Tales of One Fish

San Diego to San Juanico

2012-01-08T15:16:00.001-08:00

Christmas in the Bay Islands

2011-12-31T09:03:00.001-08:00

Creative Moving Pictures

2011-12-22T10:47:00.000-08:00

Check out the Video Blog I share with Dusty Brough...FISH TALES on Vimeo!
http://vimeo.com/user6210675

Here is a little clip Dusty shot and edited...featuring Bruno, Dusty, Seals and my legs! :D

3 days from Fish Tales on Vimeo.

'Back to Nature'

2011-12-06T08:50:00.000-08:00

To forget how to dig the earth and to tend the soil is to forget ourselves.
~ Mahatma Gandhi

The Kozaily famiy, Costa Rica, December 2009.

With December 25th on the horizon, the spirit of Cayman slowly turns as the wet rains of the hurricane season slowly dissipate and the cool north winds blow in. When my great-grandmother was young, Christmas in Cayman was a different experience than it is today. Caymanian men returned from sea to celebrate the holidays with their families and white sand gardens with conch shells and Christmas blossom decorated every home. The spirit of the season was found in simplicity, community and faith.

Today, the landscape is drastically different as Caymanian families now wait for Christmas pine trees to arrive from foreign lands, multi coloured lights begin crawling up coconut trees and a giant snowman greets traffic on Seven Mile Beach. Shops begin preparing for the invading mass of consumers and Churches lay out extra chairs for the ‘once-a-year’ members of their congregation.

But what I love about this change of season the most is the festive atmosphere that permeates the Island as if everyone has awoken from a hot summer dream refreshed and ready to celebrate their rebirth.

This year, my family and I decided to abandon the western traditions of Christmas and go ‘back to nature’ with a trip to Costa Rica, a land known for its wild nature and beauty.

We flew into San Jose International Airport and jumped in a taxi van that drove us 4 hours north to Arenal Volcano. We arrived at our lodgings nestled in the tropical greens of Arenal and spent the next few days trekking through lush rainforests and hot springs. Every evening we unlaced our mud stained boats and listen to the orchestra of birds at sunset. We watched lava spewing from the sides of the volcano like a wound and spied sloths sleeping in Cecropia trees. On our last day in the area, we volunteered at Projecto Asis Animal Shelter before heading to the ethereal cloud forests of Monte Verde. We fed and cared for wounded toucans, spider monkeys and a kinkachoo. It was definitely a highlight for my younger brother and sister who found themselves in a magical world where they played and cared for the orphaned animals as if they were their own.

Conservation and Eco tourism is obviously important to Costa Ricans. Over 25% of national territory is protected and in the race for modernism, Costa Rica has chosen to develope an environmentally sound and lucrative eco-tourism industry instead of jumping into environmentally damaging prospects like so many other developing countries. I find this absolutely inspiring when recycling bins surround us in every hotel room and messages of conservation and “green” values are present throughout the tourism industry. Coming from a country where people are still fighting to have a National Conservation Law passed, my family and I found Costa Rica to be a refreshing change and educational opportunity for ourselves and my younger siblings.

We spent Christmas Day at a small bed and breakfast in Manual Antonio on the Pacific Coast. We woke to a beautiful sunrise and the sound of capuchin monkeys in the trees above our window. After breakfast we went sailing around the Manual Antonio National Park with wild dolphins swimming along our vessel. In the afternoon we took surfing lessons on the beach where I got to witness my father’s joy at riding his first wave and realization that he wasn’t 25 years old anymore after his first wipe out. In the evening we watched the sunset on the Pacific and enjoyed Christmas dinner on the patio surrounded by lush rainforest and gave thanks. The gift of family and nature was more than I could have hoped for on this Christmas Night. To discover and revel in the beauty and diversity of this world gave us great perspective. Spending those 10 days so close to nature, brought me closer to God and myself.

In this age of modernism, industrialism and technology it’s easy to forget our relationship to the earth. The lush rainforests of Monte Verde, orphaned animals of Projecto Asis, the bleeding Volcano of Arenal and the warm waves of Manuel Antonio’s black sand beaches reminded me of this beautiful gift of nature. To forget the earth is to forget ourselves, but when we do, just “ask the animals, and they will teach you; or birds of the air and they will tell you; or speak to the earth and it will teach you; or let the fish of the sea inform you. Job 12:7-10”.

Merry Christmas

2011-12-02T15:00:00.000-08:00

Dia de los Muertos - San Diego

2011-11-02T21:26:00.000-07:00

WILD RELATIONSHIPS

2011-10-19T14:46:00.000-07:00

Photo by: Dusty Brough

Wild: ‘living in a state of nature’

My first wild relationship was with the ocean. Coming from the warm Caribbean Sea, I felt comfortable in the water and felt confident in my ability to read its moods. From birth to womanhood, I dove in the Sound and let the current take me exactly where I wanted to go. I mapped the reefs and knew the best spots to find sea shells. And I spent many days timing the curl of the wave and riding it down to the beach. I was in love with the ocean and no matter the great mysteries that I knew it held I was always drawn to the safety it held for me. But like all relationships, change comes in ‘little deaths’ when you least expect it. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Though connected to the waters of my home, the Pacific was a force I had never known. Earlier in the day I had joined my friend Antara as we climbed down a stairway at Sunset Cliffs and walked across a tiny desert of rocks to a sandy beach. Antara is a native Californian and always reminds me of the beauty of nature with her bare feet and sun-kissed face that wears nothing but a smile. As we lay on the beach we told each other stories and watched the waves roll in with little shadows of men carving lines on its body. When the red sun finally disappeared under the curve of the earth it was time for us to make our way back. We reached the end of the sandy terrain to find that the tide had risen. The bed of rocks was no longer there and separating us from the staircase was an angry Pacific ocean. The sound of these dramatic tides was deafening as the water filled the earth only to abandon it seconds later with a silence that would soon be broken again. Antara timed her escape perfectly and calmly skipped across the bed of rocks to the other side before the surge of water returned. I, on the other hand, stood their trapped watching the path of rocks appear, disappear and reappear. I was frightened by this side of the ocean that I had never encountered before. I could no longer find the safety I so often felt in the water. What I thought I knew departed and I was faced with a love I no longer recognized. I tried to think of another way out. Perhaps there was a secret path up another side of the cliff; another escape that didn’t involve facing this mother of an ocean that terrified me. Antara brought me back to my unfortunate reality with words of encouragement that she shouted over the noise of my predicament.

The time had come to face a new stage in my long affair with the sea. The skeleton woman I read about in folk tales had arrived to remind me of the ‘little deaths’ in a relationship. And like the wisdom in her story I knew that I shouldn’t be afraid to discover the true nature of the ocean. So instead of running away when things got hard, I decided to embrace this intimidating and humbling Pacific.

As the water receded I found courage and stepped carefully unto the wet rocks. When I reached half way my time ran out. I looked towards the ocean and saw it racing towards me. I tried to brace myself on the slippery rocks and stay dry from my waist up with my bag above my head but the water swept me off my feet and I found myself submerged in the cold Pacific. Under the water I hugged the rocks as the ocean tried to suck me into its waves.

When it finally receded, I caught my breath and stood up. Wet and laughing, I finished my journey across the rocks where Antara was waiting.

I was surprised by my joy at learning a new side of something I thought was so familiar. And my journey did not end there. After confronting the oceans humbling lesson it gifted me the magic of Red Tide.

Months later the moon-lit ocean joined the black sky seamlessly and the only colour appeared in a magical blue light that shown when the waves crashed. I walked into the water and my whole body lit up from the phytoplankton as fish swam away from me in streaks of lightening. I dove into my beloved and morphed into an electric azure creature and delighted in a moment of pure happiness.

My wild relationship with the ocean reminds me how important it is to live in a state of nature and embrace your fears. But more importantly, wild moments like these remind me of how loved we really are.

2011-10-08T11:51:00.000-07:00

RUBY ROOM OCT 11th

2011-10-06T10:33:00.001-07:00

RUBY ROOM OCT 11th from One A Days on Vimeo.

The Way Water Feels on Skin

2011-09-29T19:28:00.001-07:00

When I’m in it

I’m transparent

Surrounded by a terrifying abyss

A lost world

And a lost cause

A fear waiting to pop out

To show its ugly head

And maybe bite mine off

To suck me into a black hole where I become spaghettified

Spaghettification: where I’m no longer whole but long

Long and noddle-y

Like the notes that have no direction in a song

I become directionless

Forever gone

Never again to find my ankle-deep

Where I feel safe

Weightless on the surface

Peering down to miniature cities and fish eyes

Conch cross-roads and fans

And little homes and sea junk

And statues of memories looking up wanting to touch

To reach up and be touched

Solid stone mermaids waiting for solitude so they can be alive again

And pearls hidden and found then lost

And lions devouring the innocent

hiding with the guilty with a memory like mine

Never forgetting my last attempt to capture and devour

I am the predator in the shallow

In the deep I am prey

Teetering on the edge of fear

dancing with my spirit and touching God

On the edge of the abyss I touched God

I touched creation

And love

And depth disappeared

No more shallow

no more black holes

Just blue colourful blurs and space

Presence and pure existence

A capture of myself

Only the sound of cardiac cycles and aquatic respiration

Transparent and one

Liquid and solid

Reaching out to be touched

God looked at me and we danced

Forever in a minute

A century

In the bloody bay of my home

My childhood

My present and my future

No more depth

perception

perspective or deception

Just a transparent miracle

A pure moment

A water gift

A gift from God

Attack of the Orange Crab

2011-08-01T10:00:00.001-07:00

Letter to Beirut

2011-07-27T06:48:00.000-07:00

Letter to Beirut by NatashaKozaily

General Suleiman

2011-07-27T06:23:00.000-07:00

Adventure on a Bike

2011-07-07T13:55:00.000-07:00

Summer Goal: Less driving, more cycling...

Day One: I wake up and cut open my first mango of the season and think how happy I am to be home for a summer visit. The white butterflies, the un-crowded beaches, and temperamental weather that surprises you with heavy tropical rain and wind after a spell of heat. I've decided to make my stay a little "greener" and ride my bicycle whenever I can. My friends say I am crazy to attempt to cycle my way around at this time of year, "It's too hot!". Nevertheless, I strap on my helmet with childlike enthusiasm, lodge my backpack in my handy bicycle basket and peddle away. They were right, it is hot. But the cool ocean breeze keeps me cool and the scenic view of South Sound has never been more beautiful. So I embrace the familiar heat and begin my journey from my house on South Sound Road to Smith's Cove, nearly 2 miles West.

I must have driven up and down this road a million times, but today I feel it's ambience. Today, it's a brand new South Sound, and the thrill of seeing my neighborhood in a whole new way ignites my curiosity; the beach condos peeking through a mob of wild greenery, the sand gardens of traditional Caymanian homes, the sound of the waves, the wind in the trees, the orchestra of birds, and my favorite, the smell of the salty ocean air mixed with the passing of frangipani trees and timeless existence. I spy a green iguana on the road ahead of me as he escapes death by a matter of inches as a car whizzes by. He frantically runs to my side of the road and before I know it he's running alongside my bike in a race. As I peddle my feet faster, he's running for his life with his green lizard legs beating the grass in a syncopated rhythm that propels me into a fit of laughter.

I make a detour on my way to the cove and follow a sign that reads "Carey's Black Coral est. 1981" into a sandy driveway. I arrive at a small blue house made out of wood with 'The Bikini House' painted in pink above the door. I park my bike and peer into the mysterious abode and see the silhouette of a man resting in a hammock. I knock on the open door and the man jumps from his hammock to greet me, "Hello, Welcome! Please come in!" Mr. Carey introduces himself and leads me into his magical shop. He is a handsome old man covered in tattoos from head to toe. On the wall, hangs a picture of him in his twenties, wearing the same aviator sunglasses and moustache he's wearing today, only his hair is now white and his skin tanned from years of sun and sea. As I look around the room filled with collections, I feel like I'm in Ariel's underwater cave. The back door opens up unto the white sand and turquoise sea and birds fly in and out through the windows as they please. One wall is filled with jars of marbles from floor to ceiling while the others are adorned with photographs, memories, hand carved knives and tools. Small glass cabinets display Mr. Carey's handmade black coral jewelry and his miniature motorcycle collection. He takes one out to show me. It's made of mahogany and I examine the intricate details which he spent two years perfecting. From the ceiling hangs his collection of thongs, each one given to him by a female visitor. His goal is to win the Genius Book of World Records for the largest thong collection. He has a total of 302 and in exchange for a thong he gives one of his own black coral pendants. The trade is tempting. As I get on my bike to leave he cuts down a branch from his frangipani tree that I was admiring and gives it to me to plant in my garden. I add it to my basket and continue on my way.

When I finally arrive at my destination, after soaking in the new perspective of my neighborhood, I jump in the rejuvenating sea and contemplate my new mode of transportation. Trying to make "greener" lifestyle choices has turned out to be quite a fun adventure, and it's reminded me of the treasures we have right under our nose. Something so familiar can feel brand new when you decide to look at it in a different way.

New Hat

2011-05-20T18:47:00.001-07:00

The Art of Giving

2011-05-20T18:45:00.000-07:00

As we drove up the mountain towards my family’s village, my eyes feasted on the street scenes that played like a movie through the car window. I saw the hope of Lebanon as we passed the beautiful gold stone architecture of Centre Ville with its high end stores, cafes and restaurants. I felt the pain of war as we drove through streets where homes were still wounded with bullet holes. And I felt the adrenaline of life as it played before my eyes in conversations, smiles, kisses and car horns. Although this was not my first time in my father’s homeland, this visit, like all the rest, felt like the first.

I saw my grandmothers face peering over the balcony as we approached her house. Dressed in black and a smile, she greeted me with kisses and a stream of affectionate words of love and nicknames. Days at my grandmother’s house passed by quickly in a cluster of boiling pots, a tummy full of Lebanese food, fresh fruit, coffee, orange sunsets on the Mediterranean Sea and the soft whisper of her prayers under her grape-vine veranda at twilight. I truly love this time with my Teta (the Lebanese word for grandmother) where I am left to fend for myself in broken Lebanese and sign-language as I try explaining to her that walking barefoot around the house is totally cool. She stubbornly disagrees as she chases me around the house with a pair of slippers, shouting ‘Shay! Shay!” as if summoning a pot of hot tea from the heavens to drop down on my head and prevent me from catching a cold. My Island girl ways have often reminded me of the great difference between the Lebanese side of the family and myself. But despite our disputes on barefoot living and other western-Caribbean traits of mine, I have always felt nothing but love and acceptance. As much as I enjoyed all the time spent with my family, I was yearning to spend my vacation in Lebanon a little differently than I had in the past.

I decided to volunteer my time at St. Joseph Orphanage which was located a few miles from our village. When I arrived, the nuns were thrilled to have a music and art teacher as well as the students, whose days were filled with only Math, Language and Science. They did not let the opportunity of my presence pass them by and every hour I taught a full classroom of almost 25 students until the bell rang at the end of the day. My resources and language skills were limited, but luckily with music and art you don’t need a large vocabulary. The children, who were between the ages of 5 and 11, were thrilled to have me and giggled at my invented language of Arabic, French, English and funny facial expressions.

Upon arrival on my second day at the orphanage, the children greeted me in a giant mob fighting to hold my hand, pass me flowers and notes and shouting my name “Ms. Natasha! Ms. Natasha!” I will always remember one little boy who proudly herded me through the crowd of children to my classroom. I spent the week teaching nursery rhymes on recorders, playing games of improvisation with an electric keyboard and handmade percussion instruments and of course, musical chairs! Towards the end of the week I taught them how to draw a self-portrait, make butterflies with multi-colour paper and create Aboriginal-inspired art with black construction paper and acrylic paint.

The week passed to quickly and on the last day I found it hard to pull myself from the group of children I came to love. That time spent sharing and creating at St. Joseph Orphanage has given me one of the greatest experiences of my life. As I grew up in the safety and warmth of the Caribbean Sun, these orphans were growing up in the landscape of a war-torn country full of uncertainty. Seeing how happy they were to make music and colour their lives with paint made me understand first-hand the power of art to communicate cross-culturally and touch lives. I now wake every day with a grateful heart and a hope that through my art and life I can continue to give. Thank you for reading.

2011-05-16T19:58:00.000-07:00

Desert Spells

2011-04-06T13:27:00.000-07:00

Made from moulded earth and clay brick, the fortified city that was a stopping point on the caravan routes through the Sahara desert, lay camouflaged in the blood orange earth. Phthalo Blue silhouettes of the Tuareg tribe dotted the roads with camels. When I arrived at Aït Benhaddou, young boys greeted me enthusiastically with an offer to take me across the shallow river that divided me from the clay ksar ahead. Examining the journey, I could have crossed it effortlessly on foot but prospects of a ride on a donkey for the price of one dinar and a smile was much too tempting. Regal and common, Aït Benhaddou laid on the foot of the Atlas Mountains along the Ouarzazate River, its clay arches welcoming me like a Bedouin princess. The earth itself seemed to rise up to create this disguise of desert architecture.

A friendly young Berber man offered to be my guide. He was dressed in a traditional blue dress and Adidas trainers. We walked through the small winding roads that ascended through the city to the top of the hill. We passed through rooms that once were homes and played with artifacts that once were valuable household objects. When we reached the top, I breathed in the sight of the descending city and the boys with their donkeys that now looked like colourful specks on the golden river. On our way back down I stumbled through a room of men drinking mint tea. Then I heard it, the sound of the guimbri that echoed through the walls of the Kasbah. This beautiful instrument beloved by the Berber people is common in Gnawa music of Morocco and other parts of North Africa. A man dressed in blue sat against the mud threshold playing. The guimbri’s long neck held 3 goat-gut strings that stretched from the camel hide soundboard to the wooden tuning pegs. Metal jingles and decorative tassels hung at the top of the neck, gently bouncing as he played. His voice, inhaling and exhaling in song, was exalting in prayer and the celebration of life. The notes of the guimbri imitated his syllables and melodic phrases that appeared over and over again. His melody centered on a string of only a few notes and rhythmically bounced off his fingers and consonants in a spell. Typically Gnawa rituals, called lila or derdeba, consists of a larger group of people and instruments. A series of chants join together to form one long piece, sometimes an hour long, where spirits are called to possess the dancers and participants as they enter a trance; a trance induced by only music. But there in that moment, there was only me and him.

I stood in the sun and he sat in the shade of the doorway, his song leading me to a state of abstraction. My feet no longer touched the ground. Scheherazade’s tales filled my breath and eyes as I lived a thousand and one nights in the streets of this desert dream. With each archway of his phrase I rose higher into the firmament until Aït Benhaddou disappeared into the sand.

A visual dipiction of a feeling I can't explain

2011-03-08T16:15:00.000-08:00

DREAMING IN DJELLABAS

2011-02-28T13:35:00.000-08:00

From the Ferry, Morocco looked like a sleeping giant on the horizon. It's mountainous body floating on the Strait of Gibralta. When I arrived and stepped foot on the shores of Tangier a happy taxi driver drove me to the train station. From his radio, the voice of Najat Aatabou provided the perfect soundtrack as we sped through the streets of the city.

The train station was an unexpected surprise compared to the dilapidated streets of Tangier. Decorated glass, spotless mosaic floors and the most delicious shawarma sandwich kept me company as I waited for my train to Marrakesh to arrive. It was a long nine hour journey to Morocco’s red city. For the first part of the journey a young Moroccan boy sat in my booth and was thrilled to speak English with me. He got off in Casablanca and for the rest of the journey to Marrakesh I shared the window with a father and son who quietly napped, dressed and dreaming in their djellabas.

It was around ten in the evening when I arrived in Marrakesh. A taxi took me into the old medina walls. He could only take me so far before I had to walk the rest of the way with a man who carried my bags in a wheelbarrow through the winding streets of the old city. It was pitch black except for a few amber lights streaming through small terracotta windows. The streets were noisy and filled with hooded figures and foreign tongues. Adrenaline ran in my veins as I blindly followed the young Moroccan man to my riad. Upon entering Dar Hanane, I was greeting by a tall smiling Moroccan dressed in white linen. The riad was beautiful and their generous hospitality more than anything else braced my awareness that I was more East than West.

Marrakesh was a magical phenomenon. I felt like I was walking among the pages of Scheherazade’s stories in A Thousand and One Nights. Exploring the souks and little streets of the Medina was a sensory adventure. New and exoctic spices filled my nose each step. When I turned the corner a different kind of stench coming from the butchers and the leather stalls made me walk the other way. Daily life was bustling all around as I followed colorful djellabas and hijabs to Djemaa el fna square where acrobats, fortune tellers, musicians and snake charmers charmed every coin out of my pocket.

As addictive as Marrakesh was, the Atlas Mountains were beckoning. On a Monday morning the call to prayer called me to breakfast and after 2 dates, a bowl of yogurt and a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice I started my Journey southeast to Aït Benhaddou. With each passing minute I left the cosmopolitan scene of city life and ascended higher into the world of the Berber.

A Lover's Map of the World

2011-02-22T20:39:00.000-08:00

النار التي تشتعل The Fire that Ignites

2011-02-22T19:33:00.000-08:00

FAT GRAPES

2011-02-22T19:22:00.001-08:00

ROAR she said.

Gnarly knots tangled her head

Per-fect-ly imperfect

Big eyes

small breasts

Sit like fat grapes on her face

Her chest

Viciously long she spat

Hissed

Made love in her habitat

Foul mortal tastes invade

Invade her body like

Nightshade

Serenading renegades

Oooohhh she crooned

Hatching music

That gives birth

Chromatic sensibilities

her raw ugly bitter grotesquely beautiful voice un-earths

And descends like rain

on intimate archways

ANIMAL SPIRIT

2011-02-21T20:16:00.000-08:00

LOST IN DUENDE

2011-01-22T19:42:00.000-08:00

After a scenic train ride from Malaga, I arrived in Seville, Spain, on a beautiful October morning. The taxi carried me to the B&B, which was located on a narrow, winding cobblestone street decorated with small balconies hanging with bright flowers and stained glass. After checking in, I left my bags and took to the streets of Seville. The sun was shining and the sky was a vivid blue contrast against the stone walls of the old town.

The city was sweet with the scent of oranges as almost every street was lined with blooming orange trees and bougainvillea. Seville was unique from other Spanish cities I had visited as there were many architectural elements remaining from the days of Moorish rule. I spent the next few hours strolling the intricate mosaic hallways of the Alcazar, paid my respects at the tomb of Christopher Columbus and climbed the tower of the Cathedral for views of the city. It was interesting to see how so many homes had flat roofs that were used as terraces, complete with outdoor furniture and pools. The panorama of red-tiled roofs all fit closely together like a puzzle against the hilly landscape and deep blue sky.

I spent the evening at a Flamenco concert in a small tavern not far from the city’s bullfighting ring. There was a guitarist sitting on a chair in the corner of the stage while the audience listened quietly, enjoying bowls of olives. A woman entered in a long flowing skirt. Her hair was tied neatly in a bun with a single rose. She began to dance and as her feet tapped and stomped in intricate rhythms with the guitar, her hands twirled delicately above her head. When her face was not tight with passion and pain, her eyes pierced the audience with a stare. When the music came to a stop and she took her final pose, I could feel the audience on the verge of tears. After a short instrumental break, a man came on stage and performed. His black figure moved like a shadow and his feet tapped so fast in rhythm they were a blur. When they danced together they melted beautifully in a lovers’ dialogue through movement. Their feet were strong and full of rebellion while their arms moved fluidly around their bodies like water.

My personal experience of Flamenco, whether I’m in a cafe in Andalucía or an amphitheatre in San Diego, is always spirit-inducing. I can’t help but feel the urge to cry, stomp my feet to the music and yell out in rapture. In the gypsy world of flamenco, they call this feeling I describe as duende. Duende visits me on trips like these when I leave home to discover the world and all its beautiful music.
After spending time in Seville, I took the bus to the most southern tip of Spain, a city called Tarifa. The old town is a picturesque white cluster of old buildings and cafés. But what makes this place really special is the wind. When I walked down to the beach, the sky was full of colour from the dozens of kite surfers. As I sat on the beach, I could see Africa in the distance. In the morning, this strong wind would carry me away to Morocco, where a new continent awaited.

WHITE CHRISTMAS IN CUBA

2010-12-25T20:03:00.000-08:00

An Island's Story: Told through the music of Miss Julia Hydes

2010-08-12T20:14:00.000-07:00

An Afternoon with Miss Julia Hydes

2010-02-22T19:14:00.000-08:00

It was a long awaited rain that greeted my mother and me that hot afternoon as we drove up to West Bay to meet the renowned percussionist Miss Julia Hydes, who was 100 years old.
My search for Miss Julia began that morning when I opened the phone book to search for her number, only to be greeted by, what seemed like, a hundred numbers under the name ‘Hydes’. From cousin, to son to brother to daughter–in–law, I finally found her and was happy to know that I could visit her that afternoon.
Not remembering the house number Miss Julia lived in, my mother and I observed each home on the picturesque seaside road and tried to guess which one was hers. On one side of the road lay the extravagant beachside properties, decorated in stone and Mercedes Benz; while the houses on the opposite side were more modest, decorated with gingerbread fret–work and sand gardens full of conch shells. Old–time Caymanians rarely built on the beach because of storms, but now the view is obstructed by modern architecture and seven story high beach condos. We kept our search to the side that harkened back to the past and, after running in the rain from door to door, we finally found her.

Miss Julia Hydes and I talking music!

We were greeted at the front door by Miss Julia’s housekeeper who welcomed us in and announced our presence to Miss Julia. The living room was adorned with photos of her countless family members, from children to grandchildren, to great–grandchildren; no one was left out. It was a house full of love and that was obvious in Miss Julia’s warm hospitality and friendliness. We all sat down on her colourful sofas and began to talk. She was easy to talk with and she had a lot to say about her music.

She told us how she would go from district to district and house to house with the fiddler, Mr. Radley Gourzong. She described the dances and the atmosphere, putting us all on the edge of our seats with her vivid descriptions and her infectious enthusiasm. She explained the lyrics of her songs and how she came about writing the song "Munzie’s Boat" and others. And then she started to sing one of my favourites “Cardile gone to Cuba". As she sang for us she clapped rhythms in between the phrases as if she had an invisible drum in her hands.

She was enchanting.

When she finished she laughed and said, “You hear about a Waltz? That is one. That’s a Waltz! It’s a pretty song. I made it you know. I made plenty songs!"

After cheering her on to sing it again she began, “Cardile gone to Cuba. He gone about two weeks. Leave his darlin’ Julia with tears rolling down her cheeks. Starry night for your ramble down in Hogsit Lane. I sure to see my Cardile if it does not rain...”

We all clapped and laughed with joy as she sang it again and when she finished she said, "You not hear a song with more rhyme than that! That went all over the Island then. All over the Island that song went."

We then asked her if she knew any songs that were popular for dancing back in her day. After a few seconds of thought, Miss Julia asked for her drum and placed it on a stool in front of her. It was hand–made and I observed the unique markings on the membrane, the hooks and cords wrapped around the old oil pan and the metal bar on the side of the drum. She placed the sticks in her hands and began drumming and singing, "I don’t want no chip–up potato, chip–up potato, chip–up potato..." It was a light–hearted song that got us all clapping, singing along and bursting into laughter at the finale. The different sounds that were produced when she hit the membrane, the metal bar and the sticks together mingled wonderfully with her rhyming lyrics and upbeat melodies. Her voice was raw and beautiful, unaffected and authentic. Her voice was the voice of our past and unique heritage. Her voice was pleading with me not to forget and, as I sat there and listened, I felt an immediate desire to capture each melody, each note as it floated away from us.

After the music and laughter subsided, Miss Julia said, " Oh, good music them day, you know. Oh boy, no fights or nothing like that. All day dance, all night dance – don’t hear a thing! But now?"

"The world change, Julie. The world change," stated Miss Julia’s housekeeper compassionately.

“Yes boy…,” sighed Miss Julia.

“People now…they don’t want to get together.” I added, lost in the pensive state we found ourselves in.
"That’s the truth, “ continued Miss Julia, her voice filled with sadness. “You can’t get no little bit of good music here now. One thing, all fighting and killing. One thing, see what Cayman come to?" Then Miss Julia looked wistfully off in the distance. "Boy those days were good music and good fun man," she stated fondly. Then, with a soft sigh she simply uttered, " But now...Oh boy."

I couldn’t help but share the sadness and nostalgia that Miss Julia was feeling for she had just taken me by the hand and led me back to the days of a Cayman I only heard of in stories and, upon returning, I too felt like I was missing something precious.

After an inspiring afternoon spent with Miss Julia, my mother and I said goodbye. Miss Julia hugged us and invited us to come again whenever we liked. I left her knowing that I had just been part of something special and wishing I had experienced it earlier. I felt extremely lucky to have been able to spend time with Miss Julia and witness this unique Caymanian music. As a young musician, I hope I can help in some way to carry on this tradition before it fades away.

Later, as I reflected on my afternoon with Miss Julia, I mused about the things she had said. I thought about the great changes she has witnessed over the past 100 years, from the days of smoke pots and kitchen dances to the present age of commercial banking and tourism; and I can’t help but wonder: Have we have lost our identity in the process? They used to say that Cayman was the island that time forgot. Now it seems that time is what we have too little of. There is little time to preserve our national treasures and our God–given paradise. There is little time to make the next generation, who are the only hope for the future, the centre of our concern and care. There is little time to capture the good things of the past, the spirit of community and pass them unto our families, neighbourhoods and districts. The days of kitchen dances and weekend gatherings at a neighbour’s should not be lost in the pages of our history books. The music of our Islands should be passed unto our children and not forgotten or drowned in the Top 40 playlist. I can only hope that we, as Caymanians, don’t let our traditions fade away with time. After all, we need to know where we’re from to know where we’re going. I hope that the young will learn from the old, because they have a lot to teach us. And I hope that we can not only come together and treasure our Islands, our heritage, and our music, but keep it alive...because there is little time.

Lebanon: Pearl of the Middle East

2006-08-22T18:57:00.000-07:00

Published in the Cayman Compass on Monday 21st August, 2006

It was a beautiful amber sunrise as I stood on the balcony of my grandmother’s house in the mountains overlooking Beirut to the left, the Bay of Jounieh to the right and the Mediterranean Sea spreading out to the horizon. I had just arrived the night before with my family to visit all my relatives, friends and my father’s homeland for one month. No one could have imagined what was in store for us and Lebanon as we sat there on that first morning having breakfast under the grape vines in her garden.

We spent three and a half glorious weeks in Lebanon. It was a perfect Mediterranean summer; blue skies and fresh fruits. Everyone was happy about our return and we spent many nights dining on Lebanese cuisine, dancing, laughing and telling stories until the early hours of the morning.

My siblings and I exploring the Roman Ruins of Baalbeck

During the day we set off on little road trips exploring the beautiful sights and history of Lebanon. We went to the Bekaa valley, a large fertile land where wheat and an abundance of other crops are grown. They call it the breadbasket of the Middle East. There we visited Baalbeck, the largest Roman ruins outside of Italy, and Ksara a world renowned winery and vineyard. We went to the old Phoenician port of Byblos, which has been continuously inhabited for over 7,000 years. It was breathtaking, beauty creeping out from all corners of this ancient land filled with the remains of thousands of years of civilizations. Our ancestors the Phoenicians, and our invaders the Assyrians, Babylonians, Armenians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Ottomans, and French. They all left their mark in Lebanon and in us: the traditions, the spices, the music, the churches and mosques, the ruins and roads, the architecture, art and language. It is impossible to go and not become lost in all its splendours: the grand cedars and snow tipped mountains that touch the heavens and race down to the sea, the orchards and red roof toped villages, and the people most of all.

Waking up in war

It was a night like any other night and we went to bed thinking we would find the sunrise of a flourishing Lebanon greeting us in the morning. It’s amazing how you can go to sleep in peace and wake up in war. I woke up that day on Thursday, July 13th and went into the living room to find my family glued to the TV. Israel had just sent IAF jets to bomb Lebanon’s International Airport near Beirut. We were scheduled to leave that Sunday back to Cayman but at that moment we had no idea what the future had in store for us. All my family and neighbours were there and it felt like the whole village was at our house. Cell phones going off, political debates, anger, fear and yet an amazing calm as if it was normal and everything was going to be fine. After all they are children of war and in their words, ’This is Lebanon’.
Indeed it was Lebanon, a country just rebuilding itself after a civil war and now thrown into another conflict. For the first few days we didn’t know what to do or what was going to happen. I woke up every day and ran to the living room to see the news and every day it got worse. All weekend we tried calling the Embassy in Beirut but we were unsuccessful. On Sunday we decided to go in person. It was dangerous and scary as Israel was bombing Hezbollah headquarters there in the capital. As my father and I drove down to the Embassy the rest of my family went to the stores to buy supplies that we would need if worse came to worse. It was like hurricane season all over again.

Get in line

When we reached the Embassy we found hundreds of people lined up outside, shouting and trying to push their way through to hand in their registration forms. We filled one out for the family and they told us to stay at home where we were safe and wait for them to call us. The sick, the old and families with babies and young children were priority. Since there were over 18,000 British citizens in Lebanon, we were hoping we would make that category as my seven–year–old brother and five–year–old sister were with us. Days went by and no phone call. We watched on the news as we saw thousands leaving by boat, helicopter and through the Syrian border, which was extremely dangerous as Israel was bombing the main roads to Syria. I tried to call everyone I knew that could help us overseas, my family in Cayman and one very dear friend of mine in England who wrote me emails telling me all the plans of the British Embassy and reassured me every day, sometimes every hour that they would get us out. We went several times to the Embassy and every time they sent us home to wait. Every night we slept we heard Israeli jets flying over our heads, even during the day but we didn’t feel like we were in any immediate danger as we lived in a Christian area in the mountains away from any of the bombings that were happening.

Facing the bombs

That first Sunday after coming back from the Embassy I went to play in the pine forest near our home with my brother and sister. There was nothing else to do and no where else to go as everyone was staying in the village and not leaving the mountains unless it was absolutely necessary. Just then, we heard bombs falling and gunfire in the Bay of Jounieh right below us. Everyone in the village started shouting and screaming to get inside. I ran with my brother and sister back to the house. When we reached home I looked out the window but I couldn’t see anything, the fog in the mountains was so thick that day that you could only see about 20 feet in front of you.
A few days later my Mom and I decided to go the British Embassy in Beirut with my cousin who drove us. As we were leaving the Embassy we heard a huge bang that sounded just like what I heard that day in the pine forest except it was 20 times louder and much closer. It must have been a few streets away. Frightened, we turned to my cousin and asked him if it was a bomb. He said, ‘No, don’t worry it’s not a bomb, it’s not a bomb!” In those few minutes, we drove so fast out of the city, going down one way streets, ignoring all the rules to get out of there. In war there are no rules just chaos, and it was chaos. Once we had begun to go up the mountains and felt safe enough, my cousin stopped the car near an ice cream shop and turned on the music. As he brought us our cones piled high with fruity flavours he told us that it was a bomb we had heard. Israel had hit a truck driving on the road. He didn’t need to tell us, we already knew. What else could it have been? Before a few days ago I had never heard anything like that in my life and it was a sound that I was becoming familiar with. While we were parked there on the street eating ice cream we heard another huge bang. It sounded like a gunshot and this time it was right there, near us. A passing car? Was it shooting at us? I jumped when I heard the sound and I think I screamed but I can‘t remember the sound of my voice, just the sound of whatever it was that was scaring me so much right then. My heart sank and I looked at my cousin who was standing next to me and at my mother who was waiting in the car. I looked at the street, at the people around me who looked just as scared as I was. I looked at the sky and it wasn’t a jet or a bomb and it wasn’t a gun shot. A tire burst on the car driving by.
I couldn’t eat my ice cream. For the first time in the few days that we were living this experience I began to panic and get nervous. I wanted to go down to the port and wait in line at 4am. I wanted to be the first person there and make them get us on the boat. I was so angry, shaken and scared. I asked my cousin to take us home. I sat in the back of the car trying to hold back tears, stop my hands from shaking and calm my heartbeat that was running faster than us.

Getting the word

It was Thursday the 20th of July, a week since the conflict had started. I had almost lost hope that we were going to get out before it was too late. While we were eating lunch with my family my uncle in Cayman called us and told us that the Caymanian Government had gotten registration numbers for us and that we had to go to the port the following morning. It was a first–come–first–served basis. We could only bring one small carry–on each and the port would open at 9.30am. WOW! The feeling I had! I was so happy and so relieved. The next morning I woke up early and said goodbye to my grandmother and family. It was hard leaving them and our beautiful country and not knowing what was going to happen, when and if I would ever see them again. I went to the port at 6am to save us a spot in line before the crowds gathered. With every hour that passed, more and more people showed up. My family arrived at 9am and we passed through the check point. There were Embassy officials checking our passports and the size of our carry–on. There were so many people who had to repack and leave things behind at the port.

We were all taken to a big warehouse where the British Army escorted up through all the procedures, security check and passport check. The Red Cross was there giving us water and every 20 minutes someone would announce what was happening and how much longer we would have to wait. I was impressed with how organized and caring they were. We were all led in groups of about 50 people to buses that carried the British flag. These buses took us to the port where we waited to board the Royal Navy battle ship. They gave us food and water and assigned 20 people to a cabin. It was crowded and small and everyone sat and slept on the floor except for young children and mothers who took the benches. It was a six–hour trip to Cyprus. Once we arrived we got on another bus that took us to a place where we passed through immigration and collected our backpacks. They offered us food and aid there as well. They let us make calls for free to the airlines or back home to tell people we were safe and then they took us to the Army base where they planned to fly us back to the UK. At this point in our journey it became very difficult. It was around 1 am and we had been travelling all day. We waited again and travelled through to so many check points that I lost track of where we were going. All I know is that once we reached Cyprus, we must have taken about three buses and been through seven passport checks and X–ray machines. We had to carry my brother and sister the rest of the way as they had fallen fast asleep. We waited at the air force base where we tried to catch a few hours sleep among the 500 other people that were finding rest on the floor and benches. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of waiting and bus rides and papers after papers, they escorted us to a huge jumbo jet that flew us all the way to London Stanstead. It took about four hours. It really was a successful operation carried out by the British Embassy. By the time we passed through passport control and took the bus to London Heathrow it was about 10am. We were dirty, exhausted, and as we walked into the hotel at Heathrow Marriot all I could think about was a bath and a bed. We were out and on our way home.

Happy memories

I was eight years old when I first went to Lebanon and met my family there. I was overwhelmed by their love and affection, so many kisses and so many smiles. I always loved to watch my aunts, cooking away in the kitchen with all their spices and secrets that they never gave away. I remember the men cooking the meat outside on the fire, smoking narguili and telling stories. I’ll never forget my grandmother and all her wise words and superstitions. And what I miss the most, is their laughter, their hugs, their hands that always moved with such expression as they spoke, and their eyes that have seen years of war and death and still manage to be filled with so much faith, love and hope. Hope for Peace.