Carolina Blue

Just the other day we were out driving about the Goose Creek, South Carolina area near the Cooper River when we came upon a curious sight. In front of a chemical manufactureing company on state road 503 there were two brick vats appearing simular to swimming pools. We brought the Toyota to a screeching halt.  Well, maybe not screeching, but quickly, to investigate. The historical marker stated: " Built 1750-1790 at Otranto Plantation and used to process dye from indigo, an important S.C. crop from 1747 to 1796. Moved here 1979." I knew that indigo dye had been a product produced in colonial South Carolina but did not know that there was any evidence of this industry surviving. We promptly took some photos and measurements of the brick structures which were stuccoed on the inside. The larger vat was elevated  higher than the smaller to which it was connected, and each had an opening  used to drain liquid from the larger into the smaller and to drain the smaller onto the ground.  Based on our measurements the vats would hold approximately 3456 gallons and 2992 gallons respectively. But how were they used?  I have long been involved in various manufacturing processes and was curious to learn how indigo dye was made. I asked Claudette if she knew anything about indigo, and she said,"Yes, a little, I was once a third grade teacher, you know."

"Well, tell me about indigo.  I know it was a blue dye made from a plant," I said.

She replied, " I know that they cut the stalks of the indigo plant down and put them in a big vat of water.  After about a day or so they had fermented with a rotten smell."

"Most anything smells bad when fermenting," I said.

"They then drained the fermented plants into another vat and picked out all the trash and stirred it with paddles. The pudding-like dye settled to the bottom of the vat  and they simply drained off the water," She added.

"So then they let it dry?"

"No, they scooped it up and put it into bags to drain overnight.  Then, they fashioned it into cakes to finish drying,"  she continued.  "It was then that it was usually shipped to England to be used as a textile dye."

"Do you know who started it growing around here?"

"As a matter of fact I do. Indigo dye production has been around a long time in Europe and Asia, as well as the Americas. But, in South Carolina indigo production was begun by Eliza Lucas Pickney.  She came to the Carolina lowcountry as a 16-year-old girl with her father, who was an officer in the British army. Soon, her father was ordered to return to duty in Antiqua, and Eliza was left to run the plantation, educate her younger sisters, and care for a sickly mother. But, she was a sharp young lady, and she managed. She had great difficulty developing a plant that she could grow and harvest successfully. When she finally developed such a plant she readily shared with her neighbor planters. In the years prior to the Revolutionary War, indigo dye was the third biggest export from the colony.  It was in such demand that England subsidized its production. Unfortunately, for the indigo planters, there was no demand for South Carolina indigo dye in England after the American Revolution.  India became the supplier for the British textile manufacturers."  

"While you were talking, I googled it and found out some more facts," I said.

"And I thought you were listening to me!"

"I was. I was!" I said somewhat defensively, " I did find out some more interesting stuff."

"Such as...," she queried.

"The dye isn't soluable in water, and cloth is dipped into it comes out green, but when exposed to the air it becomes dark blue.  Jeans are dyed with it.  It was in great demand for military uniforms.  It took about ten men to man the vats during production.  Indigo production did not interfere with rice production on the lowcountry plantations.  As a matter of fact, the same workers could do both jobs.  In 1775 South Carolina produced 1,107,660 lbs of indigo dye with a value of over $30 million." I said proudly.

"Learn anything else?" she asked.

"Oh yes!" said I.

"And what was that?"

"Eliza Pinckney was a very pretty girl." I said with a smile.

The conversation ended.

Gold Fever

It was back in '07, I believe, when we were driving up a fairly narrow Northern California road in the Sierra Nevada mountains when Claudette said to me, "We're here!" And where exactly were we? The road is following the Yuba River near Downieville, founded during the gold rush of 1849. Near here were mining camps with such names as Brandy City, Whiskey Diggins, Poverty Hill, and Poker Flats.  Downieville also is known in infamy as the only city in California to ever hang a woman.  It seems a Mexican woman killed a white miner.

We pulled the Toyota over to the side of the road, parking it in the shade of some tall conifers.  We put on our water shoes, grabbed the gold pan, and headed for the river. The Yuba was less than ten yards away. Claudette tells me that her family spent every summer in this area when she was younger. They would camp on the river and swim, fish, and pan for gold. I was excited about the gold panning part, since as a small boy reading adventure novels I had dreamed of finding gold.  But then what small boy didn't have those dreams. We reached the riverbank and found that  there was about twenty feet of river rocks between us and the water.  Some were small and rounded, but others were as big as basketballs. Water shoes have very little support and a flexible sole.  Walking was difficult. The clear water was quite cold, fed by the melting snow in the high Sierras, but we were soon used to it. Claudette explained to me that, "We need to get the fine gravel from the river bed and anywhere silt may be caught between the rocks".  I used a camping shovel I had bought at the flea market. The old German Sergeant had called them "trenching tools" in the remake of  "All Quiet On The Western Front". I dumped a shovel of fine gravel into Claudette's pan into which she added water. "You need to wash the gravel in a circular motion." she said. "You wash the light weight silt away and usually leave the black sand in the bottom of the pan. The heavy material sinks to the bottom of the pan, and gold is the heaviest of all."

If this sounds like a tedious process, it is. At first it's easy, and then the monotony kicks in.  Also, your feet start to get numb from the cold mountain water, and the constant bending over causes your back to ache. Your seat on the rocks is cold with the hardness of granite.  This is back-breaking labor. Claudette said she never had the tenacity to pan all day, but her brother did.  The miners in 1849 left their homes to do this day after day with the hope that they would strike it rich. I decided placer mining was not for me, but it did fulfill a boyhood dream of panning for gold in the California hills. Claudette did find a small fleck of gold that day, and as we left I noticed a man upstream from us with a small portable dredge. Yes," thar's gold in them thar hills."

We then drove to the Indian Valley Trading Outpost where Claudette had gone for soft serve ice cream when her family camped in the area. There was no one there from the days of her youth, but we had a nice time talking with the local folks. The ceiling of the bar  has paper currency from many countries stapled to the ceiling with the contributor's name and date on it.  Claudette looked for a bill her brother may have left with no avail.  We ate our ice cream and were on our way to Downieville.

We had a great day in the Sierra Nevadas.  We  had panned for gold and had ice cream.

Spanish Nights and Pigs Ears

September 15, 2011
We had just left the Via Grande Metro stop when the incident occurred.  It was a crowded car, and we were clutching the upright rails as the car lurched through the vast labyrinth of tunnels beneath the city. In the last car where we were a muscular young man of about two meters tall and ninety kilos pushed his way brusquely through the car, the smell of alcohol on his breath. His face was swarthy, and he was muttering something. Claudette said he was demanding money.  As he moved to the back of the car, I said to Claudette. "Let's get outta here." She gave me a quizzical look as I pried her hand from the rail and led her forward. "But..." she started to say.

"Hey," I said," nothing good ever happens when drunks start making demands."  As I looked over her shoulder the big guy was accosting a young black man demanding money in a loud voice.  I pulled Claudette forward as she said, "He has the poor guy down on the floor hitting him. "

"Better him than us," I say as the train stops. We hurriedly exit the metro and notice a security guard waiting. He is much smaller that the men that are fighting and we don't wait around to see the outcome of the confrontation  but exit to Plaza Mayor into the festivities of Madrid after dark.

Most of the day had been spent in museums and now we were ready for some relaxing "wander around" time. According to the guidebook there was a place nearby where one of the local delicacies, fried pigs ears, were available. I know, I know, this sounds a bit strange, but when in Spain... The Metro stop was directly in front of one of our favorite bakeries but at nine o'clock at night we wanted something different. The plaza was crowded with people out for the evening, not particularly going anywhere in particular, just strolling about. The street vendors had their goods spread out on bed sheets on the ground, sunglasses, leather goods and other smaller items for sale. It appears that the vendor can make a hasty escape if need be by grabbing the corners of the sheet and running. Probably some of the merchandise has changed ownership recently without exchange of currency.  There is also some sort of demonstration or rally of about a hundred people going on.  We don't get involved.  We are accustomed to this sort of thing and have seen it in other European cities. There always seems to be a group protesting or demonstrating. Street entertainers abound on the plaza as well as the side streets. There are opera singers, string quartets, guitarists, folk dancers and a man playing water filled glasses! We enjoy the festive atmosphere but can't find the restaurant which sells the fried pigs ears.  We enjoy a meal of tapas with jamon, the cured Spanish ham.  Later, we had our desert of chocolate and churros. Churros are fried extruded bread dough that you eat after dipping in small cups of extremely thick hot chocolate. This could be my desert of choice...at least in Spain.

It had been an exhausting day of museums, sightseeing and wandering around. Oh, yes, and a fight on the metro too. Time to head for our hotel, only two blocks from Plaza Mayor. Did I mention that Plaza Mayor is mile zero for all roads in Spain?

Bahamian Holiday

Wednesday, January 12, 2012--We stepped off the MV Fantasy at about 9:30 AM  for a day of discovery on New Providence Island. As we walked down the gangway there was a Norwegian cruise ship berthing across from us. The other three berths were empty.

No passport is required here.   As we strode toward morning and the colorful Festival Place Welcome Center building with  the 855 foot long white cruise ship behind us at Prince George Wharf it was a warm day with cloudless sky.  We stopped in the Welcome Center long enough to get a map of the downtown Nassau area.  Almost immediately we sensed the friendliness of the Bahamians. Every face seemed to have a smile on

it with a cherry "Hello" or "Good morning". 


Across Wooden Rogers Walk was Ransom Square.  The park had the traditional park benches and the aged  men on the benches.  Amongst the towering palms  was a bust of Sir Milo Houghton Butler, the first Governor-General of the independent Bahamas.  We crossed busy Bay Street to Parliament Square.  The building is of Greek Revival architecture and is what must be the most popular color in the Bahamas, pink. A statue of a young Queen Victoria adorns the front of the building but has little resemblance to Emily Blunt.  The two cannon with iron carriages flanking the statue  are very similar to those at Edinburgh castle in Scotland.  A pretty girl of about ten-years-old was pretending to fire one of the cannon, and I snapped her picture.  


We continued our walk up Parliament Street past the Supreme Court Building and the Garden of Remembrance.  On the corner of Parliament Street and Shirley Street stands the Nassau Public Library and Museum.  It is the oldest building  on Parliament Square, built in 1798 as a jail and later converted. It's a very interesting building of octagonal shape. We turned left on Shirley Street, facing the morning sun, as we sought the Queen's Staircase and Fort Fincastle. At the corner of Elizabeth and Shirley we turned right and began the climb up Bennet's Hill past some construction projects and the hospital. The construction workers, like everyone else, were friendly.  The street traffic was quite heavy, and pedestrians did not always have the right of way. I believe they would hit you. You drive on the left here, but there are many left-hand-drive cars.  


Near the summit, after passing the hospital, we were somewhat bewildered to find no signage to the Queen's Staircase, a noted tourist attraction.  However, a smiling Bahamian woman sensed our plight and pointed us in the right direction. She referred to it as the "66 steps" not the Queen's Staircase. These stone steps were cut from the limestone in this quarry in the late 1700's by slaves.  They were later renamed The Queen's Staircase in honor of Queen Victoria.  Like many old structures, many stories are told about their origins, and to prove their accuracy is sometimes futile.  This was a delightful place with cool temperatures from the shade of trees and the quarry walls. There are vendors here selling all sorts of souvenirs, and Claudette bargained for a straw hat.  I've been trying to teach her not to pay the asked price, and  I think my coaching is paying off. She bargained five dollars off the asked price. At the top of the stairs was a chatty man in a wheelchair.  I expected him to ask for a hand-out, but he did not.  The Bahamas are full of surprises. The top of this hill is the highest point on New Providence Island.  Is there a better place for a fort?  I don't think so. From here you get a breathtaking view of the island and the turquoise sea beyond.   By now there were four cruise ships tied up in the harbor, and about ten thousand people would be coming ashore. I suggested to Claudette that we finish our excursion soon before this island got too crowded.

On top of Bennet's Hill  is the most interesting fort I've ever seen, Fort Fincastle.  Built of stone in 1794, it is semicircular with a triangular structure on the flat side of the semicircle. The cannon are mounted on the curved walls. These cannon aren't the originals but were placed here in the 19th century. I find the cannon unique in that they are on iron carriages which sit on tracks to allow recoil.  The entire track and cannon can be pivoted. This allows for full coverage of the city of Nassau as well as Paradise Island, formally known as Hog Island. The cannon are at least six feet off the ground which makes me ponder how they were loaded and fired.  But, that pondering is food for another blog. The fort gets its name from once governor Lord Dunmore, Viscount Fincastle. The admission is only one dollar. US currency is readily accepted in the Bahamas. Inside the fort are guides who work for tips. They aren't pushy, they simply state that they earn their livelihood this way.  The fort soon fills up with tourists which signals time for us to leave.

We took a dirt foot path from the front of the fort past two sleeping dogs to the street below. There is a  fruit stand near an abandoned car with tasty appearing citrus, but we were without small domination bills, so we didn't shop.  We found ourselves on Charlotte Street and continued down the hill to Bay Street.  We were ready for some shopping and a mid-morning snack. The street seems to be all jewelry shops and souvenir shops with few restaurants. Eventually we found Skans at the corner of Bay and Market Range. It seemed to be a great time for a spot of tea. To my surprise hot tea is not readily available.  I think perhaps the tourist trade has destroyed a bit of English tradition. But what I really wanted were some conch fritters. I have memories of those in Key West some years back. According to the menu they are a lunch dish, but our waitress said the cook could probably make some for me before the lunch hour. Claudette chose the conch burger, and we shared.  They were great, especially the fritters with slightly spicy dipping sauce.  We had just finished our meal when the waitress said, "Look out into the street!"  We rushed onto the sidewalk to see what was going on.  It seems the court was going into session, and the justices walk down the street to the Supreme Court building. There must have been over a hundred of these elegant Bahamians in their black robes with their powdered wigs on their heads.

Since we were right next door to the Straw Market we went inside to see what was for sale. There were souvenirs galore: T-shirts, hats, sun visors, et cetera. There was one thing of interest though: wood carvers.  They are magicians with primitive tools. A chunk of wood complete with bark, a chisel, and a short length of tree branch to use as a hammer is all they use to produce beautiful wooden sculptures. By this time it had become extremely crowded, so we boarded our huge white ocean going steed for safe refuge.

The next day found us watching the ships enter and leave Freeport harbor while sitting at a table under a palm tree.  We were munching the ubiquitous conch fritters and discussing the merits of the various brands of native beer. While there I did have the opportunity to try my hand at the conch trumpet.  I could not find one that made a sound, but the young man with dreadlocks and a Bob Marley t-shirt could.

I should like to return to the Bahamas some time to get to know some of the islanders and perhaps spend a few days without seeing a white face. 

The Dark Continent

I had always wanted to go to Africa.  Since childhood those visions of steamy jungles or desert sands have kept my interest. When I finally got there, the Immigration Officials would not let me enter the country of Morocco. My trusted travel mate and I had not had our passports checked while on board the ferry from Tarifa, Spain.  How were we supposed to know this? Some sort of international telepathy, perhaps. We quickly scrambled back aboard the ship to find a disgruntle and rude immigration agent. He was quite rude and I had to remind Claudette that some sort of verbal rebuttal from us would be futile, if not detrimental to our cause.  I have always revered the man with the star regardless of the situation and fully realized that this sloven, rude, disgruntle little man could refuse us entry into his country.

  When we final got ashore a bearded little man in a robe and brimless hat approached us and asked if we were going on the tour and if we were English.  We answered yes to both questions.  We were used to being asked if we were English since we were frequently identified by the language we spoke.  He said. "Good! Good! and led us to a small Mercedes van obviously loaded with tourists.  We dutifully climbed aboard and a young man in a Yankee's baseball cap introduced himself as Ahmed. There were nine of us on the mini-bus plus the driver and Ahmed. He spoke to  the driver in Arabic and the mini-bus grudgingly started to move.  Arabic is the major language in Morocco followed by French, Spanish and then English.

No one spoke French on our bus but there were five English speakers: Claudette and me,  two recent college graduates, and a mechanic from Wales. The other four spoke Spanish.  As we bounced along a rather brisk clip, Ahmed told us about his country and city.  Tangier has over one million people, is the second largest city in Morocco and is building new hotels and modernizing its harbor to attract more tourists.  The driver brought the mini-van to a screeching half beside an open area between some buildings and Ahmed exclaimed , "Everybody, camel ride!"

Here we saw a bearded man in a t-shirt and baseball cap with two camels. He was offering camel rides for one euro. I thought I wanted to do this, but after I saw that there was nothing to hold onto, I reneged. A few of the people did.  One of the camels was very cantankerous.  Our next stop was the bazaar. Ahmet was dressed in western style so he was easy to follow. Some of the men were in the robes and brimless hads while others were in western dress.  We see very few women in less that ankle length skirts and usually with headwear such as a kerchief.  The typical long robe with hood and veil is common.  However, when only the face or eyes are visible, it is usually well made-up.  Some are quite beautiful particularly with "raccoon" eyes.  Also, some of the long dresses were of brilliant solid colors and are worn a few sizes too small. The streets were very narrow and crowded with people, push carts and frequent motorbikes or scooters but no donkeys or camels.  I made sure everything of value was in my money belt.  Our guide was quick to point out that although Morocco was a Muslim country we could readily see Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish houses of worship.  As we walked by the tiny stalls selling all sorts of merchandise and food stuffs, I could not help but remember some scenes from "The Raiders of the Lost Ark".  Thankfully I did not see a very large man dressed in black with a scimatar!  I had thought the streets in the medieval Europe were narrow, but they were wide compared to these.  In some places we walked single file. Vendors are constantly tugging at your elbow to buy their wares, usually jewelry of sunglasses  They love to bicker about the price. But if you complete ignore them and never make eye contact they will leave you alone. However, if you offer any kind of encouragement they will stick like glue until you buy something or leave the country. We visited one shop in which native handicrafts were sold, beautiful leather work and ceramics. In one shop I bought some spices for a barbecue rub. But the creme de la creme of things for sale were the rugs. They showed us many beautiful ones that were hand made with intricate colorful designs. If I had had the extra money I probably would have bought one. And, of course, they had no flying carpet. By the way, they accept any kind of currency in Tangier.  There is the probability that you could use Monopoly money, maybe?  We ate a meal at a local restaurant and it was good, cous-cous topped with vegetables and mystery meat.  The music was very interesting played by musicians in white robes and red fezzes. As we walked through the bazaar we could hear the call to prayer from the mosque, "Ashhadu an la ilaha ills Allah..." 

Our three hour tour was over.  Unlike Gilligan we did not have Mary Ann, Ginger and the Professor but did have two cute college girls and Welsh mechanic.  I should like to return to Tangier with more time or maybe instead to Egypt.  I understand that there aren't many tourists there now due to political unrest.