On my first full day on my own and officially starting the project, I leave the house about mid-morning for the island's second city, Speightstown. This is where we spent a few hours on the beach a few days ago, and the town itself had a lot of charm and was rustic and authentic.
After a slow drive there along the sea road, I park in a lot behind the main grocery store. It's open-ended parking, so I don't need to worry. I walk up the main street, a narrow, busy road which follows the sea. I switch the side of the street I'm walking on based on sidewalk availability, cars parked in the way, shade or lack thereof, or other obstructions. I walk the main length of the town and then notice a compelling side street heading up to another main road parallel to the sea road. There are a few fruit shops and people milling about on this street, so I head up it.
I pass by a couple of fruit stands; one of them, in particular, is quite charming, with the backdrop of a colourful building, plenty of fruit, and two interesting-looking people just hanging out, running the stand. There is also an overhang of a palm tree on the opposite side of the street for shade. Otherwise, I would be in the blazing sun. This is crucial; I know I can't make a lengthy sketch in the sun here.
I continue on, there are a few other fruit stands, but none quite as nice. I arrive at a busier main road with a little market area of cabins and shed-sized shops. Many are still closed (it's mid-morning), but one is blasting reggae music with a half dozen gentlemen out front. "Ayo," one of them calls to me and says something else I can't hear. I nod and acknowledge and continue on. Another gentleman asks if I need a taxi. I reach the end of this market and turn back around. It is interesting - some possibilities for sketches here, but I settle on the initial fruit stand I scouted.
When I return, I walk up to the fruit vendor - a woman in her middle age - and ask if it would be ok if I made a drawing of her fruit stand. I show her a card with an example (a corner store) and tell her I'm from Canada and doing some artwork around the island for a few weeks. "You're an artist?" she confirms, I nod, and she shrugs and motions as if to say "go ahead…I don't care... do you m'boy..." She continues her conversation with the fellow sitting nearby, a unique-looking chap with a grey beard, dreads, and skinny arms. Both of them are wearing what I would call a toque.
I start - immediately drawing the man in case he walks away. He doesn't seem to be much involved in the operation, perhaps more there for the company or to fill in if she needs a break. Locals stop and chat with both of them as they pass by. Some buying fruit. Some wish them a happy new year.
Most folks who pass on my side of the street say hi, or acknowledge me in some way, but no one stops to ask what I'm up to. A few non-locals wander up the street, some of them also purchase fruit. "Local bananas," she tells them, "fresh and ready to eat right now" - some balk, some buy.
I'm dripping sweat, droplets keep hitting the iPad, my shirt is damp, and my hair is wet, but thankfully, the only thing getting a bit of sun is the bottom of my legs. A noisy bird is in the tree above me. The sketch takes me about two hours, and I'm ready to finish, hot and tired, the sketch gets a bit messy at the end. I walk across the street and show the woman the sketch. She takes the iPad and looks closely. She likes it. "You got the colours right," and "It looks like you, Steve," she says to the man. "Can you send it to me?" I say sure, can I WhatsApp her - Steve is insistent the woman immediately give her WhatsApp number. Her name is Shelley, and I text the image over, and she says she would like to print it out; I say that's ok, and I'll give her a high-resolution version. She stares at the image for a while and then tranfers it to her own tablet and props that up.
We get to chatting about what I'm doing here a bit more; I tell them I'm looking for authentic places on the island to sketch - not tourist spots. Steve tells me he can be my "artistic consultant," and Shelley wants me to do some rum houses and chattel houses. I say I saw a few chattel houses in Holetown, which were touristy, and she says she knows of one nearby. Shelley gives me directions; it's not far. Then she and Steve discuss a nearby rum house - it's up a hill, not far, but not as close, they can't quite pinpoint where exactly it is, getting into an animated discussion about directions I can't follow because they've slipped into their dialect. Another fellow is sitting nearby, having recently purchased some fruit, listening. "I can take him there," says the younger, also dreadlocked man. "I'll bring him back in 5 minutes." Steve and Shelley tell me to go with him. "We know him…he's nice... he'll bring you back in 5 minutes." I have a brief, brief moment of considering getting into a car with a stranger but my spidey senses with this type of thing are usally on point - Steve and Shelley are honest people and just want me to see this damn rum house. It feels ok.
I hop in the fellow's car across the street; a woman is in the passenger seat. I thank him and ask him his name - "Curtis" - and he fist bumps me, and she tells me she's Roxanne. I introduce myself and ask them what they are up to today? "I'm working tonight," says Curtis, "and she's just on her day off," I ask him what he does. "I'm a night watchman at a tennis club in Holetown," I tell him I'm staying near Holetown, and we talk about this a bit. Holetown feels more catered to tourists, and Speightstown feels more authentic. He says this is true. He points out a bus stop I can use if I want to go up the hill to the rum shop, and I say I do have access to a car, so I will likely just drive. "You can walk too; it's only 20 minutes up" - I like walking, but you're basically walking on a busy country road with no sidewalks. Many locals do it, but I'm not ready yet. There are plenty of small charming buildings on the drive up.
Eventually, we hit the spot. He turns right, and I make note of the street name (there are not many street signs, but this one has one) - Millionaires Road. The Rum Shop is right there, and it's a charming bungalow, maybe 250 square feet that serves rum and food and is open air. It's not too busy at this hour, but I snap a photo and make a note of where it is so I can try to return. On the way back down, I ask Curtis if he knows somewhere I can get a haircut. "Have you seen my hair, mon?" he laughs. "Yeah - I know it's been years since you've been… but can you think of any?" He points out two on the way back, but they look closed.
Curtis takes me back to Steve and Shelley. It's been 5 minutes. I thank Curtis and Roxanne and hope to see them around. Steve and Shelley say, "See - 5 minutes, you're back." I show them a photo of the Rum Shop and Shelley really wants me to sketch it. Then I ask them if they know somewhere I can get a haircut. "Have you seen my hair, mon?" Steve says. "Fuck it, you're in Barbados mon, let it grow!" Then he says, "Actually, maybe cut the sides a bit," and tells me there is a barber near the chattel house Shelley directed me to. "Tell him Steve sent you. The barber is good. He's a good man."
I ask them to take a selfie with them, thank them profusely and tell them I will be around and will likely see them over the next few weeks. They wish me well, and I walk off. I wander further down the sea road to get a sense of it, and then a torrential downpour arrives out of nowhere. I hide under a massive tree and stay relatively dry, but the rain comes and goes in waves through the rest of the afternoon - though not to this severity.
I make my way back to try to find the chattel house. Shelley's directions were good. I more or less make my way there and think I've found it, but confirm with two elderly folks sitting on their porch, and they say the brown building is indeed the chattel house. I note the barbershop Steve mentioned across the road. It has a sandwich board out front with hours suggesting it is open, but the place is empty.
I start sketching the chattel house - I'm already tired and getting a bit hungry, but I figure I'll aim for a quick one. I've got some shade here too. About 20 minutes in, Steve walks up the road. "Ah, you found it, good," he says. "I saw the barber down the road; he'll be back soon, just taking a break." A few minutes later it starts raining heavily enough that I close up my iPad. I decide to walk and get something to eat and see how the weather is after.
I wander back down to the far end of town (away from where I parked) where I noticed a small bakery which smelled delicious. I pop inside and, along with the usual baked goods, has pastries, patties and "meat rolls," which are sort of a combination of a patty and a sausage roll, but with ground beef and spices. It's 3 Bajan (1.75) and I get one and some water. It hits the spot.
I return to the chattel house and notice the barber is open at this point. A man is sitting on a bench, and another man - the barber - is milling about his station with an empty chair. I walk in and ask if he can give me a cut. He can, and he sanitizes his equipment, which I appreciate, and then puts on a mask, so I follow suit, though he tells me it's not necessary. "It's ok, I don't mind," thinking if anything, I'm the one who's been on a plane recently, though I feel fine a few days out front that.
He gives me a slow but precise cut. I give him a rough idea of what I want but ask him to do what he thinks is best. It takes 40 minutes. At one point, a young teenager comes in, greets both men and sits down. The barber asks him a few questions and says something about "his mother" - I think he's the boy's father. The boy plays on his phone for a while, then a horn honks; he says, "ok, see ya," and the barber says something like, "Go shopping with your mother," or along these lines… I think. A young woman comes in and sits down, waiting, after greeting everyone. The first fellow (I believe the barber's cousin) sitting on the bench leaves - he was just hanging out.
I tell the barber how I cut my own hair the first year of the pandemic. He has a good laugh at this: "You must have looked quite the mess." - I also talk about the weather in Ottawa, how cold it can be and how nice it is here. Both the barber and the woman waiting can't believe the details I'm telling them. "Five months of snow??" the woman exclaims. The barber says he was in New York City in March, and that was bad enough.
Finally, the cut is done. It feels great; I pay up and thank him as the woman sits in the chair. "Your turn," I say, and the barber confirms, "Just the sides?"
I leave, and it's not raining, so I decide to finish the chattel jouse sketch and then pack up for the day. I work as quick as possible, losing steam and battery on the iPad. A few people say hi to me, including an absolutely adorable 5-year-old in a school uniform, followed shortly by her Dad with 3 other kids - all in uniform.
Right as I am finishing up, I hear yelling. Two young men are running up the street. I initially thought they were just messing around. Then, "I'm going to FUCKING KILL YOU…" the one chasing yells, "You cost me MY JOB!" They run past me at full speed, and the one chasing seems to have a stone or part of a brick in his hand, raised as if to throw. Two teenage girls are passing on my side of the street just as this happens, and they get scared and start running the opposite way. I take this as a sign to pack up. The young men run down a side street, still yelling. People begin popping their heads out of the shops. The barber, his cousin (who returned), and a young teenage customer are all looking out as well. The seamstress, a bald middle aged woman, who runs the shop beside the barber is also out her door. I walk up to the barber and explain what I saw. The seamstress starts telling neighbours across the street what's going on.
She tells me she thinks it's time for her to close up the shop. I tell her I did the same. Then we agree that we hope the young men don't come to violence and can somehow resolve their dispute using dialogue. "Have a nice evening," I say. "Have a nice evenin', lovely."
I make my way towards the car, and I see one of the young men returning. It's quite obvious because they both seemed to be wearing red shirts (possibly their place of employment?) He's still heated and is talking to another group of fellows. I'm walking 10 feet behind him; he walks down the main street a bit and goes into another store, talking to other people. I continue on, back to the car, and punch in directions to home.
I take a different route home - using one of the main highways in the middle of the island. I take some narrow alleys to get up there, and then a sign tells me there is a detour to get to the highway - Siri as able to redirect, but I get nervous. This road is full of potholes. In fact, it's less road, more pothole. There are potholes on most roads, but this is on another level. Some are 8-10 inches deep. Some are 3-4 feet wide. They are scattered across all sides of the road, and continous for about 2km. It's wild; I'm driving slowly and zigzagging as best I can to avoid them. I go slow when passing other cars and give each one the "Ottawa Valley wave" as we pass. Eventually, I make it to the highway, and the rest of the trip home is a breeze. I've got the Reggaeton on at high volume because I now know the final stretch of the journey.
Upon arriving home, I make a quick sketch of the setting sun as more rains come in.
I make my way back to try to find the chattel house. Shelley's directions were good. I more or less make my way there and think I've found it, but confirm with two elderly folks sitting on their porch, and they say the brown building is indeed the chattel house. I note the barbershop Steve mentioned across the road. It has a sandwich board out front with hours suggesting it is open, but the place is empty.
I start sketching the chattel house - I'm already tired and getting a bit hungry, but I figure I'll aim for a quick one. I've got some shade here too. About 20 minutes in, Steve walks up the road. "Ah, you found it, good," he says. "I saw the barber down the road; he'll be back soon, just taking a break." A few minutes later it starts raining heavily enough that I close up my iPad. I decide to walk and get something to eat and see how the weather is after.
I wander back down to the far end of town (away from where I parked) where I noticed a small bakery which smelled delicious. I pop inside and, along with the usual baked goods, has pastries, patties and "meat rolls," which are sort of a combination of a patty and a sausage roll, but with ground beef and spices. It's 3 Bajan (1.75) and I get one and some water. It hits the spot.
I return to the chattel house and notice the barber is open at this point. A man is sitting on a bench, and another man - the barber - is milling about his station with an empty chair. I walk in and ask if he can give me a cut. He can, and he sanitizes his equipment, which I appreciate, and then puts on a mask, so I follow suit, though he tells me it's not necessary. "It's ok, I don't mind," thinking if anything, I'm the one who's been on a plane recently, though I feel fine a few days out front that.
He gives me a slow but precise cut. I give him a rough idea of what I want but ask him to do what he thinks is best. It takes 40 minutes. At one point, a young teenager comes in, greets both men and sits down. The barber asks him a few questions and says something about "his mother" - I think he's the boy's father. The boy plays on his phone for a while, then a horn honks; he says, "ok, see ya," and the barber says something like, "Go shopping with your mother," or along these lines… I think. A young woman comes in and sits down, waiting, after greeting everyone. The first fellow (I believe the barber's cousin) sitting on the bench leaves - he was just hanging out.
I tell the barber how I cut my own hair the first year of the pandemic. He has a good laugh at this: "You must have looked quite the mess." - I also talk about the weather in Ottawa, how cold it can be and how nice it is here. Both the barber and the woman waiting can't believe the details I'm telling them. "Five months of snow??" the woman exclaims. The barber says he was in New York City in March, and that was bad enough.
Finally, the cut is done. It feels great; I pay up and thank him as the woman sits in the chair. "Your turn," I say, and the barber confirms, "Just the sides?"
I make my way towards the car, and I see one of the young men returning. It's quite obvious because they both seemed to be wearing red shirts (possibly their place of employment?) He's still heated and is talking to another group of fellows. I'm walking 10 feet behind him; he walks down the main street a bit and goes into another store, talking to other people. I continue on, back to the car, and type in directions to home.
I take a different route home - using one of the main highways in the middle of the island. I take some narrow alleys to get up there, and then a sign tells me there is a detour to get to the highway - Siri as able to redirect, but I get nervous. This road is full of potholes. In fact, it's less road, more pothole. There are potholes on most roads, but this is on another level. Some are 8-10 inches deep. Some are 3-4 feet wide. They are scattered across all sides of the road, and continous for about 2km. It's wild; I'm driving slowly and zigzagging as best I can to avoid them. I go slow when passing other cars and give each one the "Ottawa Valley wave" as we pass. Eventually, I make it to the highway, and the rest of the trip home is a breeze. I've got the Reggaeton on at high volume because I now know the final stretch of the journey.
Upon arriving home, I make a quick sketch of the setting sun as more rains come in.
