Pocomoke City Cypress Park

Esther and I are on a small kick of visiting local parks. Despite the natural beauty it is perilous boring on Chincoteague Island in the winter time. A few days ago we visited Shad Landing State Park (Maryland). There was not much going on, but it is an extensive park located on a canal connected to the Pocomoke River. Their claim to fame is that this is the northernmost location of Northern Bald Cypress. There are many of them in the swampy area close to the river.

When we had occasion to visit Pocomoke we decided to take a look at their Cypress Park. This is kind of  a mixed park. The cypresses appear in a swampy area. (Note the knees at the bottom.)

A boardwalk wanders through the swamp, taking you to a pond.

The pond is kind of peaceful looking.

It is connected by a side channel to the Pocomoke River, so it isn't properly a pond.

Getting there at this time of year involves navigating a bit of very moist ground where the board walk peters out. Then you cross this small bridge to get to the pond.

The rest of the park is located near Bridge Street, where there is a draw bridge. In addition to a boardwalk along the river there are play areas, picnic tables, a skate park, and a bandshell.

This is miles and miles from the point where the Pocomoke empties into Chesapeake Bay. But there are some really good-sized sailboats moored here. I would guess 40-50 feet on this one.

Strangely, it's origin is McLaughlin, South Dakota. McLaughlin is a far-away spot in an Indian Reservation. It is about 10 miles from the banks of the Missouri River. It is not clear whether the Missouri is navigable at that spot, nor whether the intervening dams to the south have locks.

Good morning Chincoteague

I got up a little early this morning and had this reward. The black speck is the lead goose of a V that came along a bit later. This is a nice complement to the sunsets I posted before.

I am guessing that there will be some rain in our future ("red sun in the morning, sailors take warning").

Healing Assateague National Seashore

As remnants of Hurricane Ida passed through the Eastern Shore last November, they combined with a high pressure system to create a nasty nor'easter. I reported on it earlier. Now we are seeing the rather unnatural process required to make this (Assateague National Seashore) a usable facility again. The parking lots now look like this, covered with several feet of sand.

The works of man were undone again by nature.

According to the administration here it will take millions of dollars devoted to this kind of work to make it possible for people to enjoy the shore again. Here two giant loaders pile up sand occupying one of the parking lots.

Then they fill another giant dump truck that carts sand out into the wasteland.

This is where dunes used to live. The clumps are the root systems of grasses that were growing on the dunes.

The truck dumps the parking lot out onto the beach, which was made much narrower by the storm. Much of it ended up moved back to the west.

I did not stop to estimate, but it looks like this filling and dumping will go on for a long, long time.

This is why I get such a charge out of the "Please don't step on the dunes" signs.

Goat's head soup - not here

The other day we set out to Mandeville to look at an old pool table. We took the (relatively) new T1 superhighway, which unfortunately peters out before you get there.

Then we made our way up the winding road into the cool of Mandeville. It turned out to be a rainy cool day of 75 F up there. Mandeville always provides a respite from the heat. After the usual navigation by successive approximations using a cellphone we found ourselves picking our way through an abandoned bar/restaurant once run by a former Alcan worker. (Bauxite is a huge export product here in the mountains.)

Way in the back we found evidence of life in the hills. These days a reference to guns would be required.

Farther back were the pool table(s), dusty and abandoned.

Out in back we saw a particularly noisy guard dog,

and some old kitchen gear. I would love to have this Vulcan stove at home!

Soon we abandoned that and went off in search of cousins. Moo-Penns Supermarket is a fixture in Mandeville, located right in the middle of town. Esther's cousin Cecille married into the family. We found her here, under an umbrella and guarding a parking spot for us. The traffic is unbelievable!

We took off for the back of the store where the family used to live. There we found NOT Jamaican bananas, but boxes full of saltfish. This is salted codfish, a Jamaican staple. Lots of standard dishes include this.

There we also found Dr. Winston Moo Penn, retired research biochemist from the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) in Atlanta. He was starting up a soup based on fish heads and foo jiuk (Bower romanization - translation - some kind of stringy bean curd thingy). Esther's people (Chinese) will eat anything.

We had to leave for Kingston before it got close to finished, though. This was a day of close calls, on the road and in the kitchen.

Negril vanilla

Negril is never vanilla. But there is a normal Negril experience. Outside the all-inclusives, that is. Negril is peaceful, relaxing, musical, and enjoyable. The day starts out early, the night birds still sleeping. The beach is sparse, raked into shape by the hotel workers. Chairs go out and get lined up, waiting for us, the pasty white, fat gringos.

Walkers are on the beach, for exercise, and for commerce.

Head balancers appear early, with fruit and juices for healthy people.

They come in all shapes and sizes.

Sometimes it is pretty obvious what is in the baskets, sometimes not.

Some people don't carry anything. Sometimes they go back and forth, entertaining the idle.

This guy made his way along quite quickly, considering he was missing a foot.

Fisherman are also out early. This guy is setting off in a kayak/canoe with a gill net.

This guy is off to the reef in search of conch for the restaurant next door.

Mid-days are gringo-watching time; there are even Jamaican gringos (people from Kingston come over to relax - it's called going to country).

Mid and late afternoon are focused on the bar and restaurant.

Lots of foreigners are here; this group is from Ukraine.

Things start to get stoked by Red Stripe and rum.

Rent-a-Rasta and Rent-a-Brownie are in evidence later in the day.

The last of the water sports fades out and evening brings on sunset, dinner, and entertainment. This sunset makes me see a goblin peeking out from under a hat.

This troupe, with African drums and dancing, augments the standard reggae group.

A bit of bonfire and the old farts retire, to awaken from time to time hearing music until early the next morning.

On the hill above Negril

We spent a couple days in Negril, returning today. There was a bit that was ordinary (I'll report a little later). There was a bit that was unusual. That is the subject of this post.

Uncle Paul had heard about a house up in the hills. He had an idea where it was, but no specific directions. We headed out of town in the supposed direction, but found no landmarks or clues to the place. So we took a turn up toward the hills, hoping to find it.

Along the way we passed the shacks where the hotel workers live. There is not much proper housing to be had in Negril. As we went, we asked frequently where this place was. The first guy we asked (a bottom of the hill guy if I ever saw one) told us "It's on the top of the hill, in the flat part. But don't go up there! There are really bad men up there. They will attack you!" We ignored him and went on.

So, past the curly wires of distribution...

and past the thicket of electric meters (each and every one must pay),

and past Scrub-a-dub car wash and striptease club (with its Thursday night pyjama night). Something tells me not too many tourists make it up here.

On up the hill we went.

Soon we had reached near the top. Along the side was a rum bar. These are frequent in Jamaica. They are small shacks with a couple of stools and a plank bar. The windows are open, with a shutter to close at the end of the night. We shouted up to the people inside "Can you tell us where this house is?" A middle-aged bredda maan (brother man - a Rastafarian) came out, eyes red and inflamed. He told us, "Yes, man. It's down the 'ill, back that way a likkle. Go on up the 'ill, man. There is plenty ganja up der. Smoke a stick. Enjai yu life. We got yu baack if police come."

Jamaicans often substitute "k" for "t" in double "t" words. They also don't pronounce their 'h's. After we drove on, Uncle Paul told me "That guy was weighed down by a quart of white rum." We went down the hill, if you want to know.

Next guy we saw was starting a fire alongside the road (in a kind of cave in the limestone). It was hard to tell the purpose of the fire. It may not have had one, given all the smoke (ganja smoke, that is). This guy was smoked out of his gourd. He concurred, though, telling us "Gwan down the 'ill. The 'ouse down der."

Next we stopped by somebody's front porch. These people knew the house, but told us "It burn down long time now. You can still see it, though. It's just down the 'ill. Fin' de football field, then turn."

Then we started getting more specific directions, finally getting "Turn right at that sign, then drive on." So, we turned right and drove up a goat track in Uncle Paul'x BMW X5. As we drove we dodged rocks and looked out for the very bad men. We didn't find them, but pretty soon we found a dump truck and and old guy leading a young guy on a horse. Then we saw the house. No kidding!

We asked the old guy if we could look at it. He said "Sure. There is a guy doing a survey there." So, in we drove, then parked. And, sure enough, there was a house. Sure enough, it was burned out. But what a house!

It was huge, with lots of rooms and passageways. The walls were limestone and thick - maybe 3 feet thick in places! The inside looked like it had been fancy.

It had really nice tiles and lots of windows. It had been two stories tall, at least. It was so old that the benchmark in the yard looked like it might have been put in by the British. Sure enough, right over the top was a modern theodolite with GPS hanging on the side. Later on we drove past another unit down in town.

The view ranged from mountains

to the beaches of Negril.

The grounds were planted well - huge almond trees, a giant rubber tree, and what we would call locusts in America. Giant seedpods, at least a foot and half long...

Outside, under the almond tree was a patio. "Watch yu 'ead!" The nuts hurt when they hit.

While we were looking around a couple of denizens approached. They wanted money, but they did not offer to attack us. Both of them had fairly gigantic spliffs in hand. There was a distinct odor of skunk weed around the whole time we were there.

Apparently one of these guys had lived in the house before it burned down. He attributed the fire to a hash oil operation that got out of control. What a shame! None of the hash oil was saved.

I snapped some tiny flowers...

This yellow one was only about 1/4 inch across.

Then we looked at the cistern. It didn't look too appetizing. Not much choice, though, sitting on top of the hill.

This plant look a bit like ganja, but wasn't.

We took off, leaving the rubber tree to guard the house. Kind of puts your college apartment rubber tree to shame, doesn't it?

Going down the hill was no where near as fun as going up, though.