Santa Cruz May 12
The late afternoon sky is pink and dreamlike, visibility blurred by fine sand from Sahara and smoke from diffuse yard fires. The city burns mostly on purpose, clearing refuse for the next dump. From my perch on the sea wall, the hillside neighborhoods look charming, a collage of pastel cottages, but my Nikon Monarchs expose the devilish details of tenuous construction and impoverished lives—beds outside under dying palms, laundry strung from leaning electrical poles, patios stacked with tires. And the bush smoke.
Across the highway, a lot has been cleared for a new park, to be called Savannah West, but those plans have been in the works for more than a year, and all that happens is periodic defoliation, by chain and torch. Today some big boys are playing soccer on the barren plain. The goal is the burned-out church in the middle of the field.
These kids can play. When I played (“participated“ is more accurate) school soccer in New York, I am sure I went up against Trini kids, and I am sure they were tough. We Irish-Americans were always afraid of the street-hardened teams from Yonkers and the Bronx. In the ’70’s, those teams were almost exclusively island immigrants. If they yelled “Mira“ before passes, we considered them Puerto Ricans. If they were black and unintelligible, we called them Haitians. I think those Haitians may actually have been Trini, or Jamaican. Either way, they beat us badly.
The Western Main Road, four lanes wide, is flooded with aggressive drivers and blaring soundtracks. A sidewalk would be nice. Roadside stands compete for shade and wait for a customer to pull over. One guy is selling rose bouquets for Mother’s Day, another sells giant bags of limes and grape leaves. Most of the stuff is peddled straight from the trunk of a car. Freelancers peddle kites, potted plants, toilet paper, paw paw, onions, eddoe, dasheen, or whatever else is available at the moment. Tomorrow will be different—there may be nothing at all.
At the bridge over the Diego Martin River, lapwings gather in the reeds, like butlers in waiting, undoubtedly discussing fine fishy dining options. White egrets follow the rising tide inland, their crested heads retracted, their spindly legs straight for rudder control. They will bed down tonight en Rio D’ego Martin, which should drain completely by morning. I descend from the roadside to investigate the tidal flats and immediately regret my decision, as the briny muck cares little about our parched dry conditions. Hydrogen sulphide oozes from beneath my feet and perfumes the air for amorous frogs.
An early morning start is necessary to get the pick of the crop at the Saturday Green Market, in Santa Cruz, a hill town bedroom community on a former cacao plantation, a half-hour from the city. By 8 there is already no parking along the Saddle Road. Even so, the produce is bountiful—the table selling breadfruit sits beneath several breadfruit trees, as if each ripened orb falls directly into the vender’s inventory.
The vibe is friendly and engaging, a far cry from the typical hucksters and disaffected city venders, and I happily accept the hospitality of one couple’s Amerindian breakfast. The special, for $30, is an island favorite called Oil-Down—a thick stew, or hash, consisting of taro leaf, cassava-yucca, sweet potato, breadfruit, chili, and pigtail. Dense and savory. The chef’s husband checks on me often to see if I am pleased, and quickly the conversation turns to a lost tribe of ancient Israelites that once apparently colonized these parts. When I mention that Mormons believe the same sort of thing, he does not know what I am talking about, but he invites me to peruse literature that purports to reveal newly discovered texts. “From the holy land, in Africa,“ he assures me, “taken from the Jews.“ He then outlines the fossil evidence, which shows that Amerindian facial features were much more varied in the past. It must explain why this Amerindian fellow looks so East Indian, although it does not explain why he has such a problem with Jews. It never does.