You have to curl and curve a bit to get there, navigating the narrow, broken roads until you come upon a small, rum shack set back a bit from the road. Remote from the perspective of a tourist, it seemed that this just happened to be where Rita lived as opposed to being the result of any sort of opportunistic business stratagem.
It was early afternoon and we were the only people in the two-table place. The pair of middle-aged women we encountered seemed indifferent to our arrival, maybe even a little bit confused by it, as if we’d gotten lost, happened into their kitchen and awoken them from naps. Without being particularly eager to impress, they decided they’d cook us some lunch, moving heavy and wordless back to the kitchen.
It took a long time, and as it was a very hot and humid day, Rachelle retreated to the protection of the AC of the car. Shortly after, the rain came in relieving torrents. The chickens that had been roaming freely in front all scattered, but the Blackbelly sheep in the field across the street were completely immobilized, as if cast under a spell. It was mysterious, almost mystical for me to see them frozen like that and I was utterly transfixed. One of the women looked at me and shook her head, “Sweet Jesus, it like you never see sheep before!” she said, as she shuttered the windows and closed the doors, the scent of pot drifting in with the wind and spray.
The rain stopped before the lunch was made, and I stepped outside as the women swept the accumulated water from out of the shack. The chickens had reassembled, each cock now crowing, creating a network of communication echoing down the streets. Nearby at a sheltered picnic table, three young men sat smoking and drinking. A gentle looking Rasta called me over, curious about the off-season tourist, and the group of us chatted for 10 minutes. One of them, just a boy, was hard looking, as if already preparing for a difficult future, the other one, chilled-out and fleshy, smoked dope with lidded eyes, the tattoo Self Made inked onto his hand.
They were going to be there all day. More friends and acquaintances– buying little bottles of rum from Rita’s—would be joining them as the hours passed. None of them had ever been off the island or expressed any particular desire to do so. The Rasta, rolling a new joint, asked me, “You like Barbados? It’s paradise, eh?” but he said this hopefully, like he was looking for an outsiders reassurance rather than expressing a known certainty.
The seals of Rollo Bay would only allow us to come to within about 20 feet of them before clamoring off into the water. Slightly hurt that they didn’t love and trust us more, we’d sit watching, pleading with our eyes. Alien and mysterious, arrayed in undecipherable formations, they just bobbed in the water “They know so much more than we do,” Rachelle said to me. And after about an hour, as we motored away, one seal bulleted along with the boat, always watching, a decoy to lead us away from the greater pod now settling back on the sands.
Prince Edward Island is stunningly simple and beautiful, a sort of land that time forgot– like a place in a movie rather than a place in the world. We stayed with some friends at their cottage on Fortune Bay, near Souris, where their families return each year to effortlessly entwine like forest. Children and dogs run freely about in an endless golden summer, while the adults, smiling and just slightly melancholy, watch from beyond.
A sweet man who looked like he belonged on a rum bottle played acoustic guitar in front of the fire singing Farewell to Nova Scotia:
Farewell to Nova Scotia, the sea-bound coast,
Let your mountains dark and dreary be,
For when I am far away, on the briny ocean tossed,
Will you ever hear a sigh or a wish for me?
He sang it slowly, a eulogy rather than the typical jaunty, Irish Rovers kind of celebration. His east coast voice was thick and true, and the song was beautiful and heartbreaking. His wife watched keenly from the sofa, her hands pressed together hoping that he would speed up the tempo, but he didn’t, he didn’t, and somebody’s ghost lingered long after the song was finished.
One night I was speaking with a middle-aged woman about the royal family, and how in spite of it all, she cared.
“They’re not just celebrities, they’re a family and their presence ties them to my family. It’s visceral, organic, and there’s not a woman my age that didn’t weep when Lady Diana died. Oh, the poor thing– beautiful like a fawn– the eating disorders, the unhappiness, and then when she became herself, her death. And so I’ve followed her children, so alone, really, and when I heard William and Kate had their baby on the radio I was so moved I had to pull over and text my sister, and all up and down the highway, other cars were doing exactly the same thing. ”
A beautiful and sophisticated couple from Montreal rent a cottage in the area each year. All of the men have secret crushes on Pierre, while all of the women have secret crushes on Louise. One night they shared a Quebecois song from the 70s with us as we sat out on the steps of the cottage. Louise, wrapped in a blanket, sang along from her perch, while Pierre, in a voice from some film you never forget, translated the words for us, and through this translation the song took on many voices, becoming a history made manifest, a poem still unfolding as the stars wheeled above.
*With thanks to Victoria Bazan and Rob Hyndman, who provided most of the photographs and everything else. ( And to many, many others, too.)
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