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pumpkins, Travel, Uncategorized

Paddling Pumpkins in Kasterlee, Belgium

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A pumpkin regatta is something to behold.  Since very few life skills seem to transfer to paddling a pumpkin, the experience might best be described as character building. I crossed Europe in seach of the pumpkin adventures of the Flanders region in Belgium. In the process, I was humbled by their passion for pumpkin, and what the people inspired in me.

I learned of the Kasterlee regatta while in Italy.  It seemed like a very long way to go so to see pumpkins, but something drew me to witness this event.  Soon after learning of it, I found myself justifying my potential trans-Europe journey, as well as the supporting thought process, to virtual strangers.  I was getting a bit defensive. Why wouldn’t I cross four countries so to watch pumkins filled with people bob like apples?  What seemed like the most compelling argument, ended up being about Belgians themselves.  Often thought of as quiet and conservative by their neighbors, who knew that the Belgians of Flanders, would lovingly hollow out giant pumpkins, dress in funny costumes, then be rather impressive competitors?  They even train for it. It made even the most skeptic listener nod in agreement.  It just might be something to see, and perhaps they might join me.  The Italians were even a bit jealous that this regatta would pull me away from their own festivals.  I vowed to return to Italy, but for now, I was making the trip very far North from Naples to Ludwigsburg, then onwards to Antwerpen, and finally, Kasterlee.

It seemed that we all wanted to see Belgians tuck themselves neatly into cucurbits, then paddle like mad.  It also appeared I had discovered a secret Belgian lifestyle that the world did not yet know about.  I was going, period.

This event would complete a month long celebration in Kasterlee.  Previous to this, there were farm tours, pumpkin themed menus, and more.  A website featured toddlers playing among giant, still on the vine, pumpkins, in a magical scene straight out of storybooks.

Belgium is also a global contender for giant pumpkin growing.  They are frequently #1 in Europe, receiving the award in Ludwigsburg, Germany.  This just happened to be one of those years.  The “big boys” of pumpkins had headed out of Ludwigsburg one week prior to my visit there.  These pumpkins were taken on tour, and also back home for local celebrations.  I was happy to find myself face-to-pumpkin with the European champion right there at the regatta.  Sitting beside it on the flatbed trailer was the record holding squash. I got goosebumps, as this alone would justify the journey as “pumpkin research.”

Yes, research.  It was all in the name of research.  Someone had to collect these experiences, make note of these cultural traditions.  It might as well be me.   I could share this information, and in the process inspire others to “up their pumpkin game.” Why not stir up a bit of squash rivalry between the European nations, as well as with the rival US pumpkin growers “across the pond.”

Arriving at the regatta was a little more challenging than I expected.  Being held in a tiny pond, at 9:30 am, on a Sunday, in a small village, next to Kasterlee made the whole experience memorable.  Let’s just say, that by the end of the day, I walked over 3 hours to take me to and from the event.  I navigated busses, trains, and walked a long way to be there.  I am a big fan of struggling a bit for such experiences.  It clears my mind, and makes me realize just how much passion and drive I have in me.  So I walked…and walked some more.

The wonderful thing about walking, is that it allows me to spy into the late Autumn gardens.  It had dropped to below one degree celsius, in Belgium, and now the cold was joined by a powerful wind.  A brisk walk was welcomed.  I watched the frost melt along the way. It was a powerful change from Southern Italy, or from my home in Hawaii.  I reminded myself to enjoy it.

I was beginning to question if I had read the map right.  I was getting a bit worried that I would miss this “outside of the town” pond.  Then, I saw the first of many handpainted signs that would direct me to this special little place.  I would find it.  That alone inspired my walk that had turned into a hike.

By the time I reached the regatta, I realized that I was walking with enough confidence, that others thought I knew where I was going.  I turned around to find a small group of couples, children and their parents, and even a few farm dogs walking behind me.  I was guilty of pretending to understand Dutch, by nodding, and pointing at the signs, and striding onwards.    Eventually, we saw that a field was filled with cars, and the distant mumble of a voice on a mega phone could be heard.  We had arrived.

I know what I was expecting, I was planning on seeing the races.  The struggle of competition.  Silly costumes, and rivals.  Instead, I found beauty.  I found stillness, light, poetic movements, and sculpture.  I saw a surreal play of light, and form.  I did not see that coming, but the regatta seemed like a dreamscape to me.  It was the calm and quiet that inspired me to continue to stand with wet boots at the edge of the water, for hours. It was the way that the pumpkins themselves looked more like sculpture than boats. They were already unique natural forms, and with the creative hands of the villagers, they were transformed into something else.  I was smitten.

Maybe it was the long hike, the cold, the exhaustion, but the tranquillity drew me more than the competition.  It was the event helpers, all were local kayakers, that stood in knee, or waist deep water, that became my focus.  For hours, they turned these giant forms, and spun them across the light that was dancing on water. I was reminded of the poetry of man and nature.

The races were won and lost, the families gathered, cheered, and celebrated.  I was calm and quiet and contemplative.  More than anything, I was grateful that this event, of all places, could return me to a quieter side of myself.  Travel does that, if you let it.  It can shake loose bits of ourselves that get lost in the day-to-day.  So to the people of Kasterlee, thank you.  Your dedication to your craft, reminded me of my own.  That is a gift that I will remember you for.  To the people of Flanders, dank u zeer.

Essays and Reflections, Travel

On the Edge of an Italian Town

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I tell time by the church bells, reminding me of where I am in the day, as I no longer worry about getting lost in time, or in the space that surrounds me.  I walk to the edge of Orsara, where “up the hill” is Orsara, and “down the hill” is not.  So I walk downhill until I am tired, then judge how much I must save for the walk back up the mountain.  “hai camminato da Orsara?” or something like that, is said to me with concern.  I judge that this is not common.  I hear cars approaching behind blind curves.  I cross back and forth to safety.  A road sign warns of slow tractors on the hill ahead, but it doesn’t warn about me.  Between passing cars, I study the moss on the trees, the wild edible greens along the road.  The flavorful weeds.  I marvel at the borage, in full bloom in a drainage ditch.

I listen to the water rushing somewhere near, then the wind that drives the turbines, blowing in powerful surges.  Everything is growing, including the stones.  In a moment of fatigue, I contemplate the amount of life along the expanses of freshly turned soil.  The dark earth smells of rain.  I step onto the shoulder of the road, and my shoes sink in.  The earth holds every drop.

Animals run toward me, greeting me with nervous excitement.  A kitten flirts with big green eyes, and an inner motor so strong that it nearly makes him stumble.  I pick him up and judge that he is well fed, a little belly silhouetted by the sun’s rays.   I pass the orchards, and vineyards, and small piles of spent grapes.  Olive trees that defy pruning, and chili peppers that grow just beyond the wooden gate.

Today, I look for the quiet stones, the stones moved from the fields.  The ancient ones that were once here where the plows have churned the soil.  They were carried to the edges, by men, wagons, and donkeys.  Stoic now, in small pillars. Monuments to time.

Essays and Reflections, Travel

Days and Nights in Orsara

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In a room in Antwerp, in the diamond district, writing about the past. The nights have turned cold enough to see my breath, as I reflect on the days behind me.  In the chaos of travel, I change languages every few hours.  My mind is exhausted, and does not reset to the new country, the new friend, the change in language.  I am a country, and a language behind.  Speaking in French, Italian, or German to the Flemish Belgians who would rather I just spoke in English.  I walk so to clear my mind, and get some thoughts down on paper. I walk until I am tired, then write until my eyes close.

How do you summarize the days behind, when each one was so rich.  New people, ideas, patterns.  Landcapes flash before my eyes in memory, like scenes from the train window. I try to focus on one hour, of one day, in one place.  My heart remained in Puglia, even though the rest of me went to Germany. I just wanted to stay, to press my hands and face against the cold stone that makes the place. It felt like an ancestral connection, like the stones of Inis Mein.  In Orsara, homes, and walls, and footpaths are quietly reabsorbed by nature. A farmer’s efforts temporarily reclaim man’s order, but when Spring arrives, vines and trees will again crawl through stone, claiming victory.

At night, while others slept, I walked into the night to watch the moon, as the twinkling festival lights in the village shown in blue arches upon stone. I would stay until I shivered, then stay some more.  A wild dog greeted me as if it knew me, as if I was returning home. It would sit as I gently pet it’s face in the quiet of the night.  I remember Clinton the sheepdog on the Aran Islands, as he followed me upon my return to that place. The locals peered from stone framed windows, and green painted doors, wondering why this dog seemed to be mine.  It is a mysterious thing, why animals react as they do.  Do they see something that is beyond our sight? Do they know that we want to love them if given the chance? As I prepared to leave Orsara, the gardener stopped before me with mouth agape, as I pet the wild dog beneath the rain.

I get comfortably lost in quiet.  Though my days are spent struggling to speak, to convey my ideas in another language, and at times, in any language. I’d rather simply look, or stare with admiration, and breathe it all in.  Sometimes, the other senses take over in a tumbling labyrinth of scent, sight, and touch.  I turn down the volume until someone asks for a response. At times, I am guilty of just watching the Italians lips move, of watching language form beneath their dark eyes, with words bubbling like prosecco. So what do you do with this sweet place where a chestnut horse breathed you in, and geese sneak sweet grass out of your fingertips through the gap in the fence? Where hours were spent contemplating cheese, and nights seemed to go on for days.  Where language flooded you like a song whose words you didn’t quite know, yet it nearly makes you cry.

 

 

 

 

Essays and Reflections, Farming, Hawaii

Stories in the Rain

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I’ve been waking when I should be going to bed. Restless with fatigue as I try to continue on through what seems like an endless list of “to dos.”  The dogs huddle in close trying to warm themselves after what feels like six straight days of soakings.  The drought has ended in floods.  My no-till patch is a bog of hops.  Sloppy mush coming up past my ankles and squash leaves bigger than dinner platters. My Hunter boots have given way with a leak where I put a pitchfork through them, and the top of my foot, six months ago. So now I have as much of the hops slurry on the inside of the boot as on the outside.  The rains fall heavy from dark grey clouds, continuing through the night, but ending every morning before returning again at mid day.  This unlikely deluge has changed Summer to Winter.  I’ve lost track of the names of the hurricanes turned tropical storms.  Each one crossing over the Hawaiian islands and loosing it’s bearings, a bit like me.  I may be sleeping when I should be relaxing, Then awake when it is time for bed.  I read a few pages here and there from a book I picked up from the sale rack while visiting UH Manoa’s campus.  It is a beautiful book that tells the story of another time in farming, a time that doesn’t have to be in the past.  I had high hopes of raiding the agriculture text books, but my visit coincided with the bookstore cleanup where students dumped armloads of books off and fled to their summer freedom.

Stacia Spragg-Braude writes in lyrical prose, describing the daily life of an extraordinary character who continues to farm against the odds.  The beautiful hardbound volume met me eye to eye and I new it would be my birthday present to myself.  (The book summary ) I was heading back to the Big Island, and as I often do, I fill my arms with books, hoping to find the words and wisdom to keep me going even in the darker moments.  As tonight’s rains pour off the roof in an audible cascade, I think about drought and how much I, like Evelyn in the book, thinks of water.  Here in the town where I hang my hat, there is a demarcation line of precipitation levels.  Wet side and dry side.  This year, and for several years prior, the weather, like that in much of the world has been just plain confusing.  The drought was here before the year 2001 when I first planted chili pepper plants and Florence fennel on a washed out hillside in Hamakua.  I learned how to care for banana trees, and would walk buckets of lilikoi (passion fruit) to the elderly neighbors who would know what to do with a bucket of fruit.

In the book, the author writes of how water remains on one’s mind a lot in the dry near arid farmland of Corrales, NM. I can relate.  I find myself starting conversations with, “We never got our Winter rains this year.”  I often get back a blank stare.  In this town, few people think in terms of scraping out a life from the soil.  The few vegetable growers that remain, many of which on small parcels, are being hit hard.  Not only is it an uphill battle to get any to buy local produce, when unusual weather hits, our inability to produce, in walking on water fashion, is considered a let down, or worse yet, failure.  Farming is 100% risk, but we hide that risk by taking the faces out of farming, and international produce brokers stuffing our state full of the vegetable version of fast food.  Chemically contaminated, harvested too young, low in nutrition, and on every plate. You don’t often get rewarded by doing it right.  Fast and cheap has lowered our standards.

So when deluge like conditions strike up country Hawaii, I have to take a moment to rethink all things.  When a five gallon bucket is half full overnight, it leads to a drastic change of strategy.  In the book, the farmers created their own irrigation system from the river.  Here, the creek overflows it’s banks on days like this, I watch it cascading by on it’s route to the ocean. Our farmland irrigation is borrowed from the much wetter parts of the island.  We are taking their bounty.  This creates a false view of water, where farmers can squirt irrigation every day, all day until their fields are filled with puddles.  Almost nobody bothers to improve the soil, so that it actually once again hold water.  Water just appears from somewhere else, and few are even grateful for it.  I remember having a talk about water conversation that fell on many deaf ears.  The farmers crinkled up their noses when I noted that our water reserves were hitting desperate times, and that we were warned to conserve. The general attitude is that they should water more, so that they “get their share” even if they don’t need the water.  They should take it, so someone else doesn’t get it.  I realized that day that I would never relate. I said my bit about building the soil, so to cut their water usage and benefit their plants.  I was laughed at and told that their soil was some of the best in the state.  Weeks later part of the USDA’s soil team visited us, and shook their heads in the same way I did.  For once, “big government AG” agreed with the rookie. The generation before me may be the only one that bred farmers that don’t think about soil health.  My Grandfather would roll over in his grave if he heard them speak.

I was raised in a community that was a lot more like the town of Corrales, or at least the communities that surrounded our farm were a bit like that New Mexico community.  Here, the plantations left a scar on everything that it touched.  Though we focus on the damage done to the land, equal damage was done in taking away the pull yourself up by the bootstraps way of thinking.  Here farmers are pitted against each other, and imported produce is king.  It is hard to stand tall as a community of farmers when someone is standing on your neck.  It has been this way for so long that many barely remember another way, though much of the shift toward the outside suppliers happened within the span of my lifetime on the planet.

The rains now stopped, and the dogs snore.  I find myself getting tired and mistyping the town of Corrales as Corvallis, a place where I WWOOFed in torrential rains in a strawberry patch, as hail fell into the Spring mud just over 3 years ago.  I remember rounding up the animals to shelter them from the hail, feeling grateful to maneuver a stubborn ram, three Nubian goats, and a huge and defiant horse into their shelter.  I was shaking with a healthy dose of fear and adrenaline as I got them all tucked into the open sided barn.  The hail stones stung on my face as the spooked horse stomped and eyed me in that big eyed way that horses do.  The horse had leveled a few in it’s day with one swift kick.  That afternoon, I saw a different side when I clearly put myself in harms way so to help him.  He knew, and kept his kicks to a minimum.  I returned to the farmhouse kicked off the boots, and shivered as I purged myself of raingear in the entryway.  The farm owner, who had inherited the farm, was tucked in with a cup of coffee, feet up in front of the fire.  She was confused at why the animals were brought in out of the hail.  I realized then, just weeks into my farming journey, that what is common sense to one, isn’t to another, and owning a farm doesn’t make you a farmer.  That bit needs to be earned.