16 March 2008 - 12:53Curious Curacao, Simmering St. Martin

Curacao was heart-breaking. A world heritage site is located here that contains a room of a man named Jacob’s collection of biblical period and earlier artifacts is better known for its museum on the history of the slave trade on that island. Here individuals stolen from their villages in Africa spent two years being broken into slave-attitude, or killed or they committed suicide. The horrendous iron tools of the slavers are displayed, pens and housing, written policies and philosophical statements of slavers. Like at Yad VaShem, the Jewish holocaust memorial, I forced myself to stay present, to read, to learn more, to let hot tears of terror at what was and the knowledge this ability still lies within us, we who are inhumanity, let’s use our real group name, inhumanity.

You think I’m wrong? Read about the waves of complete mushuganosis that overtake human populations and lead us to acts of utter cruelty in every generation that the majority won’t act to stop until feeling threatened ourselves. Ashamnu, we who know as equally guilty….humanity is an organism on this planet, we can pull together…..to me that is messianic, not some dead Jew butchered by collusive men of power who people wish would come rescue us. We are it, it’s not toys are us folks, it’s G*d is us, not “him”, us…and beyond us in the fabric of all of creation. We’re potentially useful nodes that might be allowed to stick around by evolution if we stay differentiated and useful. Remember, when a species gets too specialized, it can’t survive. Watch Nova more often if that comes as a surprise. Diversity is a saving grace of creation, not unified beliefs, as some purport to be essential.

Curacao also has two synagogues, of course. One more orthodox, one more liberal. The latter has an impeccably preserved colonial temple which is still in use, the floor is sand covered, a few inches deep. The museum at this synagogue is fascinating because the lay/professional process of being in relationship pokes through the exhibits. For example, there is a tiny sterling silver and crystal hour glass that runs for exactly 20 minutes. It was commission for the president to use when the rabbi would start a sermon. Twenty-minutes, no more, fartig, as we say in Yiddish. Personally, I prefer 8 minute talks from those leading services, one point is enough to mull and that’s enough time to make one.

At this synagogue they also have ancient circumcision chairs of beautiful dark carved wood where the grandfather would sit with the child on his lap, high up enough for the mohel, the professional who excels at circumcision to kneel on a rung with his tools on a fitted tray and quickly perform the honors. (Jewish circumcision methods take under 1 minute 40 seconds, medical/surgical methods are done in the cold ambience of a med center and take much longer and are more traumatic.) The loving warmth of a grandfather or zandek (godfather’s) lap or these days in many community’s, that of the mother has to be infinitely wonderful as a memory being created for a child. When babies cry during Jewish circumcision (mine didn’t), by the way, it’s not cause it hurts (a local anesthetic I used) but cause, just as when you change their diaper and they protest, the air hits them and this is surprising. Medical circumcision, the kind done in hospitals involves the use of a tight clamp, which definitely triggers an infant reaction when one clamps you know where.

Another special stop was the moving bridge and floating market in St. Martin. Container ships come through the center of the town which is bifurcated by a channel. A pedestrian bridge connects the sides and when a ship is moving through, one instead takes a ferry. The pedestrian bridge has a motor so it can be steered back to the shore to allow ships to pass and you can stand on it while it’s moving, it’s fascinatingly smart. From

South America come tiny fishing vessels bearing fresh caught fish and veggies and they line up against a dock so locals can shop. The beaches here, while pretty, are plagued by crime, it was uncomfortable to have to keep watch on every little thing. Barry’s sunglasses were swiped when he set them down for seconds to change his t-shirt. Special here was seeing a really great mix of races as proprietors. Half the island is French, half Dutch.

Those who know me, know my first love (sorry Barry) is appel geboeck (a-pl kheh-bock), dutch apple cake. The best in the world we discovered here, topped with whipped cream, mitt shlag, of course. Note the utterly blissed out Goldie in the accompanying photo. [to be inserted]