I have a tendency to over-schedule vacations. I have to make a conscious effort to build in down-time. We need to relax and enjoy a place instead of rushing from one experience to the next. When I planned our trip to São Tomé, I consciously built in nothing time – lazy days to sleep in, play at the beach, go for a walk or read a book. Our second day on the island was one of those days. We needed it after our adventures the day before.
I didn’t sleep in, but I did get to see the sun rise over the Gulf of Guinea and watch the trees turn from blacks and grays to vibrant greens. I once again listened to the rooster. Honestly, he called the sun for two hours before it rose above the horizon.
I love the mountains—the views, the birds calling, the sound of water dancing down the rocks from a spring or a river or just a heavy rain. It calms me when I listen to the trees, their leaves rustling in the wind. That morning, as the sun rose over a tropical island jungle, I thought of summer visits to Kentucky.
Mountain Memories
Since we had visited the botanical garden and Estavao, I had been thinking about Kentucky. Both of my paternal grandparents grew up in the southeastern corner of the state. My grandfather lived outside a tiny mountain town called Partridge. My grandmother called Viper, a town near Hazard, Kentucky, home. They met at Pine Mountain Settlement School where they both attended.
Estavao had reminded me of my Uncle Bill Hayes who began his career running the school farm at Pine Mountain. Eventually, he became a forest ranger with the the U.S. Forest Service. Uncle Bill loved the mountains. He knew the trees and the animals of the mountain forests—the native plants and the interlopers. Working for the Forestry Service, he rehabilitated land that had been stripped for coal and protected the forests from logging and mining. He shared his love of the mountain forests and the people who made their home there.
Uncle Bill was married to my grandmother’s older sister, my Aunt Fern. When I was young, they lived above Hazard in a log cabin. It was a magical place. The cabin was nestled on the mountain surrounded by gardens and fruit orchards.There was a barrel to capture the rainwater from the gutters.
Inside, a staircase spiraled up to the second floor and a greenhouse blurred the boundaries between in and out. It seemed like every space was filled with books. In the corners and on shelves were musical instruments and records. Coiled fabric rugs dotted the wooden floors, and handmade quilts covered sofa backs and rocking chairs. I remember big windows in the kitchen and living room looking out to the mountainside and a small clearing.
Walks in the Woods
When I was young, my great-grandmother spent her time in the front room during the spring and summer. When we had exhausted granny with our unending questions, Uncle Bill would take my brother and I up the mountain. There, he pointed out plants we could eat and others we shouldn’t even touch. He let us drink the cool water of the mountain springs. Sometimes, he showed us signs of the animals moving through the woods. He gave lessons on forest fires – how to tell when an area had last had a fire; how to identify areas at high risk for fire due to drought or infestation. He pointed out areas of new growth and scars from mining.
Behind the cabin – on a rise covered with clover and wild flowers – I discovered chiggers. After I rolled down the hill, searching for four-leaf clovers, I found that the little insects had burrowed into my leg. It itched something fierce. Aunt Fern painted my leg with clear nail polish and told me to leave it alone for a bit.
Aunt Fern was mother nature personified. Not a fairy-tale kind of mother nature, but a no-nonsense, practical kind of mother nature. She knew how to plant and harvest a garden, gather berries and herbs from the forest and prepare all manner of food for the table or for the winter. At the same time, she managed a house and an office with equal skill. Aunt Fern talked local and national politics and told stories of the mountains and remembrances of my grandparents in their youth. She had childhood stories of my father and his siblings. She talked about family members I never knew.
The Eyes of the Trout
The last time I visited Aunt Fern and Uncle Bill at the cabin, I was in college – maybe I had just graduated. I had been visiting family in the mountains, and came to see Aunt Fern and Uncle Bill for lunch. She had made me trout, caught fresh by Uncle Bill earlier that morning or maybe the day before. She also had green beans, because she knew how much I loved them.
It’s actually my brother that loves green beans, but I wasn’t going to tell Aunt Fern. Those trout gazed up at me from the plate — I am really not much of a fish eater, though my time in São Tomé has me reevaluating. I ate them because my Aunt and Uncle had worked hard to provide them. It wasn’t so bad, I thought, as I picked through the bones. However, I realized I had eaten too much when Aunt Fern offered me seconds. The hot cornbread with salty butter and sweet jam saved me. Of course I had eaten too much cornbread and couldn’t possibly have another bite of fish. . .
Funny how this place – this mountain, our seafood diet, and a park ranger sharing his knowledge of the mountain forests – brought back half-forgotten memories of my childhood in other mountains, far away from the ocean.
A Lazy Morning on the Mountain
Hunger – mostly Isaiah’s – stirred me from the idle in my memories. We walked down the mountain to Casa Museu Almada Negreiros for another quiet breakfast. We decided that passion fruit is the Sour Patch Kid of fruit and dried paw paw (or papaya) is nature’s fruit roll-up. This morning was frittata with fish instead of an omelet. It was amazing.
After breakfast, we explored the property. We visited during the low season, so the guesthouse was quiet. The bar downstairs never opened, and the cushions were never placed on the chairs. We admired the artwork and the poetry. Afterward, we strolled down the gravel road marveling at the flowers and plants and enjoying the sounds from the schoolyard hidden under the canopy of trees.
We watched the clouds roll towards us and smelled the rain approaching. Retreating to our porch, we read and played cards. I soon returned to our room, closed the shutters and napped in the darkness, listening to the rain on the metal roof. Later, Kristen and Isaiah described how the rain stopped and the clouds rose up the mountain, enveloping them in a misty fog. By the time I woke up, the fog had retreated down the mountain taking with it the mist and rain.
Our Quiet Refuge is a Popular Lunch Spot
When we returned to the restaurant for lunch a bustling scene had replaced the tranquility of breakfast. The restaurant was packed. I’m not sure there was an empty table – other than ours – when we arrived. We weren’t in the corner this time, but still by the railing. Most of the clientele were Portuguese, but I heard several North American accents. At the table behind us, birdwatchers talked of explorations in the southern oceans and regularly paused their meal to jump to the rail, binoculars and cameras in hand, to catch a glimpse or an image. The denizens of a cruise ship were making the most of their hours on the island.
A film crew arrived about halfway through our meal to film a segment for a food and travel show. It was interesting to watch the scene unfold. Now, when I see old episodes of Anthony Bourdain’s “Parts Unknown” or Stanley Tucci’s “Searching for Italy,” I will think of that scene. A tall man wears a digital camera. A woman with olive skin and smooth dark hair sits at a table overlooking the jungle. She revels in the burst of flavor for the camera. Her producer and the restaurant manager hover nearby.
Tasting São Tomé
It wasn’t hard to understand why the crew was there. Lunch at Casa Museu Almada Negreiros was a tasting menu. The English-speaking manager came to our table before every course to explain each dish. Each description brought an unexplainable fear. I could NOT eat that. I was wrong. The amount of trepidation I experienced with each description equaled the pleasure I took from each bite. First, thinly sliced tuna and cucumber with a tangy vinaigrette appeared artfully arranged on a small plate. Then, the waiter brought sea snail stacked on fried breadfruit. The main courses had a flavorful fish steak and fava beans with rice and greens. I washed it all down with Rosema, a local pale lager. The beer was mild and refreshing. Isaiah tried every option, but stuck to the beans, rice and greens, unhappy with the seafood. He took solace in the discovery of pineapple Fanta, a new favorite.
I hope someday, Isaiah looks back on his time in São Tomé the way I look back on my time in the mountains – with a fondness for the mountains even if he doesn’t have a fondness for the fish.
Comments
2 responses to “São Tomé: Relaxation and Tasting Trepidation on the Mountain”
Thanks again, Shannon, for a wonderful excursion to Sao Torme and to Fern and Bill’s mountain home. You reminded me of so many happy memories. A special hello to Isaiah. Love to you all.
A lovely read, and an introduction to Sao Tome and mountain living! Brought back fond memories of Isaiah and less fond ones of jiggers — I had no clue you had them in the US!