Teacher Interrupted

Angra dos Reis - A side trip to paradise

2011-04-01T01:03:00.000-07:00

In a tremendous stroke of luck for me, Thiago apparently runs with a crowd of fellas who, with their assets combined, are worth several billion (for us plebs, that is in fact million with a b in front of it). As a wedding gift, one of his friends sent us to his villa for 2 days in the paradise known as "Angra dos Reis", which translates to Inlet of the Kings, definitely worthy of the name.

Not only did we get the villa all to ourselves, but a charming staff of 4, who waited on us hand and foot with such gracious kindness. One of the staff happened to be the captain of the private Magnum 39" yacht which we'd be cruising on for the next two days. So gleefully not kidding about any of this!

Here we are at regular cruise speed, not even "hitting the metal," as Thiago observed. My face is flapping in the wind like how you see sky divers on TV, or when you put your hands through those new Dyson AirBlade hand dryers that are popping up in food court bathrooms these days...Like any of you ladies, I am always appalled by how ripply and loose the skin on my hands appears and I get so tempted to stay and watch the next gal put her hands through to see if it's as bad as mine. I glance over at Thiago, which was an immediate mistake because the wind whipped through the side of my mouth and strings of saliva swung across my face at about 120km per hour. My eardrums are fluttering with the intensity of a hummingbird on crack. For such a sexy looking boat, it's hard to look hot while traveling at warp-speed.

Flapping cheeks and saliva alike, at first I revel with child-like delight...then comes pain. I clap my hands over my ears to mitigate the intense pressure generated by powerful thrust of the twin Mercury diesel engines. I am reminded of my dad, always stuffing wads of tissue in his ears as my mom led us on what he referred to as "recreational forced marches" along the beach in the winter -- an allusion to WWII Russian Jewish history...a bit dramatic in retrospect.

We arrive in "Lagoa Verde" --Green Lagoon. It is unexpectedly sunny for the weather report we heard (a plus), but with a strong wind from the southeast. Lagoa Verde lives up to its name. The water appears impossibly green. We are the only boat there. Thiago and I swim like fish in the verdant sea. Palm trees sway. The day is beautiful. Beleza.

"Are there whales here?"

"No," Thiago replies.

"How 'bout dolphins?" I inquire.

"Not really."

"Why not? There are so many fish. It would be really easy for dolphins to live here. Why aren't there dolphins?"

"I don't know. Ask them."

Pragmatic to the core, Thiago is unwilling to oblige my unsophisticated banter when he is in relaxation mode.

The anchor finally catches, prompting our captain to toss us a life-preserver tethered to the boat so we don't blow too far away from the boat due to all the wind. Despite enjoying the breathtaking serenity of this tropical heaven, the tops of the rippling waves blow off onto our faces, sending torrents of salt water into our mouths. Our captain keeps delivering ice cold beers for us to drink as we float in the green chop. I turn my heard to say something to Thiago. The wind once again blows strings of saliva out of my mouth like a rabid Komodo dragon on a Discovery Channel special. Thiago laughs, but the same thing happens to him. Without talking, we agree not to talk...just drink.

We move along to "Dentist Beach", a white sand beach of unparalleled description. No surprise, the land was originally owned by a dentist. By now, high clouds have rolled in, as the weather forecast had earlier suggested. It is still pure splendor.

Thiago, knowing the extent of my insane body image issues, tells me that we are really lucky to to be here on Monday with overcast skies (though still completely brilliant for this Vancouverite), because, "'Dentist Beach' is normally an .... ......"

"A what?" I couldn't hear him.

"An _____ _________" he says back.

I still couldn't make it out, then "Oh...hahah...an ASS PARADE!"

Apparently Angra dos Reis first attracts money, and thusly attracts girls. Confident, ass-wielding girls.

My ass happens to be sufficiently swathed in what would seem like trousers by Brazilian standards, but is unquestionably considered a bikini by Canadian sensibilities, a rather nice one at that...kudos to my life-saving friend Laura. More pictures to come (from the shoulders up...gotta save something for the imagination :-)

We return to the villa, tuck in a superb dinner at the dining table that was beautifully prepared for us in anticipation of our arrival, and retreat to the lounge to drink vodkas and mango juice on the giant white chaise sofas. Discussing politics and history, it is a day that can't be beat...until the 1 liter duty free bottle beats us, and we head to bed by 8:30, with a promise to show it who's boss the following night when we haven't had so much sun.

I wake up to use the bathroom around 10pm, and I realize that some unknown nocturnal creature has perched itself in the cushy foliage outside the bathroom window. How do I know it's there? Whatever it is, it's shrieking the most desperate, god-forsaken call for a mate. How on earth could anything be attracted to that awful sound?

Then, suddenly, I realized why there are no dolphins in Angra do Reis...the Ass Parade. Dolphins probably take one look at the Ass Parade and think, "What the hell? How are they trying to get mates going around like that? Okay...forget the fishes, moving on!"

Christ the Redeemer

2011-03-31T23:33:00.000-07:00

The silver Peugot snaked through the dense Tijuca forest. Thiago, expertly negotiating aged and narrow cobble stone roads, zig zagged up the switchbacks on the steep mountainside with an attractive confidence. I caught a glimpse of the statue and almost begged him to stop so I could take a picture through the trees almost 1000 feet below. Not exactly a practical idea, so I waited.

Thiago's dad, Napoleão, was unable to join us on this blistering, crystal-clear day as he had a funeral to attend. So, the 3 of us parked at the base of the monument, unsure about how to go about buying a ticket to get to the top. At one point in time, a rail car heaved the swarms of visitors up to the viewing platform. A local schister tried to lead us up to the train tracks where a reasonably official-looking sign promised that this was the place to buy tickets to the top. Being quite aware of the abundance of schisters in Brazil, we weren't convinced that taking the train was such a good idea. Back down to the parking lot, we decided to follow a team of breathtakingly attractive Argentinian soccer players to the ticket booth. Well, they were attractive until I realized that they were all carrying Dior murses. I'm pretty sure I don't need to define it, but just in case, a murse is a man purse. Just use your pockets...sheesh.

Finally we get our tickets and I enthusiastically march up the countless stairs (no, there hasn't been a train in decades). I was desperate to burn off some calories. Thiago's mom is a food pusher, and it is really hard to say no. She is the type of lady who can't sit down and eat her own meal because she's so busy running back and forth to the kitchen until the entire contents of the cabinets and fridge is on the table in front of me and I've tried everything...twice...and then there is dessert...

Huffing, but trying not to show it, I reach the top of the winding stone staircase. We later realized there was both an escalator and elevator, but I think the stairs are part of the charm, and the breathless adrenaline head rush you get from bounding up a dozen flight of stairs really helps the euphoric state of mind one experiences when admiring one of the 7 modern wonders of the world.

Speaking of wonders, I wonder how Big J got up there in the first place. He's huge. I still don't actually know, but it's amazing just the same. For now, I'll say it was a miracle. Or indentured labor...just a guess.

More pictures to come!

Downtown Rio de Janeiro

2011-03-22T18:21:00.000-07:00

Thiago’s parents had some business to take care of in Downtown Rio de Janeiro, far away from the cushy, insulated life of Barra de Tijuca (the elite suburb of Rio). We piled into the car and headed along the coast for one of the most beautiful seaside drives I have ever been on. We passed all the famous beaches, I saw the statue of Christ high up on a mountain to the left, and marveled at the rolling blue sea to the right. As a perfect accoutrement to our journey, the soundtrack was my Dad’s epic record “Ptarmigan” that he had given to Napoleão, along with two of his other CD’s, Northstream and After All, which we enjoyed on the way home. Both Thiago’s parents just loved the music and think that dad has an incredible voice and brilliant musicianship.

Once we reached the downtown business sector of Rio, we parked (and remembered where this time), enjoyed the ease of not having to push our own elevator button, and agreed to meet together at 3pm in order to beat the rush hour traffic back to Barra de Tijuca (which is pronounced Bah-ha da Ti-shjoo-cah, but is spoken impossibly fast for non-Portuguese speakers to say properly).

Thiago and I did an ad hoc historical walking tour of Rio by ourselves, enjoying the 16th Century architecture, archaeological sites, imperial settlement and subsequent colonial history which is very well documented in public buildings, and admiring the vast baroque Catholic churches that punctuate nearly every street corner, not unlike Starbucks in Vancouver.

We eventually found our way to the unparalleled “Confeitaria Colombo”, an incredible patisserie-type venue which featured every kind of sweet and savory pastry and confection one could ever imagine. It is the oldest establishment of its type in Rio, dating over 100 years (1884). Thiago ordered a brilliant selection of delicacies for us to sample, which was the perfect lunch. I soaked in the ambiance of the space, imagining the stories and stature of the patrons of such an establishment over the years.

As we were ready to leave, we discovered that it was raining heavily and people were crowding under the awnings of the businesses lining the narrow Rua Gonçalves Dias. “Wait here and don’t move”, Thiago instructed me. “I’m going to buy an umbrella”. Thinking he’d be gone for at least 20 minutes in a wild goose chase for an umbrella, soaking himself in pursuit to keep me dry during the tropical rainstorm, I admired how chivalrous my husband can be. Less than 5 minutes later, more like 3 minutes later, he returned with a giant navy and green tartan golf umbrella and a big smile on his face. “Wow! You’re good, Thiago!” I swooned. “

“I had to act fast,” he replied.

Apparently he knew that vendors wait for days with caches of umbrellas stored under their stalls, hoping for rainstorms knowing that desperate clients are willing to pay any price not to get soaked when the clouds open up. Within 10-15 minutes, all the umbrellas in town are sold and the vendors call it an early day and pack up their kiosks to head back to wherever they call home.

Slightly less chivalrous than I thought, but I was glad not to get soaked!

I don't know how Brazilians are so slim...the food don't stop coming!

2011-03-22T18:01:00.000-07:00

More eating

I have never seen Thiago more enthusiastic and rearing to go in the morning than I did this next day. He literally bounced out of bed like an antelope shouting “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Emy had prepared an incredible 5 course breakfast for us. Her food is muito delicioso!!! I can't wait to learn some new recipes and make them when I get back to Vancouver. Then Napoleão drove us to Thiago's friend Demetrius's 2 story penthouse across the street from the beach. It was so amazing and beautiful, I can't believe it. He was really nice and he is hosting a party for Thiago on Thursday.

After visiting with him, he drove us to “Barra Grill”, a churrascaria Brazilian BBQ restaurant. We met Thiago’s other friends Raphael, and Vitor and Bee. We had to wait a long time for the table, but it was really worth the wait. I have never seen so much food in my life. It was like Samba restaurant in Vancouver times a million. The meat was out of this world, and the salad bar featured the most interesting flavours and dishes. I especially liked the salmon in passion fruit sauce and a shreaded crab mixture which Thiago can't remember the name of. Just like my mom advised, I ate just a little piece of everything so I could enjoy the flavours but not overindulge...unlike poor Thiago, who had to get rolled back to the house and was unable to eat anything else for the rest of the day. We had a 3 hour nap to help our digestion, haha, then Thiago's mom made me another delicious dinner, which Thiago couldn't eat, even though she made his favourite chicken wings.

Now we are watching TV and having a quiet evening together. Obama is in Rio, so his activities are all over the news and I think I have his speech to the Brazilian people memorized in both English and Portuguese. Ok, that might be a slight exaggeration, but I could give a decent summary of it, anyway. I am also enjoying my book that Laura chose called, “The Glass Castle”, for our next book club meeting at the end of April. I highly recommend it!

Tomorrow we will get another early start with a lighter breakfast, then go for a long walk (to burn off all those calories we've been consuming here...the food just doesn't stop, and Thiago's mom put so much effort into preparing these marvelous dishes I couldn't bear not to eat them and hurt her feelings). And in the evening we will have Thiago's long awaited oxtail stew. Napoleão will join us and we will give them the photo albums that I had prepared as gifts for his parents.

I will post more pictures from this day once we track down the camera cord that has gone astray...

First evening in Rio

2011-03-22T17:43:00.000-07:00

We are having a spectacular time here in Rio. Yesterday evening I was too tired to go out with Thiago so I stayed with his mom, Emy, and we had a wonderful evening together. Amazingly, we were able to communicate quite well. She took me on what was allegedly to be a “short” walk after dinner. Thinking that it would just be a little scoot around her condo complex to get the lay of the land, I asked if I should just wear the flip flops I had on. Apparently, yes, that was what she would be wearing. We started by walking to the fruit and vegetable market near her house where I encountered a plethora of fruits I had never seen or heard of before. While I was examining the interesting produce, Emy had thoughtfully arranged for the little shop boy to cut and prepare a sample of all the exotic fruits for me to try. I had not thought to bring hand sanitizer with me, and while I should have been excited to explore the new flavors, I was plagued by the question of when the shop boy had last washed his hands as he enthusiastically handed me the delicious morsels he had prepared. However, my germaphobic anxiety melted away as I savored the tropical paradise in my mouth.

Next, Emy gave me the grand tour of the neighbourhood, showing me Thiago’s old high school, his old barber shop, the place he had his first job, where her ESL school is, and so on. Then we walked across a main road to a really fancy shopping mall, where the grand tour continued. They have very elegant and expensive stores in this region of Rio. As Thiago told me, Barra de Tijuca is a paradise for the Nouveau Riche, and they like to show off their affluence with pricey couture. As a word of caution, unless you yourself belong to the category of “nouveau riche”, don’t go to Brazil to buy clothes. For example, my Tommy Hilfiger polo shirt, which I paid a modest $16 for at the Seattle Premium Outlets, goes for a staggering $235 Reis (which is about $200CDN). Shoes that you would buy for $20-40 at Payless Shoes retail for $99 here.

By this time, Emy and I had covered some serious ground and my feet, which have been babied by soft, furry boots all winter long, had already developed huge bubbling blisters between my toes. Not wanting to complain, I simply adjusted the position of my feet in the flip flops, which resulted in a second set of blisters, just a centimeter higher than the first ones by the time we got back home. That’s another thing I would recommend before leaving for a tropical vacation during the winter/spring season, practice wearing flip flops or sandals for a few weeks before you go to prevent the surprisingly crippling discomfort of such a small flesh wound.

Arriving in Rio, what an adventure!!!

2011-03-22T17:35:00.000-07:00

It took five connecting flights and 30 hours to arrive in Rio de Janeiro. The lineup for customs was an excellent introduction to Brazilian inefficiency, but finally I made it through. Amazingly, all my baggage managed to arrive despite the 5-leg journey, thank you Air Canada. Thiago and I called his father, Napoleão to let him know that we had arrived. Unfortunately, he went to the wrong terminal and had been waiting for us for a long time. Finally he arrived and we had a wonderful first meeting. He is funny and reminds me a lot of my Grandpa Paul in his mannerisms. Because Napoleão had come to the wrong terminal, he also parked in the lot that was furthest away. Being so happy to see us, he insisted on pushing our baggage cart the nearly 1 km to the other terminal.

We took our baggage cart on one of those moving sidewalks, but as we tried to disembark the rolling walkway, the cart was too heavy to make it over the edge, and we got stuck with all our suitcases and bags falling off around us. People behind us starting dog piling into our massive stack of bags, and some people in suits tried to vault themselves over the pieces of scattered luggage, without success. Fortunately, someone further back pushed the emergency stop button and we were able to regain control of the situation, and wisely decided to ditch the cart each taking one suitcase and bag to drag behind us.

When we finally got to the parkade, wouldn’t you know it, but we couldn’t find the car. We searched and searched, with our suitcase wheels bobbing up and down over the cobble stoned garage…yes, cobble stones (particularly cobbly, I must say). We gave up searching, went back to the elevator (all elevators in Brazil have attendants to save passengers the enormous inconvenience of having to push a button), and asked the lady where the “blue lot” was. According to her there was no “blue lot”, but we could try getting off on the second floor of the parkade. Skunked again. The well-armed security guard also denied any knowledge of a “blue lot”, but suggested that there may be a blue lot at the smaller regional airport. No, Napoleão had definitely parked at this airport.

Despite the escapade of the missing car, I found the parking garage another hilarious example of Brazilian mayhem. Cars were seemingly parked in any available place and position, whether it was a designated space or not. Cars had driven up on the median and defying all geometric conventions, managed to parallel park between two support columns, all the while, tearing up the cobble stones and making a huge mess. Dozens of cars had been parked this way. Given Brazil’s well-known penchant for profiteering, the Tom Jobim Airport in Rio de Janeiro has clearly not yet caught onto the racketeering of airport parking tickets. Finally we found the elusive “blue lot”. Despite being painted with an obvious blue stripe, the lot was properly called “Ipanema lot”, not the “blue lot”, as one would logically think, thereby explaining everybody’s inability to acknowledge the existence of any “blue lot” at this airport.

Well-intentioned Napoleão opened the trunk of his Peugeot hatchback and pondered for a moment about how to handle the fact that it was already full of cardboard boxes and various items. In a decisive moment of “let’s just get the hell outta here”, Thiago tossed them into the parking lot for someone else to deal with. Problem solved. We piled our stuff in the car and off we went!

Married in Benin

2007-08-03T15:59:00.000-07:00

It is unbearably hot on the 10^th floor of the Pavillon Marie-Alphonse Parent. My window is open and I am trying to get a cross-breeze flowing through my room by keeping the door propped open with an extra chair. I brush some hair from my face, and my fingers glide effortlessly over the viscous layer of sweat on my forehead. A knock on my open door startles me from my hazy afternoon news fix. A man from Benin introduces himself en français, and proceeds to ask me a question that I did not understand. ‘Plus lentement, s.v.p’, I respond timidly. He repeats himself, and I still do not understand. Thankfully, another girl walks by and he asks her the question, she responds, he says goodbye to me, and I go back to my article on www.bbc.co.uk .

About an hour later (and several degrees cooler in my room), the man returns and asks me if I would have dinner with him that evening. ‘Mais, je parle un peu francais seulement’ I reply. Apparently this was not a problem. We walk to the campus pub and have some pizza. After only 2 or 3 minutes of talking, it becomes obvious that he can speak less English than I can speak French.At last! I finally find myself in a situation where switching to English is not an option, I am really out to sea now! Only minutes after my premature exhilaration of jumping on the français bandwagon I realize that I have exhausted the extent of my conversational ability. Once he finished asking the basic questions: where are you from, why are you learning French, what do you do for work, what did you study, how old are you, what activities do you enjoy etc, I could no longer understand what he was talking about.Language anxiety kicks in and suddenly I understand nothing.

Despite many warnings, I utilize the "oui" strategy for participating in conversation. Questions and statements are flying my way, and I smile, nod, and say “oui” in as many different inflections and tones as possible in order to diversify my current range of communication. Evidently there are good reasons why one should not rely on the “oui” method of language anxiety compensation. As I walk past another table on my way to the bathroom, a girl from the Explore program who is wearing a yellow wrist band says, “Hey, you don’t really speak French, eh? I think you should probably stop saying ‘oui’ right now because I am pretty your new friend asked you if you’d ever consider the following: Moving to Benin, adopting his 11 year old son, and getting married; to which you replied “Mais, oui!”

No wonder he picked up the bill!!!

My Dear Friend Bethany Pearce

2007-06-13T08:42:00.000-07:00

My dear friend, you are like a big orchestra in my life. When I am with you I feel deep ambient, resonating music that seems to move life itself along this strange new, exciting road. Your music leads to places where no path exists and crescendos of faith leap about greenly highlighting possibilities in which to tread armed only with deep curiosity and love. When my mind wanders, I often find it residing in thoughts of you radiating a chirpy connection with all the happy little birds as they warm their dusty, travelled feathers in the never ending story of the sun. You are the dearest. I choose yours to be the sound track of my life.

Here's another blurry one just for fun

2007-05-26T17:52:00.000-07:00

Rhythm Nation: Carifesta in Port of Spain
September 30th, 2006

Blurry Stories

2007-05-26T13:53:00.000-07:00

It just occured to me that a lot of the photos that I take are blurry.

For some reason it doesn't bother me very much. As a matter of fact, I actually really like blurry photos for some reason. I feel like the motion of the photos tells a more interesting story. I enjoy finding spaces that are blurry and finding out the stories that exist in the borderlands between 'there' and 'not quite there'. The electricity that is captured during uncommunicatable moments of motion forms the skeleton of untold stories of people and places in my mind. I am so unsettled for periods in my life, and I often feel unable to locate the source of these feelings of needing a change of environment for my headspace. I would like to live my life in such way that I can put words together to create an 'authentic relica' of my experiences of blurriness.

Dialectics of A New World Order: Bjork

2007-05-26T13:19:00.000-07:00

In an improbable vocal combination of power and swagger, fresh Canadian air exhales through her Aeolian pipes. Raw notes extend and crash with the practiced perfection of being an Icelandic feather. Swirling black lilies, indeed. Bjork knows the boundaries of weird and treads along the warm, muddy path of revolution.

VITALITY

2007-05-16T09:48:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been about 3 weeks since I bought my Jack Lalanne Power Juicer (as seen on TV...you know you've watched the infomercials!) Well, as hokey as a 90 year old man in a red jumpsuit doing one armed push ups may seem, the power juicer turns out to be a pretty great investment. It juices pretty much anything, and surprisingly, the weirdest veggie combinations that I have tried are actually pretty good.

The only thing that I failed to consider was this:

If you only consume liquids, you will only eliminate....liquids. This is a rookie juicer mistake! After a rather traumatizing event involving none other than BEET JUICE (Dwight Schrute's breakfast of champions), I have realized THERE IS A REASON WE NEED TO EAT SOLID FOOD!!!!

I wish Jack Lalanne would have mentioned that in his infomercial!!! That, and "Don't worry, you're not hemorrhaging rectally, it's probably just the BEET JUICE"

In other news, as per Jack Lalanne's promise, I finally have the vitality of a 25 year old!!!

Wait a sec, I'm only 23! Jaaaaackkkkk!!!!

And by the way, Jack's doing push ups on what looks like carpet...so is it really that impressive? I'm just saying...

A day in Victoria with Bethany

2007-04-25T19:32:00.000-07:00

Totem in the tulips

Bethany, I love this photo of you. Thanks for always looking on the bright side:)

Empress Hotel

Peek a boo!

Tip toe through the tulips in Beacon Hill Park:)

Keeping in touch with the home front. This super star mother can take care of it all!

Farm view on Lakes Road

Eco-chick organic model overlooks market square

Ferocious Flower

Me enjoying a deee-licious soy latte at Willie's Bakery

Latte art with heart:)

In case you didn't already know....

2007-04-20T09:17:00.000-07:00

Thank you to the very funny and interesting blogger Amanda www.kickyboots.com for the following 5 interview questions.

1) What is your earliest childhood memory?

There is one very early memory that I have from being really young. I think I was less than 24 months old because we were living in Banff then. I have a memory of laying in my crib (yes, crib), and I must have just had a nap because my mom came in and asked if I would like to go for a walk. I remember laying there and noticing the sky looked different because I was looking through the screen on my window. It was the first time that I saw one of those tiny, clear, floaty disk things in my eyes when I looked at the sky. I said to my mom "I don't think so..." in a somewhat of a contemplative way, not knowing what it really meant to say that.

We went for a walk anyway.

2) What is your favourite condiment?

I really want to say something interesting here, but in terms of frequency of use, I have to say ketchup (for grilled cheese, fries, burgers, hot dogs, KD, and so on...) I have heard more often than not that ketchup for dipping grilled cheese in is totally abnormal, but I like it and if you don't then sucks to you;)

For foods other than listed above (which I really don't eat all that often, I SWEAR) except for at Costco...those battered fries and scrumptious hot dogs.... I typically don't use much in the way of condiments because I tend to use lots of spices in my cooking as it is. Having said that, I am not opposed to a great mango chutney...so versitile!

3) What is the scariest thing you have ever done?

Well, hands down, every time I left Milner Hall residence building at the University of the West Indies in Trinidad, my friends and I found ourselves face to face with a situation that could leave us 'living-challenged' to put it as PC as possible. Whether we were staring down the barrel of an assault rifle, stuck in the back seat of a crowded maxi taxi with an assasin strapping knives to his body, or even just trying to cross the road, or surviving a night of dancing in local clubs with out getting 'poked' by some strange dreadlocked gentleman, it was all pretty scary.

I would totally do it again though...somehow I find danger a little more exhilerating now.

4) Have you ever given anything up for Lent? What was it and did you last the whole 40 days?

Long answer: I have lived without any ID or money for 17 days because I left my wallet on the sky train, but it was neither for religious or personal reasons. It was a challenging, yet resourceful time of reflection for me.

Short answer: It had nothing to do with Lent. So, no.

5) If you could live in any country but had to commit to living the rest of your life there, which would you choose?

Hands down, the Netherlands....oh soooooo understanding and easy going Netherlands. Though I have heard that they serve the world's smallest glass of beer. Having said that, then there are the tulips, my favourite flower. So the two things cancel each other out, and I think I could manage living there in perpetuity.

Now, if any of my two readers out there would like to be interviewed:

1. Leave me a comment with your email address saying, “Interview me.”

2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Hypothetically...

2007-04-09T21:15:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I was bored, so inevitably my mind wandered into the wasteland of celebrity debautchery. As the harp music cued my imagination, I imagined the following scenario:

If my life were to be recreated by Tinseltown filmmakers, who would the Hollywood version of me be played by based on personality and appearance? Who would play my friends, etc?

I thought this would be a fun game to waste some time over the long weekend with Erik, but when I asked him who he would cast as me, he clearly did not know the rules of the game, nor did he care at all to play to begin with.

"Uh, I don't know, what's that actress again... oh yeah, uh... Penelope Cruz" he stares blankly at me.

"Erik, you have to at least think of someone who looks somewhat like me!" I say exasperatedly. Latina, I am not.

"I don't really care. This game is stupid. You are taking this far to seriously for something that will never happen," he replies.

"Oh, but come on, just think about it for a second, just say someone who is the same race as me!" I goad him.

"Alright, I would cast you as Star Jones. There, now you have it."

So according to Erik, if my life were to be portrayed on the Silver Screen, Erik would cast a freakishly addicted to plastic surgery Black woman to play me. Thanks, Erik.

What do you think? Which Hollywood person would play you?

Are Your Pants Full of Shit?

2007-04-01T00:06:00.000-07:00

Above: this is the band member with whom the following post concerns most specifically.

I can't believe it was 12 bucks for 2 beers! They were imports yes, but still. The 4 Norwegians take the stage. They are skinny Scenesters. They need a sandwich, I keep hoping someone will throw food at them, for caloric reasons, mostly.

The music is certainly born of true artistry; it splashes the most metro/electro vibes around the club. Funk reigns rythmically through the melodic beats. European sensibility is so Bauhaus. I don't know why that thought percolates through my hypnosis.

Why do I feel like I have to try to like this band so much? I'm not sure.

The lead singer has such an obnoxious hair style. It is so long and in his face, and about ever 2 seconds he belabouredly brushes it aside so he can see what knob he is turning on his synth. Alas, it is simply not greasy enough to stay out of his eyes, and gravity wins. Within miliseconds, the hair swings back into his face. Repeat.

Why do indie bands always seem so high all the time? That annoys me.

After 120 Days finished their crazy rad performance, I saw the bassist on the main floor of the club. Since I knew they were Norwegian, I thought I would speak the only Norwegian phrase that I know (thanks for this one, Dad!) to him. In the darkness of the back of the Richards on Richards, I approached the skinny Norwegian. He looks at me. I lean to his ear and say in Norwegian "Ha hun boxer fulla dreit?", pr some approximation of the phrase, which loosely translates to "Are your pants full of shit?"

The bassist turns his head and looks at me confused.

It was meant to be a joke but the bassist is too strung out to get it and instead of the funny, intercultural exchange that was supposed to occur, the whole moment was awkward and weird. My friend Laura thought it was funny though;)

A few days after the concert, I was having lunch with some friends at Toko (really cool Asian fusion restaurant on Cambie and W.7th), and I was retelling the story to the group when Raffi pipes up about his similar experience with the bassist at the concert.

"I know! I saw that guy selling CDs at the product table cause I guess that's what you do when you are still small time. One time I looked over and he was acting all European and annoying, and then next time I looked over, he literally had his pants down and he was rubbing his butt on some girl's leg. Let's face it, it was weird".

Having said all this, I really enjoyed 120 Days' as an opening act because I'm not gonna lie, they know how to make turning knobs look cool. And those skinny, tight ankle pants? Speechless.

"Are you gay?"

"No, I'm just Scene"

Seen the Scenesters Lately?

2007-03-31T23:30:00.000-07:00

OK, so I haven't been out for quite awhile, and I spend my days with 6 year olds. I had not seen the "Scenester" Scene in Downtown Vancouver for a long time. In case you haven't either, please read on!

The crowd waiting to see 12o Days and Ratatat were total Scenesters. If you are not familiar with the term 'Scenester', please refer to the following:

According to the exprerts at Urban Dictionary, a scenester is:

A boy or girl who wears tight jeans, white studded belts, black band hoodies, bandanas, nerd glasses, 50's sunglasses, etc. They tend to shop at thrift stores because they're too "cool" to shop anywhere else. Scenesters think they're individual, but they're actually all just conforming to the current trends. You may find them listening to emo, indie, hardcore, synthpop, electronica, and many other subgenres of pop punk.

A Scenester guy might be heard saying, "I'm mother fucking X straight X edge X because it's cooler to be SXE when you could just not do drugs. I listen to the most obscured music as possible so you know I'm scener than you. My band is too cool to play at big venues. Actually, it's because we completely suck at playing music, but we're still too scene to play anywhere big."

A Scenester may hate the world while desperately seeking its attention.

Scenesters may wear any of the following:

Girls Fashion:-
Tight Trousers
Cheap Pumps
Dyed Black hair cut straight across the eye brow
Footless tights

Boys Fashion:-
Tight Trousers
All black converse
Dyed black hair swept across the face(sometimes with a blonde streak

More specifically, however, a scenester is a person who models the abstract and later specific behavior of individuals trying to make a claim on certain media,i.e. literature, art, books, poetry, movies. A trend will then arise of "packaging", at which point, genres will mix into socially acceptable grab bags of media and somehow spawn a fashion, normally causing these disillusioned individuals to start resembling the traits of characters, band members, and each other because he or she likes this " underground" lifestyle and wants to be accepted by a discriminating crowd. In short, the sucker thinks these people have all the answers and conforms to some " be- yourself-but-be-us-subcul ture". Scenesters can range from genres of music such as Indie, emo, hardcore, nerd rock,(math rock), metal heads, ska kids( skankers,Moonstompers), ravers, club kids, goth kids, mod kids,space rock,concept artists,retro throwbacks, punk, pop punk, to Donnie Darko fans and other cult movies such as Heathers or Velvet Goldmine,poetry by Bukowski or Frost, cartoons such as Sponge Bob or shows like Nip/Tuck and The Simpsons, books such as Catcher in the Rye, The Virgin Suicides, Valley of the Dolls, Ask the Dust, and occasionally, The Communist Manifesto,as most scenesters are anti-war and unless straight edge, are heavily into drugs and alcohol,nomadic,anti-reli gious,poor with rich parents, and slumming.

Essentially, Scenesters are their friends, although some people will like what they like and be accused of being scenesters by mistake. The smart scenester will say that is the case, because he or she knows it can't really be disproven except by baby pictures, second grade stories, and by God Himself.

Ratatat Rocks!

2007-03-31T22:11:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago Erik and I were at a party where we overheard somebody mentioning that "Ratatat is quite possibly the coolest music in existence".

Incidentally, it just so happens that Ratatat came to Vancouver the following week, so Erik, my teacher friends and I bought tickets to see the show. Here's how it all went down:

Wednesday, March 28th 9:30pm

A boy in grey, skin tight ankle jeans stands in front of a maroon velvet rope. Music pounds through the wooden, guarded doors; deep bass penetrates all the membrane in my body. The boy looks young, though I am sure he must be at least 19. His oversized, white Chuck Taylor shoes scuff the grey concrete beneath. Years of petrified gum speckles the sidewalk. Club scene pointilism.

Po-Mo BS meets SoHo 80s retro

Ratatat takes the stage unassumingly. It is a night I will never forget. Chill beats crecendo as they slide through the infathomably small spaces between the warm oxygen molecules in the dark club.

It is not a music that one dances to grandly; rather, it takes hold of you so gently from the sliding door behind the house. Before long a hypnotic ressonance reprograms the electricity speeding through your cells and your being realizes its infinity.

In a room of 500 people, souls were speaking in languages that minds cannot read. Ratatat was the medium of the ethereal electronic exchange.

Pulse.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2007-03-14T21:14:00.000-07:00

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

ARG.

Today sucked. I had my first lesson formally evaluated by the principal of Kitchener Elementary School and lets just say this: there are some lessons that fly, and there are others that crash and burn.

Guess which one this was?

Apparently it was so bad that he didn't even write anything down because it just wasn't worth it. And, he didn't want to talk things over until tomorrow because he had to think of what to say.

If I had an extra Paxil caplet right now, I would crush it up and snort it. Ok, well that is totally inappropriate and it is just an analogy. But, the point is that I am feeling anxiety. Despite him being quite a nice, resonable, experienced administrator, I never want to see my principal again.

Too bad that I need that professional reference so badly.
Arg.

Caught Red Handed!

2007-03-13T17:03:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, 5:06pm

Ok, I am not a hip hop teacher. I don't know what came over me and made me think that I could make 6 year olds learn hip hop dance from me. As it turns out, more than half of them have already taken a year's worth of hip hop lessons and basically 'schooled' me and made me look like a grandma.

Today I discovered that nothing is funnier to grade 1s than finding out that a teacher stinks at something they are good at.

After about 5 minutes the kids, in their brutally honest manner, squealed with smug delight, "Ms. Nordstrom totally sucks at hip hop!"

After the 6 year olds decided that I was to be made a spectacle of, the kids demanded that I show them the various moves again. "Ms. Nordstrom, Ms. Nordstrom!! Try Krumping again!!!" "Ms. Nordstrom, show us your kick step again!!!"

They goad me, hoping to bust a gut at the teacher's expense.

I diffuse the situation by having the 'experienced' hip hop dancers take turns teaching the class one move at a time. Then, I thanked my lucky stars that it was music class again, and I was off the hook for a whole 40 minutes of teaching.

This day of teaching totally frazzled me. After I got home from school today I frantically dropped everything in the hallway, and B-lined to the wine rack. Don't worry, I don't just turn to alcohol without considering other coping options. But journalling or yoga just didn't have the same appeal as the 'nectar of the gods' (according to the Greeks).

So, I scramble to find the corkscrew, and flip open the label cutting blade. I slice open the metalic foil covering the cork in one fell swoop.

Is that blood? I look down at my hands. They are primary teacher hands: covered in finger paint, overhead projector pen, and glitter. Bloody glitter.

I press on, continuing to drive the corkscrew into the bottle deeper and deeper. Through it all, red rivulets stream down my hand but I am finding my wine opening groove and I won't stop till I am dead or dying. The wine is finally uncorked. Mission accomplished. I pause for a moment to admire my handiwork, and I realize that the whole time I was trying to open the wine, I was actually 'krumping' (or some offensive variation of krumping). No wonder I ended up slashing myself through this process.

Aha, I have a stash of band aids in my bag for emergencies. I grab a paper towel and wrap my thumb while I one handedly unzip my back pack. In true primary teacher style, I grab fistfulls of pipe cleaners and Robert Munsch books out before I get to the much needed band aids.

Things are starting to get dire, and I begin to think that I should probably have this wound assessed by a doctor. It is deep. There is now glitter stuck in it.

Yeah I should probably go to the clinic, but I just opened a bottle of wine. Its a 2006, but still.

The Sea of Tranquility

2007-03-11T16:06:00.000-07:00

The following is a vignette from Thursday afternoon:

The grade 2s from my class were summoned to an extra music block at the end of the day. That leaves me with 10 grade ones to occupy for 40 minutes. I love music, so the interruption to my class schedule is not irritating. And, fortunately for me, at Kitchener Elementary, there are like 8 blocks of music per week...music is all the time!

With all the crazy requirements for curricular instruction these days, teachers have less and less time for reading stories to kids. It maybe happens once a week if they are lucky. So, what better time to have a story than now, I think to myself.

For the first time in ages, the one student in my class who has behavioural issues is actually present and spending time in the classroom like the other students. I ask him if he would like to choose two stories for me to read.

Yes, he would like that job very much. Ziggy comes back to the carpet with a pop-up book that is a little too young for the class, but I read it anyways.

It is a silly little book about animals that crunch and much at lunch time in the zoo. Or something like that, I am not completely sure.

I read the story with lots of funny voices. The monkeys all had British accents. For some reason that's just how monkeys talk in my mind. The kids loved it. They are rolling on the floor laughing.

I turn to the next page and a big, gay-looking elephant pops up. Thank goodness that a little girl in the front row puts up her hand just as I open the page because I am desperately searching in my mind for a way to do this elephant's voice that isn't a really offensive stereotypical gay impression. Nothing comes to me.

Paula very earnestly and matter of factly states the following "Some people shoot elephants and harvest their tusks for ivory."

Hmmm. For a grade 1, this is quite a comment to make during the reading of a pop up story book at carpet time. No voices for the elephant are coming to me, so I take her comment and go with it.

"Yes, that is right, Paula. Some people do kill elephants for their tusks." I say acknowledgingly.

"Nooooo! No they don't! They tranquilize them and so they just fall asleep and then they take the tusks out!" Ziggy, the behavioural child interjects.

"What does trankalize mean?", another student asks.

Ziggy tells the grade 1s about tranquilizing, and how "the animals get hit with darts, and it doesn't kill the animals, just makes them fall asleep. They fall asleep for a while, then they wake up, shake it off, and get up and go".

Pretty succinct, I don't need to add anything there.

The students are thinking about the new word they learned, when I notice that another student who is fascinated with death (which is troubling for a first grader...don't worry, he's involved with the school counsellor), keeps whispering "I'm going to kill an elephant, kill, kill, kill it."

I give him the disapproving teacher eye as I see another kid put his hand up and without being called upon, he says in his long, slow, whiney kid storytelling voice, "Myyy moom saaays, that when I'mmmm baad, that she wishes...that sheee could giiive me horrrse trankalizers".

I am still holding the big, gay elephant pop up book.

"Oh dear, Matthew, I am sure she is just kidding", I sputter as I am laughing almost uncontrollably. The kids don't quite know why this is so funny, but they laugh along with me anyway. That's the great thing about kids, they are always game for a good laugh.

And then, the elephant voice comes to me. I read the pages like the elephant is a Southern Belle. It works out nicely. "I'll have an ahce tea, and an oatmeal cookie" the elephant drawls to the zoo keeper.

The kids are in stitches, and by the end of this ridiculous pop-up book, so am I.

Bartender, a round of horse tranks, please!

Idioteque

2007-03-05T18:51:00.000-08:00

Sunday, 12:32pm -A young man walks through the Lougheed Mall in Burnaby, BC. He is lost in a familiar place. Approaching the food court, he is searching for something but makes eye contact with nothing and nobody. Strangely, no one seems to see him either. What are you looking for? I wonder. I recognize the journey. Here, he is allowed everything under the sun; but, he wants nothing, though the things speak to him suductively, whisperingly.
hissingly, he seems to decide as he strides past me.

I am not going to lie, I am standing in line at the KFC (one of the more unethical corporations in the world, I should add). I instantly recall the memory of this mystery person.

He looks so out of place. When I first saw him, he passed by like a ghost. Like he knew he didn't belong, as if he was walking on the fringe of this world. Like simultaneously being inside and outside of a room.

An instant later, the tall, young man ascends the food court escalator and wears Kurt Cobain fashion before grunge was a mainstream product, packaged up to be bought.

On his back, a Bob Marley backpack.

As I am waiting at KFC, I find no less creative explanation as to what this poor soul was doing in the deafening food court of consumerism at the Lougheed Mall, than this:

After a 3 month trip to Tokyo (specifically to Yakuza hash bars),the young man travelled to the Maldives (this is where Starr Jones was vacationing before the Tsunami of 2005 hit South East Asia...why this random fact of insignificance infects part of my brain, I am unsure), where he was abducted off the beach by aliens. They dropped him off in the hub of his homeland (North Burnaby at the Lougheed Mall).

12:36pm- the young man searches, but finds meaning nowhere. 'No, there is nothing here for me,' he resolutely decides.

I imagine there is something sorrowful in his decision to leave it all and go back with the aliens, which is probably why nobody wants to look at him in the mall.

Up the escalator. He looks as bewildered as I felt when I returned from Trinidad. I remember my first foray into grocery shopping after being away in Trinidad: two hours later, when I had failed to return, Erik went out to look for me. He found me staring blankly at a display of maple syrup. My shopping cart was still empty. Did you know that there are 33 different kinds of syrup? Confronted by so much, how does one choose? The young man is wary of such conveniences.

Looking upwards, he notices that the sky is overcast.

My nuggets combo is cold. (for the record, I was at the mall eating genetically modified, hormone injected, antibiotic dependent chicken deep fried in trans-fat, while waiting for my non-environmentally friendly dry cleaning to be ready at the local Asian triad/money laundering/human trafficking ring/Dry Cleaning business)...but at $1 per shirt, who can complain?

"Go back to the aliens, commrade", I think.

12:42pm - raaaaah, raaah.

KO'd by George Foreman

2007-03-05T17:49:00.000-08:00

Erik is lost in perplexity.

"I thought we were just gonna leave that!" he said in bamboozlement.

"We did", I agree, "we left it for a year".

The lovely Erik stops in his tracks, mouth gaping blankly, head a skew, with the words "does not compute" flashing urgently behind his glasses.

I have managed to put off my entire day of school work for 4 hours already, and just as I am moving toward my giant stack of marking, it dawns on me that it is nearing the 1 year anniversary of the BBQ Turkey Burgers...FROM HELL!!! (did I mention they were from Hell???)

So naturally, I decide that the spirit of the evil, demonically possessed BBQ Turkey Burgers FROM HELL must be exorcised from this Burnaby apartment immediately...I set out to clean the George Foreman Grill.

I must really want to procrastinate if cleaning the George Foreman Grill (a task that I have put off for almost an entire YEAR) seems more interesting/important/urgent than my actual work.

Erik shakes himself back to reality, mutters something about 'craziness' under his breath, and walks away.

For all of you who have ever had the pleasure of owning a George Foreman grill (and if you do, I am not talking about the first two months of having it when the teflon was so shiny and uncarcinogenic looking, and chicken kababs just slid right off the fabulous thing, and you diligently only used the specialized bevelled cleaning tool just as specified by the instructions...THAT IS A LIE DIPPED IN A DREAM!!!), I am talking about the, "I really think it's best for all of us if we just throw it away now...I mean, cut our losses and move on, ya know?" that happens at about one year in to owning the damn thing.

For Erik and I, I am specifically referring to the moment when the BBQ Turkey Burgers FROM HELL came into our lives.

Approximately one year later, as my fingernails are torn and blackened from the offending BBQ sauce, I find myself imagining that this must be exactly what it is like to clean Satan's toilet. And somehow, this is better than whatever else it is that I am supposed to be doing right now....oh yeah, school work!

'Well, still better,' I decide.

Bearded Lady Meets Ring Master

2007-02-23T23:10:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought that I ran out of things to blog about (a slow week in the classroom...low attendance due to illness, pro-d Day...etc), Erik and I are in the middle of what is for us, a significant 'misunderstanding.'

As per usual (and anyone who has ever lived with me for an extended length of time will know this)... when left to my own devices, my bedroom looks like a shit storm blew through (pardon the expletive, but it needed saying).

So, the normally tidy and compartmentalized Erik, was kindly explaining to me the stress that my errant ways has upon his inner chi. I internalize the sentiments, and counter with a series of damning accusations regarding his kitchen shit storms (and for everyone's sake, let's not even get to the bathroom). Naturally, a volley of civilized tit for tat 'dialogue' is passed back and forth until my darling Erik begins demonstratively prancing about the room, pointing out the various objects in question that I have failed to put away properly throughout the week. Finally, he reaches the carton of Mr. Sketch Smelly Felts that are lying in his most loathed location (behind his rolly desk chair...yes, I admit, they must be quite a drag to roll over). Presenting them to me, he opens the box, gazes inquisitively at the contents, asks how long it took to me to arrange the offending markers in such an order, then procedes to ask "is this one black licorice?"

"Why, yes it is," I reply reticently. "Black licorice is divine, let me smell it," I insolently demand.

Before I know it, I am sporting a 'stash that would make Herr Hitler weak at the knees. I cannot help but laugh.

I demand mutton chops.

Darling Erik eagerly complies.

Soon, we have forgotten all about who wiped the stove last and who left the smelly felts where. Erik becomes the most handsome, gender confused, circus ring leader I have ever met, and I become his sinister side show bearded lady, with whom he has a sordid, secret, but passionate affair behind the Rhino cage.

A handsome, tragic couple, indeed.

Zodiac Killer: Pig vs. Bear

2007-02-17T22:52:00.000-08:00

The classroom is buzzing with excitement. This week is jam packed full of activities and theme days: Valentine’s Day, VSO field trip, and Chinese New Year! The morning bell rings and the children meander toward their seats. I am trying to get the attendance done and I can’t figure out what to mark down where. I keep getting irritated little notes on the attendance from the secretary of the school because I am not paying close enough attention to the little slashes and crosses and dashes that I am supposed to use. Children are chattering, a tray of gold glitter perched precariously on the edge of the reading/craft table teeters as a student bumps into it. I want to get over there and move it out of harm’s way but I am trapped by ‘Mother Bear’, the well-meaning parent who feels the need to stay in the class to talk with the teacher every morning about her many concerns regarding ‘Baby Bear’s’ education. Phew! I glance over to the table; the glitter tray didn’t fall after all. Mama Bear is still hovering in my space, instructing me for the umpteenth time on making sure her daughter’s coat is done up all the way to the top before she goes outside, and how she needs harder spelling words, and by the way, just how much experience do I have with children and education? Ahhh! I am so flustered; I wish this mom would just leave me alone in the mornings so I can figure out this stupid attendance sheet!

BAM…WHOOSH…

A wave of horrified gasps from the children in the back row earns my full attention. Like a tragic hang gliding accident, the kamikaze glitter inevitably sails off the edge of the table and then swirls downward dispersing itself as widely as possible. Mother Bear leaves, but only after promising to return at recess. I clip my attendance sheet outside the classroom and focus the class to the over head for Daily Oral Language. While the students are correcting the sentences with proper grammar and punctuation, I survey the scope of our glitter debacle. Upon closer inspection, if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that an entire flock of fairies had been brutally massacred at the back of our classroom. The entire table, carpet, and bookshelf sported a garish, gilded gleam reminiscent of a Christmas window display planned by primary students from the Ivana Trump School of Design.

On with the day…

Just prior to recess, Mama Bear returns. We are discussing Chinese New Year in class and talking about the different years in the Chinese zodiac. The kids are dismissed just after I tell them that this year is special for me because I was born in the year of the pig, and that it won’t come around for another 12 years etc. The children get their coats on and go outside. Mama Bear zips up her daughter’s coat, while mentioning to me that her husband is also born in the year of the pig “…So you must be born in 1971, too, eh?”

Flash to the inner me: my jaw drops to the floor and I gasp internally, mouth agape “Or 1983!” my internal monologue corrects.

Flash to outer me “Hahaha…yesss, oh hahaha, how did you know?” (uncomfortable laughing accompanied by a little white lie…), “Well, haha, I have to run to a staff meeting… see ya tomorrow”. I boot it down the hall and hide in the staff room.

I am a Walrus...goo goo g'joob

2007-02-09T20:49:00.000-08:00

I allow myself only 5 indulgent minutes of wallowing before the morning bell rings. It is my first experience teaching with a head cold. I sit at the desk and hold my head in my hands, clammy fingers massaging my sinuses and temples. Both areas pulse unpleasantly. I let out a low, raspy sigh, followed by a teachery, “there, there,” said to console myself. Mucus or not, the show must go on. I stand up, give my nose a decisive honk, straighten my jacket and sleeves, and make my way to the door to warmly greet the waiting children. The students are bundled in their brightly coloured, puffy coats; they jostle each other, nylon on nylon, while runners and boots scuff along the damp concrete and into the warm, dry classroom. Today will be “100th Day” for the kids, and they are pumped.

“When is the party?” they all want to know. I do not know where they got the idea that there would be a party today, but thank goodness Mrs. Pugliese brought mini cupcakes and popcorn for the end of the day.

“Later” I answer decisively (or so I thought). “But, first we have to get through our spelling test”.

Despite all my efforts to appear healthy and in ship shape for the students, it turns out that children are unable to understand some of the words I am enunciating for them during the test. Accordingly, the word ‘marble’ was printed by 9 out of 24 students as ‘barble’. I had to laugh about that, and ‘mommy’ turned out to be ‘bubby’ 7 out of 24 times. In good spirits, I scrapped the words from the test and marked it out of 10 instead of 12.

For the remainder of the day, I learned the hard way the reasons why ill-defined answers to children’s questions is never a good idea. Unfortunately, the entire day and all my lessons were interrupted by “when are we having the party?” Nobody was able to focus and the class was chatty and dancing on the line of off task and mayhem. In retrospect, I really should have given them a proper shape of the day, with a clear expectation of what was going to happen, and exactly when the ‘party’ was going to be.

Finally 2:00pm rolls around, and Mrs. Pugliese and I hand out the popcorn and cupcakes to the class. “Should we put on a video for them?” I ask Mrs. Pugliese. “Yeah, what about that arctic documentary that we started watching last week?” she suggested. “Ah, good idea, at least it is educational and related to our science unit” I agree.

I push the tape into the VCR and hit the play button.

A giant, white polar bear begins mauling a walrus. Apparently it hasn’t eaten in months and is weak. According to the narrator, if it doesn’t kill now, the polar bear will lose its strength and die. In a strange parallel, as if it was mirroring exactly how I was feeling on the inside, the polar bear walks in a circle, and thuds to the ground, presumably dead or dying.

For the first time all day, the class is silent. Behold, the magic of nature!

Outsider Art and Hegelian Aesthetic

2007-02-07T18:17:00.000-08:00

I posted the following blog entry on my dear friend Bethany's blog (http://bethanypearce.blogspot.com) at the end of January, and I spent so long typing it that I thought I would post it here too.

Like Bethany, I have a distinct fascination and appreciation for a rapidly growing movement in the art world known as 'outsider art'. Bethany had posted some art by Jesse Reno (whose art is also featured on this blog), and claims that her husband cannot stand it, yet she adores it. Thus, the dichotomy of opposition in taste inspired me to ponder the purpose and direction of art in our supposedly post-(post?)modern society.

Just what is the art world these days? Because of the increasing triviality, everyday life has gradually become our central preoccupation. No illusion or art form can hide the poverty of our daily actions any longer. Thus, I say that outsider art is the aesthetic reaction to the inane and banal focus that our society (and I would argue that this applies to the rest of the capitalist world, and to every country affected by the long and destructively greedy fingers of this economic regime…think 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th world nations) places on art that means nothing. Flashback to Britney Spears, how important the debauchery of Paris Hilton seems to all those bent on supporting it, etc. The art world of today, or should I say insider art is completely focused on lulling us into a state of such passivity and boredom (think hotel art, landscape art, wild life art…when was the last time you were out and a piece of art made you think? Rarely happens) that we no longer feel any personal agency to act critically or independently against issues that are so much more important and humanizing and pressing.

Since our society has come to this place of obedience and immobilization, creativity of artists from all media is diminished to alienating themselves, and they end up expressing themselves according to the dominant imagery of their time. In submissing like this, the artist’s expressiveness ends up re-presenting the everyday, which makes weak statements about how individuals must react to inequality, injustices, greed, and dehumanization.

Now, some people might read this and think “whoa….wait a second here, Vanessa, I know that there are things out there that need to change, I know of artists who aren’t dulled into conformity”. Yes, I am sure that is true, but immediately, I think about the Belgian philosopher Raoul Vaneigem’s condemnation of the institutional and informal left (the commies, the Happy Planet guzzlers, the people who spend time picking out organic food from grocery stores that are multinational corporations…the people participating in the increasing triviality of everyday life (myself). Vaneigem is quoted saying “People who talk about revolution and class struggle without referring explicitly to everyday life, without understanding what is subversive about love and what is positive in the refusal of constraints, such people have corpses in their mouths” (1967:25).

So, how are you relating this to outsider art, you might be tempted to ask me. Outsider art is disruptive to what everyday life has become, to how it consumes our focus (media, appearance, brands, status, etc), how it takes up our time (hair straightening, choosing a pair of jeans, applying makeup, desiring a certain job, house, vehicle) etc, without considering how such actions translate into the perpetuation of local and global inequality and dehumanization. Accordingly, then, outsider art stands in complete antithesis to what the triviality of everyday life has deemed “aesthetically pleasing”. It is raw, it is ugly, it makes us feel bad, it seems crude, lacking in the finesse and skill of form, angsty.

Some of you may know my affinity for Hegel’s theory of the aesthetic, and I apologize for ranting on this subject again, but it warrants further inquiry. In a nutshell, Hegel believes that to be art in its highest form, art must be a reflection of the mind of the artist. You must be able to look at a piece of art, listen to a piece of music, hear a poem, watch a dance or theatre performance and you must be able to become so engulfed by the piece that your experience of it is a cerebral and visceral connection to the inside of the artists mind. What are they thinking, saying, feeling, hating, loving, consuming, opening, exploring, confusing, experiencing. To examine art aesthetically, one should feel as if he/she is engaging in a dialogue with the artist; a connection between the hearts and minds must take place for a piece of art to truly be beautiful.

If we are choosing art for our homes because we like how it looks, the colours, the size, the subject, the composition, the contrast (it is generally chosen because it doesn’t force us to think about how complicit our lives are in the suffering and perpetuation of the capitalist agenda). Hence, many people do not want outsider art present in their homes. It laughs in our faces, it forces us to recognize how we are subscribers to the triviality of the everyday, it grosses us out, it doesn’t blend in well, it might disturb the children, it grates us.

This conversation has dealt primarily with half of the theory of the aesthetic, content (the dialogue between minds and hearts). In the previous paragraph I alluded to the second aspect, form. I don’t have time to get into a detailed investigation of form and aesthetic, but there is a wealth of discussion that should happen around history, society, and artistic form, especially pertaining to outsider art. This is an interesting trend in art that repeats itself at times when the world stands in particular violence and turmoil (remember Dadaism, anyone?). At these times, form (technique) really takes a dive to reflect the chaos and loss of humanity in our lived realities. Such degradation to the planet and to us does not deserve realism; consequently, the disruption of the relationship between form and content manifests itself in cacophony and dissonance (outsider art).

Overall, then, outsider art forces us to hold up a mirror to insider art, and the experience of such an experiment results, in my opinion, in the psychic disequilibrium of looking in a mirror at yourself and seeing no reflection at all. Personally, I do not think that insider art reflects a dialogue of heart and mind with its creator. Yes, there are very many talented people who can carefully and accurately depict a landscape, an animal, or a scene of people in object realism; however, simply copying a meadow to exact detail (though an impressive relationship between hand and eye coordination) lacks creativity, dialogue, motion, or energy of space and place.

By a strange oversight, few artists go to the trouble of studying how people actually lived during the most extreme revolutionary moments and the effects of mundane everyday life on the perpetuation of local and global inequality. This is the gift of outsider art. Shake, rattle, and roll!

The New Kid

2007-02-07T18:02:00.000-08:00

Tears and sobbing. A new student loses his brave face on the last day of his first week in a new school. His mother tries to leave the classroom, but he hangs on to her body with all his strength. I stand at the door with her; she is outside, and I am inside. She looks at me for some hope and magic distraction to get her son inside so she can be on time for her Ph.D seminar at SFU. I have no experience in these matters, and the inner me is shrugging, while the outer me is trying to maintain a sense of control. I can’t think of anything to say that will help –drawing a blank. The children are starting to wonder what is going on. Then the magic words come to me (I can’t believe that I said this, in retrospect), “Do you want to bring him back after lunch?” I cringe at this response immediately, knowing that this will not help at all, but that I just said something for the sake of saying something.

The situation was becoming an uncomfortable imbalance of power, with most of it being exercised by a child of a mere 45lbs. A look of despair flashes across the mother’s face, and a more experienced teacher steps in to the rescue. Her years of teaching come through and she handles the situation beautifully, transferring the ownership of the little boy’s feelings into his own hands, and empowering him to decide to be a part of the class. Instead of two adults telling him that he should want to be in the class and to just think about all the intangible fun he would be missing out on if he went home, the boy was now enabled to decide what he wanted to do on his own terms. Mrs. Pugliese had certainly dealt with this situation before, and transferring the power to the child instead of him having to fight for it was an inclusive and pedagogically informed way to achieve the desired result. I am just thankful that I didn’t end up in tears after all was said and done. There is much to be said about experience!

Does Whale Poo Steam?

2007-02-07T17:48:00.000-08:00

Pictures: A whale pooing and a sample of whale poo in the lab (both photos are taken by Australian researchers...curiously, all whale poo research is done by Australians...I'm just saying...)

“I have a question,” a second grade boy announces seriously at carpet time. “Does whale poo steam?” he poses to the group and to me specifically. A roar of chirpy laughter erupts in the amoebic ring of seated children. The tips of my ears are burning. This is why I really shouldn’t have started ‘the question of the day’, I think to myself.

“That is an interesting question, Lionel; I don’t think I have heard somebody ask that before. How did you think of that?” I ask, probingly. “Simple,” he replies, “my dog pooped in the snow on the way to school with me and my mom and my brother and Sarah, and it steamed”.

Logical, I think to myself. “And why do you think whale poo might steam?” I ask back. “I don’t know, but we are studying the Arctic and it is cold there and things might steam” Lionel supposes. “Like poo” says another little boy –more giggles from the children in the circle. “Ok, I have to be honest, I don’t know the answer to this question, but I will go home to research it this afternoon and I will tell you what I find out tomorrow”. Am I setting a dangerous precedent, I wonder?
Needless to say, there is surprisingly sparse data on the internet pertaining to whale poo in general, and to whether or not it steams, in particular. Apparently, whale poo is somewhat difficult for researchers to come across in the field, and specimens are quite highly cherished by marine biologists. Evidently, however, the consistency of faecal matter varies between species of whales; baleen whales have loose, watery discharge, whereas toothed whales have more solid waste that can (depending on composition) float to the surface. Consequently, I am inferring that if such a specimen were to be released from the warm body of the mammal and float up to the surface, it is marginally possible for it to steam once it reaches the cold Arctic air.

At carpet time the next day, I report my findings to the squirming amoeba shaped ring of children and to Lionel in particular. He sits quietly for a moment, deep in thought, and resolutely replies, “I thought so”.

In reflection of this occurrence during my teaching time, I realized that a seemingly puerile and inane question from a child is something that can be so easily dismissed with a laugh, or by a perplexed facial expression followed by the oft used phrase “ok, and moving on now…” spoken in a indifferent teacher voice. What message does it send to children when we do not value their questions, or bother to find out why they might be asking such a query? In other words, how often do educators fail to recognize the experiential knowledge of children as legitimate and worthy of investigation? When a more experienced teacher told me not to bother wasting my time at home because they won’t even remember the question the next day, I realized that this type of knowledge, children’s experiential knowledge is both undervalued and underrepresented in mainstream curricular discourse.

Trini Trannies and Green Goo... It's good to be home

2007-01-20T17:32:00.000-08:00

The pondering teacher look

The offender

It has been just over a month since I arrived home from a teaching stint in Trinidad. Wow! What an amazing experience that was! I extend a big thanks to those who emailed me letters of encouragement and support while I was away. It was fun sharing my daily (mis)adventures with the various dangers and flavours of Trinidadian culture and vernacular.

Now that it is January, I have started teaching at Kitchener Elementary School on the border of Burnaby and East Vancouver. I am trying my best to adjust to the daily issues of life in Canada that I somehow forgot about when I was concerned with conquering or being conquered by beetles giant and small, nourishing myself with ‘street meat’, coping with no toilet paper in any washrooms, or not getting followed by troops of Trinidadian cross dressing man hookers darting across the street in the southern most island in the Caribbean.

Yes, one afternoon, as I was so bravely adventuring into the township of Tunapuna with a couple friends (the name alone suggests that perhaps I should have just gone to the mall), to procure myself some veggies from the open air market, I had a sixth sense that something was afoot. I was generally particularly cautious to avoid potential muggers by being aware of my surroundings and walking with purpose, but if that didn’t work, I knew that I could just scrunch up my face so that it suggested that, now and then, when I’ve had to do it, I’ve killed. But something was disturbing my inner harmony, and I thought it wise to turn around and see just what was going on behind me.

Four figures suddenly ran across the road. Men? They were tall, slender, very muscular. They wore pink hot pants. Women? They ware makeup. Cross-dressers? Amazonian queens? They had evidently been trailing us for some time. Hmmm.Yes. Trinidadian cross dressers. Not my thing at all. We dashed across the road and kept going until we reached the relative safety of a post office. I could see them strutting, swinging their purses. Well, I thought, they’re going to have to take their heels off if they want to pursue us. Unwilling to part with their shoes, they turned and disappeared into the smoggy afternoon. What a lively way to punctuate my stay in this bizarre country.

But, I digress…

Life back at home has presented its own challenges. Over the past few days I have endeavored so carefully to overlook the Petri dish that is my toothbrush holder. I stand at the bathroom sink, washing my hands, cautious to avoid looking down the toothbrush holes in the top of the yellow daffodil covered ceramic Home Outfitter’s special. Ugh, where to look, then? Ah, yes. Mirror seems like a good choice. Ew, blackheads. Ok, just look at the mirror, not the reflection. Ick, toothpaste and floss splatters. Eyes gaze down to the abridged process of evolution that has chosen my toothbrush holder as its site of mutation.

A few days pass like this. Finally, Saturday rolls around. I spend the day trying my best to organize ideas for teaching. Naturally, as soon as I sit down, I have to pee. Off to the bathroom. I wash my hands, and the toothbrush holder is like a bad car accident. Against my best judgment, I cannot help but look to see if the primordial ooze is still there. Maybe it has developed some form of mobility and found some other apartment to torment. Alas, it has not. It sits there contentedly, defiantly. I pick up the yellow toothbrush holder and gaze into its 4 holes.

Immediately, the inner teacher in me wonders how I could turn this scenario into a lesson plan. The phrase ‘natural consequence’ flashes through my mind. Yes, Vanessa, I mean Miss Nordstrom; this green goop is a natural consequence of month after month of cleaning apathy. Hmmm. I wonder if this is a problem for many people. I imagine being one of those super teachers in all the amazing teacher movies I have seen (I’m thinking Dangerous Minds, Take the Lead, Lean on Me, and the latest Freedom Writers). What would I do in this situation? Create some sort of council of concerned teachers for clean toothbrush holders? No, that’s totally lame. I snap back to reality and realize that I am still holding the offending slime container. I should easily be able to flush it out by running it under the tap, or so I thought. The stuff was not going without a fight. Ingeniously, an idea comes to me. I unwrap the cellophane from a tampon, and try to swipe out the goo. Foiled, it is not bendy enough to get to the crevices. Alas, I wrap my finger in Kleenex, and stick it in the drainage hole. It works. I loosen some slime, and rinse water through the top holes. Progress at last. I stare into the holes triumphantly, but what is that sound? I hold up the daffodil toothbrush holder to my ear… pop rocks? The residual green colonies are hissing with the emphatic likeness of the wicked witch of the West, “I’m melting!” it seemingly says.

I have left this for far too long, I decide. I allow the remaining patches of slime to toil in agony, and resolve to get a new toothbrush holder at my earliest convenience.

I wash my hands (thoroughly), and return to lesson planning, the joys of teaching grade one. I finally get to find out just how do astronauts go to the bathroom in space? I love being home.

Grenada and Carriacou

2006-11-16T20:01:00.000-08:00

Grenada and Carriacou

On the first weekend of November, 11 of my classmates and I travelled to Grenada for a fabulous getaway. I know many of you might think that being in Trinidad is like a permanent weekend getaway, but I can assure you it is the furthest thing from anything you might imagine in that sense! Thus, feeling very burnt out from having our lives threatened everyday in Trinidad, we hopped aboard Liat flight 334 from Port of Spain to St. George’s Grenada:

We arrive in Grenada at 9pm local time. Stepping off the plane we expect to face a wall of impermeable and impossibly hot humidity that sticks to you like wet Saran wrap. Much to our delight a gentle gust of warm breeze grazes our tired skin, breathing gentle life to our exhausted spirits, inspiring a second wind. We clear customs quickly and walk outside the airport to establish some bearings. Despite the noticeable stillness and quietness of the soft Grenadian night, we are immediately on guard. The group has a collective sense of mistrust that we extend to all people who appear to be loitering outside the airport, seemingly waiting to take advantage of the walking piggy banks. We stand in a circle with all our baggage in the middle. In typical defensive position that we use when in Trinidad, our backs face the luggage while we watch for signs of danger from all angles. Tension is high.

The hotel transportation arrives for us, and we get inside the taxis. The friendly driver senses our trepidation and guardedness and assures us that we are safe in Grenada and that everything is fine. We should just relax and enjoy ourselves.

Driving along the unlittered, evenly paved road, the melodic chirping of tiny frogs can be heard through the open taxi windows. The frogs are accompanied by the symphonic hum of grasshoppers and the percussive clicking of locusts. The uninterrupted rhythm of the night lulls me into a state of composure –my anxieties lift and I become aware of how much fear and tension I have been carrying around on a daily basis in Trinidad as a necessity of self preservation. Judging by the incredible lightness I now feel, I realize the stress of navigating through the space and place of everyday life in Trinidad.

In an improbable stroke of luck, the Fox Inn proves to be far nicer than the online photos depict. Beautiful, well kept grounds, a deep, clean swimming pool overlooking the beach, friendly staff, fresh rooms, air conditioning! Paradise!

Saturday morning arrives. The air is breezy, and there is still no sign of humidity (very much like Kelowna in the summer). Me, Laura, Tim, and Marla decide to take the ferry to Carriacou (a small island to the North of Grenada). The hotel informed us the night before that the ferry leaves at 9am. Our taxi arrives at 8:30am and tells us that the boat actually leaves at 8:30 on weekends!! He ushers us into the taxi anyways and proceeds to drive like Trinidadian bandits are on his ass, passing cars in the other lane, driving on the curb, flying around hair pin corners like nobody’s business. He frantically phones the fire department (for some reason) to see if the boat is still in the harbour, while honking at oncoming traffic with his “free” hand. Like every multi tasking man, he drives with his knees, navigating the winding mountain roads, risking his life for tourists like he has no other reason to live than to get us to that boat before it leaves. The music is blaring. There is so much adrenaline coursing through my body that I am actually having fun, despite the many pressing barriers to my survival.

He sees the boat sailing in the harbour and swears. Yet, strangely, he begins to drive even faster than before, as if our hastier speed will somehow get us onto the boat. He phones the fire department again. No answer. Finally we pull into the marina, and much to our surprise, the boat is actually still there! We are wind swept and raring to go! The driver is tipped handsomely, and we nimbly hop aboard the dual hulled yacht ready to embark on an exciting day trip!

The time is 8:45am. The 8:30am sailing does not leave the dock until 9:45am. Aha! Caribbean inefficiency does extend to the paradise of Grenada after all!!!!

The Osprey finally pulls away from the dock, its engine roaring to life as it glides out of St. George’s charming bay. European styled buildings crowd the steep hillside while an abandoned British fortress stands at the top of the headland, protecting the lovely town site.

I am sitting on the sundeck of the Osprey. The sky is brilliantly blue and extends seemingly forever to the left, while jagged, rainforest covered mountains pierce the sky to the right. At length we pass the last reach of Grenada and the Osprey is in open sea.

Giant flat bottom clouds punctuate the ostensible infinity of the sky. The sound track is Robert Plant’s Dreamland album. Flocks of flying fish glide for more than 50m on the surface of the sea! They actually flap their fins, I really wasn’t expecting that!

Several hours later, The Osprey reaches Carriacou! It is very small. There are only 7000 people that live on it (about the size of Gabriola Island), and if I had the chance in my life, I would buy a little house on Carriacou! It is just a wonderful place, rugged, beautiful, friendly, not caught up in materialism, yet still very vibrant in its own way. There are packs of wild goats that roam throughout the island like lawn mowing renegades. They dash across the winding roads impishly, and dart into the grassy hills, bleating as their tails twitch awkwardly from side to side. The island is speckled with tiny wooden houses that were at one time painted brightly. The main industry on Carriacou is ship building, a trade that was introduced to the island in the 1700s when a large number of Scottish settlers landed on the white shores. Interestingly, on the far side of Carriacou is a little village called Edinborough; most of the people who live in this area curiously have very fair skin, red hair, and light coloured eyes, yet still have many African features too. It is a surprising combination indeed, and quite curious how the Scottish ancestry remains quite evident in this Patois community even after 300 years.

The marvellous day in Carriacou ends with a flying fish sandwich, an ice cold Carib, and a refreshing swim on the quietest, clearest, calmest beach I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing. What a treat! The boat ride home is a time for reflection as the sun begins its descent across the sky and into the watery deep of the horizon. Nightfall comes quickly as the 4 adventurers step ashore to Grenada. The gentle warm breeze grazes our skin, and we find comfort in the insect symphony that narrates our journey back to the Fox Inn.

Hinduism in Trinidad: Temple on the Water and Karya Siddhi Hanuman

2006-11-08T20:56:00.000-08:00

The Friday afternoon before I left for a weekend visit to Grenada, the class went on a field trip to two of the most famous Hindu temples in Trinidad: Temple by the Sea (a free floating temple on the ocean), and Karya Siddhi Hanuman (a temple dedicated to the Hindu deity Hanuman the Monkey God).

Hinduism is the leading single religion of the Indo-Caribbean communities of the West Indies. Hindus are particularly well represented in Trinidad and Tobago, where they constituted 25 percent of the total population, as of 1995. Smaller groups of Indo-Caribbeans live elsewhere in the Caribbean, especially Jamaica, Barbados, Martinique and Guadeloupe.

A decade after slavery was abolished in 1834, the British government gave permission for the colonians to import indentured labour from India to work on the plantations. Throughout the remainder of the century, Trinidad's population growth came primarily from East Indian laborers.

First, we visited the Temple by the Sea. Upon arrival, the first thing that I noticed was the calmness to that place. It was very evident, even if I had had my eyes closed that this is a place of palpable spiritual significance. The path to the temple is a stone causeway lined with small shrines and offerings to various deities. The water had an unexpected stillness while dark clouds brewed on the horizon. Traditional Hindu prayer flags stood in the water with poles planted deep into the silty marine floor. The tide climbed up the bamboo poles -the flags look like stoic stationary soldiers of the sea. A Hindu funeral pyre contrasts the watery element of the temple at the base of the stone causeway, linking the physical and spiritual worlds through plumes of dark smoke.

About 20 minutes from the Temple by the Sea is another of Trinidad's great religious structures- The Karya Siddhi Hanuman. The massive intricacy of this Temple alone is breath taking. Most interestingly, the entire sprawling temple is light rose in colour, and is was hand carved by more than 200 stoneworkers. Karya Siddhi is a temple that is dedicatd to Hanuman, the moneky God. Hanuman is the mighty ape that aided Lord Rama in his expedition against evil forces, and is one of the most popular idols in the Hindu pantheon. Believed to be an avatar of Lord Shiva, Hanuman is worshipped as a symbol of physical strength, perseverance and devotion.

Hanuman's tale in the epic Ramayana — wherein he is assigned the responsibility to locate Rama's wife Sita abducted by Ravana, the demon king of Lanka — is known for its astounding ability to inspire and equip a reader with all the ingredients needed to face ordeals and conquer obstructions in the way of the world.

One of the largest Hanuman statues in the world is found at the Karya Temple. It stands more than 85 feet tall. When it was inaugerated in 2003 a water blessing had to be administered by helicopter.

After visiting both temples, the group had a vegetarian lunch of pumpkin rotis and bhagie (butter spinnach), and then we were off to Grenada for a weekend of R & R.

Caroni Swamp and the Scarlet Ibis

2006-11-08T20:05:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday, our group travelled to the Caroni Swamp with a very knowledgable guide named Winston Nanan, who now in his 50s was pulled out of school by his father at age 10 to hunt the Scarlet Ibis, never returned to school, yet has taken it upon himself to become the world's leading informally trained orinthinologist specializing in the Scarlet Ibis. The fascinating tour by boat took us through a complex network of estuary canals through thick wetland vegetation.

The Caroni Swamp is the largest mangrove wetland in Trinidad and Tobago. It is located on the west coast of Trinidad, south of Port of Spain and northwest of Chaguanas, where the Caroni River meets the Gulf of Paria.

The Caroni Swamp is an important tourist attraction and provides important habitat for the Scarlet Ibis (Eudocimus ruber), one of the national birds of Trinidad and Tobago.

The Scarlet Ibis is bright red in colour - the feathers being coloured through the synthesis of carotene present in some of their food (Fiddler and Aratus crabs, shrimp, algae and aquatic insects). The black pigment in the primary feathers is thought to give extra strength to the wing tip. Long neck counters long legs for reaching water surface and mud flats. The long legs are useful for wading in marshy ground, mud flats and mangrove stands.

The Scarlet Ibis is long-lived - It can live up to 18 years in captivity. Ibis are considered adults when they are about 2 years old- by this time they have gained their bright red colour. They follow an elaborate courtship and usually pair for life.

To the untrained eye Caroni Swamp looks just fine. Great expanses of open water sparkle in the sunshine; mangroves proliferate; herons, egrets, and ospreys patrol its channels; caiman lurk in the shadows; a new visitor centre, boardwalks, observation post, and a picnic area have sprung up.

Having said that, our guide Winston candidly mentioned to me that the day before we visited the swamp he was touring a group of German bird watchers until a shocking reality shattered the evening roosting routine. As dusk fell, 8 of the ibis they'd come to see were blasted out of the trees by poachers before their eyes, lifeless bundles plopping into the mud, blood invisible on their scarlet feathers. The imagery of Winston's words stung as my eyes fixed upon the mesmerizing red creatures flying home for the night.

The birding enthusiasts on Winston Nanan's boats were horrified. They told Winston they'd make it clear to the Government this was no way to encourage tourism. Some said they'd never return to Trinidad and would discourage people from coming here at all. Others demanded to leave the swamp immediately.

But the public slaughter of the 'protected' ibis is merely the most visible of the many problems facing Caroni Swamp.

Caroni Swamp is in trouble says Nanan. If its present state is a measure of the importance we place on our natural resources and tourism spin-offs then we, too, are in trouble.

For the problems that beset Caroni Swamp are a reflection of what is happening throughout Trinidad and Tobago and throughout the rest of the world for that matter: an ecological mismanagement, misguided priorities, over-stretched resources, pollution, poaching, and public ignorance and indifference.

I cant help but think how these issues are equally prevalent in Canada too. The Caroni Swamp was a remarkable lesson in the fragile beauty of our world's wildlife.

Pictures from school

2006-10-28T15:27:00.000-07:00

Teaching Tales: Rule # 1: Don't sing 50 Cent songs in Church!!!

2006-10-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

I have finally started teaching in my classroom here in Trinidad. I am teaching grade one in a classroom of 12 students. What they lack in numbers they more than make up for in volume! The class is LOUD LOUD LOUD!!!! It also does not help that the classroom is separated by a chalk board, and on the other side of the chalk board is a class of 25 kindergarteners. They are very cute little children, who are also very noisy.

The School is very religious, and on the last Wednesday of every month they have a mass at the Catholic church at the bottom of the mountain. We walk as a group down the mountain and line up outside of the church. I was walking with two boys from the kindergarten class and one older girl named Marsha from the 6th grade class. We passed a man on the road who was making various comments about me and how he wants to "be family" with me etc... In an automatic act of confidence, Marsha turns to the man and says "Have a lil' respec' fo Miss, PLEASE!" I am taken aback. It is a hilarious that an 11 year old girl just stood up for me like that. I say thank you to Marsha.

In the church we wait and wait and wait for things to get started. I was sitting with the older children, and a couple boys in front of me turn around and ask me if I had 50 cents (or so I thought). When I told them that I didn't bring any money to the chuch, they said "no, no, do you know any 50 Cent songs?" (as in the rapper guy). The only one I know happens to be the "Go Charlie, it's your birthday, we gonna party like it's your birthday, gonna sip Bacardi like it's your birthday, cause we don't give a crap cause it's your birthday"... That's all I know of the song, so I sang it and they thought it was hilarious. "How you know that song, Miss?" they ask. "I heard it on the radio" I reply. "But you so old". They are astonished at my knowledge of rap music.

Ok, so I am officially "old" by virtue of being considered a 'teacher'. It was a staggering moment of realization.

The next day at school, the boys rounded up all the students from their classes and demanded that I "sing the song that I sang in Church yesterday!" Oh no. The kids have memories like elephants. A teacher is walking by as the students request the song. I say "you mean Holy Mary Mother of God?" "No Miss, you know Miss, the song about "Go Charlie, it's your birthday..." Hmmm, now they only thing they remember about me is that I am the teacher that sang a 50 Cent song in Church.

Another quite embarrassing problem about teaching at my school is that I sweat an outrageous amount. It is sooooo hot in the building. I sweat through my shirt on the first day. Here is a sampling of comments from the students pertaining to the matter:

"Miss, why you so wet?"
"You sweatin' plenty, Miss"
"Miss, you lookin' like my dad when he get home from huntin'"
"Who bounce you, Miss?" (bounce means to throw a bucket of water on someone in the local creole).

Anyways, I am sure that things will only improve. The kids seem to quite like me so far, which is a good sign. I am looking forward to letting you all know what is new and exciting in my teaching adventures!!!

PS: Keep emailing me because I miss home from time to time!

Diwali Hindu Festival of Lights

2006-10-22T20:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday night was Diwali. It was amazing! The very large Hindu population of Trinidad celebrates this week long festival that culminated on Saturday in a huge street festival of lights, food, music, and fireworks. Our group was walking down the main street of a town called Chaguanas. We got invited into a family's home for dinner and it was amazing. Here are some photos!

Saint Benedict Monastery

2006-10-22T15:26:00.000-07:00

On Friday I went to the top of Mount Saint Benedict, above where the school I teach at is located. The monastery that we were visiting was built in the 1700s by Dutch Monks. The ambience is so perfect and amazing. The monastery is nestled high in the hillside, embedded in the thick greenery that seems to be respiring in a way that you are almost sure that you can feel the rise and fall of the mountain's breast as you stand, watching the mist wave by your skin in bands of wispy, dense, damp veils. Undulating. The seduction of this nature is complete. The weather rolls in like a viscous locomotive, the momentum is palpable and consuming. The breath of the mountain encompasses the monastery in a warm amniotic embrace; it breathes its open mouth against the windows, smothering them so closely in a gentle but measured exhalation. Sitting on the verandah in cushioned wicker chairs. Who has been here before me? Who has shared this state? I wonder if I am absorbing the energy they left behind with the electricity of their thoughts. Residual. What did I leave behind there of myself? What of my own electricity was transferred to that space? Who will find it, knowingly, unknowingly. Wind and rain blows through the open air of the seating area. Hairs stand on end despite the consuming warmth of the mountain's life. I feel astonished and exhilarated to be reading here in this cocoon of history steeped in the smell of damp earth and high priced tea.

Celebrity Soccer Player

2006-10-22T15:14:00.000-07:00

Hey there everyone! Thanks for staying patient with my blog. The internet has been down for nearly a week, and it is super frustrating!!!

Anyways, you may recall my adventures at the soccer game a while ago, and how there is one white player on the Trinidad soccer team, and how all the spectators thought that me and my two friends were his family. Well, I had the chance to meet him in person a few days back. Apparently this is quite a big deal in Trinidad. Everyone's jaw dropped to the floor when our group mentioned that we had met "Chris Birchall". He signed my Trinidad flag, and I got a picture of it to prove the deed.

The funniest part about meeting him was that my professor mentioned to him that 3 of us had attended the last game and Chris Birchall said "yeah I know, I saw them" !!! Perhaps it is more hilarious for me because there was 26,997 black faces, and 3 white ones glowing like misplaced beacons in the dusk...lol

Photos

2006-10-11T23:26:00.000-07:00

Asa Wright Tropical Rain Forest Nature Conservancy of Trinidad

Me and Robin Hopkins having lunch at the Nature Conservancy high in the Andes Mountains of Trinidad (yes, the Andes extend into Trinidad, I was surprised too:)

Steel Pan Drum Class: The whole class had the chance to work in a steel pan studio and learn a traditional calypso folk song in ensemble format! One of my favourite activities since I arrived here.

This is me and my roomie Heather. Heather is a mother of two teenagers, and she is a really wonderful and energetic woman. We are standing on Mount St. Benedict, which is an area just outside of Port of Spain. I will be teaching in a school on the Mountain starting next week.

At the Beach

Trinidadian candy stands are actually pickled fruit stands. All the jars are filled with delicious fruits and spices that are all pickled or sugared. My favourite is the coconut fudge, cilantro pinapples, and tamarin sticks.

Scariest Night of My Life -Hands Down!

2006-10-11T20:36:00.000-07:00

The national soccer team of Trinidad and Tobago is called the "Soca Warriors" (Soca is a variation of Calypso music, not a slang word for 'Soccer' as I so incorrectly thought). Tonight Trinidad was playing Panama, so after school Laura, Tim and I made the rash decision to make our way to Port of Spain to see the game. It is rumored that the Soca Warriors are going on strike after today and that this would be the only time we could see a game. We left campus in the middle of an outrageous rain storm, bundled in our most water resistant (and consequently unbreathable clothes). We felt relief once me managed to flag down a mini bus that appeared to be heading in the general direction in which we wanted to travel; our bodies veritably sweating as if we were mummy wrapped in saran wrap. So maybe we felt a little too comfortable once we got on board...

HERE IS ANOTHER IMPORTANT TIP ABOUT RIDING MINI BUSES!!!

If you ever see a person with num chuks sticking out of their backpack DONT ASK THEM ABOUT IT! EVER! NOT AT ALL!!!

So there is this really big guy sitting in front of us, a little intimidating sure, but since we were instructed to be friends with EVERYBODY, Tim goes and sits next to the guy and asks if those are real num chucks. This massive man of about 30 years old, takes them out of his bag, and I immediately imagine my skull as pulp. Yes, he assures us indignantly...they are indeed real num chuks. At this point Laura and I are kind of laughing anxiously as the man who was supposedly accompanying us for protection hangs us out to dry. We keep barrreling down the road, weaving in and out of rush hour traffic, changing sides the road as if the painted lines are merely suggestions. I try to forget about the scary man until I glance cautiously in his direction and see him crack the knuckles of his giant hands that look like they could crush bone into flour, then lean over to his bag and pull out a 10 inch knife and strap it to his calf like an asassin. He pulls out a black shirt and puts it on, rolling up the sleeves like he means business. In his bag I can see the bronze glint of what I am sure is brass knuckles, and another handle of some type. I nudge Laura and gesture with my eyes at what I was seeing. We both feel terrified. Our bumbling gentleman company sits by obliviously. The giant man starts breathing rapidly like he is psyching himself up for some physical exertion.

I pee my pants a little. Im not going to lie.

There is literally nothing I could do, we were sitting at the back of the mini bus and the driver was busy avoiding goats and small troupes of banditos on the side of the road. A gun goes off outside the mini bus and nobody cares. I try my best not to pee more.

Then, the most miraculous thing happens: The freaky asassin man pushes the stop request button, hops off the bus, bounds across the road in two well-timed leaps and scales a brick wall topped with razor wire and broken glass so deftly and seamlessly that I am not even sure if I saw him do it. The man was a professional. I have no idea where he went, but from the contents of his bag and the lethal paraphernalia strapped to his body, I know he was going to do conduct some business.

After we get off the bus in the heart of darkness (or Port of Spain, the two could really be used interchangably without much exaggeration), we dash across the road to to the next mini bus exchange to get on the 'priority' line that will take us to the Stadium. One would generally assume that the priority line would mean that the road is for high occupancy vehicles only, but in Trinidad, it just means that there are wire fences on either side of the road to prevent too many livestock from wandering carelessly into traffic.

At this point we went from the frying pan and into the fire. Once we walk toward the stadium I spy a half dozen military men standing in a Crow's Nest at the top of the stadium. They are staring down at the three white people, waving UZI's around like they are putting on a conversational puppet show. One officer in particular catches our eyes, and yells something at us. We can't understand the man because he speaks Patois incredibly fast. We undestand by the gestures he is making with his assault rifle that we must wait for him at the side of the entrance gate. We meet him and another officer, they lead us to the admin section of the stadium and we proceed to get the full shake down, which is apparently a customary tradition for white visitors who appear to be Americans. None of us have passports with us. Between us, Laura and I have $700 TTs stashed in various locations on our bodies, since we were warned against money belts around the waist and necklace pouches.

For some reason that I could not understand, but seemed very important to the officer, my watch had to be 'confinscated'. I comply. That was the worst of it. We were free to go watch the game from then on. We find some excellent seats and sit tight. The game is off the hook intense. There are people blowing conch shell horns, goals are scored, people jump to their feet, beer flies freely through the hot warm air. An Indian group is drumming so loudly and with such deep drums that every cell in your body pulses rhythmically. You cannot be sure that the sound is outside of you since it engulfs your entire being from the inside out.

The stadium feels very secure. Dozens of police officers in full riot gear with shields, tear gas, clubs, and assault rifles surround the field at all times.

Stadium vendors walk up and down the aisles selling cashews and beer. If you want something, simply raise your fist and holler "eeh eeh eeh" emphatically. They will literally throw the item at you, and you then crumple your money into a little ball and throw it back at him. People are suprisingly honest about redirecting misthrown money wads. We are the only white faces in the crowd. But, incidentally there is one white player on the team. Everyone in the stands thinks that we are his family and they swarm us with questions about him. We don't even know his name. The Trinis are disappointed and the game continues on.

Given the circumstances of the evening, Laura and I felt like we should leave the game early to avoid the massive rush to leave at the end. Thankfully, there are 3 ladies sitting behind us that ask us who we are and where we are coming from. They turn out to be teachers from one of the schools that our SFU students teachers will be working at. They offer us a ride home since they did not want us to take the mini bus home. Evidently they are not safe, as we had found out earlier that evening. They kept saying "We don't want to read about you in the papers tomorrow..." So, once again, the crazy danger situation was pleasantly averted by seemingly divine forces.

The teachers dropped us off back at Milner Hall and we timidly recount the evening's transgressions to the rest of our group. Nobody wants to take a mini bus ever again.

I change my drawers and go lie down.

Pardon my French, but I have realized that when I am in Trinidad my #$&* is on the line at all times. Scariest day of my life -hands down!

the fabled mini bus

2006-10-09T13:31:00.000-07:00

Expect danger every time you decide to get into a taxi; but expect death in a small minivan. Maxi Taxis:

Imagine what happens when your body decelerates from 60-0 mph in two milliseconds. Now imagine a forest of rusty seat backs and a plate glass window in your way. Not pretty. I am sure you will never imagine yourself on one of these rickety, belching conveyances, but the first time you need to get from point A to B in countries where gum and deodorant are considered luxury items you will find yourself on a bus. I would have to say that after a few days of having my knees wrapped around my neck and old men drooling sound asleep on my should that the most dangerous form of travel in the developing world is the fabled mini bus. These are usually designed to haul a small family of four, but ingenuity and greed prevails, and some will pack up to 16 passengers in one minibus. The minibuses are used primarily for rush hour transportation of poor people to make their money by carrying as many people as many times as they can. The deadly driving style is a result of drivers who must make their money within two hours of rush hour in order to make a profit on their rental owner’s charge. A rough estimate pits the chances of a fatality in a mini bus at 30 times the normal US accident rate. So the next time you plunk down a quarter for on of these rides, consider how much you just sold your life for!

How to survive Minibuses:

Be friends with EVERYBODY. And by friends I don't mean in a walking target kind of way, but you get the drift.

Don’t travel at night. Many buses travel at night because it is way cooler and the road is less crowded. Drunks, rebels, livestock and hidden washouts all seem to be more prevalent at night. Local drivers also like to sleep at night, usually when they are behind the wheel.

Avoid mountainous roads. Fly if necessary.

Bring water with you

Ask whether the route goes through areas frequented by bandits.

Sit near an exit or on top, at least make sure that you are near an open window.

There is a reason why you paid 83 cents to travel. You don’t buy a lot of brake pads and clutches with that pocket change.

Your luggage is prey for rummagers, slashers, and thieves. Put your luggage in trash bags like everyone else, or at least under everyone elses.

Shirt slashers wait for you to doze off and slip out your money pouches. Put your money in your shoes if necessary.

Random Trini Observations

2006-10-06T14:49:00.000-07:00

Random Photos

So here are some more things I’ve noticed about Trinidad:

The fruit juices they sell in stores are sooooooo tasty and fresh and amazingly flavourful! You really 'experience' what the fruit tastes like, it is just that an experience everytime you drink it!

Every building, park, and home is surrounded by either razor wire, barbed wire, tall spikey fences, or tall cement fences with giant shards of broken glass embedded vertically along the top of the fence (or any combination of those things together). Don't ask me why, I have no idea who they might be trying to keep out. Our university residence is surrounded by two barbed wire fences...kinda different from home...

There are packs of wild dogs that roam the streets at night. During the day they sleep under shady trees, and at night they rummage through the garbage bins for scraps. They dogs are so interbred that they are all the same size. About knee height, but they come in various colours.

In any empty lot along the streets you will encounter a sea of plastic and glass bottles mounded as high as the fence holding them in. There is no recycling program in Trinidad at all! Everything goes in one garbage...pretty weird. There is just a fortune lying around the streets.

There are more beggers and street people in Vancouver than in Trinidad.

Due to Trinidad's very long Colonial history, the university we are going to was established in the 1800s, and was an agricultural and natural sciences college in the 1700s. The students at the schools wrote exams that were written and proctored by Cambridge university in England, and they still maintain a very high academic standard to this day. It is very difficult for students to even get into university in the first place because at the end of 6th form (grade 7), they write exams that determine what type of high school they will go to. They may go to a trade school high school, or an academic school. There are 5 different types of high schools, but only students who go to the top two types of school qualify to write the Cambridge entrance exams to get into university, and of the people who write the exams, only about 45% of students score high enough to get into university. The upside of this rigorous system is that university is free. The downside is that the people who can get into university in the first place are usually from affluent backgrounds anyways.

People walk much slower here than in Vancouver. In fact they make fun of us for walking so fast. They wonder where we could be going that is so important that you cant get there when you get there.

Parties spontaneously occur at any time or place. It is not uncommon for a raucious get togther to spring up at 1:30 in the morning and go till 4. We seem to need more sleep than they do.

There are Hindu prayer flags throughout the mountainous countryside, since many of the Indian indentured laborers were forced to work in the mountains, and when they were liberated, they chose to stay there. The prayer flags are there as offerings to the gods for plentiful crops. They are pink, red, blue, white, and yellow.

Sour cream and onion ripple chips do not have as pungent a flavour as they do at home. Still greasy, but the taste doesn't hit you in quite the same way.

There are KFCs on every street corner. KFC makes more money in Trinidad than in any other country in the world. They love their fried chicken here.

Initiation Continues...

2006-10-06T14:37:00.000-07:00

Random Photos:

There is a little bug boring into my leg, munching greedily. I am not sure if it is capable of turning around and leaving, or even if it will want to ever go. Last night we got hazed again from 10pm-12:30am. We stood out in the field in military rows; grass fleas savoured our sweet bare ankles. I won’t get into the details of the night’s transgressions, but when I get home I will fill in the blanks for those who want to know. All I will say now is that it is definitely embarassing, but apparently gut splittingly hilarious to the hall seniors. So like the good sports we Canadians are, we participated for another night in the ritual “grubbing”. Few of us were given our hall names that night, so many of us are still not allowed to walk on grass (unless instructed by a senior), or use the very convenient cement walkways that link all the residence buildings. Despite the gruelling night of grubbing, we were woken at 4 am this morning by pots and pans, and various Carnival noise makers, forced out of our beds, and into the lobby. The whole Milner Hall population came out to organize and put up posters around campus advertising their upcoming talent show (which they take VERY seriously!). We were warned before we went to bed that this would happen. We Canadians asked so politely if they could simply knock on our doors to wake us up. “No,” they chortled incredulously, “It must be pots and pans”. So, 4am rolls in thunderously, as pots and pans assault each other metallically. We crawl out of bed, unimpressed. As our group assembles and goes outside to meet the rest of the Milnerites, we are completely aghast at their total lack of haste in this majorly ill-timed task. They are shooting hoops on the b-ball court, taking slow drags off their cigarettes, showing off bmx bike riding skills, and generally not moving toward the mission at hand. At this point, we were so unenthused at the pace of Caribbean time, that we take charge, demanding to be given posters and tape, and accordingly stormed off into the hot, muggy, dark morning to complete the assignment. The other Milnerites are tisking and clucking at our hastiness and impatience. “You’re lucky we are not Swiss!” we chime back to them, as our hot footed it up the road. “What does that even mean?” asked one of our group members. “I don’t really know,” replied a Bethany, “but I think the Swiss are more anal about timeliness than we are.”

Greetings from Trinidad

2006-10-04T13:37:00.000-07:00

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Here is a little snapshot of things seem to be like in Trinidad so far:

I had an awesome day going to a little township next to the university called Tunapuna! We bought some supplies that we all needed to make our stay a little more comfortable, which was very nice. We went to a small department store, and they basically shut the whole place down for us and have personal shoppers available to us at all times while we were in the store. We felt a little embarrased by the special treatment, but it was definitely helpful:)

After Tunapuna, our driver Sam (he owns a 20 passenger bus that is perfectly air conditioned), took us to Maracas Bay and it was just stunning. On the way, we stopped on top of the mountain that we were driving over at this little candy stall. The candy in Trinidad is very different! It is actually pickled fruit. So when you get to the stall, you see all these jars of amazing pickled fruits and veggies that are all sweet and spicy in a more savory way. It is just lovely stuff. Everywhere you go there are people listening to music and just 'liming' or 'hanging out'. The local people are very friendly to us, and a couple of locals who were liming at the mountain summit with no place to be and all the time in the world to get there insisted that we have a drink with them before we carried onward. So we had a little cheers, and off we went:) We had a great time playing in the surf, walking on the beach, and having bake and shark for lunch. This time it had a lovely Tamarind sauce on it and it was totally delicious!

The residences are quite interesting too. Arriving in Trinidad, the first thing I noticed was that the air smells thick like soft decaying foliage mixed with an overtone of high priced tea and spice. After it rains (which is very intense rain that falls horizontally and with fury for about 20 minutes per day), the water evaporates in the heat so quickly that you are sure that you must have gills because the air is so wet that you are breathing. It doesnt even seem like breathing.

I often wonder how I am going to get through these three months. It is not easy to adjust here. I have to walk to the grocery store, which is about as far away as extra foods is from our apartment. It is not too far, but it is hot, and I have to cross a highway that has no rules about stopping for pedestrians. Every so often you will see some white lines painted across the street that to a Canadian would seem very much like it would function as a cross walk. Not so. They merely indicate that this is a place where pedestrians are often known to cross. That seems very dangerous to me. Anyways, once we are in the grocery store it is fine. The store is called Hi Lo foods and it is exactly like Safeway. It is a pleasant experience, but it is soooooo sloooowwww!!! The people seem to operate on a much less urgent sense of efficiency and nobody seems to mind at all. It is bizarre. I thought I chose the shortest line, but even so, it took me half an hour to buy my food. We don't have any cooking equipment yet (we are getting it tomorrow) so we can only eat foods that dont need to be cooked. That doesnt matter anyway because the kitchen stoves are out of gas, so they dont work.

The bathroom is another thing. During our floor meeting, the "block rep" curiously named "wrap it up" strongly emphasized that the toilets must be flushed when we are done. Problematically, they don't really work properly (as with many things) and about 50% of the time they don't flush. Alas, one need not worry about this as we have been instructed to merely dump a bucket of water into the toilet in order 'to give it a boost'. The second issue with this seemingly flawless solution is that there is no bucket in the bathroom. I did see a little bucket outside, but it appears to have been part of an informal architectural remedy for a sagging staircase (evidently, being sued is not a worry for the university). So yes, using the 'WC' is always an adventure. There is nothing worse that eliminating the excellent chick pea and cauliflower curry one had for lunch, pushing down the toilet handle then hearing the pathetic watery burp of defiance, as the toilet experiences performance anxiety.

The shower is great, however, even though it is just a pipe sticking out of the wall. The water pressure is amazing, and there is no way that I will end up with product build up in my hair. Perhaps in an effort to coordinate the shower stall aesthetically, the drain is nothing more than a hole in the floor that is incidentally perfectly in line with the protruding pipe from the wall. I enjoying showering, even though it seems futile since skin never ever feels fresh.
October 1st was our first night of hazing (which lasts about a week aparently). They call it "Grubbing", and we all have to perform fairly embarassing acts in order to appease them. We are not allowed to walk on the grass or use the cement walk way leading to the common room until we have been initiated properly and assigned a completely humilating hall name.

Gender and Sexuality in Trinidad

2006-10-02T19:41:00.000-07:00

Gender and Sexuality in Trinidad:
An Anthropological Connection Between Pre-Columbian Amerindian Cosmology,
Neo-Colonialism, and Calypso Music

After talking to some of the other people going to Trinidad at the June 10th orientation meeting, many of us were discussing the seemingly unconcealed nature of female sexuality in Trinidad, and were questioning how this is both similar and different to similar issues in Canada. In keeping with my minor in First Nations studies, I was originally going to write my assignment about the indigenous people of the Caribbean, but I happened to stumble upon an article that hinted at what might be the origin of the obvious overtones of female sexuality in the traditional indigenous culture. The following paper attempts to connect this history of female fertility with modern day calypso culture within the rubric of contradictory colonial attitudes toward female sexuality. Essentially, my research indicates that the primacy of female sexuality has always existed in the Caribbean, but its meaning has become complicated by prudent colonial attitudes.

As with all First Nations groups in North and South America, the indigenous peoples of the Caribbean, known by their colonial oppressors as the Caribs , hold a distinct ‘cosmology’ or way of conceptualizing the natural world. Through an oral tradition, the Amerindians transferred their perceptions and understanding of their traditional knowledge to younger generations in stories, songs, by instruction, and in ceremonies (Wilbert 1993:81). The Carib traditional knowledge is based on observation and a deep knowledge of their environment.

Unlike the four seasons in Canada, indigenous Caribs divided the year into two seasons: wet and dry. One half of the calendar year was male and the other half of the year was female. According to this division, the male half (the dry season) was represented by the Bat while the female half (the wet season) was represented by the Frog.

The following description is from Honychurch’s 2002 research. Bat Man: Because the bat likes to be dry and goes out hunting then returns to his shelter, the dry season represents man as a bat due to his traditional role as the hunter and provider of meat. Frog Woman: On the other hand, by summer solstice, the wet season begins. Frogs come out when it rains and they produce many eggs. The Frog Woman represents fertility. She is always depicted as half frog and half woman. Her hands and feet are webbed: she faces us with her arms and legs presented like a squatting frog: her navel is always positioned prominently at the centre of every image of her and her genitals are on display. According to Honychurch, the Caribs “were frank about such things before the influences of colonization introduced the concept of shame, cover up and sexual hypocrisy” (2002:5). Thus, Pre-Columbian indigenous concepts and imagery of female sexuality have always featured strongly in Carib culture and political economy.

Gender and Sexuality in Calypso

According to Maude Dikobe, a professor of Black literature at the University of Botswana, “the woman’s ‘bottom’ matters a lot in calypso and real life in Trinidad” (2004:1). For example, during Carnival, the primacy of “bumsie” (also bum bum, bumbulum, and bam bam) spotlights the explicit sexual nature of celebration. However, the one thing that is most important about men’s vision of women’s “bumsies” is that it is deeply contradictory: simultaneously celebrating and derogatory. Consider the following lyrics to David Rudder’s song “The Trail of the Bumsie”

I’m on the trail of a bumsie
Camouflaged in this party
Camouflaged in this party
Has anyone seen the bumsie
I know right in this party
The bumsie was in a red maxi…

Lord Kitchener’s “Sugar Bum Bum” (1977) lyrics

Audrey, where you get that sugar?
Darling, there is nothing sweeter
Audrey, every time you wiggle
Darling, you put me in trouble
You torture me the way you wine
I love to see you fat behind…
Gimme the bum bum Audrey

And George Victory’s “Biggie Bam Bam” (1994)

She said, “Music Man, I want to dance with you now”
I said, “You boyfriend here, I don’t want no row”
She said, “that’s all right, my boyfriend’s blind”
If you see me jam she from behind
Watch me jam biggie bam bam
She just tell me, “Rock me from side to side”
This bam bam is yours to ride

Taking these examples of Calypso lyrics into account, it is easy to infer thatfemale sexuality in Trinidad has become conflicted since the influence of colonial attitudes toward sex was imposed on Trinidadian morality. Prior to European contact, in my opinion, the importance of female fertility and sexuality was significant and celebrated as the time of the planting season. As Franco asserts, “The female archetype represented abundance and survival in indigenous Trinidad” (2000:60). Problematically, for the colonial administrators of Trinidad, the traditional association of the female with agricultural and economic prosperity contradicted the European gender norms, “specifically regarding male superiority and dominance” (Butler, 1990: 48).

Thus, when we examine modern Calypso lyrics, it appears that the male singers simultaneously objectify the female as their property, while celebrating female bodies as dynamic and capable of agency. Consequently, the neo-colonial attitudes that are pervasive in the present day status quo of Trinidadian society have confused the European ideals of male dominance over the Caribbean concept of powerful female sexuality. Overall, the historic cosmology of the indigenous Trinidadians suggests the deeply embedded nature of female sexuality in their society –a tradition that has carried into the present culture of Trinidadian dance and Calypso music, which continues to be complicated by the conflicting dualism of neo-colonial moral ideology.

Works Cited

Butler, Judith. 1990. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity.
London: Routledge.

Dikobe, Maude. 2004. Bottom in de Road: Gender and Sexuality in Calypso.
Proud Flesh: A New Afrikan Journal of culture, Politics and Consciousness. 3(3)
pp. 1-18. Retrieved July 26th from www.proudfleshjournal.com/issue3.dikobe.htm

Forte, Maxmillian. 2005. Writing the Caribs Out: The Construction and Demystification
Of the ‘Deserted Island’ Thesis for Trinidad. Issues in Caribbean Amerindian Studies. Pp. 1-37. Vol 6(3) August 2005.

Honychurch, Lennox. 2002. The Lost Cosmology of Indigenous Caribbean. Cavehill
Press.

Wilbert, Johannes. 1993. Mystic Endowment: Religious ethnography of the Warao
Indians. Harvard University Press.

Discography:

Many calypsos are never “officially” recorded on albums or CDs. Consequently, it is not always possible to provide complete discographic information for every song quoted. In this assignment all the song lyrics are derived from Dikobe’s 2004 article.

Kitchener, Lord “Sugar Bum Bum”
Rudder, David “Trail of Bumsie”
Victory, George “Biggie Bam Bam”

Diagram and Photos:

www.cavehill.uwi.edu/bnccde/grenada/conference.htm

www.guardian.co.tt/photos/details.php?image_id=564

www.davidsanger.com/stockimages/8-150-6.dancer

Welcome to my travel blog!

2006-08-25T14:37:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone! Thanks for visiting this new site I created for everyone to follow along while I am in Trinidad and Tobago! My flight leaves on September 29th, but I will be in Vancouver doing some prework before I leave. I will be posting my essay about Trinidadian Calypso Culture and Gender in the next couple of days. The essay was written for an 'anticipation of place' assignment' which I will explain later