with the heat, lighter nights and members of the Made in Chelsea gang parading up and down the beach, made for a very unique and confusing Christmas scene.

Christmas songs

Whilst most Christmas songs are just Reggae versions of the usual Christmas classics, Barbados has a few of its own home-grown classics. Although not an exhaustive list of Bajan Christmas hits, here are some of my favourites, heard on the radio whilst driving along and then frantically youtube’d once home:

• Santa’s Got a Sunburn
• Drink a Rum
• We Wish You a Merry Reggae Christmas
• Pong Aint Getting Naffin Fuh Christmas

I compiled a playlist so that you too can be lucky enough to hear these classics:

Christmas Caroling

On the 22nd December, we went out with the hiking club on the annual Christmas hike, which not only encompassed the usual mockery of us trying to keep up with the group, but we also further embarrassed ourselves by helping howl out some Christmas carols under the light of the stars.

I couldn’t tell you the last time I went caroling, but no doubt I would have been in a onesie (as a baby – I certainly don’t think they are the correct fashion for adults as some do), nor am I religious, but there was something about the genuine belief in the Good Lord in which our friends rejoiced, and in the sincere giving of thanks, that made it a very spiritual and beautiful thing.

We sang several carols, with only the Whistling Frogs as our orchestra, and George to guide us. I have included a small snippet below for you to experience it. I sang very quietly as I knew I was filming and didn’t want to mar the experience for anyone, but Dan and the others sang like angels in the night. The video is badly shot and at one point I unnecessarily rotate it completely, which for some viewers may bring on a little motion sickness. I hope you enjoy it.

Boxing day in Moontown

After spending an incredibly merry Christmas Day with our Bajan family, Boxing Day was pretty hard to come to terms with, especially once we had left the safety of the boudoir. However, never to be beaten, we decided to join the locals down at Moontown, the smallest village on the island, famed for its Fish Fry.

Initially Moontown was called Half Moon Fort, but the name was changed to Moontown as the MP at the time felt that Half Moon Fort didn’t sound like an actual place, and the word ‘town’ was more befitting against its neighbours Speightstown and Holetown.

In Moontown, all the locals gather to have a good few beers and play very enthusiastic rounds of Dominoes. We were the only whites in the village and the locals couldn’t have been more welcoming. Ironically we wish they had been a bit less welcoming as their idea of welcoming us in was to ply us with beer after beer – not something that I would usually balk at, but we categorically did not need more alcohol. Quite simply put, there was no more room at the inn. However, courtesy prevailed and five beers each later, we were officially locals, with Earl, Charlie and Don as our new best friends.

After managing to pry ourselves away, we stumbled across the road to Mertons Fish Fry and balanced out some of the alcohol with the catch of the day, macaroni pie, sweet potatoes, and butternut squash. All washed down with rum punch. Naturally.

So that was our first Bajan Christmas. For New Years Eve we are going to sit on Holetown beach with some good friends, drink rum and have a picnic. Basically the only thing that won’t have a door charge of at least $350 for the pleasure.

This year, especially because of our Barbados budget, has really taught me the value of money. I have previously plundered vast quantities of money into clothes I don’t need, shoes I won’t wear, and plenty of other meaningless crap that has had no effect on my life whatsoever. Whilst Barbados remains very much an extravagant and expensive place to inhabit, the local Bajans, who may not have the extremes of wealth of some visitors to the island, seem the most content of all.

I hope to return a more grateful person, a better person, and a kinder person, though I will most likely still enjoy a stiff drink, or six. And, although there will still be occasions (including tonight) where there will be countless excuses to go and splash out on a fancy pants dinner, I am now much less interested in investing in the swanky restaurants. I mean you still won’t catch me at Burger King…

I wish you all good tidings for the New Year and hope that 2014 brings new adventures for us all. And for me, maybe a job or two… Heaven forbid!

HAPPY OLD YEARS NIGHT TO ONE AND ALL AND ALL AND ONE!

Into the wild

After deducing that there was little chance of us ever finding the beaten path again, should we leave it to explore the island unchaperoned, we finally happened across a hiking club organised by the Barbados National Trust.

In the beginning…

Feeling pretty confident…

Every weekend, the club gets together to explore Barbados’ wild and undiscovered landscape and historical dwellings and there are two walks: ‘Stop and Stare’ and ‘Grin and Bear it’.

Stop and Stare, the hike we believed we had set off on, should have been a gentle three hour amble, stopping to stare (hence its namesake) at the island’s flora and fauna and listen as our guide divulged the district’s history. What we actually went on was the Grin and Bear It hike, which, as the name suggests, is quite different.

Grin and Bear It is a fast trek over coarse and uneven terrain, starting late afternoon and finishing in the evening, meaning that the last hour of the hike is in the dark. And being that the only light visible the foothills of Barbados is the one cast from the moon, it makes for pretty dicey hiking.

Into the night

Unlike Stop and Stare, the only stopping on this hike was from one of only two outcomes: to stop and chastise the weaker of the pack into shifting along a bit quicker, or if you fell over after getting entangled in the bushes. We were forewarned by our guide that the hike was for people of a decent fitness level, and after a quick scout I felt there were a fair few people, including a small child, that I thought I could easily outpace. I was wrong, and I have not been that wrong in a while.

The group comprised almost completely of locals, a fact that pleased me greatly, as initially I thought it might be a bit of a tourist trap. It might be worth pointing out that I now consider myself a local (three months seems like a solid enough jaunt to call oneself local), and I regularly find myself getting somewhat irked by tourists. This manifests itself in a few customary ways such as misdirecting them (though with my sense of direction this is not always on purpose), and occasionally having the odd ill thought about not breaking at crossings. Personally, I blame London and the mentality you end up with after having to deal with all the tourists there. Anyway, back to the unbeaten path…

The hike started off at Haggarts Old Factory Sugar Yard, St Andrew, on the east coast of the island. Already waiting to start the hike were a very enthusiastic American couple, decked out in all their hiking finery, completed by matching ‘Hike Barbados’ t-shirts. As Stop and Stare veterans they had many a tale to tell and knew our guide well. That conversation was pretty much the last time we saw them, until passing the husband early in on the hike, without his wife, and looking pretty destroyed. Through sweat and gasps of air, he exhaustedly tried to object that this was not the Stop and Stare hike he’d been promised. We nodded in agreement, and bid him farewell. For a moment, I did consider pulling off his Hike Barbados t-shirt, as he didn’t look like he would put up much of a fight, and I really wanted it. But by that time, I was marinated in so much of my own sweat, that my top and skin had pretty much bonded as one. The only way would have been to put it on as another layer, of which the thought alone made me feel nauseous. I genuinely don’t even remember seeing them finish at the end. I think they were more likely finished.

Pitstop

George, our 71 year old guide, had the constitution of a 17 year old. He knew every nook and cranny the island had to offer, and shared the most incredible, spine-tingling stories of times past. Every now and again he would abruptly turn round and race back to the beginning to round up his herd. He probably did about 30 odd miles in all.

Gorgeous George – our guide

Our first hike (yes, just last weekend we went back for seconds!) took us through the wilderness of Barbados and into the Scotland district, named so by the British as the landscape reminded them of Scotland’s. The climate, however, is quite dissimilar to that of Scotland’s. The district lies mostly uninhabited due to poor soil and erosion. Most inhabitants had to leave their homes due to the ground collapsing. For the few left, it is a beautiful, unspoilt landscape of green rolling hills and tropical forests.

In the Scotland district stands Mount Hillaby, 340 m above sea level and the highest point of Barbados. Mount Hillaby, and with it the Scotland District, is the summit of an elongated submarine mountain range several hundreds km long, and is the only location in the entire Caribbean where this mountain range is above water. The air is thick with tropical scents and cooled by the Atlantic winds. The paths are mostly only trod by cattle, and magnificent panoramic views of the island lie in wait at its peak.

Last weekend we went back for more, this time a hike from the Barbados Wildlife Reserve down to Morgan Lewis beach.  The Bajans couldn’t believe it and, frankly, neither could my muscles in their current veal-like state. But the hikes are truly inspiring, and I actually feel a bit sad for those who come to the island and just sit on its beaches, marinating in sun and rum, when there is so much beauty and history, just waiting to be discovered.

Morgan Lewis beach

  

Sunsets worth sweating for

The Morgan Lewis Windmill. The last working windmill in the western hemisphere

At the end of it…

A bit less cocky…

The legend of Sam Lord

On the east coast of Barbados lie its greatest treasures that hold the secrets to its past.

Ragged shorelines, sculpted by relentless Atlantic winds and waves, give way to long stretches of uninhabited beaches. In most parts it is a desolate place, but one rich in unrivaled natural beauty.

In the north east corner stands the stunning St Nicholas Abbey: a Jacobean house billed as the last remaining 17th-century house anywhere in the New World. Neighbouring this is the Morgan Lewis Sugar Mill, the last working windmill in the western hemisphere.

Further south along the east coast is The Crane hotel. Built in 1887 it is the oldest operating hotel in the Caribbean, and those 126 years of operation are also, coincidentally, how long it would take to save up and holiday there.  Apparently they do a budget friendly brunch…

But it is to the north of the renowned Crane resort that brings us to the most legendary edifice of them all. Most recently a hotel until destroyed by fire, the castle was formerly home to Samuel Hall Lord: the original pirate of the Caribbean.

Probably the most illustrious pirate on the island, Sam amassed a great wealth for himself through luring ships onto the coral reefs that frame Barbados’ coastline.

The locals will happily regale you with tales of Sam and his pillaging, which oddly enough is never spoken about in any voice other than that of pride and admiration.  Sam seems to have been quite the charmer, and I have yet to come across or hear word that his work was little more than (albeit slightly disruptive to his victims) a gentle plundering. There seems to be no account of violence, which stumps me a little as I find it hard to believe that pirating on a charm offensive is less work than clubbing someone.

Legend has it that Sam hung lanterns high in the coconut trees around his estate to lure passing ships into thinking they were the lights of Bridgetown Port, knowing they would then make their way to the coastline and run aground. Once the ships lay grounded on the coral reefs in front of his castle, he would board and relieve them of their riches.

Many of the treasures are believed to have been stowed in a network of tunnels located under the beach and the castle, but these tunnels have never been traced. Or at least if they have been unearthed it was never made public. I simply cannot think why…

For Sam, the plundering and stealing gig turned out to be quite the lucrative trade, and in 1820, his Georgian style castle was built.

After his death, the castle was acquired and transformed into the Sam Lord’s Castle hotel. As a hotel it changed hands on several occasions, before finally being acquired by CLICO, a global insurance company.

Shortly after investing in the property, CLICO Barbados ran into financial difficulties and the renovation once promised (estimated at $320m) would never proceed. After waiting on a proposed government buyout, on the 20^th October 2010 Sam Lord’s castle burned to the ground.

There is much anger surrounding the cause of the blaze, with many fingers pointing towards CLICO as the body responsible for the overall demise and subsequent destruction of Sam Lord’s.

The charred remains of this magnificent building remain accessible to the curious, ideally those with solid health and life insurance, as its crumbling facade and disintegrating floor makes it a dangerous place to explore. Inside, a safe lies opened, and burnt out drapes still hang from its walls. From inside the grounds, you can feel the vibrations from the Atlantic, as it thunders against the cliffs.

     

A brick table cuts a lonely figure down on the castle’s beach, and eerie apparitions form in the leaves of the countless aloe vera plants that encase the grounds. I am no believer in ghosts or ghouls, but one snap of a twig under this deserted ruin would have me running for the exit with the same pace and precision as if someone had yelled out “happy hour!”.

The ghostly faces in the aloe vera

One of the most significant pieces of Barbadian history, it is also claimed that Sam Lord’s transition from castle to hotel was the first in the movement which saw many European castles follow suit. To think that such a landmark has been left to ruin is incredibly saddening.

As the sun shines through its crumbling walls, it is hard to believe that this tired, collapsing structure, was once the decadent home of Barbados’ most notorious pirate.

The beach at Sam Lords

Ghost Dog

I am frequently asked, by folk from the UK and here in Barbados, as to the well-being of my dog.

I write this post with a heavy heart, because I do not know where she is and this is a fact that breaks my heart. If you don’t yet know who my dog is, this is her story.

It was a stormy afternoon on Tuesday 15th October, and freak storms had been battering the island for a few days. From the safe confines of my homemade office I watched as the storm relocated the garden furniture into the pool whilst I, appearing calm and collected from behind my laptop, feverishly googled a list of local hurricane shelters.

Hurricane shelters are split into two categories: those for category one hurricanes and those for category two. Concise labeling, that’s as maybe, but with no information as to what the categories mean in terms of the chances of survival. If we are all most likely going to die, maybe I’ll just camp out here and save my bus fare. At least my untimely demise will come in under budget.

The pictures that accompanied the list of hurricane shelters at the very least helped pad out the website (works for my blog!) but ultimately they were of little use. One picture was a fairly generic beach picture. In another, a man walked next to a car through a flood. One had a chap hanging off a boat (call me a cautious kitty but I am pretty sure that in times of flooding staying on the boat is your best bet) and the last picture I am pretty convinced was somewhere in India. Undeterred and potentially in need of a port in a storm, I closed in on Roland Edwards Primary school, based in St.Peter. I chose it as it accommodated the least number of persons (just 35), and let’s face it, the papers are going to go to the big shelters to report from and I don’t want the last photographic evidence of my existence to be one of my skirt wrapped around my face, wailing like a banshee and listing my regrets.

My immersion in finding a hurricane shelter was only broken when I heard Dan yell out to me, ‘Hey there’s a dog running around outside our house’. I lifted my head. Someone telling me a dog is loose is the equivalent of telling a five year old it’s Christmas. Because a lost dog is going to need a home!

I ran outside, my hands crammed with biscuits: fortunately for me, the one thing you can’t teach a dog is never to take sweets from strangers. At first, confused and frightened by the storm, she would only approach me briefly then run away, but within half an hour or so of waiting in the pouring rain, the biscuits now just a gelatinous paste in my hands, she finally came over and settled down next to me.

Pupstar, named so because she was only just shy of her puppy years and already a star, looked to be a Doberman Ridgeback cross and a sizeable beast to boot. Her coat was a bright chestnut and four huge large paws were awaiting her body to grow into them. She had beautiful brown eyes, filled with only kindness and hope and quite possibly the most beautiful dog I have ever seen.

Our landlady (Joan), an avid animal lover, immediately fell in love with her and whilst we all loudly protested to passers by that she wasn’t our dog, our silent glances to each other suggested we felt otherwise. We lived everyday like it would be our last with Pupstar, never knowing when she might be claimed and we were never to know how short lived it would be.

Pupstar soon became part of our family. Joan would cook her fresh chicken every day and we would feed her on home cooked treats in the evening. In the end I swapped out my wine for a week to buy her a huge bag of dry dog food and tins of Pedigree Chum. Anyone who knows me will now realise just how much I loved this dog. Never before have I been so proud of a purchase. Never before have I given up wine.

This food smelt like sausage rolls and was hangover free…

We made a leash for her out of old rope, allowing us to walk her (albeit reluctantly) around the neighbourhood to see if anyone asked as to why we were walking their dog. But no one did. As we walked, people complimented her and congratulated us on such a handsome dog, and as I nodded in agreement, I realised that I too now believed her to be our dog.

Out for a walk, just me and my dawg

My fondest memory has to be when I arrived back at the house one day to hear Joan talking to someone in the garden. Not one to miss out on getting to know new faces I pressed my nose up to the fence, only to see Joan cutting down bananas with Pupstar. They didn’t hear me come in and watching her walk around so devotedly with Joan, was the most heartwarming sight.  The dog that definitely wasn’t ours, was now definitely ours.

Pupstar had now two homes; Joan’s friend Maureen (who lives across the road) during the day whilst we were out, and ours in the evening. So much now a part of the family, Pupstar began to follow us everywhere. Trips to the beach had to be executed with military precision to avoid her following us onto the main roads and involved much hiding in the long grass until she gave up looking.  However, you soon learn that hiding 3 yards in a bush from something whose sense of smell could detect a teaspoon of sugar in a million gallons of water, is fairly pointless and mostly we had to resort to driving the 300 yards to the beach. One morning, as Joan left in her car for work, I could hear a yelling from outside, ‘No! Go home!’ I looked out the window to see Joan frantically driving round the block with Pupstar chasing after her. All that was missing was the Benny Hill music. It took 3 round trips to lose her…She was fast and relentless.

The days passed by and Pupstar was now the star in our newly formed Barbadian family, even sleeping in Joan’s house at night. Barbados was, however, less settled than us, and three weeks later the storms came back for more.

On the last night of the storms, Joan remembers Pupstar, although panicked, pining to go out. So around midnight, she took her downstairs to go let her outside. Pupstar was never to return.

It is now 2 weeks on since we last saw her.  We have driven round looking for her, spent many a day and night calling for her, only to be met with silence. She came in with the storms and left with them.

The house is a quieter place and a significant part of our lives is missing. In the kitchen, a half eaten bag of food lies in the corner, a symbol of hope that she may one day return.

From up on the hill behind the house, we sometimes hear a lone dog barking, but there has been no sighting of her to this day.

Pupstar brought us together as a family, and made us realise what was important. She is a huge part of our journey here and wherever our little ghost dog is now, we will never forget her.

Waiting patiently for Joan to come home

Late night larking around

It’s winter, Jim, but not as we know it.

For little Chester: who loved all the seasons.

It’s winter! Apparently. But it sure as beans doesn’t feel like it; well most of the time… As I write this one of our anniversary plans, a two hour horse ride across the east coast and down to the beach, threatens to be called off as forecasts predict a weekend of bad storms.

In general though, it rarely looks reminiscent of the winter I am accustomed to. The Barbadian sun rises early and promptly each day and hangs around until 6ish, when it finally calls time on the day. The days don’t get shorter, nor the nights longer. But as the tropics exit their rainy season and transition into winter, volatile and unpredictable skies lie in wait, and out of the bluest yonder, lightening storms emerge from nowhere, making the tropics a fickle place indeed.

Yesterday I was mid swim in the Caribbean on my usual 4 o’clock ‘work’ break (probably more accurately described as just a 4 o’clock swim), when I noticed a rather menacing cloud gathering on the horizon. Within just a few seconds and without warning, lightening forked ferociously at the sea making for an impressive, if not somewhat unnerving, display. The sky either side remained a striking azure blue, unspoiled by the self-contained storm. I watched the lightening for a few minutes before questioning whether or not hiding in water during an electric storm was such a prize-winning idea. I know that ideally you aren’t supposed to dry your hair whilst in the bath in a desperate attempt to shave time off your morning routine, and wondered if the same applied to a highly charged electrical storm piercing the biggest bath of all.  Not wanting to be a Guinea pig in my own trial, as the storm closed in, I made a sharp exit out.

As someone born into a country whose seasons change dramatically (though summer often parades around as winter), and where the daylight hours shift throughout the year, inhabiting a country that has two only seasons and no change in daylight hours is remarkably disorientating. One thing I definitely take for granted back home are the wonderfully long nights that accompany the summer days. Here in Barbados the sun, irrespective of the season, slopes off below the horizon around 6pm each day. Although it makes for some breath-taking sunsets, you can’t help but feel cheated out of several more hours lazing in its beams.

The rainy season is as its name suggests, though the relentless heat and humidity don’t let up and frequent power cuts occur across the island as the storms rage on. Fortunately, Barbados sits off the main Atlantic hurricane belt and is only affected by anything serious approximately every 26 years, with hurricane Tomas being the most recent in 2010. Tomas passed through just 20 miles to the south of Barbados, with wind speeds of 63mph. Although there were no reported deaths, an estimated cost of $17million dollars in damage was left in its wake.

Like the old proverb states, every cloud has a silver lining. The silver lining here being that the worse the weather is during the day, the more magnificent the sunsets.  Well maybe taking hurricane weather out of the balance, though I’m sure you get some pretty clear views of the sunset from your now completely open-plan abode.

From this…

And this

By the end of November, Barbados will have completed the rainy season, which lasts from June till November and moved into the dry season, seeing a drop in temperature and a significant reduction in humidity. This will be a huge blessing at the very least to my hair, which is an absolute write-off. I can’t even bring myself to touch it and avoid mirrors with vampire like deftness. Fans of Friends may remember Monica’s ‘Caribbean hair’, well, mine is far worse. They probably couldn’t even braid it. If I wasn’t so convinced that a fairly unattractive skull lurked beneath, I would have the gardener take the take the hedge trimmers to it.

Well, I need to go and chill some champagne because as anniversaries are a great unquestionable excuse to do exactly what you would do every day in a world with no judgement, if I’m not riding in the morning, I’ll instead be getting good and drunk on champagne from dawn till dusk.

Beers before 10am, dodging debts, and plastic surgery

While it has been some time since my first recipe on Desert Island Whisks, unlike my ability to update the blog, I have not ceased in updating my culinary skills!

We have now been on the island for six weeks, and in that time I have cooked up several veritable feasts. I love creating new recipes with produce native to the island, that either isn’t readily available at home or that I haven’t thought to use before. I hosted my first business dinner a few weeks ago and cooked everything from scratch, including the bread! It was a hot day in my kitchen; let me tell you that much.

I am all about preparing healthy, elegant suppers that use as much fresh organic produce as possible. I am also very budget conscious as some of you well know, and as organic foods are often more expensive it makes for a challenging task.

There are many foods often overlooked (sweet potatoes, oats and pumpkins), which are not only superfoods in their own right, but are readily available all year round and inexpensive to buy. They are also great for bulking out suppers.

I like to incorporate at least one superfood into each meal to make sure I get as many key vitamins and minerals into my body as possible. Make no mistake people, it isn’t your £300 face creams that will have you looking young at 40, it’s ensuring that cell repair and renewal happens from the inside. Don’t get me wrong, surgery would do the trick and I’m not against it (just can’t afford it) but let’s start out carving pumpkins, rather than our faces, and see how that goes!

Initially, I thought sourcing fresh local produce was going to be a real challenge (as previously mentioned Barbados imports most produce and grows little of its own), but after going at it all guns blazing I am happy to report the following finds:

Holders Farmers Market (Sunday only) – This has become a firm fixture on the calendar. Founded by Jack Kidd (brother to supermodel Jodie), Holders market is set in the stunning grounds of the Barbados Polo Club. One of my favourite haunts, Holders boasts some of the best organic fruit, veg and homemade chutneys, though the best part is spent wandering around the stalls to seek out the tasters. I have to swap stalls in and out every week so they don’t catch on to me trying but rarely buying. It’s always delicious, but I just can’t afford the amount I can test.

Most Holders folk frequent the market every Sunday to eat brunch and listen to the live band, and there is a fantastic community spirit to the event. It is also a great place to hang out and drink beer at 10 in the morning. Hey, I don’t make the rules…

Speightstown Fish Market – Just a 5-minute drive from our house, you need to turn up around 10am to get the best fish. Their usual hoard includes Mahi Mahi (Barbadian dolphin but of no relation to Flipper), Bill fish, Red Snapper, Flying Fish, Tuna and Marlin. The fish is fresh off the boats and they happily fillet it for you as well, which is helpful indeed as the sharpest knife I currently own is a bread knife.

Fish markets are ten-a-penny in Barbados, but I choose this one as I love to visit the beautiful and historic Speightstown. I also owe the fish lady 50 cents (20p) and at the very least have to keep returning until the debt is cleared. It’s not a lot of money but Barbados is not a big place, and if the people with their tasters at Holders get together with this lady, they are going to think I have some cheek.

Speighstown veg man – A short walk up from the fish market (outside Courts), this chap is really friendly and grows his own produce, so if Holders doesn’t supply (or it’s not Sunday) this is the go-to-guy. He also gives tasters (I had a whole avocado last week) but only when I have purchased other goods. He has my cards marked.

So, in conclusion, it’s going swimmingly well for all. Except for the fish at the market…

For all my recipes, check out Desert Island Whisks

 

Riding along in my automobile

I casually cast a sideways glance at Dan sitting in the passenger seat of our rented vehicle. I am pleasantly surprised to see that for once he isn’t clinging onto the seat with the usual vicelike grip, but in fact seems relaxed and, heaven forbid, might actually be enjoying the ride. The illusion of calm is soon shattered when a breeze though the car’s window lifts up a corner of the map resting on his hands, revealing a tightly clenched fist, knuckles white against the beginnings of what I suspect may be a tan from a few sunbeams able to penetrate the factor 50 barrier.

My driving simply isn’t that bad. At times it’s possibly a bit on the swift side but I just see myself as enthusiastic. There is also little point in being tense. I could be wrong but I believe that they do advise you to go limp if you think you are about to be involved in a car accident and I am surprised that he hasn’t read up on that yet. There was only one time in which I thought, blimey Charlie, this is a bit hairy, after I had to take a run up at a steep incline and we ended up pretty much airborne going over the top. However, we successfully (not entirely sure how) cleared the corner and carried on our merry way.

The roads here in general are pretty unkempt and I would say it’s better to start off with a car that doesn’t have good suspension (if any), so that when the roads inevitably take their toll, you won’t miss the little you had. I know some people think Islington Council do a meagre job maintaining their roads, but let me tell you, those streets are more glorious than the Yellow Brick road compared to these. A satellite view of my driving would suggest that I was motoring along completely wasted, when actually I’m just dodging the potholes and the occasional monkey.

Barbados is also particularly hilly and given its diminutive size (a mere 21 miles in length and 14 in width), you do have to go on many magical mystery tours to get from A to B.

Our first car, a Kia, was not built for this island and we would almost grind to a halt on an uphill climb. This was really exasperating on two counts. The first one being that there is no way on God’s green earth that anyone could or would push a car in this heat and certainly not up a hill. At best you would have to call it quits and walk away, leaving the car for the monkeys to shred. Similar I suppose as to what would happen if you got stuck in Knowsley Safari park. The second and most irritating reason of all is that we have the tourist ‘H’ plates. These plates have the Bajan’s assume that it isn’t the car shy of getting up a hill, but rather a meek mannered tourist with a fear of getting anywhere, anytime soon.

Using cars indicators to signal a turn is fairly an infrequent occurrence here, mostly arms just pop out of car windows and frantically rotate in circular motions and other times there is no warning at all. I like to see the positives in all of Barbados life, so just laugh it off as a sweet idiosyncrasy, though I know should that happen back home the air in the car would be blue, and my passenger’s ears bleeding.

If you want to give way to someone here, you beep your horn to let them through. I love taking on new customs (in Thailand and Vietnam I bowed my way through every conversation, like a vintage Drinking Bird), and I am no less keen to adopt the Bajan way of being. The problem is it’s easy enough to adopt new behaviours but leaving old habits behind is a lot harder. When it comes to letting people in or out, I toot my horn nice and loudly (and I bet I look pleased as punch while ‘getting my Bajan on’) but feel a lot more comfortable incorporating a few classic English mannerisms, such as consecutive flashes of the headlights and a hand wave. All in all between the honking, flashing and waving it gets pretty animated, but I feel better having covered off every possible gesture.

So, there you have it, the roads and driving habits of Barbados. Bet you didn’t see that coming, which is good otherwise you might not have bothered reading this blog post!

In other news we went turtle spotting with some friends on their boat. Friends with boats are very good friends indeedy. After much searching, we finally saw a turtle gliding effortlessly through the waters and swam alongside him before he slowly retreated into the depths. It was an afternoon well spent, though I became a little self conscious after diving off the boat and realising my bikini’s elasticity was not what it used to be. It soon became a source of intrigue to other divers, who were most definitely not taking a look at the turtle beneath the waves…

Well, I have to go now and finish off decorating a 60th birthday cake for my good friend Karen. The cake is for her friend and not Karen herself who is yet to hit this landmark. Though, by the time the cake is finished, she might well be.

Go have yourselves a good weekend, ya’ll.

Dog days and a brief history of Bajan time

Another Wednesday was spent down at the Hope sanctuary, and Leila, one of the pups brought in after being found tied to a tree for several days, had finally overcome her physical injuries and was able to join the rest of the pups in the quarantine area. You wouldn’t even know that she was a rescue pup, though her inner psyche probably tells a different story, and she looked in great health. It was heart warming to see her running around with the other pups, but the greatest part was her remembering me from the first week and bounding over for some good old fashioned, face licking, ear chewing, puppy love. If I could take any dog, she would be it. So if she goes missing, my bag would probably be a good place to start the search.

All the dogs at the sanctuary are good to handle and very gentle, which is surprising given their history with people . You naturally have to tread carefully as human hands, although noble at the sanctuary, are ultimately also the reason the animals are here in the first place; but the dogs are nonetheless incredibly friendly and many want little more than a decent cuddle.

It is hard not to be affected when an animal dies and no more so for its kennel companion; and where there is life, inevitably, there is death. One of the older dogs recently lost her sister from the little kennel in which the two had shared their lives together at the Hope. The death has clearly been a devastating loss to the dog and has seen her retreat to a corner of her kennel, barely even coming out for food. It’s hard to watch anything consumed by such heartache, and is a stark reminder of how life can change so very quickly. Watching her grieve alone is heart-breaking, so the crew at the Hope are working hard to find her a new suitable kennel companion to share her time with and give her many more happy years to come. I am very much looking forward to the day that happens.

Casper, pictured below, is one of my favourite dogs. He is a big old fellow that lumbers clumsily but happily around your legs. The team at the Hope suspect his walking difficulties are caused by a motor-neurone disease. Casper, however, doesn’t appear to have a care in the world and certainly doesn’t let his illness get in the way of him getting in the way of me during feeding time.

One of the pups will be off to a new home soon, which is really exciting news for her and the Hope. Once the animals are rehomed, they will have several follow up visits and checks to make sure that their new owners meet the standard of living that the sanctuary requires of them. It will be an incredible journey to follow her progress and watch her find a new life with a new family.

The folks at the sanctuary are like an extended family to Dan and me, and have become a firm fixture on our social calendar and thinking about it, mostly are our social calendar. They take us out, introduce us to new friends and get us good and drunk, last night being no exception and hopefully someone will invite us round for chrimbo…

On Thursday, I could not sleep. I could not sleep because I had done all my work on time, which not only came as a massive surprise to both Dan and myself, but would also allow me to take the next day off and make like a baker and cake myself up. I realise that sounds pretty dull, getting all excited about baking, but I like to bake and feel that it nicely offsets the going out and getting wasted.

So to try and kill some time before the Friday bake off and and to potentially help me drift off, I decide to write up some of my blog because 1. If it turns out to be a bit on the dry side it will work nicely as a sleep aid and 2. There are fewer things more irritating than lying next to someone when you can’t sleep, who, if sleeping were a profession, could make a decent living out of it.

Outside I could hear the eclectic mix of island life roaming around. I would have gone outside to discover the wonders for myself if I wasn’t such a wuss, but I am so there you have it. The two most obvious noises (observed from the safety of the living room) were that of the Barbadian whistling frog and a cockerel, whose frantic and ill-judged crowing just about sums up Bajan time keeping. Make no mistake; he wasn’t very early, just very, very late.

Time is one thing that I’m slowly (which is exactly the correct Bajan pace) starting to understand, and it’s only through being here that I realise just what a punctual little Brit I am.

Bajan time runs on a totally different zone, and I don’t just mean AST. It’s very much like living in the old Malibu TV adverts, which at the time might have seemed to be a bit stereotypical, but turns out they were bang on the money. Planning anything that involves people needing to arrive on time really isn’t a good idea and, as I learned, having a dinner party is one of those misguided ideas. That is unless you remember to set the time of arrival to Bajan time. So for example, if you are planning a dinner party for 7pm, send invites confirming the start time as around 4pm. That should just about do the trick.

Another learning about the lack of needing to clock watch was when our good pal, Jewell, invited us to a boat party shortly after our arrival onto the island. The Jolly Roger was due to set sail at 6pm on a cruise along the west coast to herald the end of summer. We arrived promptly at 5, expecting boarding to commence at approximately 5.30 making for a prompt getaway at 6.

What actually transpired was us being met with laughter by the Bajan folk loading up the boat cheerily advising “It doesn’t leave for a bit, you know.” We responded with “Ok, so boarding at 5.30ish?” They laughed again. “Go get yourselves a drink or something and come back for 6.” We came back at 5.30, (because we felt that really 30 minutes is roughly how long you need to board 50 odd people and a few barrels of rum) but when we arrived back after hiding just around the corner, it was just us. Finally people rolled up at 6.30, and the boat eventually set sail at 7.30. This wasn’t at all bad by Bajan standards and actually they probably thought they had set off early.

I’m not complaining mind and there is little wrong with Bajan time; no one is trying to be rude, it’s how they roll here, and you just have to shake free from the British shackles of good time keeping.

The thought of baking cakes the next day (and being hungry in general) had me reminisce about foods I miss back home. Not that if I were back home I would necessarily bother with them, but when you can’t have something, you sure as hell want it.

I would happily sell a decent pair of shoes right now for a bag of salt and vinegar Discos: the daddy mac of the crisp world. Besides, shoes are probably cheaper to buy here than Discos. Back home, if I went out on any long journeys I would always take them as part of my staple traveling lunchbox which would also comprise a tuna sandwich, a packet of Discos and coffee. I always drink coffee when I’m traveling around as it makes me feel dreadfully important and gives me a real sense of purpose for absolutely no apparent reason whatsoever. Well, while there may be plenty of parties here, there sure aren’t any Discos! Even if I could find someone to import them, they would probably cost about £15 a bag, which is most certainly not in the water-tight-tight-ass budget. Speaking of outrageous costings, my new pal Vicky tried buying some imported cherry tomatoes. They cost $50, which equates to about £20 for a small punnet. Jesus wept, I thought. Or at least he would have done if he had wanted to buy cherry tomatoes for his beach picnic. He would have really had to stretch his fishes and loaves a bit further that week.

I am now digressing into mindless waffle, which is always a good place to end things. Or in my case, begin and end things. I hope that you have enjoyed another bite size chunk into the feverishly exciting life that is ours in the tropics and leave you in the grace and favour of the lord.

The week in pictures.

Casper

The sexy vet duo with Eva

Ello!

The view across the kennels

Little old Frisky

What you looking at?

Sometimes, all you want is a hug

Brother, can you spare a Dime?

Ronald Reagan once said ‘I am not worried about the deficit. It is big enough to take care of itself.’

Like Ronald, I too have a budget, albeit slightly smaller and not (currently) a nation’s problem, and am acutely aware of its ever increasing deficit. I do not, however, share in his laid back manner towards it and there is only one thing to do when faced with a financial dilemma which is to spreadsheet the crap out of it and at the very least come out looking like you tried. 

A financial spreadsheet, much like the road to hell, is paved with good intentions but inevitably the feelings of superiority that come with creating one soon wear off and the passion for sticking to it wears thin. It usually heralds the dawn of a change in lifestyle, probably the reason that resulted in making one in the first place and this is no exception.

The last time an out-of-towner asked me where they could find a list of London’s bars and restaurants, I suggested they take a look at my bank account (it is pretty bad, but life is short and that coupled with countless other clichés helps repress the guilt) but, at the very least, that careless spending was funded by a job. Times are different; there is no job and a budget more watertight than a frog’s behind.

Barbados is a pricey little number and the supermarkets eclipse London’s prices across the board on nearly all produce. If Waitrose hiked their prices by say 20%, you would be somewhere closer to the mark. As an island that grows little of its own produce and ships in most of its commodities, this unsurprisingly results in higher prices off the back import taxes.

Even the basic stuff like toilet paper is expensive, and going on a budget does make you start to question everything. Dan tried slipping Double Velvet quilted toilet paper into the shopping basket at the local SuperSaver Centre (this shop does not do what it says on the tin) but was quickly vetoed by myself. Here on cheap street it’s single ply all the way. I did (momentarily) silently question how we could cut back on this tedious item, and maybe only use toilet paper on special occasions; Christmas, birthdays, bereavement etc, and should we find any left over money from the weekly spend maybe extend it to public holidays. I know what you re thinking, but when you are living with a fun budget and a practical budget, you spend most of your time working out how to lessen the load in the practical budget and beef up the fun one. Also, after spending a month in Vietnam you see how people cut back on stuff like toilet paper (and hygiene in general) but then I did end up making an earlier exit from Vietnam and checking straight into the Hospital for Tropical Diseases so maybe there’s a lesson in there somewhere.

In the quest to cut back the practical budget, I would probably even stoop to powdered egg, which I’m not even sure what it is or how you powder an egg. It’s almost like re-enacting wartime Britain. Minus the war, which makes it a lot more relaxing. But, perhaps the toilet paper thinking is a stretch too far and you have to draw the bottom line somewhere. Brruudum chish! 

Once you get on a thrifty roll, however, it can get a bit out of hand and it starts to take on the same characteristics as addiction, and like with addiction, you get your fix when and where you can. Today we saved $3.50 (roughly £1 just so you get the gist of how farcical it becomes) on car parking fees. Due to getting tricked into spending more money than we had in a rum bar with some friends on Friday, the Saturday budget was completely obliterated. After having worked pretty hard on the app all week, we wanted to get out and have a walk but as with most places in Barbs because of the heat, you have to drive to get there.

We decided to go up to Farley Hill, and take a picnic, it was budget friendly, somewhat eclectic mix of all the food we hadn’t eaten that week, just on the cusp of having the ability to leave the house of its own accord). On one side of Farley Hill there is a free car park but the downside being that you have to pay to go in walk around and see the monkeys. On the other side is a pay and display car park but the grounds are free to walk around in. So we after doing a quick U-y upon realising the charge, we drove back over (wasting yet more costly petrol which I only just thought about now), parked in the free monkey car park, and walked back over the other side to enjoy the free grounds. The folks manning the gate had already seen us arrive, then watched us leave rapidly after reading the charge sign, a few minutes earlier, so we looked like a right pair of tight-asses, but a watertight budget comes free with a super tight-ass.

Most of the imported food comes in from the States, and I forgot about the vast quantities of salt and sugar poured into pre-packaged foods. It’s only through watching a fair bit of telly (we don’t have one at home so that addition really makes it feel like we are on holiday), and thus seeing plenty of American adverts, that you are reminded just how different the UK and America are diet wise.

 I bought some American brand raisin bran flakes, because they were the cheapest and out of all the other cereals they looked the least like a dessert. I looked forward to my breakfast as from the offset it appeared relatively healthy, but upon the first bite the raisins were liberally coated in so much sugar, that I actually had to resort to hand washing them individually (hey, so I really like raisins) and then put them back in the cereal. I have washed many things before eating them, but not a breakfast cereal. It did not taste good. Anything pre-packaged comes with a generous helping of diabetes.

I am not sure if anyone read ‘The Enchanted Wood’ by Enid Blyton (which if I stopped for one moment trying to pretend like I am a well read intellectual, I would happily admit to it probably being my favourite read ever), but the story revolves around a magical tree where, at the very top, strange lands come and go. It was also a time when Dick and Fanny weren’t names to be laughed at.

One of the lands – ‘The land of Goodies’ to be precise, had all kinds of magical and peculiar food and it very much feels like we are living in that land. For example, our butter tastes like ice cream, so classics such as boiled eggs and soldiers are very different these days. The ice cream flavour makes the soldiers really sweet so we have the eggs first and then the ice cream toast for pudding.

Eve’s baked beans were also another classic example of what happens when you put too much sugar in the mix, but (as long as you weren’t planning to have them as a savoury main) they would actually make a pretty decent, if somewhat exotic, pudding. Not sure what Jay Rayner would make of it all, but you have to work with what you’ve got.

In other news, as I’m not sure just how scintillating our food budgets and adventures are…

On Wednesday, I went up to chat to the folks at the Hope Animal sanctuary. It was a blisteringly hot day and the sanctuary rests high on the East Coast’s hills, so fundamentally at the closest point to the sun as possible, which does not make for easy outdoor work for these dedicated guys.

I met the full team properly, who are an awesome bunch of hard working, big hearted, Brit expats, who like a stiff drink at the end of the day. So it’s going to work out just fine.

It was the first day that I’ve probably ever done real manual labour and it felt good. I went out looking all tidy and proud in the morning, complete with my own packed lunchbox and came back looking completely destroyed. But it was also the most rewarding thing that I have done in my life as well.

The sanctuary holds an annual Christmas fundraiser and I will be helping to put this together this year. And we do have a SPECIAL GUEST of honour which, to be honest, I’m pretty chuffing excited about… 

SIMON COWELL! 

Pretty good, eh? Let’s face it, even if you don’t give two hoots about the man, that is still a massive deal for a little animal sanctuary’s fundraiser. I might even attempt to join his harem, as it would be the one chance I would ever get to sit on a super yacht. Especially given my current approach to life is work hard but for free and live hard but not for free. So that is pretty exciting news and I’ve already got my dress picked out.

Well, this blog is a bit bitty really, but I hope that it at least gave you 15 mins of tea biscuit dunking time and another snippet into life in the tropics.

Tatty bye! 

‘That Was The Week That Was’- in tribute to the late Sir David Frost

So, as our day-to-day activity will not have you spontaneously combust with excitement, and trying to write a frequent, witty and interesting blog is an absolute blag, I have decided that weekly updates are enough for all concerned. To do things regularly, on time, and in a formal fashion, is just not the Bajan way and in this heat, just plain rude. So, with that in mind and from this day forth, I will be keeping a fashionably late, informal, weekly at best, blog. When in Rome, or what it feels like in this case, when in Rum…

Work:

It does seem that currently (whilst we very slowly acclimatise) a fair portion of work time is actually spent on rearranging the fan in order to hit all contours of our rapidly vaporising bodies. It sounds like an easy task, but lord knows it isn’t. It’s all about making the logistics work. Dan overheats at the drop of a Fedora Trilby Rollable Straw Sun Hat, so he needs a fair bit of breeze to keep him going, but because I prefer him to sit further down the table so he can’t see me on the occasional youtube/facebook skive, which makes for much time wasted on the positioning of the fan. Yesterday, however, was too mind-numbingly hot and stormy to waste on a good old fashioned fan-fight, so instead we sat next to each other and surfed the breeze together. It took us some time to reach that decision, which is a bit depressing in given how simple it is, but I put any lack of good judgment down to the heat these days.

Aside from fan fights and the constant call of the Caribbean sea, we are getting some good work done and hope to launch a Minimum Viable Product (MVP) on the Google Play App Store by the end of this forth coming week. It isn’t anything tremendously pioneering, rather more our first small foray into working remotely, and together, on a project. Dan is completing work on the backend, whilst I concentrate on the marketing of the app, the design, the features and copy and keeping up with youtube (it will not watch itself).

It will first launch in MVP form so that we can further develop the app based on user feedback and start integrating second stage features. As well as no doubt dropping some wee hints on the Facebook as to liftoff, any pictures taken from The Fish Pot also alludes to the fact that it has launched. We are denying ourselves going to our favourite restaurant until our first product is in the app store, so, as you can imagine, we are pretty desperate not to push back on that deadline.

In other work, I drove over to meet the team at The Hope Animal Sanctuary in St.John on the east coast of the island. I was a bit nervous of what to expect to be honest, as I can’t stand cruelty to any life form that cannot defend itself, and sadly most animals are neglected pretty badly over here, mostly down to lack of education. The sanctuary however, turned out to be an assortment of stunning views across the Atlantic and a few decent acres of land for the pups and kitties to run around in. The animals seemed in good health and are clearly well cared for. There were no aggressive dogs and a lot of work goes into rehabilitating the animals so they can be rehomed after a strong vetting process.

Predominantly run by expat Brits (who seem to have their hands in other ventures on the island making headway for some networking for us), the sanctuary is home to both abandoned dogs and cats alike and is branching out into boarding as a money-spinner to support itself. The sanctuary’s crew seem like pretty good badgers and I have a new mate in the form of Vicky. She lives just down the road from us in Holetown, so we will car share at the beginning of the day and bar share at the end of it. I start on Wednesday and in next week’s blog, I will divulge some gosh darn it flipping incredible news (I love my new found family friendly lingo) on their Christmas fundraiser and just WHO will be making a guest appearance.  I’ve over-egged the excitement pudding many times in the past, but not this time!

Life in general: 

We arrived into Mullins Bay, our home for the winter, on Thursday morning and was met by Joan, both our landlady and neighbour. We have been chatting to her for the last few months quite regularly and getting ideas of how to live well on the island, what to ship and general bloody good banter. In the flesh, Joan lived up to the warm, motherly, and inviting persona we chatted with on email.

Upon arrival, and after a hasty tour of our new home, we were ushered upstairs to have lunch with her and another neighbour, Maureen, an expat who has lived on the island for 35 years. It was a feast for at least 15 people but with only 3 invitees, and we, given the lack of food in our house, took advantage of the readily available produce in this one. There was chicken roasted in Bajan spice, vegetable cous cous, a variety of salads and cheese, garden fresh potatoes cooked in garlic and butter (see you later hip bones), all washed down with a stunning Malbec. Joan likes wine and has someone who imports the good stuff in for her at mates rates, so Joan is a keeper. It was the warmest of welcomes on the sunniest of days.

I made some brownies on Thursday as a treat for Dan and Joan.  Currently they are my only friends close by, so consequently I like to keep them onside. Home baking is a charming idea in theory, but the practicality of cooking in a similar temperature that the cookies require to bake, does not lend itself to a relaxing and enjoyable experience. I meant to deliver the cookies freshly baked to Joan, but ended up with such heat exhaustion that on completion I could do little more than lie on the floor and watch Two and a Half Men (the premise of which I still don’t understand; who are the guys, who does the kid belong to and why are people laughing at it?). I caught Joan the next morning, and dragged her out of the shower to come downstairs wearing only a towel to collect her winnings. Which by then had solidified over night in the heat into one giant, brown cookie lump.

The gardener came yesterday and did a nice little number on the lawn and cleaned the pool (we are a good 3 mins walk from the beach so clearly need somewhere closer to cool down…). It was incredibly stormy as he worked and the air was thick with electricity, but he just kept waving his electric strimmer around like he just didn’t care. Good for him. I admire a ballsy gardener. Also he may have been drunk, which I admire in anyone.

The garden is a rustic, sprawling haven and a fusion of the Mediterranean and Caribbean, with many secluded areas in which to hide out and rest (very useful after fan-fights have gotten nasty) and a swimming pool. There is a gas BBQ, which I would normally be outraged by, but in this heat it’s all about getting things done speedily and efficiently. You can’t keep getting your sweat on.

One final note, before calling time on this week and heading to the beach, I was dutifully keeping up with the UK’s parliamentary shenanigans (I like to keep abreast of happenings back home in case asked by locals, and I can look like I know what I’m talking about) and picked up on Cameron’s rousing defence of Britain being called a ‘small island.’ It abruptly brought me to get over not using ‘Notes from a Small Island’ as my title and that Bill should absolutely keep that careless title for himself…

Some snaps of the new gaff and our beach…