Nassau
Topic: Bahamas
Look forward to new episode about life on Paradise Island!

The Golden Prison
Topic: Algeria

The Golden Prison by Claudia Belleau


I leaned on the book-laden luggage wheeled through Paris’ Orly Airport, scrutinizing the lines of veiled women patiently sitting with children, the brown-skinned couples, the aged grandparents and teenagers in blue jeans. After my dreamless sleep under Air France’s First Class watchfulness, my eyes had begun to feel rested. Many long hours painstakingly translating the Algerian oil industry’s mandates and precautions from French into required international maritime English had left me nearsighted from the task. My scurrying to prepare with only one week’s notice to teach and interpret in Algeria had brought into view a world of demands peripheral to life in America. The laborious, bookish task had transformed into a mighty adventure.

I stood with a team of Anglophone troubleshooters expert in global safety.
Our assignment was to attune the Algerian maritime industry to meet stipulations of the ISPS Code dictating port security. I was the trainer’s trainer, sharing tips on managing toward the July 2004 full implementation deadline. I had met the four experts flown in from Washington minutes ago in an airport caf? where the waiter charged me six Euros for three whipped creams he had mistakenly added to my request for coffee with cream. My first cultural difference pulled at my assumptions that my fluent French would protect me. The older, nervously energetic port specialist now laughed at my mistake. The younger man flinched under his Land’s End look. He was never amused by wasteful spending. This journey was his deal, the culmination of a ‘yes’ he had been given by the industry’s government giants. Training, a possible school, his registry’s hold over many Algerian vessels—a deal worth millions
The two men I had flown with here from Boston were cohorts, the deal-makers experienced at the game of Anglophone maritime dominance with scores of frequent flyer miles under their shoes. They had calmly watched televised Liberian atrocities over free coffee in the Delta club lounge in Boston. I had flipped through French and American news magazine photos after boarding, confronting an insurrectionist staring gleefully, as if in a mirror, at his enemy’s severed head which he held up by the hair. They slept the six hours to Paris, untouched. I cocooned in the blanket the steward lay out for me, obliterating all, waking as they announced our landing.

I expected the uniform appearance of the four new guys under cover of varied khaki outfitters. I was dressed for the East: Moroccan-striped linen made in China. The teacher walked near us, removed from the Coast Guard types, chain-smoking. Land’s End whispered as the three walked ahead toward Algerian air, “Don’t get too close to them…they’re a bit right wing cowboys”. I nodded, wondering about his motive secreted under the casual look. After all, he had hired us.
It was the Algerian liaison who insisted that I go…and go now. I had my visa in four days. My real purpose on this trip was to unfold, yet as I watched the women around me I could only think “Westernize”. That must be what they wanted and needed. After 9/11, one of their vessels had been held up for months in the Port of Boston, terrorism suspected. Normalize the look, the talk, and the connections to U.S. expectation. I mentally divested a robed couple and dressed them in polos and chinos. If we could groom criminals for court dates, we could change these innocent daughters traveling back from France for their summer family reunions in Oran.
The waiting area cleared when the airline announced first boarding of families with children. The friendly woman in the moss djelebba, that intriguing unisex hooded gown, who had invited me to sit near her filed out with five polite kids in tow. I moved into next place and quickly down the ramp into the airplane.
The hostess escorted me to my seat. Two men circled the many seats in the first class cabin, ensuring that everyone was in the correct spot. I waited ten minutes for my companions. When I inquired, I was told they would be along momentarily. When I rose and walked toward the door, a burly attendant gruffly demanded that I find my seat. I said that I wanted to peer down the corridor to see if they were coming. Perhaps they needed me to interpret. The attendant blocked the exit with his body; his back-up moved closer to me. Their bodies were barriers; their eyes sharply reprimanded me to obey without question. This incident propelled me into interpretation of a reality laced with non-verbal tensions.
The guys came through ten minutes later. There were only two first class spots and seven people. No one had understood we all required first class. The baby-faced kid of the group, who held his occasional cigarettes at his finger tips, delicate as a debutante afraid to ruin her polish, balked. I hoped no one could understand his insulted “you people…we paid for it” take on the situation. Only the boss and I stayed upfront. Between us sat a curvaceous, exhausted woman and her chubby, spoiled child. He perpetually picked at her authority in a high, whining voice. The flight attendants, humored now that we were Algeria- bound, served us juice, casserole, and fruit. One of the men periodically stood in front of the toddler and teased him about locking him up if he didn’t let up on his mom. They kept the exchange going, and I pictured those fat knees bending for a swift kick to the groin.
This was my first visit to Africa; today was my fiftieth birthday. The pilot announced that we were over the Spanish Pyrenees within an hour of landing and over 3,000 miles from home.
I was a novice at first-class and had scanned the sequestered area on the Boston-Paris leg, wondering how terrorists could enter. They had plenty of room in the ample area seating the fortunate few. On this leg of the journey, fifty percent of the passengers looked like terrorist profiles presented by the media. The cowboy-stanced guy had spoken for the team when he announced “We left our knives at home”. When my apprehension wiggled to the surface, I scanned the clouds for a glimpse of a higher power or closed my eyes when we were too cottoned in them to see anything.
We glided over an arid lunar landscape and soon touched down. The attendant flirted one more time with the woman. The guys came from coach grumbling about headrests that wouldn’t work, lack of a meal. We made way down the ramp into a surprisingly dark, crowded airport.
The clatter of people thronging with all array of luggage and parcels awaited us. Our liaison, unable to whisk us through the hyper-tight security, put our papers in the appropriate hands. He was a tall, slender forty-year old with an Arab name, a hybrid of the French colonization here. My passport disappeared into a small booth where an inspector held onto it for half an hour. Ali retrieved it and we met Suedish, a very black man in shirt-sleeves and tie who would also drive us to the hotel. His nickname, a slurred version of “Swedish”, parodied his black skin. I wondered if racism existed here, yet felet immediately comfortable because he looked like numerous people back in New England. We walked with him to the car baking in the thunderous Algerian sun.
The row of palm trees fronting the airport were still in this unrelenting heat. We drove past military guard waving us through to our hotel minutes away. Young shrubs plopped into a courtyard welcomed us to the huge ochre block of a building gleaming gold in the sun, its mid-section rising higher in Islamic curve toward heaven. The staff spoke French, but the vast lobby felt Eastern, decorated with enormous ornate vases, each of which could smuggle a small person. The marble stairs distracted us from the flag at the front desk, totem of this “democratic socialist republic”.
Bienvenue, the concierge greeted us, smiling, lifting her midnight hair from the form-fitting shift that defined her Mediterranean beauty. We are separated by land, sea and mere hours from Rome and Madrid. Her ancestors may have drifted here from Europe, but her Muslim name and demeanor recall us to the Maghreb, this sector of North African nations united—and sequestered from Europe--by religion, oil, and blood.
We take the elevator to find our rooms and rest before dinner. Mine is a huge accommodation with a view of the parking lot beneath. I request a balcony pool view and move to the floor beneath the rest of the team. I have an enormous bed, a writing desk, and a television that pulls in bouncy French weathergirls, Italian hostesses, and portly Algerian men, surrounded by sexy dancers, singing the popular Ra? music. The exotic, atonal, singsong suggests labyrinthine passages, seductive sinuous movement. Just when you believe the decrescendo ends, the tempo insinuates East again. The bathroom is huge, with a bidet. The shower/tub has no curtain. I use my only large towel sopping up spillage. The toiletries are marked with Arabic script. I smell light and airy for dinner, held downstairs in one of three dining areas at nine o’clock.
I don’t recall what we ate or how; we are exhausted and know we all meet the CEO’s in the morning. My balcony is shuttered with louvered doors; beyond them there is unexpected sound. I open them to view the night and am amazed by the wedding feast below me. The pool area has been transformed into a reception area, lounge chairs replaced with rows and clusters of long tables. Huge speakers beat loud, exotic cadences while women with fans sit watching. Three white, wicker chairs on a dais at the far pool end await the participants.
A man in black seated upon a white stallion rides in slowly past the fence separating pool area from lot. He is dressed like a groom, allows a kiss from a family member who reaches up to him. His procession takes some time, enough for me to find my camera and shoot in the dividing darkness. I debate propriety and yet am compelled to wend my way out of my room downstairs, out the front and around the back side past solitary, smoking men toward the new husband. By the time I get there, he has disappeared but the dais is filled with women.
After I study the tables of women dressed in velour, satin, and traditional robes. I request permission to photograph a woman who then fends me off , “crossing” at me with her index fingers. The women chatter in Arabic, appear to speak little French. I withdraw to the sidelines, but minutes later an elder swathed in white presents me with a suitable subject. She tells me her name is Naida. If not the bride, she surely is a key member of the wedding party. Her chest, robed in mauve-pink matching her smiling cheeks, is bejewelled with strands of gold coins linked in horizontal chains; a gold ancestral relic, pointed like a bishop’s mitre, crowns her head. All of the gold has been passed on through generations. It is as valued and necessary here as a virgin bride. I attempt to include the elder in the photo but she’ll have none of it. Grateful, I grab the shot and thank Naida. Her smile radiates the room.
I later reach my spouse over the phone. He says that he can hear the music this time. I open the louvers and describe the live ensemble of white-robed men chanting achingly as young girls chase each other past the tables, pick each other up airborne. It is 3 a.m. in Oran and they will celebrate until dawn.
When the bleary-eyed team meets in the morning, we will have had the sleepless night of the uninvited wedding guest. We are here to ensure compliance with international standards. Our witness of the ritual indicates the specific character of the insular nation with a beleaguered past and a present of neighboring unrest, revolution, kidnapping, and murder. Amidst thought of Moroccan insurgents and Al Quaida spys, we meet the attractive women in their mid-twenties who will translate in the field. Their difficult Arabic names are whispered into their meanings for our Western ears: flower, good, smile, and star. Over black demitasse steam, liquid eyes reflect little experience save that of moon over desert sky. They are obedient, live with their parents, are driven into this compound. They relish the chance to use English which they haven’t tested since graduation.
The baby-faced guy enters our office, set-up earlier that morning, teases them about being spys, too beautiful, too inexperienced to be interpreters of anything beyond this fantasy. The boss asks them where he can get a massage. Although this is a French word, they pretend that they don’t understand. When we are alone, cutting up our lunch of quail, I inquire about the country where a man may say “I divorce you” three times and it is done. They exclaim together “Here!’” They tell me about the Code of the Family: a woman must have seven proofs against her husband for divorce; He doesn’t need any and, in any case, will get the house. She keeps the kids regardless. When Ali comes in to draw me to the meeting, they fall abruptly silent, subserviently casting eyes to the floor.
We troop into a hot board room to meet the company executives, the employees who will be our students. I am here to teach the trainers, but the C.E.O. thinks I am the boss’ wife, calls me by her name. When it is my turn to speak, I clarify things, bilingually. A few of the men laugh, tell me to stick with either French or English. I am the only woman in the conference room. I wonder if they will take me seriously. The security teacher, who should know, whispers to me as the men file out for their break of black espresso and burned croissant, “Welcome to the golden prison.”

Move to the Rhythm
Topic: Extreme Dominica

Pou Yo Dance

I had learned of Michele Henderson’s music before I arrived, but hearing her on a Christmas special aired on local cable turned me on to her sweet undertones. Like Celine Dion, she is singing in two languages, and the local patois finds her way into her titles and lyrics. Like the great diva, she implicates her family in her work and dedications, easy to do on an island where everyone is somehow linked if not related. She captures the rhythmic sway of the people here, the unworried, unhurried pace.
There are enough walks in Dominica to animate an actor’s cast of characters. The swinging gait of the lovers, the sashay of women shopping, the professional clip of women in heels, the purposeful stride of entrepreneurs, the balancing act of those toting homegoods on their heads, the scamper of kids, the propelled walk of students hurrying home—they are all rehearsing their dance of life.
The quietude of those who barely move is here, too—the infirm and elderly gingerly treading the streets, the lovers eyeing each other contemplating embrace, the refugee Haitians avoiding peril of their troubled nation, the dealers waiting, the babies sleeping cradled in loving arms, those tickled by life, those entranced by the moon or each other.
The difference in Dominica is that it all takes place in the street. The most tender moments are public because many of the people live outside their houses.The stoopside ghetto cacophony, the village plaza conversations, the huddle of bodies is on display.
Partying all night long is not unusual; we spy clusters of friends on balconies as we drive through town. Intimacy is dictated by size of the place; love seems to move freely in the easy smiles and exchanges among the people. Village transport spots post signs warning of HIV and drug abuse; the devotion to religion frowns on promiscuity, homosexuality, and drugs. The real has yet to be revealed, so romantic interpretation permeates our watercolor view like a Gauguin rendering.
I know we will regain our strut, the walk of those who are not ‘cruise ship tourists’, reclaiming our position in the local street. Despite any meeting results, beyond any program, nature rules, calling to the elemental dawning, flooding each of us in new steps.

A Woman and A Man
Topic: Extreme Dominica
Exotica

Faye is a generous woman, observing us drive slowly past wooden cottages named after fruit of the region. Our climb up a steep hill on the southeast side of the island has brought us past the Green Mountain Flowers greenhouses to the acres of land she has cultivated with her husband into Exotica. Their organic farm is a sensory delight, wafting the gentle aroma of flowers and herbs through the mountain air.
She invites us to the caf? for a taste of local juice. Blush sweet cherry and cloudy white soursop stir both palate and vision as we gaze out from the porch over palms and trees that gather nutrients from the air fragrant with the scent of blossoms everywhere: yellow bird of paradise, red hibiscus, bougainvillea in several shades of purple, crimson flamboyant.
She confesses that the gardening is her art. Natural fertilizers and careful planning and landscaping inform her design. She finds it hard to find good help amidst the “landscapers” in name only, who randomly chop away weed and new shoot alike with their machetes. Her delicate nurturing has brought forth generations of indigenous flora in one place.
Faye talks of her travels, the gated communities of Jamaica which keep the locals, and potential thieves, out.
“Dominica is free. You do not have to worry here,” she says. She grew up in town “right by Perky’s Pizza” and knows the people, the lore.
“Oh, that story” she says when we relate hearsay. Her talk is peppered with infiltrating, American colloquialisms. They seem fresh and renewed in the Dominican accent. Although we have no more juice to linger off and she has work to do, we vow to return to live for a while in one of the cottages named after local fruit, perhaps Cashew or Soursop
“You can’t come in April, May, or June..for reasons I can’t speak of,” she adds mysteriously.
“The movie?,” we chime in unison
Yes, that’s it, the Pirates of the Caribbean 2 shoot predicted for the coming months. The north sides of the island are scouted sites; Calibishie is a rumored spot, likely for its towering palms and crashing surf with nary a home in view. Since accommodation throughout the island is relatively sparse, she’s anticipating the overflow south. Exotica meets Hollywood, two fantasy worlds converging in a celluloid moment which is captured today in our camera eye forever.

Turtle Point

The turtles are vanishing from the planet, the island. Hunted by natural predators, caught in nature’s spin, they dwindle in numbers. The green sea turtle, the leatherback, and the hawksbill find their haunts on beaches to lay their numerous eggs. We see the turtle back logo on the hand-etched sign indicating Turtle Point and swerve off the coastal highway to see if we can observe them.
As we drive towards an edifice colored as a ripe papaya, embossed with the same logo as the sign, it is clear this is either a lodge or someone’s home.
The attractive, mustachioed man standing in the yard comes towards us, accompanied by a boy half as tall with machete in hand.
He informs us that this is indeed a home, his home. Handsomely distinct in his “University of the West Indies” shirt, he speaks deliberately with refinement.
Tom, stimulated by conversation and his whiteness, rare on the island outside the tourist population, asks him if he is related to Lennox Honeychurch, the historical, Dominican writer.
“I am the guy who writes the books,” Lennox says, nonplussed.
I remove my shades to get a better look at a sight I neither expected nor suspected.
“You are younger- looking in person," I blurt sincerely.
Perhaps he is flattered—when I later scrutinize his photo on the book jacket of The Dominica Story: a History of the Island, it is obviously several years old.
He answers our questions informatively: the roads here are new, built in the ‘50’s, 60’s, and 70’s. People did live in isolation, in village communities linked by mule and cart.
The Carib natives were relocated from Portsmouth, where they lived on the banks of the Indian River, and Roseau to the remote reservation, or central forest reserve, where they preserved their culture, language, and way of living. Today the weave baskets, hats, and mats from wide-leafed palms; their half-naked children tumble in houses with no windows, youths stare at us as we drive through their territory.
We bid Honneychurch farewell after taking his photo with Caleb, the healthy neighbor boy who was chopping coconut. I stop at the beach there, enticed by the crashing surf, revel in the discovery of volcanic sand, fine and black beneath my sandals. Later that night, I will find my feet pitch-black with the hue of history, the mark of an epoch long past yet lingering, dormant, above and beneath us.

C'est Creole
Topic: Martinique
The long holiday line and getting through Customs at both ends of the passage between these Dominica and Martinique, mere miles apart, extend a short jaunt by an hours wait at each end. The crush of humanity, toting bundles and bags, is as variegated as the landscape. Collegiates from the States with their Jansport and Eastpaks, Europeans eager to spend their Euros in French Martinique, Dominican kids crossing over to visit their cousins, holiday parcels addressed to relatives in villages, make the journey with us. The approaching coastline reveals tropically colored highrises surrounding the capitol of Fort de France. We dock in the city and walk blocks past the savanne, looking for auto rental so we can see what the island offers.

We follow the coastal highway which here is a clean, paved road, the first of many we are to see, result of the French efforts to work with the land. The houses here are small homes rather than shanties; the villages indicate the French touch circulating through the lifeblood of the land. As we to locate a room, a bungalow, a cottage, we soon discover that the rentals are either “residences” for long-term use, or taken up by holiday travelers. Our ‘find’ of a room in an auberge dating back to the 1600’s gives us a bed hard as slats, an open window, and a climb three flights up. We pass on this one, and as we direct our tires through St. Pierre, we discover the local rum distillery, one of three on the island, and the Center for Earth Sciences, an odd
rectangular building pedastaled in the air like some strange periscope at the foot of volcanic Mt. Pelee.

After some debate, we chose to drive south toward Trois Islets and the beach area.
The only reason for debate is the unknown status of terrirtory and distance. The travel maps have no scale other than the map-specific locators. We are headed toward G-5.
The highway is beautiful in speed and efficiency, getting us to the turnoff to the village before noon. We park by the school/church complex, take photos of the rectory’s outdoor oven, the crosses on the mausoleums in the cemetery. Napoleon’s wife, Empress Josephine, was baptized in this church, and the street bears her name. The boulangerie/patisserie, the artist’s shops, the chic boutiques distinguish this island. We are to discover a string of villages grown around ‘anses’, or coves, each with its own beachfront and streets of creole homes of many colors, predominantly white with a tropical tone, protected from the fierce sun with Provencal, wooden shutters. Our Opel Corsa brings us safely to Cap Diamant, the diamond cape heralded for its beautiful beach and dangerous coastline. The “statues of shame”, 14 figures sculpted of a mix with white sand, were erected here on the beach, facing Guinea, the home of the African slaves buried beneath. The slaveship which carried them here in the 1800’s was destroyed on the rocks beyond, and the bodies washed ashore. The masters were buried in the churchyard, and the surviving Africans, 60% women and girls, were relocated to Guyana since slavery had been illegal on Martinique since the earliest part of the century. The outlaw planters, fearing lack of production on the plantations, had defied the law, needing to replace slaves who were, understandably, short-lived. The interpretive panels, depicting shackles worn and brands used, strengthen the feelings of shame and horror at this ‘exchange’. The fact that most Europeans engaged in this trip died on the journey underscores the motivation of unflagging greed in the face of possible peril.
This was war, hellishly brutal, but the product was not petroleum but people. “People before profits”, the refrain passes through my mind as I write this, this formula taking into account the toll on the people of the islands, here in Martinique at a 23% unemployment rate as they need to cater to tourists to survive. The jump-in-your-face attitude of sellers and mendicants is absent here. The continental influence seems to have had an effect, and the merchants charm and convince. They do not try to sell something that won’t fit you; they allow you to look and compare; they are pleasant. Underneath it all, there is the same poverty. Here the homeless can sleep by the beach and the village homes are spaced apart. Flowers abound, the scent of hibiscus, flamboyant, and flora of every color and shape entwine, embrace trees and maisons creoles. The ‘bonjour’ is in the air, the smiles easy. It is not hard to love Martinique.
We decide to stay in Trois Islets, closer to our early morning ferry, so never do see the largest marina in the Antilles in Marin, or the charming town of St.Lucie. Our hotel is smack in the midst of a tourist mecca, replete with ethnic restaurants, beachwear boutiques, including a “Cape Cod” store reminiscent of Provincetown, Massachusetts. There clearly is a gay clientele, but the French tourists dominate, catered to in many ways ranging from preferred cuisine to chic dreams. Many travel with children, most do not look wealthy. They flock to the creperie rather than the pearl-and-nacre dealer; they hang at the pizzeria and amble down the piers, taking the daily cruises because they do not own boats, at least not here. It is a good life in the cove resto-bars, a great life on the beaches tucked into wooded groves. You can buy 2 bottles of Lorraine and water for a few Euros, stay hydrated all day, watching the topless bathers, the naked kids learning to swim, the kayakers in bikins. Lovely Martinique, the flower of the Caribbean, not without its thorns of memory, of forgiveness.
We leave this island with a passel of passengers, keeping in mind the difference and cherishing the small touches of civilization as we look ahead to the rugged life in Dominica backgrounded against its ever-present rainbow.