Hammock Hangout

Another note from the island…

My friend, Richard, recently accused me of being obsessed since I was the owner of five hammocks.  Yes, five.  He may have a point.  And I replied by saying that I was not only obsessive, but probably compulsive about hammocks as well.  Do you have any idea what a compulsive/obsessive hammock problem looks like?  Here goes.

This is my stereo hammock arrangement.  These two hang side-by-side, inviting for pairs of swingers to chill in the morning shade and gaze upon the blue Caribbean.  After twelve, this becomes untenable as the afternoon sun invades this space.

That is why I have the deck hammock.  This is my afternoon chill spot under the shade of two Brazilwood trees.  As I documented in an earlier blog by Worldkid, there are also two pieces of canvas strung above for additional shade as the trees begin to lose their leaves during the dry season.  Plus, a pair of gargoyles protect the outer perimeter to thwart any negative vibes from entering.

…under the foxtail palms

But my most recent addition is the palm hammock.  I strung this one between two foxtail palms that I planted years ago on the south side of the house. The trees are now hefty enough to take the weight. A couple of clove hitches and bowlines did the trick for hanging the hammock. I love the smooth, light gray trunks of these trees.  They resemble the classic Royal Palm.  But above, the palms’ fronds differ.  They are shaped like, well, a fox’s tail.

If you are counting, I still have one hammock left.  It is a single in simple off white.  I am still contemplating where to hang this one.  In the meantime, I will sway away the day and think about where the best next location might be.  

History tells that I am not alone with my obsession.  Hammocks were first developed in the Caribbean and on the mainlands of South and Central America.  Hamacas, as they were known in the islands, were quickly adopted by Spanish explorers in search of gold.  After a day of carting around that hot and heavy armor, the conquistadores needed to chill too.  As Christopher Columbus noted, A great many Indians in canoes came to the ship today for the purpose of bartering their cotton, and hamacas, or nets, in which they sleep.”

From there the obsession grew rapidly.  Sailors immediately began using hammocks as a way to stay dry and away from the ship rats while sleeping. Some fools recently declared a National Hammock Day in the USA. And even bears are now using hammocks!

So yeah, Ricard, I just might be obsessed with hammocks, but I’m not alone.  And as the superlative Turkish novelist Mehmet Murat ildan once wrote, While sleeping in a hammock, with the touch of a warm wind, we remember why we are in love with the life…  I rest my case.


Banana Bloom

Another Island Note…

It all started with a cut-off top of a pineapple plant.  Hettie discovered if you take that and put itin soil, it will produce another pineapple. That was 14 months ago.  And whilethe plant has grown considerably in size, there is still no fruit to be seen.  In fact, the plant grew so large that I hadto transplant the beast from a terrace pot to a garden plot.  That got me thinking that I need to start my very own piña colada garden.

The pineapple plant transplanted.

For those who don’t imbibe, a piña colada is a tropical concoction of pineapple, coconut and rum. My garden already had the pineapple plant in it.  I could easily plant a coco palm there.  Why hell, maybe even grow a small stand of sugar cane and make my own rum. Really?  Nah.  Actually, when I considered the time it would take to harvest all the necessary ingredients from the plot and distill the rum,I passed on the whole idea.  But the pineapple plant looked mighty lonely there all alone.  That’s when I put in four banana plants, each about 2-feet high.

Now growing bananas also takes a long time.  Hundreds of afternoons can be spent swinging in the hammock before you will see the first fruit.  But hell, two things I have a lot of is time and hammocks (current number is up to five).  So, in went the plants.

Just last week the first banana bloom popped out.  It is a long, phallic-like purple protrusion that interrupts the landscape like a rude punctuation mark.  Days later the first bananas appeared right behind the bloom, small fruits that I hope will rival a Chiquita in the near future. They radiate in a ring around the stalk with small white flowers at the end of each fruit.  That was followed by another ring or ‘hand’ as they say in the banana business, and then another. And soon, hopefully, the other plants will begin producing as well.  So, what to do with the harvest?

A new “hand” of bananas
These delicate flowers don’t last long/

Well I’m back to my original idea but with a twist.  I’m planning to make a piña banana colada with a generous amount of Flor de Caña 4-year old rum.  This libation should render that frozen concoction that helps me hang on in one of my five hammocks. 

But wait.  Another surprise was discovered next to the banana bloom.  Propped on the end of a stalk was a small nest and sitting on top a proud blue-tailed emerald hummingbird keeping minuscule eggs warm. 

This can only be a good omen.  Hummingbirds have a long history of symbolism in native cultures. The Aztecs saw them as messengers to the gods. The Maya believed that the very first wedding ever performed on Earth was between two hummingbirds.  And here in the Caribbean, the Tiano Indians viewed hummers as a symbol of rebirth and good luck.  With that kind of serendipitous mojo in my garden, no doubt we’ll have a record harvest of bananas this year.

Independence Day


Another note from dah island, mon…

It all started when the green light clicked on. For two days Pieter and Benjamin from Solar Solutions had been busy installing 10 solar panels on our roof. Next came the Sunny Boy inverter that converts 12-volt electricity produced by the sun activating the panels’ photo voltaics.  Then the final step, install a cable to feed our electric system and a breaker. Pieter activated the inverter for the first time.  “You see that shining green light on the Sunny Boy?  You are now making electricity.  Congratulations!  Yes, this was Independence Day.DSC00737

Electricity prices in the Caribbean are among the highest in the world and Bonaire is no exception.  I’ve been told that 60% of our power comes from the wind generators on the  east coast.  The remainder is from diesel-fueled generators.  But the monopoly, WEB (Water-Electric-Bonaire) charges a hook-up fee, not one time but monthly.  On top of that, they bill a whopping 28.7-cents per kilowatt hours.  Those heavy charges all add it all up making me feel like I better sit in the dark at night.  Or better yet, get pro-active and install a solar system.DSC00770

DSC00768Ours is a day-only system, which means that no battery storage is needed.  We generate electricity when the sun hits the solar panels (actually, I’ve seen light from the full moon activate it). That power goes directly into our home’s electric grid. Whatever we don’t use is sent back to WEB for a paltry 5-cent charge instead of the 28.7-cents they charge us.  So our mantra is run everything during the daylight hours that we can-swimming pool pump, washing machine, dish washer, whatever.

The first few sunny days we would go out to our street-side electric meter and take a look.  The dial was always stationary-no power was being used.  How much we sold back to WEB will be discovered at a later date. Even on cloudy days, and we’ve had a few lately due to passing tropical depressions, the solar is producing 75% of our daytime electric use.  What is really boss is that the Sunny Boy inverter feeds the info to a web site and shows us all the details-kilowatt production, how much per hour, etc.  But the coolest data shows how many pounds of carbon emissions were not put into the environment because of our solar system. That makes me feel really good. DSC00763


Solar hot water heater hiding behind the banana trees.

This has been a long time coming.  When we bought our house on the hill it already had a solar hot water heater.  It’s a big box that runs water through black pipes.  The builder had installed an electric backup boiler, but we have never used it.  We have warm water even after two days of clouds, and that is unusual Bonaire weather. But the solar hot water planted the seed and showed us the potential of having a photo voltaic system to produce electricity.  We were ready to do that two years ago, but life unexpectedly got in the way.  Plans were shelved until this month.  Now every September 19thwe will have a celebration because for us, it’s Independence Day.DSC00749

The Last Laugh

dsc_0021Another Island Note…

I have just returned from the Arctic, back to my tropical island.  It’s a sizzling September this year as hurricanes and tropical storms blow by to the north. In the process, these tempests take away most of our cooling trade winds.  When you are living at 12° latitude, that calls for a hot day.  But there is no use in complaining.  You can’t reason with hurricane season.

dsc_0015Besides the heat, I have noticed some changes among the feathery residents of the island.  Swallows have appeared, cutting sharp aerial patterns in the red sunset sky.  A few laughing gulls still remain.  Gone are the days when hundreds squawked and laughed seaside on their way through the breeding season.  The birds that stayed behind are now uncommonly still and it will be months before they will have sex again.  I believe this may be the last laugh for the gulls.  At least until next spring.DSC00708

As night descends, I take to the streets of my neighborhood for a cooling walk.  Venus, Jupiter and Mars brighten up the south western sky.  The moon is nearly full and bathes the way in a soft, mellow light. I hear “click” ahead.  Yes, it is another hermit crab deciding to hunker down on the asphalt.  As I approach, the terrestrial crustacean retreats within its shell, a refined defensive technique far superior to that of the ostrich burying its head in the sand.

But it is the nightjars that I find most fascinating. I’ll encounter at least a dozen during an evening half-hour stroll.  These nocturnal birds have ghostly, erratic flights that lift them only a few feet above the ground, often just inches over my head.  Engoulevent coré Hydropsalis cayennensis White-tailed NightjarWhite striped wings reveal their flight path, but only for a moment. With a quick turn, the birds disappear into the inky dark.  Then suddenly they mysteriously reappear moments later, usually behind me with a resounding ‘plop’.  No wonder the locals regard the elusive nightjars with superstition.  For me, I find them fascinating friends of the night.


Nightjar in the middle of the street.

In my neighborhood, nightjars often station themselves on the street, directly facing a lamp pole.  They look like guardians of the light.  I try to approach slowly and often stop for as long as a minute to see which of us will move first.  It is usually me and within that first step forward, the nightjar will take to the air. I try repeatedly in vain to make contact.  It’s my quest to learn more about these strange creatures.  But the birds are aloof, steadfastly preserving their island myth. On evenings such as this, it is really the nightjars who have the last laugh.DSC00719

Talking Parrots

11JulyAru 67 11 (1)

Another Island Note…

I am fortunate to live at a place on the island where I get a heavy dose of parrots most of the year.  For a tropical troubadour, nothing could be better.  Most evenings huge numbers of yellow-shouldered Amazon parrots fly through the ravine behind my house.  They come in twos or threes or groups up to twenty depending on the season.  The birds are headed for their nightly roost, a tranquil place away from people high on the ridge above my home.

Right before sunrise, the flight back out into the world is definitely not orderly.  Rather, it is a chaotic explosion of feather and squawk, sometime approaching one hundred birds doing wild aerial acrobatics. The sound is deafening.  Often I am woken by the all the bluster and just smile. It is a pleasant reminder that I am where I want to be on this big, blue marble; down island on dushiBonaire where the trade winds blow free, dolphins and mantas frolic in the blue sea, and the rum is cold and good.

But yellow-shouldered Amazon parrots are not an enigma for me nor a distant avian concept that simply flutters by my home twice a day.  Rather, I am one of the few lucky islanders fortunate to have a personal relationship with a member this exotic species called Amazona barbadensisor by the local name of lora.

That is all possible thanks to my good friends George and Laura.  By the late 1980s, they had had enough of conventional stateside life and set sail south from Chesapeake Bay for an extended cruise.  Years later aboard their yacht Oscarina the couple landed on Isla de Margarita, one of Venezuela’s Caribbean island gems.


Isla de Margarita

A man there offered to sell them a parrot, a yellow-shouldered Amazon parrot in fact. Life for George and Laura has never been the same.

The bird was named Oscar, who quickly adapted to life on board their sloop.  And on land, he became quite an asset too.  “I don’t think we ever bought a drink after we got Oscar,” explains George.  “Laura would walk into an island beach bar with the parrot on her shoulder.  From then on the rum would flow free and freely for us.”


Oscar still delights sitting on Laura’s shoulder.

Fast forward several decades and Oscar is still part of the family. Parrots are known for their longevity often living well into their 70s. The crew of three eventually left Oscarinafor life on land and now live deep in the mondi(outback) of Bonaire.  The bird has quite a setup with an elegant cage for sleeping and a daytime perch where he lords over the estate, looking down on the household’s cat and two dogs.  I’ve observed Oscar watching other loras from his lookout.  He seems to express a bit of disdain and superiority toward his wild kin. Perhaps being talisman of a sailboat and head of a manor has gone to his lovely yellow-colored head.


Oscar reading the local paper, a very smart bird.

And maybe that is understandable for an island celebrity with wings.  Oscar has become the “face” of the Bonaire lora.  He starred in the music video “Let Them Fly Free”.  When National Geographic came to film part of a documentary on parrots, Oscar refused to sit on a cactus like the rest of his Bonairean brethren. The NG cameraman gave in to the local star’s demand, building a smooth perch off of his tripod so that the famous bird would be framed in the shot.  Who said TV was real anyway?  And then there was the time that the local parrot foundation rented a bus to take its well-healed patrons around the island in search of parrots. Who was at the front of the bus leading the charge?  Oscar, of course.

But just when we thought we knew everything about this lora, a parrot scientist appeared one day.  He offered to run a DNA test on the bird.  With a saliva sample in hand, the scientist hurried off to the lab.  Two weeks later we found out that Oscar was actually a female. The lora seemed totally unphased by this sudden transgender result.  After all, this bird has seen it all.  She has been in enough rum bars to keep Jack Sparrow happy.  She’s sailed to some of the most beautiful islands in the Caribbean. And now in her terrestrial years, Oscar reigns from her roost.IMG_1627

Come another sunset, I watch once more the parade of yellow-shouldered Amazons past my home.  Some stop to eat cactus fruit before heading up to the ridge for the night. Eventually all are settled in branches above the mondi.  It is about this time that Laura gently places a blanket over her parrot’s cage.  It is the passing of another island day.  I expect Oscar will see many more.  Hopefully, I will again get to share a few of them with him.  Uh, I mean her.  Having a parrot as a buddy is simply the best, especially when one lives on an island. Arrrgh.

Hammock Contemplations

HammockAnother Island Note

Just the other day my good friend, Captain John, asked me for shortcut directions to get to the ridge road when leaving Rincon. “Go to the building where the Polar Beer wall advertisement used to be and turn right,” I expertly instructed.

The captain stared back at me incredulously. “How do you expect me to find that land mark if it doesn’t exist anymore? You’ve been on the island too long!” He had a point. Not about my longevity on Bonaire, but certainly about how the island, in perhaps subtle, imperceptible ways, has changed me. I decided that it was time for some serious hammock contemplation to explore this in depth.

I have a near daily ritual of retreating to my hammock in the heat of the afternoon. It hangs in the shade of the porch where the breezes blow through my home and out to sea.   The hammock is a great place to chill, contemplate the cosmos or simply snooze. I tend to do all three. But on this particular afternoon I began thinking about what Captain John had pointed out. How has this island changed me?

There are a number of small things. For instance, I used make a bee-line to the receptionist upon entering a dentist or doctor office to let them know I was present. No longer. I have learned to first say ‘Bon Dia’ or ‘Bon Tardi’ upon arrival, acknowledging everyone in the waiting room. Only after the greeting is complete do I make my way to the desk.

Another example happened last week. I pulled my station wagon over to say hello to Yellow Man who was walking along Kaya Playa Lechi. I didn’t do a very good job of that since the back end of the car was still on the road. Karen in the pickup truck behind gave me a short honk and yelled out, “Look at you, Patrick. You’re driving just like a local.” She was right. And the people in the three vehicles behind her appeared to nod in agreement as well.

Then there are the celebrations of new things on the island.   When the Bonaire Mall on Kaya Grandi finally got their new escalator working, the first one ever here, I went over and rode the machine to the top—twice. It was great. Then someone critically pointed out that it is only one-way, that once on top you have to walk back down. I never thought about that. I guess I am from the ‘glass-half-full’ school of life philosophy.  09OctBON 4Or how about when the new rotonda opened up at the intersection of Kaya Industria and Kaya International a few years back. I remember that grand day clearly. Approaching the traffic circle everything screamed, “I AM NEW!” in the blazing afternoon sun.  Bold, white lines commanded where to stop.  The new asphalt was deep black from being poured just the day before.  Letters painted on the yellow, circular centerpiece greeted those just released from the Flamingo Airport, ‘Bon Bini Na Bonaire’-welcome to Bonaire.  09OctBON 7It was overwhelming.  I was euphoric.  I sped about the circle once-twice-three times, laughing madly all the way.  My equilibrium-challenged spouse was duly unimpressed and as I approached the fourth orbit, I was sternly urged to abort the mission and begin re-entry. “Oh, ok,” I mumbled and obediently steered my earth orbiter Subaru on to Kaya Industria.

You can imagine with these changes in attitudes what it is like for me to change latitudes when I leave the island. Each year, I dutifully return to the States to see family. But increasingly I feel out of place in the country where I was born. For one, I have to wear real shoes there. Plus the traffic is horrendous. People are in hyper-warp—talking, texting and driving all at the same time. There is little room for poco poco here. When I visit a supermarket I get lost among the four, 20-meter long aisles of frozen foods. All I want is a bag of frozen peas! At a cocktail party hosted by my lovely sister, an urban-elegant girlfriend of hers inquires, “What is it that you exactly do every day on your tiny island?” I begin to answer, but stop. How can I express my excitement about orbiting our new rotunda to this lady? I take a sip of chardonnay instead and safely reply, “Not much.”

Coming back on the United flight from Newark, I await touchdown. Exiting the plane, I get that first blast of warm, tropical air. Yes, back on the island. The next morning, I awake early. First light reveals the silhouette of a palm swaying in slow motion outside my window.   First wind delivers the soft whirling noise from the wind generators mounted on the visiting yachts in the bay. First sounds come from a backyard rooster in the neighborhood as he crows his morning salute. A troupial responds with a multicolored melody. The question from the cocktail party lady comes to mind and I simply smile. What will I do today? Ahhh, let me count the ways…08AugBon 135 (1)

Post Script

Days after my return, Captain John confessed to me that my oblique directions to the ridge road out of Rincon were not the worst that he received down island. One time while anchored on the eastern Caribbean island of Antigua, he asked the best way to get from Falmouth Harbor to Shirley Heights, a lookout notorious for its Sunday parties of rum and reggae. A local told him to follow the road out of town and turn right where the cow was. The captain was skeptical, but made his way up the hill. After a while he saw a man ahead leading a cow by rope along the road. “I asked him if he could show me where he had his cow staked for the day and the farmer complied,” says John. Once there, the thirsty sailor then went right as earlier instructed from and made his way to the best party on Antigua.


Seaside Livin’

DSCN3167Another Island Note

It is unusually gray this morning. I’m moving a bit slow after a late night beach party. But the dog doesn’t care. “Feed me and let’s walk!” commands super-hound, Sparky. We are out the door at 7am.

DSC01406It is Tuesday, pick up day, so the roar of garbage trucks fills the neighborhood air. So does the noise of the diesel from the Molly M, just returned after a night on the water. The crew looks tired as the wind has been blowing a constant 25-30 knots with accompanying heavy seas. I look to the dock and see about thirty black-fin tuna lined up on the deck. Oh my. Sashimi tonight. You know, it’s that delectable Japanese way of preparing raw fish.

Gerry, a local fisherman, comes toward his truck where an opened, coffin-sized cooler awaits.  Sparky’s eyes are locked on him as he approaches with four tuna in each hand. “Bon dia. Do you have a small one for me?” I ask. “Ami pensando asina. Mi ta wòrdu drechi bèk,” responds Gerry in Papiamentu. (I think so. I will be right back.).

The fisherman returns with another two fistfuls of fish and pulls out the smallest. It is a bit more than a kilo. Ten dollars gets me to sashimi heaven. Sparky looks at me and then to the fish.  Yes, I better keep this catch high. The hound is ready for her second breakfast.

Now, I am not a master of filet, but then again, cutting the fish is not brain surgery. A slice near the pectoral fin and then one at the tail. Follow the backbone along one side and then another cut along the bottom. Pull the skin off-easier said then done. Cut two filets out of one side and repeat on the starboard. Thirty minutes later, I have the goods for a feast. StarKist has nothing on me this morning. Sorry, Charlie.DSC01387

DSC01389Now I slice paper-thin pieces off of two filets. And then there is the obligatory wasabi—that strong Japanese horseradish paste that clears sinuses in a Tokyo heartbeat, and Saitaku ginger marinated in vinegar and sugar. This stuff is naturally pink and oh, so good. I add a bit of arugula to complete the deal. It is sashimi with sunset tonight.

The other two filets await the grill for a beach party on another day . I’m thinking that a ginger/tamari/garlic marinade may be just the ticket for the fish at grill time. The cats and dogs get the bits and pieces boiled off the head and bone. Everybody is happy. Ah, seaside living, where the grocery store starts at the dock.DSC01407