The Kampong

MMC :: in January 27, 2023 :: in Miami :: 1 comment

It had dawned on me later than it probably should have that this coming weekend would be my last in Miami. Instead of panic and fear of missing out, however, I felt only clarity: I knew what I wanted to do. I started to piece together the various dependencies of the weekend: Sunday would be the better beach day, so better beach day Sunday; you have to buy tickets in advance for The Kampong, and the latest ones are for 2PM on Friday.

The Kampong is a former residence, current botanical garden. Its sister gardens are all in Hawaii apparently. I bore you with the details, but I will mention the ones that interested me. The woman of the Marian, was Alexander Graham Bell’s daughter. I forget who her husband was—some botanist. Clearly. They bought the house in 1916, and he was the one who named a residence in Miami after the Malay word for small village: kampong. Quelle surprise, the cultural appropriation. Anyway, he planted a bunch of plants from all around the world, and they lived here happily ever after—presumably—until their respective deaths. The woman who greeted me did an excellent job providing me an overview.

You can’t just visit The Kampong; you have to make a reservation. The latest reservation in the week for self-guided tours is 2PM on Friday. Taking advantage of our Flexible Friday policy, which lets us use time after 1PM how we best see fit, I grant myself the space to visit The Kampong without stressing about all the work I’m not doing. I was in the office today even, in Brickell, and I time my commute home such that I’ll have time to walk to my reservation. Only I miscalculate. I confuse The Kampong for The Barnacle, right around the corner from me; The Kampong is another couple miles yet. I don’t stress, however; I sigh, I check their website, and I see that the latest they’ll really allow guests in is 3PM. I manage to arrive by 2:30.

When you arrive, you have to place a call at the front gate, to prove your worth. I do so and am admitted entry. I’m told to proceed to the main house, so I do, picking my way down the paved path there.

It’s serene here. That’s the word that sticks with me.

The paths are unmanicured, unpaved. I’m told, ‘You’ll walk in the grass, the mulch. Through the mud,’ as the woman greeting me is providing me this overview, she glances briefly at my shoes. Rothy’s.

‘They’re washable,’ I reassure her.

She advises me on how to proceed: ‘I always recommend walking lawn to bay, to the mangroves,’ she starts, indicating where to go along the brochure she has laid out for me. ‘Stop off at the house on your way back, for a break’ she motions towards the middle of the map, ‘Then work down here in a switchback,’ again at the map, ‘Until you end up back at the gate.’

She glances ever so briefly back down at my shoes again before continuing up towards the sky. ‘It’s gloomy this afternoon,’ she ponders. She’s not entirely wrong. There are low-hanging clouds steadily making their way across the sky. They create a really nice overcast light.

I chuckle. ‘Gloomy here is still better than back in Boston,’ I tell her, and it’s true today.

I start out on my little journey, pausing to take pictures of water features, to take in the serenity of the space. I’m alone here, but I’m not lonely. I feel at peace.

There’s an older couple strolling along ahead of me, and I try not to disturb their own experience as I excuse myself to interrupt them to take pictures of the bay. I had waited long enough, but they are rightfully so enjoying their time on the bench at the end of the property. There’s another older couple—or perhaps just two close women friends, but they seem like a couple—coming up behind me. I am caught in the middle.

‘I’m sorry to ruin your view!’ I apologise to the couple ahead of me, but they don’t mind. They still sit for a bit, then make their way from the bench. The other couple doesn’t even stop. I’m alone at the edge of things. Pictures are more interesting with people in them, but these do well to represent the creeping loneliness I’m beginning to feel, the absence of people.

Back at the main house, there is some sort of educational class going on inside the so-called Schokman Education Center. I take some photos of the class, its adult students eyeing me just as curiously as I am them.

I do stop at the house, but it’s weird to be inside. It’s too cool, in this tropical place. A hundred years ago you might have been able to stay comfortable with the existing structures and their ceiling fans, perhaps. I use the restroom, and the handle is stubborn, like your handle. I recognise that thinking of you and your stubborn toilet handle doesn’t make me sad like I’d expect; rather it makes me feel freed from the feeling of anticipation I’d been forced to live with for so long. It smells like Pine-sol in the dining room. On my way back, I almost lose which door I’d come in, this Department of Mysteries dining room.

I sign the guestbook, writing the date DD MMM YYYY, differently. You always have to be different, don’t you, rings in my mind, from whom I’m not sure. I don’t always have to be different; I just am.

The other side of the house is where things really get interesting.

I can’t really hate on anyone who would plant a bunch of cool plants, if I’m honest. I’d do the same thing, assuming none of them ended up becoming invasive, and assuming I had come into them ethically.

It’s funny, though, to see so many plants here as specimens that I’ve seen just hanging out in their native (or at least endemic) habitats elsewhere: Tanzanian Christmas trees or flame trees, mangoes, avocados. Banyan trees. Ginger, pepper, coffee, banana. So weird to see what is essentially an exhibit of a banana tree, when they would just grow along the inner wall of one of my favourite coffee shops in Moshi.

Actually, a lot of this garden seems from Tanzania.

Baobab
Adansonia digitata
Also known as the tree of life, this extraordinary tree can be the dominant tree in large areas of semi-arid Africa.
The large Baobab at The Kampong was grown from seed collected in Dar es Salam, [sic] Tanzania in 1928…

This particular baobab just ends up making me giggle, reminding me of the swamp castle from Monty Python. Some would say it’s daft to plant a baobab in Florida, but they planted it all the same, just to show ’em. In 1946, it was blown over by Hurricane Cleo. So! They replanted it a second time. In 2005, Hurricane Wilma blew it over. So they uprighted it a third time! That burned down, fell over, then sank into the swamp—sorry, that got blown over by Hurricane Irma in 2017. But the fourth time, well, the fourth time they ‘up-righted the tree and within the year the cabling system snapped and the 20-ton tree was once more on the ground.’ So now they just sort of let it chill out all toppled, and here it lies today. I was laughing to myself like a manic about this swamp castle tree and its silent protests about being forced to grow in the Grove instead of Tanzania. You go, baobab.

In the middle of my switchback wanderings, a hummingbird catches my eyes—or no, not a hummingbird, a butterfly. A monarch. Butterflies have been showing up for me lately. I stand for a while trying to capture a picture of it, and realise that it isn’t just one, it’s two. I twirl and twirl in circles, hoping that my camera is keeping up. The butterflies alight on a nearby flower for a bit, perhaps to suck some sweet nectar, to gather and spread pollen. Pictures do not do their dance justice, but you would not want to see what would certainly be a truly terrible video. I wonder whether they’ll land on my hand in search of salt and other minerals from my sweat, but they never do.

I march through some wood, the rustle of geckos running through fallen banyan leaves leading my way. Majestic palms spread their leaves in the canopy above me, shading me from the sun that is not shining. There’s a little pot of miracle fruit, and I begin wondering about miracles. This one just makes sour things taste different to you.

I can’t find the frankincense, following along the letters and numbers of the circles on my map. It suddenly becomes very important to me to find the frankincense, the only thing I haven’t yet been able to locate. It’s alone on its side, the only exhibit over there. It should be easy to find, but the fact that it’s alone means it is more like finding a needle in a haystack. I know that it is silly to worry about this, and I try to enjoy wandering around in my little circles despite my worry. There are more mangoes, some other interesting specimens.

I see a bee, a good omen, and in following it notice the display and the large F of the frankincense bush; the exhibits are labeled alphabetically, and it just happens to be F.

I rub my hand along a branch, bring it to my nose to smell its sweet perfume. It smells woody and heady, a bit like split red oak or the yellow-greenness of young birch.

I am somewhat shamed to admit I said a prayer. This frankincense bush felt somewhat spiritual to me, and before I could stop myself, I realised that I was thinking a prayer. It was a prayer for what I want, an offering. What I want that I couldn’t even articulate last Sunday to Josh or Catherine. What I want that I didn’t want to admit even to myself that I want. It just felt right, to articulate what I want to this bush. I repeat my prayer a couple times, rubbing my left hand along a branch, some sticky sap or resin staying on my hand. It’s curious to me that it’s my left hand, and then I notice my hummingbird ring on my left ring finger, that I’d moved there for a better picture before. I move it back to its perch on my right ring finger. Resin, pine. Pining, yearning.

As I finish, the sun pokes through the clouds before finally deciding to shine fully.

This feels like a good omen, too, insofar as there is such a thing as an omen. I think that realistically, everything is just something that is happening, and it’s how things make us feel or react that are the true omens.

On the walk back, I pass Amal. Before I can catch myself, I sigh. The sundowner spot, Level 6, on top that Dani had recommended. We never did get sundowners there. Not the right time. Not the right time, indeed. That’s OK—you’re not a sunset, anyway; you’re a sunrise.