February 10, 2007

Basseterre, st. Kitts & Nevis, Feb. 6, 2007

                                
First impressions of St. Kitts are:

The island is volcanic, a miniature version of some of the South Pacific Islands. Not as dramatic or picturesque as Moorea or Na’pali, but different enough from the smaller Caribbean islands that tend to be flat and devoid of mountains  (Aruba, Bonaire). Below the peaks of the volcanoes lie fields of sugarcane and the town of Basseterre. Basseterre has retained a lot of its Creole architecture and manners.  Everyone I met greeted me “Hello”, which after the relative unfriendliness of Antigua, I found charming and has given me the impression that the people of St. Kitts truly welcomes you.

The houses of Basseterre are of wood and coral and painted all shades of the rainbow. The old houses have not been demolished but instead restored to their turn-of-the century selves. Some other houses are in disrepair, but the weathered wood, and flaking paint on shutters and rust-colored roofs give the town a character of authenticity absent from other places I’ve seen. Basseterre, like Barbados, is a working town as well, with well-dressed office people everywhere contrasting with the Rasta men with their braided hair piled in great buns under colorful knitted caps. This mass of  hair gave the Rasta men the appearance of having a second head artfully concealed by their caps.

Two church towers are immediately visible from the docks, and since visiting churches has always been part of my programme when visiting a place, I moved in the direction of the belfry that seemed nearest me. I came upon a great plaza presided over by a building that, by the presence of a statue of the Virgin Mary on the facade, was obviously a Catholic Church. It was the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. As I walked across the green sward in front of the church, I noted a number of unusual mature trees that had been planted in this place. First, there were a great many travelers’ palms that had been planted here, most of them not quite old or tall enough to impress. Then I saw what I thought, and later confirmed to be, a great baobab tree!  Now these trees grow in Africa, but to see one growing in a Caribbean island is truly a surprise. I asked an elderly lady what she knew about the baobab tree. First of all, she confirmed it was indeed what I thought it was, and said it was planted hundreds of years ago by European settlers. Perhaps it provided a comforting sight for the slaves who were reminded by it of their homeland. There was another tree growing there whose trunk had the girth of a small house and the height of a medium skyscraper, and while at first glance it looked like an Atlantic cedar or a Sitka spruce, its leaves where like miniature versions of those of the mango tree. I suspect that it was a kaori tree...but I have not seen a kaori tree, so next time I will be more diligent in ferreting out the name of this imposing specimen. A Bismarck palm of great height and age also made its presence known here. The lady said it was dying, and I could see why. Its leaves were as wide as beach umbrellas, and crowning it was a profusion of branches that rendered not palm leaves, but a prodigal eruption of flowers and fruit. Like the century plant that flowers every 100 years or so and then dies, this tree, having finally flowered, was fated to wither away soon.

From a corner of this plaza, in front of the church and shaded by a large red-flowered tree came the voice of a woman singing a haunting strain. She was a Creole woman of perhaps 30 or 35. She was knitting a shirt. From a branch of the tree hung her products: shirts, thongs and caps that she had painstakingly woven from colorful yarn.

I watched her, fascinated by her appearance and by the lilt of her song that seemed to have come from the earth itself of Basseterre. Her name was Lome Ann. On a balustrade she had spread out some produce. She described to me what they were. There were gooseberry preserves in small plastic containers. Another container held a dark liquid that looked like honey. Then there were tiny fruit smaller than marbles but looking for all the world like green apples. Lome Ann said that the people of St. Kitts called them “pomserat”. She offered me one. It tasted like...stale, mealy apple, and not too sweet either. I gulped down one, hoping I won’t have to pay for it later in the can. For all the simplicity of her open-air store, Lome Ann’s wares had a surprisingly high tag. She asked $200 for a red and green tank top. Others were priced less, but I knew they didn’t belong in my wardrobe (knitted underwear in red, green and yellow?) I wished Lome Ann many customers for the day.

Down the street from her was the Spencer Art Gallery. It held paintings and prints that were quite beautiful and well done. It was housed in one of those old buildings in St. Kitts that reeked of history and the passage of generations.

I found my way to the second tower. It was the belfry of an Episcopalian Church. It was, as were most Episcopalian churches in the Caribbean, made of coral stone and timber, and was quite dark and old. When I went inside, I saw a group of –I counted a dozen—white people, perhaps tourists, being given a lecture by a black woman in white cotton Creole dress, her hair wrapped in a kerchief. She paced in front of these people who seemed to hang on her every word. From what I could hear of her speech, she was talking about  anger and serenity. She walked with a dignity, almost an aloofness, that seemed to say: “Now listen, you white people, hear me - a descendant of African slaves and a proud native of this island - talk about important things in life, and you will pay attention because now things have changed: I am your mistress, and you are my slaves, I, the teacher and you are my students.” That is the only way I can describe my impression of this ironic scene in this moldering Protestant church. Of course, she could just have been a tourist guide playing the part of the native, but still the scene was delicious in its contrariness, especially when viewed in the context of the history of oppression inflicted by the whites upon  the blacks in this island many years past.

From the church, I wandered around the center of the town of Basseterre. Restaurants, most of them situated on second floor balconies, were open, as were shops both mundane and touristy. The whole of downtown reeked of character. I sat to rest on a low wall near several parked taxis, facing a green-painted cast-iron clock tower. I fell into  conversation with one taxi driver there. She was a woman. Her name was Ilva. She gave me her card. It read: “Ilva’s Taxi and Cleaning Services.” When not driving a taxi, Ilva cleaned homes. I promised to call her next time I was in port and was in the mood to visit Brimstone Hill, a storied fortress,  or sample the textiles at the batik factory. I learned that there were no rivers or waterfalls in St.Kitts, but there was a pond or two somewhere that may be worth seeing. What I really wanted to do was climb to the peak of one of the extinct volcanoes here, but the ship leaves early (2:00 PM), so there was hardly time to do that. It started to rain lightly. Buntings were strung up over the streets and flapped in the wind as if for a festival. I remember reading that Mick Jagger and other celebrities loved coming here. A lot of construction and refurbishment was going on. St. Kitts seems determined to be a major destination in the cruise ship business.  She deserves to be.


 

Posted by manniep at February 10, 2007 8:36:16am
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