Pa’s name is Denny Elliott!!! This has been an unbelievable day. My body is sore and a bit bruised but I feel incredibly blessed. Unfortunately, I woke at 3:30am and couldn’t fall back to sleep—too many ideas percolating! I had breakfast at 7am to make sure I’d be ready for my pick-up at 7:30; the waitress in the dining room marveled at my desire to climb the mountain and said her teenage sister climbed it, then came home, fell into bed, and cried. And now I know why! Just a few words about Nevis Peak: it’s very steep (or, as I like to say, “practically vertical”). Now, I have zero experience climbing mountains and I am not super fit, 
but I’m no slouch either! My guide, Evenson, didn’t break a sweat, didn’t use the guide ropes, and wasn’t covered in mud by the time we got back to the bottom. I, on the other hand, was out of breath before we even got onto the mountain and that hike up a modest incline was *nothing* compared to what lay ahead. I realized within about half an hour that I was *not* going to complete the hike—imagine climbing the steepest stairs you’ve ever seen—two or three at a time. Then imagine those steps covered in slippery mud! I was naive, I guess—the peak is covered in rainforest and so as we climbed, the ground became wet and mucky. Sometimes there were ropes that you could use to haul yourself up the rocky mountainside; other times you simply grabbed roots on the ground. Evenson gave me plenty of breaks and pep talks, but we were eventually overtaken by a British couple with TWO KIDS who were loving the adventure. The wife warned me about the challenge of getting back down, and she was right—mud, roots, dripping foliage, slick tree trunks, and a wet rope to help you repel down the mountainside! I was covered in mud, I slid and slammed my hip 
into a tree (but Evenson stopped me from falling into the ghut). I have some lovely photos, and am proud that I even made it halfway—and I’m grateful that I didn’t seriously hurt myself! Know your limitations. That’s my motto. I seriously doubt I’ll be able to get out of bed tomorrow but if I can, I’ll be parking myself in that hammock on the beach…
Peak Heaven is absolutely wonderful—three generations of the Herbert family
run the site and it’s the perfect place to learn about Nevisian history and culture. Kathleen picked me up from my hotel and we talked about the importance of developing and supporting native-run initiatives. There’s a piece of land for sale not too far from Peak Heaven, and I would *love* to open an arts center that could collaborate with them on their many community-based projects. I’ve already chosen a name for the center: Black Dog Arts…
I’ve met so many wonderful people here and today when I showed Mrs. Herbert the photo of my great-grandfather, she suggested that I talk to Rodney Elliott since she would know whether we were in fact related. Kathleen kindly drove me over to Rodney’s lovely cafe in Stoney Grove; I pulled up a stool at the bar, brought up the photo of “Pa” Elliott on my camera, and handed it to her. Rodney looked at the image, looked at me, and asked, “Why do you have a picture of my Pa?” You could have knocked me OFF that stool—it was like an episode of one of those genealogy shows! I quickly pulled out my notebook and started making a family tree. Turns out Rodney is the sister of the head librarian here in Nevis, and their father was my grandmother’s brother! And just as Rodney finished listing her siblings for me, her brother drove by in a black pick-up truck—she hollered to him and he came in to meet me and to inspect the photo of Pa. Both were surprised to learn that an Elliott could be so “clear” (pron. “clair”) 
when the Elliotts are known to be dark, but my forehead apparently removed any doubts. Rodney gave us some passion fruit juice to drink and shared some of her family photos; she’s certain I’m related to plenty of people over in Rawlins, so I definitely want to spend more time there. On the way back down the mountain I looked for a souvenir—something that will last longer than my aching muscles. I found a purple seed that opens like a star. Time for me to plant a seed in Nevis, I think.
Tomorrow will be a day of rest but Monday is going to be busy—my other cousin, Vannie, asked me to visit her school and I can’t *wait* to meet some Nevisian kids! Then I want to visit the registrar’s office and see how many birth certificates they can find for my ancestors. I’m hoping to be able to trace our family to a particular plantation, and my aunt told me yesterday that my great-grandmother lived in Braziers—a village named for a former estate. This afternoon another 
cousin in Canada, Carlene, sent me a priceless photograph of my great-grandfather Joseph Hood. I’m being inundated with assistance and I am *so* grateful. Before I left NYC I was feeling anxious and a little upset, and I realized that I was missing my Dad. I missed him when I went to Nevis for the first time in 2003 because he was still alive then and I wanted him to introduce me to his homeland—to keep me from feeling like such an outsider. But my Dad had been diagnosed with cancer by then and a trip simply wasn’t possible (not that he offered to go, and not that I asked); he attended my graduation from NYU and then I went off on my own the very next day. This time around I felt angry, resentful, and hurt—I still don’t fully understand why my father kept so much of his childhood from us. I know the mystery surrounding his mother bothered him; maybe the shame made him want to stay away and stay silent. But he rarely passed down any of his good memories, and I know there were some because he recorded them in his memoir. But then he died, and there are so many questions I can no longer ask him…which is why I’m so grateful that my other relatives are willing to talk to me. Almost every door has opened since I arrived in Nevis. I don’t know how my father would feel about my prospective move (back) to Nevis. He wanted to escape the past, I think, but sankofa means “there is no shame in going back to retrieve something of value you left behind.” And there’s value here…
Fledgling 
You’re having such an amazing journey!
It’s been quite a ride, Edi!
Zetta, I am so happy for you that so many opportunities are opening up for you! Enjoy every moment! It looks a little like paradise with something new to explore each day. So glad that you were able to go there and do this!
Thanks, Ruth! I finally took a day to just relax…and appreciate just how lucky I am to have this opportunity to dig and discover.
such a wonderful story in itself, this journey of discovery you are on. So so so cool.
Hey, Jane! Here’s hoping I can turn these blog posts and notes and photos and theories into a compelling book.
Your father’s silence about his childhood sounds familiar. I experience the same thing from some members of my own family. I sometime wonder if there are things they would prefer not to remember. I imagine it’s human nature to want to edit your memories.
The silence I can sort of understand, but the ambivalence is harder to accept…my Dad made no effort to bind us to Nevis, and yet every so often he would say, “You should know your people.” As though he recognized the importance but couldn’t bring himself to assume that particular patriarchal duty. I know they say women are the primary transmitters of culture, but still. I think perhaps the memories of Nevis were too painful and/or too sacred to share—I think my Dad liked the fact that we were clueless about our Caribbean heritage because it left “more” for him—and justified his turn away from our (interracial) family…
Hi Zetta, I meant to comment on this before….the use of the term “native-run initiatives” in this post caught my eye. Most educated Caribbean people will tell you they don’t like that word…”native”. I know you intended to use it as a neutral term but giving the Caribbean’s legacy of colonialism, the word has too many negative connotations for us. Check it out on Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Native
One wouldn’t got to France for example and describe the French as “natives”, they would be called “the French” or “the locals” or “the residents”. Same thing should apply to Caribbean peoples. Most of the islands have enjoyed more than 50 years of political independence now (going on 30 years for Nevis) and the word “native” just serves to place us back in our colonial past when this was the descriptive term of choice used by the privileged European colonizers. It’s the kind of word that shows up in idyllic Caribbean travel journals written by white Europeans in the early 1900s. The people of Nevis are Nevisians foremost in my mind (the use of the demonym shows a respect for the political and ideological independence of these people) and from an outsider’s perspective, “locals” or “residents” would be more suitable. So you see, there is more than one “n” word…
Don’t mean to lecture you of course. I can tell from some of the things you said in your posts that you’re aware of your privileged position as a funded American researcher going to a place like Nevis with the intention to write a book that is, to at least some degree, about the history of the place. After all we always talk about about the sensitive issues surrounding books written by cultural outsiders right? It’s just that as a Caribbean person, I get tired of being relegated to the past in so many ways…
Sorry, Summer—it was carelessness rather than ignorance. I’m certainly aware of the problematic nature of the word “native,” and should have said “businesses run by native-born Nevisians.” I meant to imply a nativist bias, but even that is tricky since many people who identify as Nevisian are not born there—some I mean to exclude (white expats who might qualify as “residents”), but not all (“returnees” with family roots who are different from but directly related to “locals”). Indigenous is likely a better term. Your analogy (“the French”) is interesting, though that is a country—as you well know—with a long colonial history and an ongoing problem with just who qualifies *as* French in the eyes of insiders and outsiders alike. There’s a whole lot of power & entitlement embedded in all of these terms…