Chapter 6: On Our Own
Saturday, March 11 - Day 4We are all up at a decent hour this morning, as my sister and her husband, our accommodating chauffeur, up to this point, are leaving for the airport at around 11:00 A.M. I am a little paranoid about being in charge of this rag-tag group, but I bravely smother my desire to hyper ventilate, and thrust my childish reservations aside. I can do it! I can handle two forgetful seniors and a terrible teenager in a haunted, 300-year-old house in a strange country with my eyes closed. I am a woman of spirit and courage. Then my sister begins the hurried coaching, as she fills me in on the details that, up until now, she has been taking care of. Such as what day the garbage collector comes and where to put it for pick-up (and what kind of garbage bag is the best buy at White's Grocery Store), what to feed the stray cat and when (and don't touch it 'cause it's got fleas), how to kill the large cockroaches (also strays) that sometimes creep up from the incredibly vast underground catacombs of damp, dark cellar beneath the house, which I steadfastly refused to tour, where to spray the cockroach spray and when and how often, ...
She trustingly hands me a sheaf of papers as thick as the Bible (New Testament and Old) upon which she has written all of the instructions. It must have taken the dear girl the better part of her entire month's holiday to think up and write all this down, I marvel, as I flip through them. A frisson of panic tries to control me as I catch the gist of the list - who to call if we have plumbing problems, or the drains clog, or we run out of water (Run out of water? Aarrgh!); who to call for a taxi and how to try to avoid getting ripped off; where the good places to eat are, and how to get there; ... Also where to go shopping, for what, and the price range; what bus to take to get where to go shopping and when to take it (and yes, also what side of the road to stand on to catch that particular bus); what grocery store is best for what, and how to get there, by foot or by taxi; ... And, God forbid, what to do should we accidentally shut off the kitchen light, which has been having severe impotency problems and must be stimulated and caressed by a broom before consenting to turn on.
I could go on and on, however this is a travel journal. Please, however, do take note; nowhere, I repeat, nowhere in her notes did she mention what should be done should we encounter the presence of any furry creatures - of any kind. Not a mention at all. Not a fragment of a notion of an idea that anything with a tail attached to a furry body not belonging to a dog or a cat would ever be seen inside the house. Enough said for now.
The taxi arrives, blowing its tiny toy horn, and we hurriedly say our goodbyes. We all wave madly as they round the bend in the driveway. I once again feel that slight surge of panic, but I squash it down. Perhaps a splash in the ocean will quell any nervousness?
I suggest to Nathalie and Mom that we go to the beach. An enthusiastic teen agrees, but Mom decides to relax a bit. After donning our swimsuits and shorts, we pack a little lunch of sandwiches and chips and cold pop, and are ready for the trek. We decide to take one of the tribal roads that crisscross the island, and gamely set forth.
The tribal roads are one of my favorite places in Bermuda. They intersperse the entire island at intervals, running from the north shore to the south shore. They were part of a very old transportation system. The island is only two miles wide at its widest point, so they are quite easily walked - depending on the amount of debris encountered! They are sometimes partially blocked by fallen trees, may have very steep, slippery slopes, and are overgrown in places. Still, they are very picturesque and are attractive alternative routes to the beach, and one way to avoid the squashed-frog streets!
Bermudian tribal roads are Alice-in-Wonderland charming, and are an adventurous way to explore the island.
Nathalie and I set out on Tribal Road #7, the closest tribal road to Westmount. Burning nettles, which Nathalie and I dub "fireweed," grow lushly wherever I choose to walk, and deliberately reach out and sting me on my bare ankles. They cause quite an excruciating, stinging pain, followed by a slow burning, then itchiness. It is best not to touch the offended area at all after an "attack," as that makes it worse. I'm half convinced these little plants are human predators. My suggested course of action in case of being attacked by these fireweeds is to: first, swear wildly for approximately one minute, using every swear word you've every heard (PS. This option is not acceptable when accompanied by a senior, in which case you may make up creative swear-like words - not as satisfying); then second, chant, hum, or sing wildly, as you convince yourself that your left ankle is not really on fire, it's all in your mind; and finally, stomp on the offending fireweed with the good foot. Well, enough about fireweeds.
Nathalie and I avoid these devilish plants as well as we can on the steep descent to Spice Hill Road. Vibrant, violet morning glories grow profusely in tangled masses in the fields to our right, devouring tree trunks and anything else they can attach themselves to. On our left are stunning fields of cats-claw vines, golden yellow, and pansy-like in shape. Hundreds of brightly-hued butterflies soar, cart-wheeling lazily, making the scene appear to waver gently before the eye, like a mysterious, unexpected mirage.
A lot of the riding clubs use these trails for their horseback tours, and Nathalie and I proceed around a sharp, deep bend in the trail where the horses have worn a trough into the path. It's okay today, because it's dry, but when it rains, this portion of the trail becomes a small pond. Around more corners of dappled greens and tawny browns, small birds rustle in the underbrush as we dare to invade their territory. Up a gentle incline, the trees far overhead form a lacy canopy and allow only select rays to enter and become part of the perfect picture. Skinks scuttle scratchily through the dry leaves and twigs, running for cover as giants momentarily invade their world.
After about 10 minutes we are on the last rise before we descend again to the ocean. It stretches before us, gleaming, impossibly beautiful in its seeming endlessness, exerting a magnetic pull on my sensibilities. Anxiously we navigate the last mile or so down the trail, which is now lined on our left by huge Hibiscus shrubs that are flowering extravagantly with blooms as big as our hands, or bigger. We cross South Shore Road, and take the nearest paved drive down to the beach. There are not many people here - tourist season has not really begun - and we choose a solitary spot near a craggy outcropping, where we have a bit of shade for our picnic lunch. Nathalie keeps a cautious eye out for man-of-wars, but there are none to be seen. I breathe a sigh of relief, for I do so want the terrible teen to experience these ocean waves.
Throwing our towels and kicking off our shoes, we slowly approach the waves. The water is not too cold at all, yet we scream, as girls are wont to do, as the waves taste our knees and thighs. They tug us teasingly, inviting us to come in further and play. joyfully, I give in and throw myself at their mercy. I bob on the swelling crests and laugh at Nathalie's skeptical, doubt-filled face. She's not really sure if she's crazy enough to follow her obviously suicidal aunt to the brink of disaster.
I try to stand to beckon her in, to tell her there's nothing to it, when suddenly the wave I'm on has swelled in size, and I am suddenly being swept ashore on giant wings. There is a roaring in my ears, and the landscape and Nathalie's face become a blur, as I am shot like a rocket from a cannon. I land unceremoniously at Nathalie's feet, laughing hysterically like some mutant, blonde hyena, unable to get to my feet with the laughter. Suddenly the waves recede. I've lost my chance, and their white, foamy arms grab me, pulling me backwards on my knees as I wave my arms madly about like a wildly careening helicopter. It is no use - I am dragged like so much flotsam out a few feet, where another huge wave lifts me and sends me flying back to shore. Salt water stings my eyes and one ear is blocked from the rude dunking, but I am still laughing wildly like a mad woman as I struggle to my feet before another wave hits.
Nathalie eyes me dubiously, as if sincerely doubting my sanity, as she no doubt has reason to. I beg her to try it - just once. Spunkily she agrees, and wades in deeper. She bobs gently for a few seconds, and looks at me with an "Okay, what's so great about this?" sort of expression, when the mother of mammoth waves rolls into view directly behind her. "Oh, God, Nathalie, here it comes!" I scream. Suddenly scared, she turns and sees the wave, and tries to start running (in the water). Too late! It hits her from behind and she is flung headlong, long legs flailing furiously as she is railroaded into shore. Thunk! She lands a few feet away from me, face down. I run to her and turn her over, anxiously searching her face, which she has screwed up into an amazingly contorted mask. I wonder with a sinking heart if I have scared her off her first ocean experience, but suddenly her face is split with a huge grin. "Come on, Aunt Chicken," she says. And she vanishes to do battle with the waves once more.
We spend about an hour playing in the waves. It is exhausting, exhilarating, and so very salty and sticky. All worries and cares fade as I watch the water, and smile gently as Nathalie builds a sandcastle. I try to read a book, too distracted by the beauty around me to concentrate on mere words. Eventually I give up and put the book away; feeling thirsty for such beauty, I stare once more to sea.
Frothy waves teasingly invite Nathalie and her grandmother to play.
Sunday, March 12 - Day 5 Sunday dawns bright and beautiful, as usual. A peaceful breakfast on the front verandah is the perfect way to begin the day. Everything is at such a slow and easy pace here. We sit back and enjoy the antics of the birds, and observe our first "actually live" Bermudan frog as he ambles slowly across the front lawn. They look quite different when they're not squashed. He really is quite huge for a frog (about the size of a bowling ball). It also strikes me that he looks like a creature from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. This starts my mind whirling as I sit and muse on the front porch. Maybe I'm actually in a cartoon! Maybe this whole vacation has been written out in advance by some bizarre cartoonist, and I'm destined to fall off one of the cliffs beside the ocean, or maybe just get schmucked by a bus, like Wiliey Coyote. I rush into the house to see if I have suddenly grown a long snout, pointy ears and protruding bloodshot eyes. Thankfully, nothing has appeared yet.
Mom and Nathalie and I go to the beach again this afternoon. We take along a lovely picnic lunch and head to a small beach beside Jobson's Cove. I'm not sure of the name of it, and decide I will name it myself as soon as I come up with something creative. It is so quiet here. We set up our little sunning area and rub on the required lotions, put on our hats and our shades, and settle in. As the heat permeates our bodies and our temperatures start to rise, the ocean looks mighty tempting! As Nathalie heads for the surf, Mom and I decide to join her.
A serene aqua lagoon, Jobson's Cove is dramatically highlighted by powerful volcanic rock formations.
I quite forget that my mother has never been in this sort of aggressive wave before. It is quite upsetting at first to see her being dragged on her chest, face down for about twenty feet as the wave catches her unawares. But as she struggles to her feet, wiping streaks of sand and salt from her face, hair and eyes, I begin to laugh uncontrollably. It is just too funny for me to manage to show due respect. As she struggles back to shore, I still don't think she is sure what has happened to her.
"My God!" she sputters indignantly. "It dragged me! Did you see that? I couldn't stand up! It knocked me down and dragged me like a sac of potatoes!" She seems not to believe this was possible. Nathalie and I are rolling about, literally, clutching our stomachs in near hysteria, completely oblivious to anyone else who might be on the beach. After I compose myself somewhat, I encourage Mom to try it again, only this time to float with the wave, not to become the wave.
Hesitantly she tries again, and I know she is doing it only to please me. Suddenly, however, she gets a good wave and rides in on it, screaming and laughing like a teenager as it deposits her close to shore. We all run out together once more, giggling and carrying on. What a great afternoon. What a great day.
Chapter 7: We Hit The City Of Hamilton
Monday, March 13 - Day 6
Today we decide it is a good day to go shopping in Hamilton. We need to buy some Easter cards and postcards and a few more goodies for Easter celebrations. Aunt Dot stays to guard the house while we are gone. If anyone tried to get into the house, she would have them so confused and so busy listening to her that they wouldn't do anything.
A view of Hamilton's Front Street from the water.
The walk to the bus stop takes about 15 minutes, and upon arrival I spend about 10 minutes sweating profusely over whether we are on the proper side of the road to get the bus to Hamilton. Mom and Nathalie stand inside the bus shelter, reading the bits and pieces of graffiti aloud to each other and guffawing. I pretend I don't know them. When the bus finally arrives, even though it is clearly marked HAMILTON on the front in big letters, I ask the driver anyway. I'm sure they're used to tourists. He assures us we are on the right bus, and we each deposit our exact fare of $1.00 in coins. As we walk down the bus aisle, he suddenly yells, "Hey!" I look back enquiringly. Bermudan bus drivers, just as most bus drivers in the world, I'm sure, are not known for their politeness or courteousness. "Yes?" I enquire sweetly, feeling the eyes of three hundred other passengers burning through my back. From the corner of my eye I see Mom and Nathalie fading quietly away, squinching down in seats. "Bus fare is $1.25," he enunciates carefully. Accusingly he glares at me, then at Nathalie and Mom. He waits with the bus door open, as if he is going to toss us each out on our derrieres if we don't come up with that extra 25 cents, and soon. I jingle and jangle this way and that through my purse while the three hundred other passengers wait, silently willing this silly tourist dead. Finally I clink in the three quarters, and then am almost catapulted through the back door of the bus as he takes off with a roar. It is Mom and Nathalie's turn to pretend they don't know me.
Hamilton is a blast. There is so much to see and do! Mom and Nathalie really enjoy the bus ride, craning their necks this way and that to take in all the sights. Yes, Mother sits beside an old Bermudan lady, and you can guess what happens from there on.
As we approach Hamilton, the familiar sight of boats - cabin cruisers, speedboats, tugboats, yachts - prods my memory. There are some gorgeous sea vessels in Bermuda. Further out in the harbour is where they dock the cruise ships, but there are none for us to see today. Next comes the fork in the road, and the bus stays left, following the curve of the water. Ahead I can see where the ferry docks to pick up and drop off passengers, and I know we are at our destination. I holler at Mom and Nathalie. After all, everybody already thinks I'm a complete and utter bonehead anyway, so why worry? Together, the three of us and about two hundred and fifty of the other three hundred people on the bus lurch simultaneously towards the front exit door of the bus. Beads of sweat pop out on my forehead as I worry that the crowd will sweep me along, off my feet, into the vast Bermudan unknown.
As the crowd disperses, I am able to find my feet and my breath again. Quietly I thank God that I know where I am. As we walk down Front Street, which runs along the waters of Hamilton Harbour, I sigh in delight. Front Street is well known for its picturesque stores and restaurants, some with tiny outside second-floor patios that overlook the harbour. The buildings are all painted those beautiful colours of coral with white trim, and yellow with white trim, and tan with ... well, you know. Of course, one of the most famous sights is the "bird cage" in the middle of one of the tiny intersections where, in tourist season, a fully uniformed British bobby directs traffic.
We pass a rather pitifully thin horse attached to a carriage that takes tourists on a ride around the city, and we all feel sorry for it. We walk for a way down Front Street and cross over at Par-La-Ville Road, where we decide to cross through Par-La-Ville Park, which I remember from last year has many lovely trees and flowers for picture-taking. It is quite hilly here, and we huff and puff our way up some stone steps that lead to the entrance of the park.
Along the way we pass through a moon gate. Moon gates mark the entrances to many Bermudan homes and gardens. They became popular after 1920, when the Duke of Westminster had the gardens of the Bermudiana Hotel landscaped using the moon gate. It is believed the moon gate is a deliberate importation of an idea from China, and they are found throughout the island.
Moongates are found in abundance throughout the island, and dominate the West entrance to Par-La-Ville Park in Hamilton.
Through the moon gate we behold the exotic splendour before us. Immense, knotted trunks thrust out of the earth, extending amazingly contorted limbs in every direction. More limbs (or are they roots? - I don't know) erupt out of the ground like the huge, gnarled fingers on the fist of a stretching giant who has just awakened from a long slumber beneath the earth.
Mother gazes longingly at the birds, berating me (and herself) for not bringing along a loaf of bread for them. I apologize to her for not really wanting to stuff a loaf of bread into my purse for our sightseeing trip as she searches vainly through her purse for some tiny scrap. It doesn't matter, of course, that each bird is about twelve pounds overweight already. We meander through the trees and flowers, an extremely refreshing sojourn after the bus ride, and find ourselves on Queen Street. We make our way past the tiny post office and the library, which are still in Par-La-Ville Park. The library is housed in the home of the former postmaster, W. B. Perot. It is a beautiful building, and boasts a magnificent rubber tree, which was sent to Postmaster Perot in 1847 from Essequibo, British Guiana. It is quite awesomely huge, and we stare at it appreciatively before moving on. We decide to leave visiting the library for another day. We have some serious shopping to do.
The gnarled trees of Par-la-Ville Park stir the imagination and the soul.
After a few hours of drooling over priceless china and other totally impractical items, we have agreed that we have shopped our brains out. We decide it is time to snack. I decide to take Mom and Nathalie to the one little place where I know they have great sandwiches and desserts and tea. Its large picture windows overlook busy Reid Street, so you can sit and gaze at the curious passersby - you know - the red-head who has a penchant for canary yellow tights, the white girls with black stockings on and the black girls with white stockings on, the skinny little man whose pants are too short because the waist is up around his chin, ... Of course, they can gaze right back at you as you stuff your bulging mouth (which is ringed with raspberry and cream from the fattening tart you just greedily swallowed whole, simultaneously transferring your bright pink lipstick onto your chin, where it glows like neon) and spill your tea and drop crumbs in your lap. I'm not sure who is being entertained the most.
And so, our day trip to Hamilton a success, our tummies full, and bearing bags full of Easter goodies, we successfully make the journey back to Westmount. I even manage to have the correct change this time. Life is so rough when you're a tourist!
Chapter 8: Cruising the Afternoon Away
Wednesday, March 15 - Day 8We awaken to another beautiful, sunny day. The temperature is already 75 degrees by 11:00, and we decide that this would be an excellent afternoon for a ferry ride. Who knows what tomorrow will bring weather-wise, and we figure you need a nice, hot day for the ferry ride.
We manage the bus ride back into Hamilton with a great deal more ease this time around, and we arrive in plenty of time to buy our tokens - return trip, of course! The name of our ferry is The Sea Venture. We board and find a place near the back. Front Street looks absolutely enchanting from here. The palm trees sway lazily in the breeze, the colorful stores - Gosling Brothers, The Irish Linen Shop, Smith's, Trimingham's - all sparkle in the background. I take a picture of Mom and Nathalie with the stores behind them. Nathalie is quite excited at the size of the ferry, and I sit back, ready to enjoy what I know is a gorgeous ride.
The pale, gentle aqua waves turn to frothy, sparkling swells as the boat pulls away from the dock. We pass an absolutely gorgeous yacht called the Elegant Lady. It is huge, with a deck opened out on one side to show a curved staircase leading to the control deck, wall to wall carpeting, and built-in bar and love seats. A Don Johnson look-alike is lounging about in the love pit (at least that's what it looks like!). I sigh and turn my eyes stalwartly back to the gleaming waters. I have two fearsome chaperones here!
A ferry-view of the shops of Front Street.
We pass island upon island, some tiny and uninhabited but for birds, others quite large, with gorgeous homes built on them, complete with four- and five-bay boathouses. Not too shabby. Inlets and coves, private coral beaches - it boggles the mind. As the yacht make a stop to let passengers embark and disembark at one of the various points, Mom and I lean over the rail to look deep down into the water. We see millions - literally millions - of small fish swimming in schools, weaving this way and that, as if of one mind.
A native Bermudan on shore is tying the line from our boat to the dock so that the people can disembark. Seeing a native so close at hand, I managed to get his attention:
"Excuse me. What kind of minnows are they?" I said, pointing to the water. A perfectly logical question, I think to myself.
"Huh?" he asks, a puzzled frown knitting his brow.
"Minnows," I say, this time a little louder. (You know how it is - if people don't understand your accent or your language, shouting a little louder will always remedy the situation.)
"What Be Minnows??" the guy shouts back, this time much louder than I.
"Fish!" I yell again. What is this guy's problem? What the heck does he mean, "What be minnows?" What the heck does that mean?
"Fish!" I yell. "What kind of fish are these?" I point my fingers in stabbing gestures towards the water.
"Aaahhh!" he exclaims, as comprehension dawns on his face. "Fries!"
"Huh?" I exclaim in confusion. I am not asking him about his favourite fast food. I look quickly around for a McDonald's.
"No! No! What kind of fish are they?" I practically scream in irritation. This time people turn around to stare at the shouting match.
"They Be Fries, Lady!" he exclaims, and turns to get away from this mad woman, as the boat begins leaving the dock.
Thank God the boat left the dock. It took me about ten minutes to figure out that the minnows in Bermuda are called fries. Finally, understanding. Sheesh! The last thing I expected to have in Bermuda was a language problem! Hopefully he laughed as hard about my ignorance as I did!
The wind is a little chilly as the boat heads out into more open waters, and Mom and Nathalie have a brief squabble over who should wear Nathalie's squall jacket, which Mom brought along. Should Nathalie get it, because it is her jacket, or should Mom get it because she thought to bring it along? I get lessons in motherhood as I coach them to share the jacket, and they both finally agree to this, though each one keeps giving a little tug when they think the other one is not paying attention.
We arrive at the dockyards at the western edge of the island, which we visited with Gary in our first few days. We get a lovely view of the prison and the Clock Tower from the water. Then we circle around and make our way back again. I snap a picture of a particularly pretty little cove that captures my fancy. Green, manicured lawns, landscaped naturally with palms and cedars and shrubs leading into pretty, white steps built into the craggy rocks with a white iron hand-rail. I know it's waiting for me; I heard it call my name as we passed by. So I took its picture.
We return all too soon, though it is a rather long ride. As we walk back towards the street, we pass the Elegant Lady. A huge, state-of-the-art stereo is blaring out some great rock music. As I pass, lagging behind Mom and Nathalie, Don Johnson comes out of the love pit and takes off his shades to get a better look at me. He leans on the top rail to stare, and looks like he's about to shout at me. I turn and walk away with what I hope looks like the casual saunter of someone completely uninterested - who has a better- looking rowboat at home. Mother would never forgive a scandal! Oh well, maybe next lifetime!
This special place cried out to me, as we were passing by. . ." Wait, Come Back!" It called to me. ... Perhaps, someday, I sighed.
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