KARIN KRONSTAL
From Wednesday's Globe and Mail
Published
I’ve never had a knack for
relaxing. A lifelong advocate of advance planning, I’m the kind of person who
makes to-do lists even when I don’t actually have anything to do. (Afternoon
nap – check.)
So when I announced that I was
moving to Grenada, a tiny tri-island nation in the West Indies, those familiar
with Caribbean culture warned me to prepare for a different pace of life.
Knowing that I’m an avid cyclist, one person compared the move to trading in a
slick road bike for a 10-speed with a flat tire and two passengers.
In spite of such
warnings, I looked forward to trying life in the slow lane. Two years in a
demanding graduate program in community planning – yes, I am a planner by
profession too – had exhausted my mental and physical resources, leaving me
tired and worn out at the ripe old age of 27. I needed either a change of pace
or early retirement, and the fact that I hadn’t yet had a career to retire from
ruled out the latter.
Having just returned from a
six-month work contract in Grenada, I am happy to report that my expectation of
a more peaceful existence has been fully satisfied. I jokingly describe Grenada
as not the land that time forgot, but the land that forgot time.
Have a dentist appointment at
10:30 a.m.? Better take your lunch. Whether it’s the tropical climate or the
hilly terrain, just about everything moves slower there. The one exception is
the drivers: Something about getting behind a wheel awakens Grenadians’ inner
speed demon.
Despite my occasional annoyance
with people living in their own private time zone, I adjusted well. It’s hard
to stay mad when everyone else is so chilled out. Besides, the presence of one
uptight Canadian was unlikely to set off a nationwide epidemic of punctuality.
I recently read a study
claiming that people in northern climates focus more on the future, while those
in tropical nations tend to be present-oriented. One could idealize this as a
Buddha-like commitment to living in the moment or chalk it up to the absence of
distinct seasons to mark the passage of time. Personally, I suspect that these
findings hinge on a certain laxity in the use of the present tense.
When Canadians say now, they
generally mean within the next five minutes. When Grenadians say now, they mean
some time today or possibly tomorrow. When they say, “Just now,” they can mean
anywhere between immediately and within the next hour.
Although Grenada is an
English-speaking country, I learned a few new terms while living there. The
first and most important of these is liming. I’ve asked many people to describe
exactly what liming is and I always get a different response. As far as I can
tell, the best approximate definition of liming is the art of doing nothing.
It can be used as a verb (“I
was liming with Jones last night”) or a noun (“We had a lime on the beach”).
Beyond that, there is no consensus.
One acquaintance insisted that
liming is not “hanging out” in the North American sense since hanging out is
usually planned, whereas limes happen spontaneously. Another person thought
that limes could be planned and gave the example of the drink he and I intended
to have but kept putting off (the fictitious lime, you might say). A third
described liming as a Zen-like state in which you are not even thinking about
how you are doing nothing.
While one usually limes with
friends, you can also lime alone. The only rule is that you have to be relaxed,
and you can’t put a time limit on it.
Caribbean limes are typically
stationary events. Stroll down any street in Grenada around noon and you’ll
find people liming in the shade, often with a cold beverage in hand. No matter
where you are, I promise you that these people are all thinking one thing: Why
is that crazy tourist walking around in the hot sun? Grenadians, you see, have
strong survival instincts and reserve walking for the wee hours or the early
dusk.
Most tourists, it seems, lack
this basic genetic programming. My own propensity for lunchtime strolls became
a running joke (a walking joke?) among my colleagues. I consider the transition
from cyclist to pedestrian a step in the right direction, however, as walking
greatly increases the odds of running into friends and having a lime. Running
into people on my bike has never led to such pleasant outcomes.
After months of observation and
experimentation, I finally figured out why liming is so important to the good
life. It’s not actually about doing nothing. It’s about spending time with people
for the sake of being with them, and not because you’re going rock climbing or
shopping or camping.
Grenadian limes often involve
cooking and eating together. A classic Sunday lime is a cookout on the beach
lasting from midday to long after the sun has gone down. It’s no accident that
the national dish, oil down, a thick stew of salted fish or meat, breadfruit,
dumplings, callaloo and root vegetables, takes many hands and several hours to
prepare.
Liming has taught me about
relationships – specifically, why I’ve struggled in the past few years to
maintain them. I planned so much and kept so busy that I never stuck around
long enough to let things develop. Grenadians know that friendships are like oil
down – they require an indefinite amount of time.
After all, who’s rushing? No
one. Well, not unless they’re driving a car.
Karin
Kronstal lives in Halifax.
SOURCE:
The Globe and Mail
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