Island...Tales of the Caribean

Time for 'I'.

And of course, 'I' must be Island.

Which means it's time for another Tale of the Caribbean...Island...

Most people experience the Caribbean on a cruise or an all-inclusive resort. Rob and I have never done anything the easy way.

 

Our destination on the first trip to the Caribbean was Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. The trip included in a small condo where we could cook breakfast and probably lunch or dinner each day, with a plan to rent a car to explore the island. Never mind that they drive American cars (steering wheel on the left) on the opposite side of the road from what we are accustomed.

That particular detail of the trip was parked after the open-air taxi ride to the rental place- on the WRONG side of the road, which was barely two lane in places and shouldered on one side by steep walls of dirt and vegetation and shouldered on the other by the ocean.

Literally.

Ocean spray would on occasion splash the front window and the passenger on the water side should you be in an open-air vehicle. 

This is an oil tanker. Taken from the passenger window as we sped 50kph around the island.

Oh, and the rental place was closed on Sunday afternoon.

As our drive said, "Welcome to the Caribbean!" He graciously drove us the rest of the way to our condo at Fort Recovery.

Now you would assume, being a taxi, that there would be no hesitation. However, Fort Recovery sits near the West end of the island which means chances of a fair back to the airport was slightly slim.

We figured out the nuances of cabs quickly.

As foreign cell phones can get sketchy coverage on the island, Fort Recovery provides local cell phones with around $5 worth of minutes available, renewable in the office. The phone is loaded with about two dozen taxi services. It took three calls to arrange a cab – the service on the West end really didn't want to drive all the way to the East end. The East end didn't really want to come West. The third dispatcher I spoke too, at a different number but sounding suspiciously like the first dispatcher I spoke with, finally agreed to send a car.

I got the distinct feeling these services are family run. More than once we were picked up in unmarked sedans.

Sounds safe, right?

Actually, it couldn't have been nicer.

Every driver, with the exception of one, was pleasant and helpful and told us all about the beautiful island. Even the cranky one warmed up when we asked his favorite local place for dinner – Fish and Lime at Soper's Hole.

Sunset at Fish and Lime. More on this in another post.

He was right – dinner was inexpensive and delicious.

Good thing. The taxi rides averaged around $20 - $30 one way.

Which brings me to the original idea of this story.

We have stayed in several condos on other vacations. They are economical, given that a kitchen – no matter how small – offers the opportunity to save money on meals. I generally plan to cook breakfast and stock the fridge with a fruit plate, veggie plate and some lunch meat from the local grocery. My vacation pantry includes coffee, tea, crackers, chips and something sweet.

Exactly how I intended to stock our kitchen in Tortola.

Our tiny, but well equipped kitchen. Of course the stove is on the WRONG side of the kitchen.

This was before I began to take an actual interest in island life. Had I read even one article on cooking on a sailboat I would have realized that grocery shopping on an island is...different.

Road Town, the largest town on Tortola, offers a couple of actual grocery stores.

Of course this would have meant another taxi ride to and from.

The kind folks at Fort Recovery told us there was a small grocery just down the road, about half a mile. Well within walking distance.

So we figured, on our first afternoon on the island, what better way to discover our new neighborhood than to walk to the store...on that narrow, two-lane road where everyone insists on driving on the WRONG side.

Or perhaps we were WALKING on the wrong side.

Either way, I never did get use to hearing a car approach only to be facing the approaching vehicle rather than having it come up from behind. We side stepped several times into driveways, dirt paths and once an honest to goodness palm tree jungle. 

You thought I was kidding, didn't you.

But as death defying walks go, it couldn't have been prettier or more interesting.

We listened to children at a day school singing songs.

We spied into the courtyard of a lovely, albeit forgotten, home. 

part of the gate

 

so inviting

And then we arrived at the grocery...

Or more specifically, the Tortola version of a QT.

Part gas station, part cell phone provider, part grocer.

All neighborhood hang-out.

Yes Big Ben. You are indeed a Super-ette!!

I could not have felt more like an outsider that Sunday afternoon as we wandered cautiously onto the parking lot. A couple of men sat on the concrete steps talking, a dog at their feet. A family, I assumed heading home from church, were piling back into their car. Each child with a treat in hand.

The interior of the small store felt a little more familiar. Dry goods on shelves. Produce in an open cooler at the back. A large freezer in the other corner.

There were a few familiar brands – Coke, Pepsi, Oreo, Campbells. But most everything had a slightly exotic tweak. The carrots were the size of watermelons. The juice and milk were un-refridgerated in vacuum sealed cartons.

And the meat?

All unlabeled and frozen.

And Unlabeled...

I was very cautious on our first trip to Big Ben's. I was also slightly travel shocked. We had to carry our purchases back to the condo and we didn't want to waste money or supplies so we tried to buy things that could do double duty. It seems like we wound up with some juice, a couple of apples, some lemons and limes, a zucchini, a 6-pack of soda, a bag of coffee, a stick of butter and a rice pilaf kit. And some sort of fish.

I am still not sure what sort, I think it may have been a red snapper. Given that whole 'unlabeled' issue I really just guessed according to color, thickness and smell. Or in this case, lack there of.

I also grabbed a package of locally baked raisin buns at the checkout.

The buns were great for breakfast, sliced and slightly toasted in a skillet with some melted butter.

The fish, sauteed in butter with salt and pepper and a little lemon tasted quite exotic.

As it turns out, unlabeled meat became a fun challenge.

By our last trip to the market, I was a pro at rummaging through the freezer. Tossing aside boring chicken and what looked to be pork, or goat, to score the coveted 'some sort of beef'.

Turns out it was a skirt steak.

And it was delicious, not just because of the Caribbean pepper blend sprinkled on top or the lime juice marinate.

It was most delicious because the clerk recognized us as the goofy couple who held a guessing game outside the meat freezer and debated over which ice cream treat to eat on the walk home. And she greeted us that day with a familiar 'hello'.

(Visiting local markets is one of my absolute favorite things to do when traveling – whether it is the SafeCo in Colorado, the Piggly Wiggly in Florida or the Mexican Walmart in Cabo. Big Ben's was my most challenging to date. And so worth the push past my comfort zone. Which is really the point of travel, in my opinion. As always, come back again. There will be many more Tales from the Caribbean.) 

For more info on Fort Recovery click here: http://fortrecoverytortola.com/

For more info on Fish and Lime click here: http://fishnlime.com/index-1.html

And Soper's Hole: http://www.b-v-i.com/sopers.htm

 

This post is part of the A-Z blogging challenge, where Monday -Saturday in April is dedicated to running the alphabet, using each day's letter as the inspiration. 

@Random

So, this happened...

I had finally coaxed my ratchety grocery cart from the automatic door of the Major Market across the parking lot to my car. The cart was loaded to the tune of 'this is the only day in nearly two weeks in which I have been able to make it to a store and the next ten days aren't looking too promising either'.

The bag boy had completed a small architectural miracle with his artful stacking.

This was a very full cart.

As I opened the trunk and prepared to load my retirement account in the car, a woman approached. She was nicely dressed, late fifties to early sixties. She paused beside my car and said. "You have the nicest looking grocery cart I have ever seen."

I looked from her to my cart and back again.

She smiled.

I smiled.

My head spun.

Could she really be complimenting this load of food?

It was a colorful array of reusable bags. (Which has taken five years for me to finally get use to carrying them. You're welcome Earth.)

Perhaps she had followed me through the grocery and noticed my 'perimeter only' purchases: huge green watermelon, a rainbow of fresh vegetables, carefully chosen organic meat, locally cultured yogurt, a huge bouquet of brightly colored daisies. (Okay, the meat may have been from the $5 meat rack and I am pretty sure the daisies were totally GMOed. Those colors don't exist outside of the Crayola factory. She would have appreciated the carefully chosen bottle of wine but it was buried under three bags of chips which were crushed hidden under the watermelon.)

She smiled again and began to walk away and I realized it did not matter the reason for the compliment. I felt a ridiculous sense of accomplishment. My mood had been bolstered by her kind words. I smiled back and with a gracious yet questioning 'thank you' I took credit for it all – the bags, the contents, the arrangement, the craftsmanship of the cart maker.

As I proudly related the story to my family, it was pointed out that perhaps, she was the bag-boy's mother. After all, it was really his handywork which so carefully filled and stacked the bags.

I waved the naysayers off with a tip of my wine glass and took my crushed bag of chips to the deck.

You haters can't bring me down.

It really is a delightful haul.

 (I was so surprised by this incident that I didn't even think to take a picture of the stacked cart. I did, however, unload everything and arrange it in a pleasing manner just for the photo for this post. I probably should have put away the ice cream first.)

Happy Holidays! I'm Not Ready Yet!

As I write this I am trying very hard to NOT grab all the cookies off the cookie plate, crawl under the Christmas tree and chug the gallon of eggnog in the fridge in a massive rogue Holiday Panic Attack. But I can't. Because I have yet to purchase any eggnog. And there are no cookies.

I had my traditional Holiday Panic Attack the first week of December when I realized that my work schedule did not allow for my annual Holiday Prep Weekend. The annual HPW consists of me taking a couple extra days off around a weekend to allow for decorating, shopping, card writing and cookie baking.

Traditionally I succeed in getting some decorations up and a few gifts purchased. Oh, and I have a nice lunch by myself at a fancy mall restaurant, usually The Cheesecake Factory although California Pizza Kitchen lured me in last year with it's stuffed pablano pepper. I come away feeling well rested, a little pampered and slightly smug even though I have only checked off two or three things from my list of things to do.

I talked myself down by telling myself that decorating is really a family event and my daughter loves to bake. But then I counter with 'you haven't sent out a single Christmas Card.' And then the voice in my head laughs. I haven't sent out a Christmas card since 2001. Well, that's not entirely true. I send out reciprocal cards to those who send first. This causes me great guilt so I end up writing out cards to anyone over sixty years old or more than one hundred miles away. Naturally, these never arrive in time for December 25. But really, the season extends through New Years so the term Christmas Card is really too confining. I live to push the boundaries of social convention.

And there are cookies. My Mom made her famous French Cookies:

Theses are fried two at a time on a tiny waffle iron. Thanks Mom!

And I baked two batches myself, because the weekend I experienced my first Holiday Panic Attack rolled into my Holiday Exhilaration Festival. This would be the period in which I feel anything is possible. Make two wine cork wreaths? Pour me another glass and get the glue gun! Hand embroider tiny dancing elves on sweaters for everyone to wear Christmas Eve? Sure! Do you want them waltzing or doing the macarena? It helps that we had a beautiful snow fall which lasted most of the day. I baked a batch of Spritz cookies and then, as they only use the egg yolks...I baked a batch of Meringues.

I wrapped packages that day as Love Actually played on the television.

Please note, the cat is not a gift. He is a threat.

  Including the package which needed to be sent to my neice and nephew in Germany. Which usually doesn't get mailed until December 20^th , causing the lady at the post office to reprimand my tardiness and my niece and nephew to call me "die Tante, der nicht Eigentümer einen Kalender oder zu verstehen, wie lange es dauert, um die Dinge nach Deutschland versenden“. I am pretty sure that translates into 'the Aunt who is beautiful and our favorite'.

I love wrapping packages. I crease the paper so no raw edges showed. I use ribbon that coordinates with the paper. I hand make my bows. My packages have pretty paper and shiny ribbon strung horizontally and vertically with a lovely bow adorning the intersection. Yup. Packages one through five look beautiful. The remaining gifts slowly devolve until the last few look as if I wrapped them with my toes. While drunk. And with my eyes closed.

I managed to get my kitchen tree up.

My Dad gave me this tree 30 years ago when I was away at school. It is the first decoration to go up and the last to come down.

 And our family tree was decorated in shifts, and while it doesn't look like something off the HGNetwork, it looks beautiful. (I am ignoring the pile of storage boxes which remain in the family room downstairs. At this point it would be crazy to put them back in the store room.)

Apparently I was still drunk from wrapping packages when I took this one.

Wow, I could so start freaking out again.

But that annoying voice in my head, who sounds a little like Mary Tyler Moore unless she is singing in which case she sounds like Roseanne Barr, reminds me: It's not about the gifts or the tree or the cards. This season is about remembering to believe in something you can not see. It's about holding tight to the people and memories that are most dear, remembering the ones who have slipped away and planting that seed of wonder, amazement and hope for those who may be having trouble finding it.

It is also about letting this scary-ass Santa head see the light of day for another year.

You better believe he sees you!

 

Happy Holidays to All from the Coast of Illinois!