The Isle of Beautiful Waters

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1. Naty

It’s 6 a.m. and the heat is rising quicker than the sun. Today is going to be another hot, smoldering day, as it has been for the past six months — the only difference, the humidity. If I must be honest, I liked it better when the air was dry. We are blessed to be one of the families living with the new architecture. For centuries, Creole houses have been designed to have trade winds flow through them from east to west. 

With the rising heat and longer droughts, many families have migrated to constructions with rounder walls, like our West African siblings — made to avoid angles and the accumulation of heat. Still, with the change of the season, the level of moisture in the air is suffocating. Even inside our home, the ambient wetness hugs the skin and refuses to let go. I wish I were 3 years old, running around in my underwear all day. Back then, Mama would place soursop leaves and guinea mint in a tin bucket all day in the sun. In the evening, she would bathe me with the water. I would feel refreshed and sleep so soundly. At 17, that attire is no longer an option and a daily herbal bath would require way more water than we should spend. At least this present discomfort is a sign that the rains are coming.

Mama is already clanking on pots, filling up a bowl with yam, cassava, and stewed meat. There is a flask of rum in her basket, some fruits, and, of course, gourds filled with fresh filtered water. By the large calabash and sweet scent hanging in the air, I know that she has made use of the freshest hours before sunrise to fire up the griddle and prepared coconut kassav — those sweet, goodness-filled pancakes made of cassava flour our Kalina ancestors have passed down to us.

I give Mama a kiss and, like every morning, I pour water from our charcoal fountain into the moka pot — just enough. I pack the ground coffee in and I heat up the stove to distill Ma Nee’s morning brew. We are all going to the plateau today. It is time to lead our cattle to another spot, where — we hope — they will be able to graze on something that is not dry for a couple of days and have sufficient shade to escape the sharp bite of the sun. Mama thinks it would do Ma Nee some good to visit the family’s plot. As a child, NeeNee — as they called her — would visit this place in the deep countryside of Saint Ann’s. She would run and play with her siblings in the savanna, at the foot of the mango and the guinep trees, under the watchful eyes of her own grandmother, who had been born right there and had played there as a girl herself. My grandmother has so many stories about this place from the time before the yearly droughts — stories from her childhood, from the generations before her but also legends of our island. Who knows? Going there might spark memories and keep her with us a bit longer.

I pop a few slices of breadfruit cake in the oven and call Ma Nee to the kitchen. Mama is glad her mother still answers to her name and walks without a stick but I can tell she keeps a tight leash on her hopes.

“Precious little girl,” she says with a gentle smile. “Why you shout me name like dis? We a fi go home?”

“Naty callin’ you for breakfast, Ma,” Mama replies.

“Naty? She me daughter Maryse. Me know me own pickney,” Ma Nee says, with a side eye.

“I Maryse, Ma. This me daughter, Naty.” Mama does not skip a beat and leaves no room for further questions. “Come get your breakfast, Ma. Naty done make that good coffee you like, from Gran Fon and the breadfruit cake is warmin’ up.”

“Yes …” Joy spreads all over Ma Nee’s face. “You remembered. Get de coffee from de place …” Then Mama joins Ma Nee and they finish the sentence together: “… where they did not grow bananas.” Ma Nee laughs and it turns on a light in Mama’s eyes.

The truth is our island stopped the production of coffee in those areas decades before I was born. The French authorities had allowed the spraying of chlordecone on banana crops but never fully dealt with the leftover residue. Even though they claimed it was safe to grow fruit trees on top of polluted soil, the industry suffered from the bad publicity and only a few independent producers on our wing of the butterfly-shaped island still persist.

It’s almost 7 a.m. Papa is in the driver seat and Ma Nee is sitting next to him. Mama and I have hopped in the back of our family’s old pickup. Each of us has grabbed our large bakwa before leaving. When we get there, the sun will already be fully at work and we will need the extra protection. These hats were once reserved for fishermen — no larger than shoulder-width and with a cone-like top to dissipate heat. They are now a necessity during the hotter months and are made quite large to protect the head and provide shade to the upper body.

I love the short trip to Fon Limèl. Once we leave the public road, we plunge onto a tuff road that pretends to be neat for a while but quickly turns bumpy and is only an introduction to the next one — a dirt one — that is made of hills and valleys. Mama holds on to her hat and her basket. I too hold on to my bakwa and keep a hand on the railing.

We pass the spot where Ma Nee’s grandmother was born. The house is no longer standing, but we always acknowledge it and lower our heads in a respectful nod. We drive on and pass through a majestic green arch formed by two giant mango trees that sit on both sides of the dirt road. It is said that Ma Nee’s grandfather, Papa Charles, once left his garden in Fon Limèl after sunset — a great taboo — but these trees are home to duppies that are known for being playful. The spirits started humming at him, louder and louder, but he knew you are not supposed to acknowledge them or things may get worse. Papa Charles put a little speed in his steps and did not look back.

We park near the small pond where Mama’s people have been fetching water for their animals since no one here can remember. Over the years, they have made it deeper and shaded it with trees to slow down evaporation.

We all go to the one kapok tree — a majestic tree that itself is a piece of history. Mama digs a small hole between its huge roots. She hands the flask of rum to Ma Nee, who takes a swig and pours the rest in the hole. Papa places a square of banana leaf at the bottom of the hole, then Mama pours the yam, cassava, and stewed meat she had packed earlier. She fills the hole back in and hands me a small gourd of water. I take a swig and pour the rest on our gift to the ancestors.

The soil is cracked and our cows look battered. Papa fixes his bakwa and goes to tend to them. Mama and I find shade under a very old and large guinep tree and sit with Ma Nee, who brushes the dry earth with the heel of her foot, eyes brimming with stories. She and Mama press their backs on the trunk and I sit facing Ma Nee.

2. Ma Nee

“Me done fell here from this tree once,” I tell my daughter and the nice woman who looks like her. “Me done come here every Saturday with me Mommy and me sisters. Me brother older than we so he don’t want to come. He stay home doing big boy business. But I here, on we family land with Tòtò, Sy, Mommy, and me grandmother, Ma Nò.”

I see the curiosity in their faces. They want to hear the story of how I fell, but I am tired and the heat is oppressive. Guadeloupe has always been hot — we are in the Caribbean, after all — but I do remember days when people just left a metal barrel by their gardens and it was enough water to sustain production for an entire family. Six months without rain was a phenomenon that was unheard of.

As a child, I used to enjoy the dry season. I did not truly know what the cracks in the soil meant, but I enjoyed leaping over them. They made me feel like the world was about to open beneath my feet and I would be able to explore the depths of the Earth. Now these cracks have become rifts and, indeed, you could dive deep into their darkness. They have become traps where cattle — and uncareful children — can lose a leg.

And to think that we were once called the Isle of Beautiful Waters … In a way, we have taken a path that has led us away from this name. In a way only … The waters are still beautiful. The issue is that some of them are polluted.

“France did we dirty with dat chlordecone.”

“Yes, Ma,” the woman says. She has a sadness to her. Perhaps I can change that.

“Me done tell you already how we island came to be?”

My daughter looks not quite like my daughter, but I recognize these eyes. They are round and have an appetite for the world.

“De goddess Atabey was bathing in de Caribbean Sea. Beautiful she was with her golden bracelets, her queenly earrings, and her wonderfully carved golden half-moon hanging between her breasts. Her husband, Sukaimo, had offered her a necklace made of precious pearls and a butterfly she did wear with pride. One day, she done learn of his indiscretions. You see, Sukaimo was known for having a soft spot in his heart for beautiful women. Atabey was so smitten by grief and anger. She did snatch de necklace from her own neck and threw de pearls across de Caribbean Sea. Dem became de islands and de butterfly became Guadeloupe.”

“And why is it called …”

I do not recognize this child. Is Maryse old enough to have a daughter this age?

“Precious little girl, do you know Maryse?”

3. Maryse

“And why is it called the Isle of Beautiful Waters?” Naty asks.

My mother looks confused.

“Precious little girl, do you know Maryse?” Ma asks.

“Yes, Ma.” She turns to look at me. “She’s my daughter.”

“She beautiful. She look like you when you was her age.”

“I no look beautiful now, Mommy?” I laugh.

“Yes, baby!” She takes my hand in her wrinkled ones and for a moment, stares at me with a smile until I can tell that this reality has dissolved and she has moved to a different one. She lets go of my hand.

“Naty, dahling. Perhaps, you can refresh Ma Nee’s memory,” I say to my daughter. Then I pretend I am listening to this story I have heard countless times and hope none of them can guess that, inside, I am screaming. I want to hold on to my mother but I truly do not know how long I will be able to keep her at home.

4. Naty

“Legend tells us of an Arawak princess who lived on the island Waitukubuli — Dominica today. Her true name has been lost to the millennia, but she called herself Anuk. She was forbidden to bathe alone in the rivers. At the time, the gods roamed the Earth and the blue serpent god, Iniki, younger brother to Quetzalcoatl, had taken the habit of leaving Abya Yala, the continent, which was too crowded by other gods. So he went to the islands and bathed in their waters. He loved Waitukubuli above all.

Anuk’s father did not want her to fall prey to the blue serpent god. He was known to devour young, beautiful flesh. But the princess had a mind of her own, and in her father’s short absence, she went to the river and bathed alone in a plunge basin.

Alas, within minutes, the water started gurgling and a giant blue snake slithered up from the depths. He was magnificent — scales blue as the sea, eyes and underbelly yellow. He had feathers on the back of his head, the colors of the rainbow. The princess was not afraid. She let the snake coil around her legs and around her belly. Together, they danced in the water for hours. When she came back to her village that same night, her belly was round and full. This made her father angry and he banished her to the butterfly island, which was dry like the desert.

Anuk was sad and alone, but not for long. Instead of a child, she laid a multitude of eggs. When they hatched, they became the fierce Kalina people. Their father, the blue serpent god Iniki, called upon the waters and created cascades, rivers, and ponds of all sizes. The land became lush and the Kalina people lived in abundance on the butterfly island they now called Caloucaera, the Isle of beautiful waters.”

5. Maryse

My daughter has a hunger for the stories. She knows them all and is always eager to hear them once more. At her age, I was very different. My excitement was reserved for other things. I must say it feels good to see her take after my own mother and keep the tradition.

All our phones ding at the same time. That is the sound of an official alert. I look and, indeed, there is news.

“Naty, go tell your father we must change our plans. The hurricane that was coming to Antigua is headed further south — straight for us.”

We were only expecting bad weather, but it will be a storm. We are used to them now, but we have work to do. I turn to my mother.

“Ma, now I understand why the weather so humid and hot today. A hurricane comin’. A big one.”

“Ah … It go be like Hugo in 1989?”

“Ma, you know they changed. You was little pickney in 1989.”

“It was serious business!” she emphasizes.

“Oh … I know, Ma. Me seen the archives. Today, they all worse. Only the smallest ones is like Hugo.”

“Ah …” My mother opens her mouth in astonishment.

“But don’t worry, Ma. It’s early. We still have some time to snack on the kassav and we can head home to prepare.”

6. Naty

It is 5:30 p.m. and night is already claiming the rays of the sun. Mama, Papa, and I have joined the neighbors to bar windows and put tape on any exposed glass. Those who live in more fragile housing secure space for themselves and their families with other members of the community. Our communal water cisterns have been protected from harsh wind and any debris that may contaminate them.

Mama and I have made sure our dry food reserves are where we need them to be. Now, my favorite part begins. We prepare the candles and some snacks so we can tell each other stories during the worst of the storm to keep everyone calm.

“Ma Nee, will you tell me again the story of the Africans coming to Guadeloupe?”

I step into my grandmother’s room and she is not there.

“Mama, is Ma Nee with the neighbors?”

“No. She is home! What do you mean?”

7. Ma Nee

I dislike being outside when the sun is already setting; but I know it’s not proper of me to abuse these people’s kindness. I have to go home.

There should be a June plum tree here. And this road should be dirt, not asphalt. I might be lost. With some luck, Papa Charles will be coming from his garden soon. He’ll help me. Let me have a seat.

It’s too dark now, where is Papa Charles?

“Papa Charles?” If I call him out loud, maybe he will come. I think he cannot see me in the pitch black.

“Papa Charles! Me want go home. Tell Mommy, me want go home!” I start to cry.

“Duppies fi get me on de road. Me scared.” 

8. Maryse

We have looked in the kitchen garden. We have scoured the backyards of our closest neighbors, and there is no sign of my mother. Darkness is fully here and with the storm coming, they are going to cut electricity everywhere. We need to find her. I must not let Naty see my distress but I am terrified of what could happen.

“Naty, baby.” I steady my voice as much as I can. “Give me a torchlight. I go see Aunt Tòtò‘s old house. You go with your Papa and see around the baker’s. She always lookin’ for sweet things.”

Why did I refuse to put a tracker on her? Hurricanes make landfall at night. We only have about 90 minutes before the first winds.

9. Ma Nee

“Me sorry, Mommy. Me sorry”.

“You’re okay Ma Nee. You’re okay.”

“Papa Charles angry wit’ me?”

“Nobody’s angry, Ma Nee. You’re good.”

“We go home now?”

“Yes, Ma Nee. I’m taking you home. Your daughter waitin’ fi you.”

10. Naty

It’s 8 p.m. Ma Nee was out for at least two hours and most of it in darkness. Both she and Mama look quite shaken. Papa does his best to lighten the mood with jokes and rubbed shoulders. But the anxiety that just visited us is only turning away to leave space for the hurricane, which is no comfort.

“Naty, baby. Tell us a story.” Mama asks.

“There was a time when the Kalina gods would spend their leisure time observing and visiting Caloucaera. It was such a quiet island with beautiful waters and a powerful but peaceful people.

One day, boats were spotted from afar. They were large constructions of wood that somehow did not sink into the sea. They seemed to be pushed by clouds of cloth and slid as oil toward the island. The Kalina people did not fully understand what was happening, but were hospitable. They were horrified when the spirits of the sea coming off the boats, the Palanakiłi, returned their welcome with attacks on their families. The Kalina chased them all away, but they had underestimated the Palanakiłi’s greed. They came back with more boats, more weapons, and something special in the bellies of their ships.

The war being waged on the beach was parallel by another one in the heavens. The Kalina god Hurakan gathered his winds and attacked the fleets that had not yet landed. When he was about to unleash the worst of his fury, he was interrupted by Yemọja, goddess of the sea and mother to those made cargo.

She pleaded with Hurakan for the lives of her children. But in order to save them, she had to save the Palanakiłi as well. This is how the ugliest of trades started on our beautiful island and in the Americas.

For centuries after that, it is said that Yemọja and Hurakan conspired and finally managed to get rid of this evil. The legends say that it required them to sacrifice a lot of their powers. That is why they have trusted us with the responsibility to make sure that this scourge never comes back.”

The winds outside are rising and I look up, in the candlelight, to see Ma Nee falling asleep.

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