Farsighted Fly Girl

Three weeks ago, I woke up feeling very edgy and unhappy. All morning, a cloud seemed to cling to my spirit and I couldn't shake it. Then I saw the day's headlines. I understood. Miriam was gone. Miriam Zenzi Makeba died of a heart attack on November 10 after a concert performance outside of Naples, Italy. To her fans she was Mama Africa and the Empress of African Song, an icon of African political activism and the high-flying spirit of African music. To me, she was a comforting , lyrical presence throughout my life. Miriam Makeba started performing in the 50s but a lot of younger Americans were first introduced to her in the 80s, when she appeared on an episode of the Cosby Show. I had the good fortune of experiencing a live Miriam concert before the Cosby episode and that performance will stay with me for the rest of my life. Her voice was at once overwhelming with a range that swooped from the sky and back, as well as intimate and soothing, scatting and swirling with a rich

Thanksgiving always helps me remember how fortunate I am. My life has been graced with much joy and opportunity, qualities that may be fleeting for people struggling for daily survival. Although I don't always remember to be grateful for every benefit I'm granted, this year has been a magical time of mind-blowing accomplishments and fulfilled dreams for so many. It makes me believe that despite the economy and the wars and the suffering, the world will get better. An example of this rush to kindness and hope is Passports With A Purpose . Last month, four Seattle travel bloggers decided to organize a fundraiser for Heifer International . As travel bloggers, we often witness the crushing inequities of poverty around the world. Heifer International is an inspiring charity that helps to end hunger and poverty while caring for the earth. The organization provides livestock and sound agricultural training in 57 countries, including the U.S. Their programs develop self-sufficiency fo

Caribbean cuisine is one of my favorites. I love spicy flavors, exotic combinations and anything accented with tropical fruit. Most island dishes offer that and more. So I was looking forward to sampling Bajan food, to say the least. I did have a fleeting experience with the Bajan staple flying fish, years ago. My former mother-in-law, a Tobago matriarch, enthralled by the recent popularity of the fish in Tobago, insisted that I smuggle frozen flying fish in my luggage on the eight-hour flight back to Chicago. But that's another story. Barbados is called "land of the flying fish" for good reason. They are everywhere. Popping up on little pectoral fins in the harbors, decorating Bajan coins and the coat of arms, flying fish are part of Bajan life. And they are truly a part of the daily cuisine. The national dish is flying fish and cou cou, which is a cornmeal side dish called fungi on other islands and polenta in Italy. Succulent and slightly oily, flying fish was f

Barbados was settled by the same gentleman planters who settled the colony of South Carolina. A lot of connections exist between these two places, from the Bajan dialect that bears a close resemblance to the South Carolina Gullah dialect, to farming practices that were developed in Barbados and transferred to South Carolina plantations. But the most visible is the similarity in architecture. The jalousie windows and sweeping verandas that grace grand old South Carolina houses also decorate many Bajan homes. Georgian and Victorian style great houses line streets in Bridgetown and Charleston. However,the most distinctive Bajan architecture is purely Caribbean. The chattel house is basically an old school mobile home. Simple wooden houses placed on limestone blocks, chattel houses are designed to be taken apart in a day. The term comes from the days when plantation workers journeyed from different estates, working the fields and leasing the land that they lived on. Their mova

I have always loved everything and anything tropical. Although I grew up in the arctic climate of Chicago, I never enjoyed any of the classic Midwestern bounty. Apples? I don't think so. Peaches"? Please. Mulberries? Try again. I only eat pineapple, papaya, coconut and my all time favorite, passion fruit. I drink passion fruit juice like most people sip lattes and passion flower tea crowds my cabinet next to the chai. Imagine my wonder when I kept noticing this lush bush of little green fruit. I asked my South Carolina friends what the fruit was but they could only guess. Lime? Unripe lemons? I knew better but I couldn't quite figure out why. Finally, our Bajan guide handed one to me. As soon as it hit my hand, I knew. Passion fruit! All those years of gobbling it in dozens of forms, I had never seen the actual fruit. I felt like I had rejoined a long-lost part of myself. These bushes line the path going up to St. Nicholas Abbey in Northern Barbados. Although the passi

linocuts by Duhirwe Rushemeza Today, Bloggers Unite focuses on the plight of refugees. The organization offers lots of links and groups to spread awareness about refugees but I decided to share my personal experience with Rwandan refugees. Two years ago, I was assigned a story on Rwandan refugees in Chicago. Although I specialize in African and Caribbean culture and travel, locating recent Rwanda refugees in the maze of shadowy and hesitant new immigrant culture truly tested my reporting skills. The first thing that I discovered is that despite media pronunciations, the country is called Wanda, with a silent R, by Rwandans. It wouldn't be my only lesson in the yawning gap between media portrayals of Africa and the reality. When I finally found Claude, a soft-spoken Rwandan, almost a month later, he wasn't even living in Chicago but a distant, rural enclave of the city. Although I had seen and cried through Hotel Rwanda, hearing Claude's personal account is an experience I

I'm still numb. I live in Chicago ,where I have seen Barack Obama many times before he started his presidential election campaign. I took my 12-year-old daughter and canvassed for him in Gary, Indiana, knocking on doors and venturing into trailer parks. By the end of October, I knew that he would win, if not just because people are suffering in this country in ways that they never have before. I walked into my polling area and was greeted with two different methods of voting--paper or electronic. I didn't take this lightly. I know of many places where the privilege of voting is not guaranteed and there are no such choices. But I hesitated. Which would be the most fool-proof? Which ballot would be guaranteed as counted? I did not take this lightly either. A poll watcher saw my hesitation and explained that both methods were backed up with an electronic disc. I chose electronic because I figured my photos would come out better. I took a photo of my voting card. I took a photo of

That's how locals describe Barbados and I have to agree with them. It's not a big island, it's not a small island but you'll find something to make you smile, whether it's the weather, the landscape, the culture or the people. I did a lot of laughing and smiling while I was there, I think Bajans are very intriguing people. I heard loads of thought-provoking comments and discussions that I'll detail later. Going through my photos, I jogged through my memory to try and find the most memorable experience I had there. I'm still processing them (along with a cold I got from the combination of rainy season and air conditioning )but I did find a shot that counts as one of the most unforgettable scenes. On the northern side of Barbados, in the parish of St. Andrew, Cherry Tree Hill Reserve boasts the most spectacular view on the island. Despite it's name, it's not cherry trees that fill the grove (they died a long time ago) but gorgeous mahogany trees. Looki