We made our way up to Hatchet Bay at 11.30 on Saturday morning. It was hot and muggy, and most people don't much bother with the fest until evening, at which point they drink and party until 4am. We made our way up to the bar, and were happy to see a familiar face.
Shavone looked exhausted, but still had a smile for us. She told us that this year, she wasn't working as an employee, it was her bar. She'd won the bid for it (there is only one bar in the festival), and it was going really well, although she'd only had 7 hours of sleep since Monday. She opens at 7am, at which point she has a line of people who can't wait for a drink. "You get people who don't wanna go home! They jus' drink an' party and then sleep a little on the beach then come beggin' for me to serve 'em at 7 in the mornin'!" I grinned, "You sound very disapproving, but it seems to be good business for you." She giggled, "Yeah, you got dat right!" She then called Mario over to ask about the story telling and walkabout. He asked a local woman to walk us over, she looked at him like he was crazy and then up at the sky, with its hot sun blazing down and declared that she'd drive us over.
"Now, Ms Rona is old. She tells stories, but you've gots'ta ask her questions and she'll answer. She knows all about Hatchet Bay." I confess, I was looking forward to some good island stories with an animated older woman who'd put the fear of God into you, as soon as look at you. If like me, you've grown up with Bre'r Rabbit and Bre'r Fox stories, you'll understand my secret hopes. Bre'r Rabbit was another incarnation of the African spider, Anansi. The stories are identical and numerous, with the folk hero of the story always being a trickster and trying to outwit the others in the story. The Bahamas are a treasure trove for these stories. We pulled up to a green home that I had seen on previous trips to Hatchet Bay. Sitting on the porch were a couple of young women, and in the corner, an older woman with a slim build, in a brightly colored blouse and skirt with a sequined hat upon her head. "Meet, Ms. Rona."
Her "granddaughters" Monique and Marcita sat at either end of the porch and prompted her with questions, "Tell her about the house!" She'd laugh and look a bit embarrassed, "Oh, this house is old." Monique piped up, "It's over 150 years old! It's the oldest house in Hatchet Bay!"
As we spoke, people driving by would stop and wave and yell out greetings, anyone walking down the street would stop for a few minutes to chat with Ms. Rona, A couple of people happened by with a grocery bag of things for her. Ms. Rona, at nearly 90, has outlived most of her family. Her own child would have been 72, 20 of her 21 brothers and sisters have passed. She's had two husbands, and now she lives in her daddy's old home, where she was born and raised. She remembers the day that people on the island saw their first plane in the sky. It was exciting and strange. In those days, the mail boat came twice a month. She talked about walking all day to Harbour Island in the north, lighting a fire so that a boatman would come and take her across so that she could go to the doctor. That was the only way you could do it in those days. There wasn't a doctor on this island, though many years later, there was a white nurse who lived here.
I asked about what women did in childbirth, she said, "Oh, mostly, they died! I almost died when having mine."
"Were there midwives?" I queried with concern. She nodded her head slowly, so that her entire upper body moved with agreement, "Yes, but they didn't know much of anything." She couldn't remember how many different wives her father had had in order to make 22 babies.
We then talked about bush medicine and Marcita, who is a science teacher in Spanish Wells, enthusiastically gathered samples and identified nearby plants for us, including the Castor plant, from which we get castor oil. Everything has its uses, many "cool the blood" which is another way of saying that they lower blood pressure. Ms. Rona had a book that was only recently published, entitled, "Bush Medicine of the Bahamas". Jon and I plan to pick it up at the bookstore (read that as, "Office General") this week. It's an invaluable resource that will keep alive a tradition of natural remedies that is being dismissed as part of the "old ways" and therefore of little value by the young.
My favorite home tale, Ms. Rona refused to tell because she was embarrassed at having been such a bad girl. Marcita had no such compunctions. It was one of her favorites, and she told it well.
When Ms. Rona was 11, she and a friend decided to steal potatoes from her daddy's farm. They sneaked out into the field and dug up some potatoes. Being hungry, they decided to cook an' eat 'em on the spot. They built a fire, right there at the edge of the field to roast those potatoes. Now, makin' a fire is a whole lot easier if you use a lot of grass to get it going. They piled the grass high and, oh! They lost control! That fire went on burnin' and spreadin' and burnin! It burned her daddy's farm, an' kept a'spreadin' and burned down two more farms besides! Now, they were scared and tried to run an' hide, but some men from the next farm saw 'em and caught 'em. "We're gonna take you to your daddy and he's gonna beat you to within an inch o'your life!" She was so scared!
Ms. Rona interrupted, "Yeah, but my daddy never hit me. He stood up straight and he told those men that I was a child of eleven. I didn't know what I was doin' an' there ain't no point in beating a child for being ignorant. He'd take care of it. Oh, they was mad! Wanted to beat me themselves, but he wouldn't let 'em. Later, he took me out and said, 'If you get hungry and steal potatoes, you gotta make a fire in a clear space on rock. Take and put rocks all around in a circle like this, and then make the fire in the middle.'" Her eyes were far away as she spoke, I could almost see her as a little girl, shaking with fear, and her daddy sighing and teaching her how to do it better next time, even though all his crops had been burned down. A faint smile touched the lips of this beautiful woman who had seen so much in her lifetime.
Marcita laughed, "Ooohh, your daddy never beat you, but you were lucky that your momma wasn't there, she sure woulda!" Ms. Rona nodded, it was true, her mom would have given her a sound beating over that one.
Ms. Rona announced that she was tired, the day was hot. Monique declared that now we were family, so we were always welcome. We laughed and hugged and thanked Ms. Rona for her time and her stories.
Fishing Contest
Marcita walked us down to the dock on "the pond" where they were having an all day fishing contest. I was surprised to see that the only people fishing were women. They don't fish with poles here, just a line and hook. There were men supine in the shade of the shelter at the end of the dock, while others sat on the picnic benches in the middle and called out jokes like, "What you doin' layin' on the floor like that? At least we know what you'll look like in your coffin!" Small children ran around, fascinated by the fish and the hermit crabs. Why hermit crabs? Well, they use the intestines as bait. A woman brought a big bucket of hermit crabs. Then as they needed bait, they'd grab hold of the crabs and rip them out of their shells. Then they'd bang the shells to get the back side out, slip it on a hook and toss the rest of the crab into the water.
Jon went off to explore the entrance to a cave off the pond while I laughed and chatted with the locals. Before long, he was back with new caving adventures planned for another day. Marcita drove us back to the festival, everyone on the street asking her what she was up to. When she replied that she was taking us on a walkabout, she was met with laughter and, "You doin' the walkin' for them?"
We rounded out our afternoon chatting at Shavone's bar, over drinks and barbecue before heading home. It was a lovely, if very hot and muggy day.
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