The Juke Joint

A long drive through the countryside is something that we on that little tropical island don’t get to do much. On Saturday, I went with a colleague and his friend on a daytrip to Leona Valley, where cherry picking season was going to begin. The usual custom is to open the season with a little parade, so we set off in the morning to catch that.

Many miles through a highway surrounded by mountains and valley brought us to a long stretch of small, winding road circling the orchards and horse-riding ranches. In between those, vast fields on both sides of the road stretched to the hills in the distance, covered in sparse brush vegetation with occasional odd looking cactus-like plants. I was in the back seat, a rather unfamiliar feeling though it was great for taking in the sights. This would have been the perfect occasion for a convertible car, but I digress.

As we neared the intersection where it was to be held, traffic slowed to a crawl as people carrying lawn chairs, umbrellas and coolers lined the road. Families strolled casually in the sun, some pushing prams or holding dogs on leash, all preparing for a relaxing start to the weekend.

After getting a parking lot, we walked a while to get a shady spot along the street, alongside a small horde of tourists (from which country exactly I won’t say, such is the nature of blogs). I wasn’t quite expecting that, since this isn’t exactly a touristy place way out in the countryside. Nevertheless, we waited patiently for the parade to start.

The event itself wasn’t much by conventional standards, consisting mostly of SUVs, trucks and tractors with quaint but colourful decoration, each representing an orchard, ranch, school or interest group from the area. There were some really snazzy vintage cars in funky colours with chrome fittings, white wall tires and all. Also in the line-up were some huge horses with riders decked out in resplendent riding gear. The whole thing wasn’t all that elaborate, definitely no Chingay or Mardi Gras, but had a more genuine feel to it, devoid of the usual hype and pomp that usually accompanies the more upmarket parades. It also afforded an insight into the relaxed lifestyle in the countryside. In my mind, I visualized what I would have done if I were living there. Lounging on a chair in the shade with a sandwich in one hand and a cold drink (you know what mine would be) in the other, taking in the proceedings from the side while checking out the chicks in the crowd. That’d be my country lifestyle. Oh, and don't forget the guitar.

However, the event was terribly marred by the behaviour of the tourists. They constantly encroached upon the road, blocking the view of the locals on their chairs in their eagerness to take pictures. Repeated reminders in descending levels of patience did little to help. Neither did shifting their chairs closer to the road. These guys just didn’t stop, and constantly ambushed just about every parade participant to stop for pictures, holding up the parade in the process. They were obliging enough and smiled dutifully for the cameras, but these tourists were simply relentless, not knowing when to stop all the posing nonsense till the driver subtly inched forward.

Needless to say, the locals weren’t too terribly pleased. When the futility of their resistance was evident, they eventually shifted out of their comfortable little spot in the shade to the other side of the road, where it was hotter but less chaotic. I was disgusted by this show of inconsiderate boorishness, but powerless to stop it. There’s a place for tourist behaviour, and this isn’t it. The people living here will welcome you warmly if you give the due respect, but they don't need your tourist dollars and won't look kindly upon such actions.

Putting that aside, after the parade we went to the Windy Ridge orchards to pick cherries. For someone who counts durians as a major food group, I don’t normally care for those, but since I was surrounded by them I went around sampling cherries from every bush.

Gee that didn’t sound polite, but technically it’s correct. Cherries grow on bushes and I was sampling them. There.

But the real pleasure was to be had in enjoying the scenery. The orchard was located on a small mound, which made for a beautiful view of the surrounding fields. I made my way right up to the end of the orchard where the top of the mound was, away from the crowd. It wasn’t exactly the brightly coloured oceans of flowers you’d expect from The Sound Of Music, but it was breathtaking nonetheless. Rolling plains all round like a canvas of sandy brown, dotted by barns and farmhouses and the odd tree. The weather was perfect, not too cloudy but just enough to keep things cool. The wind that blew by sometimes carried the smell of fresh horse manure, but that’s part of the whole package. When it blew, the vegetation on the plains rustled in unison like applause in an auditorium, rising in a crescendo as the wind gathered strength, only to fade away gently as it died down.

Eventually my companions decided that they’d had enough cherries, so we paid up and left. I only carried in my hands a token amount of cherries, slightly over a pound, but the images of the orchard in my memory banks would serve as pleasant recall for as long as they still function.


Current beer in fridge : Lawson Creek Pale Ale