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The power went about an hour ago, so here in the depths of the Diego Martin valley we’re experiencing a rare moment of utter darkness. A fellow Twitter user asked me the other day how much of the southern sky we were able to see from Trinidad. The answer is quite a lot of it, though it occurred me then that, for some odd reason, I rarely look south.
Tonight I did, though. The image below is the view looking south. The one above is looking north-west.
Seen from my home in Diego Martin, Trinidad.
Technorati Tags: “lunar eclipse” eclipse moon astronomy sky trinidad caribbean
It turns out that 12pm was the perfect time to go and cast one’s vote at polling station 0136 (known as the Diego Martin Junior Secondary School when it’s not election day). A parking spot awaited me in the schoolyard, in the shade of a mango tree, and apart from a handful of voters and a number of my COP activist neighbours roving the dingy corridors and walkways in between shifts as polling agents, the place was deserted. After visiting a main classroom where an Elections and Boundaries Commission officer checked to make sure my name was on the list, I was directed to the room for voters with surnames beginning with L-Z, where where voters with and without ID cards were separated into lines demarcated by strips of red and green paper stuck on the floor.
A certified “without” (I deliberately misplaced my ID card some years ago, largely on account of the horrifying photo), I took the red line. Once there, I proffered my passport and the polling card I’d received in the mail. The officer consulted the electoral list and drew a red line through my name, then rifled through a massive ledger and found a blue card with my registration info and a copy of the dreadful photo (now thankfully faded) from my lost ID card stuck to it. (I hope a copy of information in this ledger is stored on a computer somewhere.) Then the officer made me swear that I wasn’t lying about being unable to produce an ID card and that I hadn’t sold it, after which I had to sign a note confirming same. Then my name and consecutive number (198, for the record) were announced, mainly for the benefit of the two polling agents present (one of whom was probably COP and the other PNM–the UNC Alliance probably not bothering to waste further resources in this constituency), whose task is to try and figure out who I’m likely to be voting for.
Then I moved on to the voting officer, who signed and handed me my ballot paper and showed me how to fold it and to use the “X” stamp. Then I went behind a screen propped up on a school desk, considered briefly whether to inaugurate Jeremy’s proposed plan for proportional representation by putting a percentage instead of put an “X” next to the name of my candidate of choice, but decided on the “X” instead. Then I inserted my ballot through a slot into a padlocked metal box, dipped my finger into a pot of red ink, wiped off the excess, and left the room. So I’ve exercised my constitutional right, as the people like to say.
All morning the words to Bally’s “Party Time“, one of the undisputed hits of the 1986 election season, have been ringing in my head; belatedly, I know, as yesterday marked the end of the mindless and particularly Trinidadian brand of campaigning that Bally parodies in his calypso and which seems to have been taken to unprecedented heights this year. And of course I’m remembering 1986, the first and only time I ever felt deeply involved in an election campaign, not to mention hopeful about the outcome. That year my neighbourhood threw their support, predictably, behind the NAR, and I, not long back from university abroad, joined in. I spent most of that election day either at the polling station (I was a polling agent) or at the house up the street which had been designated NAR activist headquarters, getting high on the buzz.
The NAR won 33 out of 36 seats, of course, and swept into power on a tremendous tide of goodwill. Who knew then that, a mere three and a half years later, I’d be sitting in traffic on a highway in northern California (having left Trinidad only five days earlier) and hear an announcement over National Public Radio about a coup in Trinidad and Tobago. A journalist friend of mine says that when she hears the calypso “Vote Dem Out”, the campaign song that rocked the worlds of NAR supporters in 1986, chills still run up her spine–though not for quite the same reasons they did in 1986.
I envy my COP activist neighbours, some of whom were key figures in the NAR frenzy of 21 years ago, their commitment and passion and the sense of hope they’ve clearly been able to muster about the outcome of this year’s election. But try as I might, I can’t share in it.
Tonight I’ll be getting together with a few friends here at home to watch the election results. We’ll order some food, and Jonty is poised to grab a few bottles of wine once the polls close and the prohibition against the sale of alcohol during polling time is lifted. Nikipedia says he may blog, but we (or rather I) have warned him that relatively sociability is one of the requirements for being a part of this lime. We probably won’t make it a very late night. J9 has to be up early for a shoot tomorrow, and in any case we’ll probably all drink more than we should. Then wake up tomorrow and face the music.
I’m in Louisville, Kentucky to attend the Idea Festival. Arrived here yesterday evening a bit dazed after the 11.5 hour journey (via Houston) from Trinidad, and so far have only ventured within a couple of blocks of the hotel to have dinner in Fourth Street, a pedestrianised entertainment hub lined with the likes of TGIF and the Hard Rock Café and where having a huge and blinding neon sign is evidently part of the zoning guidelines. My Global Voices colleague Amira Al Hussaini and I had a very good dinner, however, at an establishment specialising in bourbon, where I had my first ever mint julep. I suspect it won’t be my last either–they’re not as good as mojitos, but close.
On the way here I also had my second experience of being recognised as the person who does CFR, which was rather shocking, as I’ve begun to think that I barely qualify as a blogger any more, far less as a podcaster. The recogniser was Maurini Strub, a Trinidadian transplanted to Detroit who tells me she has a neglected blog on Vox (don’t we all) but didn’t offer the URL. Thanks, Maurini, for making me feel like I’m still part of the blogosphere.
I landed here around 8pm yesterday evening, so my impressions of the city are vague, but the feature of the landscape that made the strongest impression as we glided over the city were the bridges spanning the Ohio River. Hence the choice of the photo above, which was taken from my 17th-floor hotel room. I believe that’s the George Rogers Clark Memorial Bridge. (More photos will be posted here, though no need to rush there just yet, as I’ve only posted two so far).
Off now to see what the Idea Festival is all about, and to find some eye drops, as I’ve been plagued with hay fever ever since I landed on US soil. Could I be allergic to America?
Still in Chicago (BlogHer ended yesterday - was excellent - photos here), and still proving that I’m an even worse blogger when I’m travelling than when I’m at home. In lieu of a conference report/trip update - at least for now - here are a couple of photos I took this afternoon in Millennium Park.
Now why is it that we outgrow activities like this again?
Cheryl Ali, retail manager of Nigel R Khan Bookseller, is interviewed by a local television station during the launch of Harry Potter 7
It’s only after he puts on the pair of round fake-Italian sunglasses with the slightly reflective lenses that I realise that the figure in the purple cape I’d seen earlier lurking sheepishly near the self-help section is meant to be Harry. A twentysomething year-old Harry, Indian, with close-cropped hair and a five o’clock shadow. The attendants in witch hats bustling around the store, distributing books at the special Potter table and manning the cash registers are a great deal more spirited, led from in front by the indefatigable retail manager/chief witch Cheryl Ali, whose hat has a special orange and black striped crown which marks her as both head honcho and go-to gal.
The book-buying public in Trinidad is well-behaved, and the considerable crowd gathered at Nigel R Khan Booksellers yesterday evening for the 701pm launch of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is no exception. Besides, this is West Mall, in the heart of the country’s north-western peninsula, the cradle of bourgeois values. As a certain artist renowned for pointing out the blindingly obvious remarked the other day at Alice Yard, there are lots of “red people” here.
I spot the father of a friend, more than likely buying a copy of the book for his grandson, who lives in Tobago with his craft store-owning mom. One of the country’s less popular beauty queens turns up at one point and issues a preemptive, “No interviews!” to the television crews in the vicinity, none of whom acts like it’s any great loss. Here and there eager, sweet-faced kids (and some shameless adults) are posing for photos and rhapsodising about the Potter books for TV and radio. CityTalk 91.1’s Raymond Edwards is anchoring a live broadcast from the store which includes Deathly Hallows excerpts read by a chubby, pleasant-faced woman in a witch hat sitting on an overstuffed love seat.
By a little after 8pm the store, which remains open tonight till midnight, has begun to empty. A few people come in to collect their Potter pre-orders and a handful of regular patrons are perusing the shelves. The witches at the Potter distribution table still have a decent stock of books, mainly the Bloomsbury edition with the classy-looking dark cover which looks like it could be targeted at adult Potter fans, who might be ashamed to be seen reading the edition with the cartoonish-looking cover in public (earlier there were also copies of the garish Scholastic (US) edition on sale, but these all seem to be gone now). Harry is wandering idly among the aisles, looking lost. A couple of witches are reading. The last television crew, a guy from Gayelle sent out tonight on a solo run, interviews Cheryl Ali, who has to hold the microphone herself and talk to the camera as he mumbles questions and shoots at the same time. A friend’s son sidles over to me and says he doesn’t need to read the book now that he’s looked at the last page and satisfied himself that certain things happen. Or don’t.
As I’m leaving the mall I run into a friend. “You were in there?” she asks. “Not buying,” I say, indicating the camera around my neck. She looks slightly embarrassed, and hugs a green Nigel R Khan bag clearly containing a thick book to her chest. “I’ve been sick all day,” she says, making a gesture that suggests the problem is her stomach. “And since I’m going to be up all night. . . I figured. . . .” I concurred, or at least I pretended I did, and wished her a good night.
See more photos from the launch here.
Technorati Tags: harry potter, harry potter and the deathly hallows, books, trinidad, caribbean, reading, bookshop
, which is available for pre-order from Amazon.com.
Also available at Amazon is New Caribbean Poetry
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Technorati Tags: kei miller, jamaica, caribbean, literature, poetry
Jamaican poet and novelist Kei Miller
It’s often said that once you acquire a DSLR and a lens that’s more than a couple of inches long, it’s only a matter of time before you start getting requests to photograph weddings. Fortunately for me, most of my friends are either already married, sworn off marriage, or unmarriageable. This, however, doesn’t stop them from organising other kinds of events, which is how I found myself in the role of (unpaid) official photographer at a reading by the Jamaican novelist and poet Kei Miller held last night at the Reader’s Bookshop.
Covering a reading is a far easier task than photographing a wedding, I’m sure. There’s no chance, for instance, of your battery running out just as the couple is about to lock lips at the altar, no obligatory shots of the wedding party in its various permutations (couple-with-parents-and-ex-spouses, couple-with-parents-and-current-spouses, groom-with-mother-that-can’t-let-go, couple-with-branch-of-family-that-still-talks-to-each-other, couple-with-estranged-siblings, etc.), and unless it’s an outdoor reading, it’s unlikely you’ll ever have to venture near the Botanic Gardens, the grounds of the President’s House or Wild Flower Park. Once you’ve made sure you’ve got at least one serviceable photo of the writer you’re pretty much off the hook, free to experiment with weirdly-angled shots of bookshelves, piles of books, slumbering audience members, people’s feet.
I first met Kei in front of Jack Sprat’s bar at the Calabash Literary Festival in Treasure Beach, Jamaica. I challenged him to guess what Nikipedia (whom he had corresponded with, but never met in person) looked like. He declined the challenge, which led me to think he was a wise man. Last night, I learned that he’s also an excellent reader, especially of his poetry, and also a passionate commentator on his own work and craft.
After being introduced by Nikipedia, who, as editor of the event’s co-sponsor, the Caribbean Review of Books, was also the chief organiser of the proceedings, Kei read a series of excerpts from his first novel (to be released in 2008), followed by a handful of selections from his two books of poems, Kingdom of Empty Bellies and the upcoming There is an Anger that Moves. In between, he fielded questions from both interviewer Nikipedia and the audience with thoughtfulness and grace, not to mention a breathtaking lack of pretension.
Listening to Kei
I’ve only read some of the stories in The Fear of Stones (which was shortlisted for the Best First Book award, Caribbean and Canada, in the 2006 Commonwealth Writers’ Prizes) and a few of the poems, but I look forward to reading more of Kei’s work, and I’m certain that he won’t ever ask me to remove any of the photos of him from my Flickr page, as the person who eventually beat him out for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize did this morning (NOTE: the photo linked to is not the one the author asked me to remove). A perfectly good photo, with perhaps the person’s mouth doing something slightly odd, but hardly disfiguring, taken not in some paparazzi-friendly location but while the individual was on stage accepting his prize. And there I was naïvely thinking that Bernard Henri-Lévy had the market cornered on writerly vanity.
Technorati Tags: kei miller, jamaica, trinidad, caribbean, literature, books
Those who check in on my Flickr page would have noticed (some of with great relief, I’m sure) that I’d sort of burned out on the bird photography. Thing is, there are just so many ways to shoot a Blue Gray Tanager.
Here in Tobago, however, I’ve become obsessed with the several varieties of hummingbird that frequent my uncle’s bird feeder. Capturing good photos of these hyperactive creatures poses an entirely new set of challenges, some of which — patience? — I’m pleasantly surprised at my willingness to embrace. I’ve also noticed that they have really short legs.
Most of you will probably never have cause ever to drive in Scarborough, Tobago’s capital. Be thankful.
It occurs to me that this is my maiden voyage on the fast ferry to Tobago (I don’t get over to the sister island nearly enough). It’s quite spacious and comfortable, and the decor has a sort of mildly faded, early ’80s vibe. The the ride is fairly smooth (at least for now). Not bad for TT$215 (US$34) round trip (including car).
We’re already what seems like four or five miles out of port, and I still have internet connectivity from my EVDO modem — interested to see how long it will last.
The T&T Express - the ferry that plies the route between Trinidad and Tobago
Apologies for the break in transmission. I returned to Trinidad from Jamaica only on Monday, and today (Wednesday), I find myself on the port at Port of Spain, waiting to drive my car on to the ferry to Tobago (pictured above), where I’ll be headquartered for the next 17 days.
I still have grand plans, however, of blogging about the final day of Calabash, which Nicholas has of course already done over at Antilles, and the final Calabash photoset is here.
Roger Guenveur Smith performs “Who Killed Bob Marley”
The Calabash Literary Festival opened this evening with an overlong and meandering but still quite fascinating performance piece by American actor Roger Guenveur Smith called “Who Killed Bob Marley”, followed by a far less compelling trio of readings by three young authors from Brooklyn-based independent publisher Akashic Books. I’m far too beat to write more at this point, so I’ll point you to Nicholas’s brief but comprehensive report at Antilles and also our growing pool of Calabash photos.
More later.
We’re in Treasure Beach, Jamaica, for the Calabash Literary Festival, which kicks off this evening. Check in here and at Antilles for updates, and at my Flickr page for photos. The only images posted so far, however, are of us lounging at the lovely Lyric villa: the envy-prone may wish to exercise caution.
Jonty on the (virtual) turntables, Sean Thomas on drums and the rest of us running our mouths. Photos here.
After this appeared, a few of my crueller friends suggested I should have Delphine’s tongue removed. I had to remind them that she’s just a pothound, after all, and you shouldn’t read too much into her expressions (not to mention, of course, that removing an animal’s tongue is just plain barbarous.)
Looking at the image above, however — the glint in the eyes, the expression of utter disdain — especially in the context of her Garbo-like attitude towards being photographed lately, you do begin to wonder. . . .
Pictured above is one of two (or three, if you count the orange shawl someone handed to me, just like that, in a restaurant last night) delightful gifts I received yesterday.
Nikipedia picked up this figurine of Dr. José Gregorio Hernández on his travels in Venezuela. A physician who, during his lifetime, ministered to the poor, Dr. Hernandez is “commonly invoked as “José Gregorio” by both doctors and patients for healing purposes. He is also called upon for protection during overland journeys.” The Vatican granted him the status of Venerable in 1985, and he’s also a lesser deity in the pantheon of the syncretic cult of María Lionza.
José Gregorio joins Babe the Blue Ox and others in one of my own personal pantheons — that comprising lovely and unusual gifts given to me by close friends.
I’ve been getting a real kick lately out of photographing birds in my garden. Almost every morning I position myself behind the breeze blocks in the laundry room to see who shows up for his/her share of the fruit on the makeshift bird-feeder next to the water tank.
One of the folks at the breakfast table this morning was this Bare-Eyed Thrush (Turdus nudigenis). My growing collection of bird photos is here.
(Cross posted at Caribbean Free Photo)
This is the sort of thing Vernon would know. What’s the name of the tree the object in the photo was once attached to? It’s a long, flattish pod, possibly green when it’s young, but dark brown when it ages and falls off the tree and dries and curls into this lovely coil. I cannot for the life of me remember what it’s called.
I took this photo last Sunday in Cumuto, with the new camera that Delphine’s not so crazy about. Next time I’ll take a picture of the tree as well. (See more Cumuto photos here).
As I write this, there’s a bush bug* on my desk. A few minutes ago (as the photo above attests) it was performing calisthenics on the rim of a drinking glass; now it’s burrowing under an envelope. I don’t like having bush bugs around, but as I tend to keep the windows open, I expect that, from time to time, insects will land on my desk. Some of them will stay only a few moments, like the moth that alighted on my credit card statement a while ago, then flew off within seconds, perhaps appalled by my credit card balance (or, more likely, in search of better lighting). Others, like this bush bug, will stick around for a while. This fella (gal?) has been here since this afternoon.
As I said, I’d prefer if there weren’t a bush bug on my desk. Nothing against bush bugs personally: it’s just that I like to reserve the space on my desk for things like MacBooks; bottles of Vitamin B12 tablets; bank statements; cordless phones; notebooks; cans of canned air; stray dollar bills; flash card readers; blocks of Post-It notes; trade paperbacks; grey sleep masks from some airline (still in their plastic wrapper; what the hell are those doing there?); camera-battery chargers; letters from newly re-branded airlines with frequent flyer cards glued to them; glue sticks; iPods; glasses cases; nest-like tangles of computer cables; small, elegant-but-sensible-looking Swiss watches; whirring external hard drives (one in the process of cloning the other); ceramic pencil holders; and, of course, microphones and mixers (how else is a podcaster supposed to practise her craft?). And let us not forget wine glasses.
But about my having nothing against bush bugs: I said that to be politically correct, of course. I actually dislike bush bugs quite intensely. The problem with bush bugs, however, is that once you disturb them, they emit a strong, Durian-grade odour which most people (myself included) find very unpleasant. An odour that takes hours to go away.
I look at my bush bug now, at rest on the sleep mask’s plastic wrapper, its antennae no longer making the frantic waving motions of a few minutes ago. So perhaps it is sleeping. Perhaps it is even dying (as there was no entry for “bush bug” in Wikipedia, and since I don’t know the scientific name, I have no idea what kind of lifespan these creatures have, and even if I knew–how old is this one? How close to the end of its natural life?).
While the bush bug rests, however, I continue to compose this post, undisturbed but for those moments when I glance over at the bush bug to check out its latest antics. And the only reason I’m even looking at the bush bug is because it’s the subject of this post. I’m 99% sure that by tomorrow it will be gone, either to bush bug Valhalla or back out the window to a more suitable habitat (like, say, the bush). And besides, it is only a tiny thing.
*a kind of beetle brown marmorated stink bug (Halymorpha halys) (thanks, Vernon)
