CARIBBEAN ADVENTURE – PART 2

After a short flight from Trinidad, we landed at Maurice Bishop (more on him later) International Airport in Grenada.  I noticed from reading bronze plaques as we stood in the Customs line that Cuban aid had helped build the airport and that Venezuela had close ties with the country as well.  Hmm!  And I thought all these Caribbean countries were carbon copies of one another.

After settling in to our seaside lodgings, the Kalinago Beach Resort on beautiful Morne Rouge Bay, we walked 20 minutes or so to a nearby mall where we took the local bus into the capital city, St. George’s, for the princely sum of $1.25 CDN each.  After walking around a bit, hunger pangs got the better of us and we took a table with a view of the inner harbour at The Nutmeg restaurant.  It was time to try “jerk”, a Jamaican delicacy I’d been told.  My first mouthful of jerk pork almost blew the top of my head off!  Jesus, Mary and Joseph!  Talk about hot!  No quitter, I finished both pork chops and was none the worse for wear; not even the next morning!

Grenada is about the same size as Barbados, barely one-sixth the land area of Prince County, Prince Edward Island, and has a population of 110,000.  It’s a sovereign country and a member of the Commonwealth with a form of federal government very similar to ours.  Known as the Spice Island, it is one of the world’s largest exporters of nutmeg and produces very fine chocolate as well.

The main island is volcanic in origin and very mountainous.  First settled by the French in 1649, Grenada was ceded to Great Britain at the end of the Seven Years’ War in 1763.  It gained its independence in 1974.

In 1979, following a coup, Maurice Bishop declared himself prime minister.  He headed a communist-style government for four years until, on October 25, 1983, US President Ronald Reagan ordered an invasion of the island country to remove Bishop from power.  Reagan didn’t want another Cuba in the Caribbean.  Bishop was executed by soldiers of the Barbadian armed forces and his body was never found.  But, the country has moved on and now enjoys a very stable government.

We had plans to explore the west coast of the island on our second day, Sunday, but the whole place shuts down on the Lord’s Day.  No buses!  So we took a walking tour of St. George’s with Percival Smith, local guide who’d no doubt been expecting a quiet day.  We learned that Hurricane Ivan damaged or destroyed 85% of Grenada’s buildings in 2004.

From hilltop Fort St. George, we walked past the ruins of the Presbyterian church and the Parliament Buildings, a tree rising up out of the shell of the latter.  The country has rebuilt and evidence of the contributions of wealthier countries is everywhere: South Korea, Japan, the United States, Canada, Venezuela, and the World Bank.  The United Arab Emirates and Mexico are helping cover the cost of Grenada’s new Parliament.

We rode the local bus up the main west coast road, got off, and started the 3-kilometre walk to Concord Falls, thinking it would be a piece of cake.  It wasn’t!  the road goes straight up, the last half featuring grades of 20-25%.  We were so soaked with sweat when we reached our destination that we looked as if we’d dived into the pool at the base of the falls.  The walk back down was easier but I was pretty well cooked.  The forest greenery along the narrow road was incredible.

We also visited the most northerly town in Grenada that day, Sauteurs, so named because it’s where the island’s last remaining indigenous Caribs leaped to their deaths rather than surrender to the French in 1651 at a site behind the present-day Catholic church.  It’s a beautiful place, with wonderful views of the islands to the north, the Grenadines.  We stopped in Gouyave on our way back for a short visit to a nutmeg factory.

Next day, we took the ferry from St. George’s to Carriacou, an island off Grenada’s north coast.  Since it was just a day trip, we faced the choice of walking around the main town of Hillsborough, taking a taxi tour of the island for $100 CDN, or riding the local buses.  We chose the latter and, for less than $15, saw the whole island!

Travelling the buses with the locals was fascinating.  More than simple transportation, the system fills many other roles.  One woman called in her order from the bus terminal and we picked up her fresh fish at the market along the way; another passenger looked after a woman’s young child as she went into a store to get something; one woman handed her phone to a shopkeeper, asking him to top it up in time for her return; a spear fisherman asked the driver to drop off a nice fish he'd caught on one side of the island to his aunt’s place on the other; a driver picked up his lunch box left hanging on a post at the end of his driveway.  Way better than a sterile air-conditioned bus filled with old white people!

We wanted to learn about the cultivation and processing of chocolate, so we boarded a bus at the main station in St. George’s and headed across the island toward the town of Grenville on the east coast.  There isn’t a patch of flat ground on Grenada and the central mountains rise to almost 3,000 feet.  Bus passengers endure a stomach-churning ride around switchbacks and hairpin turns on a road barely wide enough for two vehicles to meet.  Up to the highest point and down the other side - a thrill rivaling the best amusement park at a fraction of the price!

While Grenada is a popular tourist destination, it would be an exaggeration to say that its attractions are world class.  Exceptions to the rule were the Grenada Chocolate Company and Belmont Estate, both well worth a visit.  The former is a small cooperative that processes cocoa beans into chocolate bars.  The latter is a full-fledged plantation.  We took guided tours of both and, at Belmont, sampled the most delicious chocolate confections I’ve ever tasted!  The photo below shows dried and raw cocoa beans.

On our last full day in Grenada, we took the mountain bus to Grand Etang, a National Park smack in the center of the island.  It had rained hard the night before and the trail we’d hoped to take around Crater Lake was too treacherous.  So we just hung around and watched as cruise ship passengers poured out of their fancy air-conditioned buses.  Hundreds of them!  It was all too much.  “Too many white people,” I remarked to the locals as we careened down the road back to St. George’s.  “We had to leave!”  They all laughed.  “You blendin’ in,” one woman answered.  Safely back in the capital, we took a bus up to Fort Frederick.  This highest point in the city afforded commanding views, including those of the two cruise ships, carrying 6,000 passengers.

We won’t soon forget Grenada.  Not only is it a beautiful place, it’s home to the friendliest people we’ve ever met.  I say that having visited 49 countries to date.  They greet you in the street; drivers help you find the right bus; everyone wants to know if you’re enjoying your stay; no one pesters you with things to sell.

Imagine going from downtown Charlottetown to Summerside and back on a small bus for about $20 CDN.  That’s what it would cost in Grenada.  Privately-owned nineteen-passenger vans running every 20 minutes or so, picking up and dropping off passengers along the way.  Imagine a fleet of them in and around Charlottetown, Stratford and Cornwall, back and forth on main streets at five-minute intervals with multiple pick-ups and drop-offs, all for $2-$4 a ride, depending on distance.  No government subsidies, just private initiative.  Maybe we’re not so smart in Canada after all!

Due to a mixup in our flight reservations, we spent an additional night in Grenada.  Our airline, Liat, put us up at the luxurious Radisson Resort, provided us with dinner and breakfast, plus a taxi to and from the airport.  Can’t beat that!  As we say in French: Chanceux dans notre malchance!

Saint Vincent and the Grenadines (SVG) is Grenada’s neighbour to the north.  It consists of the main island of Saint Vincent and a chain of 31 smaller islands and cays to the south.  It’s similar in area and population to Grenada.  SVG gained independence from Great Britain following a referendum in 1979, the last of the Windward Islands to become an independent country.

France and Great Britain fought over SVG as they did over other island chains in the Caribbean, with the British eventually prevailing in 1783.  But they faced resistance from a different foe: Black Caribs, descendants of escaped African slaves and Carib natives.  The British finally vanquished the Black Caribs, sending 5,000 of them to the island of Roatan off the coast of present-day Honduras.

Three hours late, we landed in the capital of Kingstown just around sunset and a taxi took us to our hotel, the New Montrose.  Hardly what we'd expected!  The room we were given reminded us of our one and two-star hotels in Central America.  We asked the night clerk where we could get a bite to eat and he directed us to Subway, saying there wasn’t anything better open close by.

So we walked through the darkened grimy streets, not too sure where we were going, found the Subway just as it was about to close, and ate back at our room.  Then the dogs took into the barking.  Dozens of them!  You’d have thought we were next to the SCPA!  We turned on the TV and the cable wasn’t working!  So we turned in.  At 2:00 am, it was the roosters’ turn.  It’s not true that roosters crow at the rising sun.  No, Sir!  They’re at it long before that.  As I write these words at 7:00 am, they’re still at it.

But, the intrepid traveller never gives up on a place.  We met the hotel owner, Ronald.  He served us a delicious breakfast, made arrangements for us to have dinner at the hotel, upgraded our room, gave us directions on how to get around the city, and offered to give us a tour of the island, for a price of course.

Everything shuts down in St. Vincent on Sunday.  People here are fervent churchgoers, so we joined in, attending Mass at St. Mary’s Cathedral.  The choir sang beautifully; very upbeat, very Caribbean.  We then walked through downtown to find the ferry terminal.  Kingstown can only be described as a sorry-looking city for the capital of a sovereign country.

Two other attractions were on our list for the first day: Fort Charlotte and the Botanical Gardens.  The walk up to the fort took us a good half hour but the views of the city, the harbour, and the west coast were well worth it.  True to our tradition, we always look for the best vantage point and get there on foot if we can. 

Back down in the city, we walked to the Botanical Gardens, the oldest in the Western Hemisphere, established in 1765.  We found the gardens to be well worth a visit; a nice, cool and quiet place.  And throughout the day, we spoke to locals at every opportunity.  As with all the countries we’ve visited, people are very friendly.

On day 2, we boarded the ferry for the one-hour trip to Bequia (pronounced Bek’way), the country’s second-largest island, barely 18 square kilometres in area.    As we usually do, we dropped in to the tourism office in the main town of Port Elizabeth to ask for options for a one-day visit.  The young woman behind the counter told us we could take a taxi tour of the island for about $45 CDN an hour.  “Kinda steep,” I remarked.  “Isn’t there a local bus?”  She pointed at a map, rather dismissively, and let us know she was too busy.

Undaunted, we walked along the pretty main street and asked one of the locals where we could catch the local bus.  “Right next to the tourism office,” he answered.  We hopped on and rode to the other side of the island, got off at Paget Farm and strolled along the wharf there.  The ride to Paget Farm and back to Port Elizabeth cost us $4 CDN!  After walking up to Fort Hamilton for a spectacular view of the bay, we made our way back down into town, had lunch, and I went for a dip at a cute little pocket beach.  Our day on Bequia turned out to be well worth it!

On our last day in St. Vincent, we were ably guided by hotel owner Ronald Reddock.  He drove us up the west (leeward) coast as far as the road went and within sight of the island’s active volcano, 4,000-foot Mount Soufrière.  At our first stop, the location where Pirates of the Caribbean was filmed, we took a couple of pictures and took in the scenery.

Many breathtaking panoramas later, we stopped for lunch at the small town of Chateaubelair and ate a delicious lunch at a seaside restaurant.  Then we drove into Dark View Falls, a magnificent natural attraction; a cascade of water tumbling down from the slopes high on Soufrière surrounded by sheer rock faces on three sides and framed by lush tropical rain forest.

Although our time in St. Vincent and the Grenadines was brief, we made the best of it.  With Ronald’s help, we learned many things about the country that we found very interesting.  It’s a struggling democracy whose people seem to have accepted second-best from their government.  They deserve better.  Evidence of poor planning and substandard infrastructure is everywhere.  As I’ve said before, not all Caribbean countries are the same. 

Now, we’re off to countries five and six on our adventure, Dominica, and Antigua and Barbuda.

CARIBBEAN ADVENTURE – PART 1

Most peoples’ fondest memories of Barbados are likely of luxurious all-inclusive resorts, pristine beaches and free rum punch.  Mine are of hurtling through the streets of Bridgetown in the company of nineteen others shoehorned into a twelve-passenger bus, ear-splitting reggae and calypso music on the radio, sweat pouring off me as I wonder where the hell we’re going!

Elva and I decided to travel and eat like the locals on our eight-country, seven-week Caribbean adventure.  To experience something beyond the Caribbean cliché.  The $2 buses that take you all over Barbados proved a splendid introduction to this very interesting country.  In addition to the twelve-passenger versions, larger private and public buses ply the busy, narrow, winding roads that criss-cross the island.

The food is delicious.  Some of the dishes have their origins in Africa.  Wherever we went, we opted for the place where the locals eat and were not disappointed: cou cou (a mix of corn meal and okra); patties (a baked turnover filled with chicken and a spicy sauce); macaroni pie; and my favourite, rotis (a soft tortilla filled with a mix of meat and chickpeas, and flavoured with a curry sauce).  And we ate at the Oistin’s Friday night fish fry, a “must-do”.  The grilled swordfish was to die for.

From our home base, the Coconut Court Beach Resort, we visited several of the major attractions and saw as much as we could of the island in the six days we were there.  Although Barbados is less than 10% the size of our island at only 439 km², it has double Prince Edward Island’s population.

The country has an interesting past, similar to the history of many of its Caribbean neighbours.  Amerindians were the first inhabitants but left little trace of their presence.  The first European settlers arrived from England in 1627.  Sugar cane became the dominant crop after 1640, completely transforming society and the island’s economy.  African slaves, 50,000 of them by 1700, did the work while their English masters reaped the profits, some of them not even bothering to live on the island.

Emancipation in Barbados dates back to 1834, 31 years before the United States passed the 13^th Amendment to its Constitution, abolishing slavery.  While 92% of Barbadians are of African origin, they didn’t gain the right to vote until 1951.  We learned that the struggle for self-government was a long and difficult one, with the country declaring its independence from Great Britain in 1966.  The photo below shows the Parliament Building.

While sugar cane is no longer the dominant crop, the economy is quite healthy.  Per capita GDP is $16,700, making Barbados the 53^rd richest country in the world.  Economic ties with Canada are strong.  RBC Royal Bank, Scotiabank, CIBC, and TD Bank branches are everywhere.  The UN’s Human Development Index ranks Barbados 55^th, just behind the Bahamas, and just ahead of Antigua and Barbuda, and Trinidad and Tobago.  People are healthy-looking, hard-working, and very friendly.  The literacy rate approaches 100% and school children look very smart, dressed in their immaculate and colourful uniforms.

From our home base on Hastings Beach, we toured the capital, Bridgetown, visiting the Barbados Museum, the Museum of Parliament, several markets, and the beautiful Cathedral Church of Saint Michael’s.  We strolled the waterfront and ate where the locals have lunch, Mustor’s, where I had my first taste of the national dish, cou cou.

We travelled north to Speightstown one day on the $2 bus, walked around for a while and hired a taxi to drive us to Barbados Wildlife Reserve and Grenade Hall Signal Station.  Many of Barbados’ native species became extinct due to extensive land clearing.  The small reserve is home to brocket deer, tortoises, iguanas, snakes, birds, and the Barbadian green monkey.

Next on the agenda was a short visit to St. Nicholas Abbey, a 350-year-old sugar cane plantation which survives quite well these days on revenue from tourism and the famous Barbados rum.  Back in Speightstown, we again ate at a local joint, Carlo’s, where I sampled delicious cassava, heavily seasoned with garlic.  Yum!

One morning, we walked to the nearby Hilton and sat in the lobby watching the rich folks come and go while I nursed an americano.  For lunch, we tried Cuzz’ Fish Shack, another highly-recommended local institution, where we sampled fish cutters, fried marlin stuffed into fresh salt bread, garnished with tomato, lettuce and cheese.  Delicious!

The east coast of Barbados is wilder and less developed.  We’d been told that the town of Bathsheba was worth a visit, so we made our way there early one morning.  We walked along the beach and found a trail that took us to the nearby hamlet of Tent Bay.  This little building on the Bathsheba waterfront is an example of either desperate poor planning or galloping coastal erosion; maybe both.

The photo below shows a 'chattel' house in the traditional Barbadian style.

On our last full day, we took the bus to Oistins and walked along the beach, encountering a couple of fishermen with fresh-caught barracuda.  Locals lined up to buy and we watched as the fish were expertly prepared.  We’ve learned that the best experiences happen when you have time to just sit and be in the moment.

We then boarded the bus to Sunbury Hall, another of the fine old plantation houses that dot the island.  With more time to linger and explore, we found the place to have several very interesting and eclectic collections.

We have nothing but fond memories of our time in Barbados: breakfast every morning on the patio outside our room, bathing in the warmest water I’ve ever been in, listening to live music at the Coconut Court, and strolling the beautiful boardwalk along Hastings Beach.  It’s a great place to spend a quiet vacation if that’s what you’re after, and an interesting country to visit if you want to learn and experience more.

Trinidad and Tobago, the second country we visited, is made up of two very different islands and lies just 11 kilometres off the coast of northeastern Venezuela.  Geologically and ecologically, Trinidad is more like South America than the other Caribbean islands.

Trinidad and Tobago became part of Britain in 1802 and obtained its independence in 1962, becoming a republic and member of the Commonwealth in 1976.  It is the third richest country in the Americas, as measured by GDP per capita, after the United States and Canada; about double Barbados’ per capita GDP.  Unlike most of the Caribbean, the country's economy is primarily industrial, with an emphasis on petroleum and petrochemicals.  The country's wealth is based on large reserves and exploitation of oil and natural gas.  Residents enjoy free health, dental and vision care, and free prescription drugs.  And post-secondary tuition is subsidized according to income level.

A more multicultural society than the other countries on our itinerary, one-third of Trinidad and Tobago’s residents are of East Indian origin, one-third of African origin, and the remainder a mix of cultures.

Taken together, both islands have an area just slightly smaller than Prince Edward Island.  The country’s population is 1.3 million, making it by far the most populous of the countries we’ll visit.  The terrain on both islands is a mix of mountains and plains.  The capital city, Port of Spain, boasts a slew of modern office buildings.  Tobago is much quieter and more like the other Caribbean islands we’ve visited.

We strolled through Port of Spain, enduring the 34C heat and high humidity.  There’s something about the city that didn’t quite feel right.  For a country on the move, we would have expected a more attractive capital city.  While there are nice areas, especially around Queens Park Savanna and the embassies and consulates, many important public buildings show signs of serious neglect.  The most extreme example is the old parliament, called Red House.  A protective structure hangs over the top of it like some oversized umbrella, but the interior has been gutted and the site is eerily quiet.

The magnificent and massive National Academy for the Performing Arts looks very much like the Sydney Opera House.  Opened in 2009 after many years of controversy, design flaws and cost overruns, it seems totally out of proportion to other buildings around it.  We’d hoped to tour the building but it was closed.

Our best day in Trinidad was courtesy of a tour provided by Island Tours.  Jenelle, an effervescent twenty-something part-time university student, picked us up at the hotel and spent the next eight hours with us, explaining everything we wanted to know about the country and taking us to the rain forest in the mountainous northern part of island.  Along the way, we stopped to sample "doubles", a popular roadside snack consisting of spicy chickpeas in fried bread.  Yum!

The Asa Wright Nature Centre, set high up in the Arima Valley rainforest, is a birdwatcher’s paradise.  We took a walking tour with Caleb who introduced us to a number of colourful species of birds, some mammals and reptiles, and the many flowering plants in the forest.

We drove through a downpour worthy of the Grand Déluge on our way back down the mountain before visiting St. Benedict’s Monastery.  Here, we observed a priest blessing vehicles driven to the site by their owners.  Maybe a profitable sideline for Elva’s brother, Father Albin?

The day of our departure for Tobago, we sampled local cuisine at the Chalet des Femmes, a local institution on the Port of Spain waterfront.  Breakfast was so good that we came back for lunch!

The Trinidad to Tobago ferry is an adventure.  Though very cheap ($10 return each), it's an exercise in frustration and inefficiency.  Tickets must be purchased in advance and foot passengers must arrive at the terminal two hours in advance of scheduled sailing time.  Although the ferry left port on time, it took 90 minutes longer than forecast to reach Tobago.  We learned later that the service used to be maintained by our own Northumberland Ferries, but things have gotten worse since the contract ended.  Only one of two ferries was running and the one we took was on half power.

We arrived at Bacolet Beach Club late in the evening after a very long day and decided we’d fly back to Port of Spain rather than take the ferry.  The next morning, we walked into Scarborough, the largest city on the island and explored on foot before climbing to Fort King George.  The hilltop redoubt affords a magnificent view of Scarborough and the coastline looking east along Bacolet Bay.  For dinner, we sampled excellent pizza at Ciao’s Café.

Natasha, the hotel receptionist, booked us a tour with a local taxi driver she said was better than the tour companies.  Stafford "Beardie" Taylor picked us up at 9:00 and drove us around the eastern two-thirds of Tobago, showing us all of his favourite places.  A wealth of knowledge, friendly, and courteous to a fault, he proved the highlight of our Tobago visit.

Tobago is a place we’d come back to.  It’s very laid back; the people are mellow and friendly; the beaches are beautiful; and the scenery is magnificent.  Grave markers don’t say “Born” and “Died”.  Instead, they say “Sunrise” and “Sunset”!  Damned civilized if you ask me.  There are high-end resorts here if that’s what you’re looking for, and monthly rentals can be had for a reasonable price, especially in the low season.  Next, we’re off to the third and fourth countries of our Caribbean adventure: Grenada and St. Vincent and the Grenadines.  Stay tuned for more!

GRAN FONDO BAIE-SAINTE-MARIE

“ES-TU PARÉ?”

Through the night I could hear the wind outside our room at the former CFB Cornwallis gusting through the Digby Gut and across the Annapolis Basin, a steady northwester.  I thought: “Oh shit!  It’s going to be a tough day.”

Elva and I decided to stretch out our cycling season into the end of September and registered in July for the second annual Gran Fondo Baie-Sainte-Marie.  Besides, a fall road trip down through the Annapolis Valley is always a treat.  After my early August crash, I was feeling my legs again and she’d worked hard all year on technique and conditioning.  Elva opted for the 67 km Medio Fondo and I registered for the 117 km Gran Fondo.

We branched off Highway 101 at Weymouth and drove through the pretty village along old Route 1.  Soon, the massive granite Église Saint-Bernard greeted us, marking the entrance to La Baie-Sainte-Marie.  We passed through the colourful villages of Anse-des-Belliveau, Grosses-Coques, Pointe-de-l’Église, Petit-Ruisseau, and Comeauville, their houses bedecked with Acadian flags welcoming us to Clare.  Arriving at Gran Fondo headquarters in Saulnierville on Saturday afternoon we were impressed right away.  There was a nice buzz in the registration hall: helpful volunteers everywhere; the familiar smell of chicken fricot; jigs and reels on the fiddle; and the fancy footwork of La Baie en joie.  On our way back to Cornwallis, we took a detour into Digby to sample the scallops.

The morning of the ride, we got up bright and early, put on our kit and headed for breakfast, hoping the chef at the Annapolis Basin Conference Centre was an early bird.  Turned out he was!  We enjoyed a delicious hot buffet; all we could eat and more.  Forty-five minutes later we drove into a field near the start line, surrounded by hundreds of anxious riders and dozens of volunteers.  We said hello to Miguel Arsenault of Charlottetown, owner of Atlantic Chip Timing and the grandson of my Grade 5 teacher, Orella Arsenault.  I tried not to feel too old…

At thirty minutes to start time we stood in the marshalling area in front of Vélo Baie-Sainte-Marie, the local bike store and a major event sponsor.  My iPhone said it was 9 degrees C!  With five minutes to go to start time, three important people said a few words few of us really listened to.  Then they played the event theme song, a piece by a local rap group called Es-tu paré?, acadianese for “Are you ready?”  Muted grumblings were heard as impatient frozen riders awaited the signal to get underway.

Then the mad scramble as we crossed the start line!  Imagine 350 riders trying to squeeze through a narrow opening, all at the same time!  Onto Route 1 we went, rolling west toward Anse-des-Belliveau.  A stiff breeze on my left shoulder had me seeking shelter along the right edge of the group.  While a Gran Fondo is not a race, it is a timed event and some people take it very seriously.  I’m used to riding a pace line but was clearly the exception to the rule, judging by the poor etiquette and risky behaviour displayed by some riders.  Three and four abreast in a 35 kph crosswind is a recipe for disaster!

Finally, after 10 km or so, the scramble was over and smaller groups started to form.  I hooked onto one with about a dozen riders and we turned the corner together onto Route 340, aided by a strong tailwind.  I fell off the back, not able to hack the insane pace, and linked up with another guy as we made our way through Weaver Settlement, eventually rejoining the lead group.  It went that way for another 20 km as we chased one another up and down hills in rolling farm country through Havelock and New Tusket, me running over my tongue three or four times in the process.  I backed off as we turned the corner at the church in Corberrie and rode alone for awhile to catch my breath.  By that time, the sleeves were rolled up and the jersey zipper was as low as it could go.  I whistled as I passed the graveyard…

Between Corberrie and Concession, I was passed by a group of six riders, hooked on the back and rode with them for a while as we wheeled past Saulnierville Station and Bangor.  The group broke up after one guy went down (not seriously hurt, I don’t think) and I rode alone again until I hooked up with four others along Clare Lake.  We rode together, each taking a turn at the front and I thought: “At last, some guys I can work with.”

Alas, it was not to be.  We lost one on the Meteghan Connector.  The four remaining turned west on Route 1 and headed toward Mavilette.  But the two guys on the front were hammering a bit too hard for me, and for another rider as it turned out.  Soon, I was alone again, making the best of a favourable wind as I rode the 10 km or so to the loop in Mavilette.  As I rode past the last feeding station along the beach, the wind hit me square in the face: 35 kph gusting to 50!  No shelter!  It was like running into a wall.

The last 20 km was a lonely struggle, one only an experienced cyclist can truly appreciate.  Every hill is tougher than the last one when you’re facing the wind alone.  Even the little ones hurt, and the bigger ones feel like they’re never going to end.  The traffic gets annoying, the pavement gets rougher; even the manholes look meaner!  My body screamed: “You’ve got to stop this foolishness or at least slow down.  You’re not 40 anymore, you know.”  My mind replied: “Don’t listen.  It’s a trick.  You love the headwind.  They don’t call you The Diesel back home for nothing.”

In my mind, I sang Kenneth Saulnier’s M’en allant par Saulnierville Station as I turned the crank, laid out on the aerobars as low as I could go, hoping my gas tank wouldn’t blow like it did in the song as they flew over the railroad tracks at a hundred miles an hour. 

I was down to just around 25 kph as I rolled into Meteghan and saw two bundled-up girls holding a sign that said “only 8.2 kilometres to the finish”.  That might not sound like much when you’ve already ridden almost 110, but I was a hurting machine.  I gutted it out til the end, crossing the finish line at 3 hours, 53 minutes.  Enfin la fin!

Elva was there to greet me, having finished her 67 km in a very good time.  She rode most of the way alone, except for a short distance when she drafted with another rider.  Her main concern - getting lost - turned out to be the least of her worries as volunteers at every corner told her which way to turn.  Her time was a very respectable 2 hours and 58 minutes.  Neither of us stopped during the ride at any of the feeding stations.  Just wanted to get it over with, I guess.  The temperature had risen to a balmy 11 degrees C.

We decided to take a breather before the post-ride meal and drive down to Tim Hortons in Meteghan for a hot beverage.  There, we met a local fisherman, the captain of a fifty-foot longliner, who told us everything we needed to know about his trade.  We learned that fishing is big business in Clare, and that business is good.  His friendliness was so typical of what we experienced everywhere we went in Clare.

Back in Saulnierville, we picked up our salad and went into the lobster tent.  Both of us starving, I don’t think we ever enjoyed a lobster meal more.  Incredibly, 650 beautiful markets were donated by David Deveau of Riverside Lobster International Inc.  Inside the hall, we ran into Roger Richard, Dwayne Doucette and Mark Bowlan from the Island and sat with a local couple, the Thibaults, while we listened to the music on stage and watched as category winners picked up their medals.  M. and Mme. Thibault told us the whole community has bought into the event, so much so that organizers had to turn down volunteers.

I’ve ridden in organized events on Prince Edward Island, in Maine, in New Brunswick and in Nova Scotia, and in five Gran Fondos: three in Québec, one on Prince Edward Island, and one in Ontario.  The Gran Fondo Baie-Sainte-Marie stands out because of its strong local flavour and the hospitality of the people.  It’s in my top two; maybe the best!  And where else can you get a Louis Garneau cycling jersey, a lobster meal, and the experience of a lifetime, all for 90$?

Even on a nice day, the course would be a challenge; enough hills to make it interesting.  It was Elva’s first Gran Fondo and she was very impressed.  Locals were out all along the route to watch and cheer us on.

Back in our room at Cornwallis, we checked the online results.  Elva finished 33^rd of 269 Medio Fondo riders, and 2^nd among female riders in her 60-69 age group.  I finished 22^nd of 350 Gran Fondo riders, and 1^st in the 60-69 age group.  Not bad! 

But to me, the most impressive rider there was Jim Hoyle of Dartmouth, a spry 82 years young.  He rode the Medio Fondo and finished 180^th, ahead of 89 others who rode the same distance.  Collecting his medal, he remarked humbly: “I only did the Medio you know!”

Congratulations to organizers, volunteers and residents of La Baie.  Elva and I may be back next year to hear the call to the post: Es-tu paré?

ACADIAN FESTIVAL

I left La Région Évangéline in 1990 but it never really left me.  I’m reminded of that fact every year when the Festival Acadien comes around on Labour Day weekend.  Time stops for a few days and I’m transported back to the time I first realized what I was: un Acadien pure laine.  The pride rises to the surface and is so powerful that I’m almost overcome.

Elva and I linked up with Sylvie, Ghislain, Samuel, and Natalie at the wharf in Abram-Village early last Sunday morning.  We boarded Jean Arsenault’s seventeen-year-old Cape Islander, decked out for the occasion in the vibrant colours of the Acadian flag.  Sailing on calm waters, we left the small harbour and steamed toward the wharf at nearby Cap-Egmont, arriving there just as the local lobster boats paraded out to meet us.

A line of a dozen or so boats formed and sailed through the narrow entrance to the tiny harbour, The Abigail last in, carrying the priest, Father Michel Painchaud, co-celebrants, Father Eddie Cormier and Father Éloi Arsenault, and the Mont-Carmel choir.  A large crowd had gathered, lining the wharf to watch the stately procession.  It was the first time we’d taken part in the Mass from one of the boats.  More than just a religious celebration, the gathering was an occasion to greet people I hadn’t seen for a while.

As we sailed back toward Abram-Village, past Dutchman’s Rock and the former Red Rock Beach, site of many enjoyable Sunday afternoons in my coming-of-age years, I couldn’t help but think about the timelessness of the lobster fishery and the men who answer the call.  It’s a vocation that has passed from father to son for many generations.  From Albert to Jean; from Fidèle to Terry; from Adelard to Robert; from Tilmon to Gérald; from Jean-Paul to Clinton; from Amand to Norman and George, and so on.  Two fishermen from Cap-Egmont, Alphonse à Josephat and Alcide à Albin, are in their 80s and still going strong. Hopefully, their sons will take up the fathers' way of life.

We passed through the narrow channel at the mouth of the Haldimand River and I watched as father and son stood together in the cab of the boat, the younger at the wheel, the elder watching.  I wondered what Albert was thinking as Jean deftly steered the boat between the red and green buoys.  Was he thinking of the first time Jean took the helm and sailed her into the harbour by himself?  What a proud day that must have been.

I went out with Capitaine Albert early one morning in 1976 and took this picture, a little faded but one of my favourites.  Hard to believe that was 40 years ago!

The Festival parade has always been a highlight for us.  A resident historian told us that it’s never rained on the parade, not once in its 46-year history!  Of course, we all know why…  Each year, Le Festival Acadien has a Mass said to the weather gods.  It is a tradition started by the late Jeanne-Mance Arsenault, a tireless promoter of the Festival and organizer of the parade.  We feel her presence as the sun shines down on another entertaining défilé.

It’s an impromptu parade, since organizers don’t know until the last minute what entries will show up or how many.  But we’re never disappointed.  Sylvie and Clément rode in the 1983 edition dressed as Raggedy Ann and Andy in a wagon towed by Tante Alice.

Elva and I do our bit to help out La Grub à Félix by looking after the canteen on Sunday afternoon.  It’s another opportunity to renew acquaintances with people we don’t see very often.

Over the din of the popcorn machine, I listen to the acts on stage and sneak a peek when things aren’t too busy at the canteen.  I’m reminded of the early years of the Festival when the entertainment took place on an outdoor stage.  Nowadays, the sound and light are top-notch and the venue is perfect.  I wait for Eddie and Amand à Arcade to sit and play us a few tunes.  Sadly, those days are gone.  Instead, Hélène à Eddie à Arcade and Louise à Alyre à Jos Narcisse fill the air with tunes I never get tired of hearing: Saint Anne’s Reel, Big John McNeil, La marmotteuse, The Moneymusk, Pigeon on the Gatepost …

While this is going on inside, a unique form of entertainment, courtesy of Gérard à Léo à Jos Tanisse, his brother, Marcel, son Jeremy and others, takes place on the exhibition grounds.  Les grimpeurs de poteaux are putting on a show to remember.  This year, it has a special twist.  Gérard’s son, Joey, wheelchair-bound by cerebral palsy, is hoisted up a 100-foot pole in his chair and hooked onto a zip-line.  Clearly enjoying the experience, he flies freely along the steel cable.  Many, including my daughter, Sylvie, are overcome with emotion.  Joy at seeing Joey’s pure joy!  (Photos courtesy Urbain Poirier) 

Next, it's Gerry's turn to dance on the top of the 100-foot pole to the sounds of Cotton-Eye Joe.  Then, as the audience gasps, he somersaults off the pole, and the zip-line whizzes him across the full width of the exhibition grounds. (Photo courtesy Urbain Poirier)

That evening, we watch the closing concert, featuring young talent: la relève.  Judging by the quality on display, we’ll be well served in years to come.  Les palourdes, shown below, along with 112 Accords and entertainers as young as 5 will see that. (Photo courtesy Urbain Poirier)

The music and the dance were there long before I came to be.  And they’ll be there long after I’m gone from this world.

On Monday morning, I change gears and take a quiet walk along Reid’s Shore in Union Corner with my granddaughter, Natalie.  She looks for snail shells, just as I would have 55 years before.  It brings back some of my most vivid and pleasant childhood memories.

Sylvie and Ghislain have never missed a Festival Acadien.  It’s very important to them that they be there to expose their children to an important component of their being: la culture acadienne.  The Festival is l’endroit par excellence to experience its many facets and to reconnect with one’s roots.