The airport runway on Nevis runs directly along the beach, and halfway down the middle reaching off into the sea is an old wooden pier with a rusted crane. The pier is locked in a bay, bound by a reef, and inaccessible by car or by boat. It stands in the water, on...
We have ponds of water throughout our garden where the waterlilies grow, where the herons perch, where the wild donkeys and roaming livestock come to drink when the yard is still. They are made from raw iron; demi-spheres of various sizes, some broken, some tipped...
Beneath the sands of the beach at Gallows Bay, near the pier of our primary port Charlestown, lies the wreckage that time has buried on our shores; the iron, steel and heavy wooden timbers of the ships and the ruins that describe another age. It’s a field of debris...
We speak our own dialect in Nevis, it is a version of English that is filled with its own rhythm and cadence, and rife with its own sublimated context. We speak with vagary and ambiguity because in a community of 11,000 it is easy to follow subtle references. But our...
Next to the oldest wooden house in the Caribbean, in our garden grows a sapling called The Tree of Life. It is Lignum Vitae and from it comes the hardest wood we know. It will neither burn, float nor rot. It is a medicine tree that can cure the sick and offers aid to...
