Purple Hibiscus

I found one blog with book reviews, so I thought I would jot a few notes to remember this novel for discussion.

This Nigerian tale apparently follows an oral tradition. It tells of two Nigerian families, a brother and a sister. The brother, Eugene, is wealthy but treats his wife, son, and daughter strictly, primarily driven by the Catholic church. While he follows its tenets in terms of ritual and charity to the community, he translates its message into abuse of his wife, who has two miscarriages; his son who defies him; and his daughter who is made practically mute by his discipline. The children find freedom in the household of his sister, a widowed professor, raising her children alone. They see her acceptance of her father who follows native spiritual practices and her firm love with her children. While visiting her aunt, the daughter meets and fall in love with a Catholic priest in the community who shares her affection but cannot break his vows. The mother poisons Eugene, and Jaja, the son, goes to jail for the murder to protect his mother. The sister and family get visas to America where she can get a teaching position. The Catholic priest goes to Europe. Formal religion is the evil in this book, evident in the acts of the father and the priest, and in lesser ways as when a Nigerian girl refuses to take an English communion name. The story is haunting. It is sprinkled with Igbo terms which defy translation. It provides a rather ugly view of the impact of white culture on the Nigerian lifestyle.

Co'd

Why is it when there is so much to do that a sinus infection causes us to succumb? Antibiotics, soup, and sleep seem to rule the day. I cannot give in. I associate illness with a flaw and do not tolerate it well in others or myself. We were to be off to the beach for inhalation of the fresh air and a windy blush to the cheeks. Instead our noses are red from repeated blowing. I wish I could turn this forced slowing down into a positive. At least now I do cut back on exercise, read more frequently, and drink tea. What an unexpected, disappointing start to this next phase of my life!

Seasons

Beaches have always meant seasons to me. The winter beach in the north is empty; it is a time of hibernation; it is a time of renewal. Often the sand washes away and reveals rocks, only to return for the summertime. The Caribbean beaches do not have this ebb and flow so have provided winter warmth and sunshine more than reflection.
My current 'beach season' is one of endings. My current work life finishes with a contract end today. My current volunteer commitment comes to an end after four years. The next few months will be a time when I seek renewal. As I go to explore the Middle East, I will come back with new views of people and the world - as well as new beaches. I will immerse myself in history; it is daunting to read of Egypt and its thousands of years of civilizations. The rock, stone, gold, pyramids, buildings, sculpture, art that have survived will outlive this blog and all of my other accomplishments. Travel is a timeless experience; days linger but in retrospect pass very quickly. In a sense travel is seasonless. I look forward to new beginnings, to renewing energy.

Other Beaches

I have enjoyed a life of beach vacations. We started visiting the Caribbean in the 1960's and found pristine places. We visited the island of Bequia and walked daily to the Princess Margaret beach where we had the sands to ourselves. We went to Virgin Gorda and walked down the dirt road to the Baths; a return visit several years ago with our extended family found the rock formations overrun. German tourists lined up in front of us as if we were all watching a movie. We took our first baby to Grenada; people watched with appalled looks as we threw him in the sea. He had survived YWCA swimming lessons, and we were showing him off. He was the last child we subjected to underage underwater; nevertheless they all learned to swim by the time they turned five. We took the next two to St. John's and camped. One has to be young to endure cold showers and two cribs in a tent, but we were adventurous. We sampled a few other east coast beaches with our children; Hilton Head provided a lovely spring break, and Jekyl Island, Georgia, left memories of murky water, toilets backing up, sore throats, and doctor visits. We escaped from parenting responsiblities when we walked the coast of Italy on the Lido; April was too cool for a dip. Once our lives passed from the parent mode, we indulged again. We found the hot Pacific in Mexico; Hualtuco offset our tour of the inland ruins, but the weather effects that year raised the water temperature making the Pacific less attractive. We found the same experience in Costa Rica. There we had a marvelous beach adventure. In our quest we followed the map to a large crescent bay with deep waters. We had to drive over the sand to get there - although crowds of people were enjoying the sunshine. Once we settled in, we delayed our departure as we watched the parasail company extract a paying customer from a nearby tree. When the poor woman had finally found solid earth, we discovered the tide had covered our road in and eliminated ours. We exited the other way and wedged our four-wheel drive vehicle in the sand; fortunately a few English-speaking Costa Ricans ambled by, adjusted our four-wheel mechanism, and helped push us out - international cooperation at its best. We tested the sea in Belize and were turned off by eel grass. In Panama we spent a few days as guests on a small sailboat in the San Blas islands where few other tourists ventured. In Ecuador we spent several days in the Galapagos islands where tour guides march with every step. We spent one day there snorkeling with the sea lions by ourselves, the type of exploration we prefer. In Greece we scouted the island of Paros and settled into a small cove with some chairs and a picnic lunch. We were visiting off-season and discovered a few other bathers in the November waters. We chose to follow the local culture and spent the day skinny dipping in the "wine dark" sea. We look forward to the Red Sea this spring. We always pack our bathing suits.

Other Beaches - Roatan

While New England has formed my view of beaches, I have explored other coastlines. Most recently, I have spent time on West Bay Beach in Roatan, Honduras. Tourists have this stretch of beach. The cruise lines come in several times a week with braceleted passengers. They sit on beach chairs lined up like deck chairs at one end of this curved sand. At the other end of the crescent is an Italian resort; it used to feature topless ladies until modesty arrived at the island. Here there are dance lessons and water exercise. The local authorities have also banned horses on the beach; they used to walk by with tourists perched on top. The beach scene is lively for people watching although snippets are hard to pick up because of the language Babel - Italian, Spanish, German, Swedish. The sunbathers and swimmers are in the water with snorkel gear, scuba equipment, fishing rods, kayaks, sailboats or on the land with volleyball, fling, running, or just lazing. Low-rise resorts and a few homes provide a backdrop for the beach busy during the day; security guards with flashlights offer isolated mileposts while walking under the black nighttime Caribbean sky. A few piers protrude into the warm sea protected by coral reef. Rays swim in at sunset joining bystanders for the glorious sunset. Water taxis come and go. Beyond the reef extravagant yachts moor, some with helicopters atop, others with tall masts or complete diving decompression chambers. I do not look to find my soul at this beach but rather to warm my heart and indulge in another culture.

The Beach

The beach has been part of my life ever since I can remember. Although I was born on the east coast, I spent many of my early years in the midwest. We would take annual treks in long car rides to the north shore of Boston. My father would say the air smelled different when we crossed into the New England states.

We stayed in houses where the seacoast was our playground. I learned to swim in icy cold water. I played imaginary games along the rocks, creating playhouses out of crannies. We walked in the mudflats at low tide. We learned to clam, using our feet to burrow into the sand. I would return blond and suntanned after too many hours outdoors. On my return one of my friends thought I was an Indian when she saw me at the door. She saw the dark-skinned girl with braids at the door. The pigtails did not get daily attention and probably did not get rinsed out much. We had a rusty bathtub in the house so avoided bathtime.

These free days, marked by the arrival of the ice cream man, Ipswich fried clams, and jelly doughnuts from some bakery, included afternoons reading comic books on front porch swings and gliders. They also created association of the beach with family. My grandparents and aunts, uncles, and cousins often joined us. We had Fourth of July games and cookouts. For children it was idyllic. My mother did not necessarily share the sheer enjoyment; she had five children, including babies, no washer or dryer, and all the work of packing up trunks of cloth diapers, sheets and towels in advance.

I have continued that beach journey for over 30 years with my own children. We go to a different beach, an island in New England. We have traveled in stuffed station wagons, children jumbled with dogs and cats, towing boats and carrying bicycles on top. We've stopped and added a cousin or two. My children still come, now with their children. We overflow the house and need another one just too accommodate the growing generations.

The family memories intermingle with the beach, but the sea is the draw. People ask me what we do, and I struggle with the simple response of walking, swimming, biking, picking blackberries. They are not the words of a travel brochure. The beach, however, attracts us to its shore, sometimes sandy, some years covered with rocks. The waves lap the shore or crash in when the sea stirs up. In summer umbrellas and towels dot the landscape, but only the bathing suit style makes this year differ from 1975. We see and hear the chanting seagulls. We hear the children jump in the surf. We taste peanut butter and carry a sleeping child home. The dunes and dune grass frame our view. The old farmhouse in the distance still dominates despite a few trophy home that now dot the shore.

I now understand my father's intake when he returned to New England. The air is fresh and invigorating. My walks along the beach are cleansing, allowing new year resolutions on a different schedule from the calendar. My soul - if I have one - and my spirit are renewed. I feel close to nature, one with the wind and the mist and sunshine on my face. This beach view is a one that stretches back years, a repeated snapshot rather than an amusing snippet.