Day 921: Every Ting Be Eire, Mon!

Last Saturday, 1100 miles away on the island of Jamaica, I turned the same age as Jesus and John Belushi when they died.  Perhaps this will be the year a woman breaks into the Stonecutters Freemasons and is then promptly axed.  Axed to leave, that is.

For one week, our friends, Olga, Osbourne and Salome, took six of us from the Wisconsin gang into their villa and arms once again.  We swam in a lovely pool, sat by it while soaking up the sun, ate scrumptious Jamaican dishes cooked by Olga herself, walked and swam in the Caribbean and enjoyed meeting and hanging out with Runaway Bay and Swansea locals.  Not once during the seven days did we know what was going on back home or in the worlds of politics, sports and entertainment.  Nor did we care to know.  I’ve come to realize that it’s not all that important, unless there’s a missile being lobbed in your general direction or Brett Favre retires.  “Why did it take us five years to come back?  Are we collectively insane?” we wondered, especially the ones who live in Wisconsin and Ohio.  Two years is as long a gap we will now afford before returning to paradise.

While we vacationed, life in Jamaica went on around us.  The general economic atmosphere in the portion of the north coast that we travelled (from Montego Bay to Ocho Rios) is one of building, quarrying and transportation.  You couldn’t say the same five years ago, when the pothole-ridden streets and almost-dead silence of the place frightened me, until I came to know certain parts of New Orleans before and after the flood.  The only troubling aspect of the enthusiastic construction there is the sheer number of sprawling mega-resorts and tall condominium towers rising up on the Caribbean waterfront, impeding views and access to locals.  One observes a lot of cranes in the sky, but few are for Jamaicans, reserved instead for foreigners with money who will live part-time or permanently in Jamaica. 

From what I heard and observed, the island as a whole seems to have recovered nicely from Hurricane Dean with newly paved roads and other facets of rebuilt infrastructure like schools, hospitals and shops. 

[Aside: During a visit to the vast and breathttaking rock-gasm that is the Green Grotto cave system, I learned that the word hurricane arrived in our vocabulary from Hurákan, the storm god of the Mayans and the Taíno, the indigenous people of Jamaica better known to the west as the Arawak. In fact, in above-ground clearings surrounded by immediate entries to the caves, the Taíno performed many a ritual to appease the angry storm god. It is unfortunate that the current existence of the Taíno in Jamaica can only be speculated upon thanks to their massacre by successive waves of colonists. When pressed, our tour guide referred to them simply as “extinct.”]

There is a price to pay for living in paradise. “Had Dean not veered away, there would be no more Jamaica,” our friends muttered slowly. Some asked me about New Orleans and what is taking us so long.  When I explained that the onus of post-Katrina/Flood recovery is on the New Orleanian and the communities we form, they laughed and asked us why we don’t riot and get rid of corrupt politicians like they do.  “If we don’t like those in power, they don’t stay in there too long,” said Olga.  “You are Americans.  We are not so rich, but we fight.  What’s your excuse?”  What is our excuse?  Sheepishly, I grabbed my plate of fried plantains and walked away to mull it over. That was my excuse.

Mmmmm, fried plantains.  The most inexpensive and delicious fruit, vegetables, seafood, spices and sweets cooked and served three times daily.  Mangoes, breadfruit, pineapple and papaya to die for alongside jerk chicken and freshly-caught lobster and fish.  After every meal, we promised one another not to get used to it, lest we come back home and expect the contents of the refrigerator to magically transform, auto-cook and appear on our dinner plates.

Popular Jamaican music, however, is not as insipring as the food.  There is, it seems, no limit to the number of times an artist or dj can insert an airhorn into an otherwise relaxing bit of reggae, while the islander obsession with country music baffles me.  Why, oh why, must my eardrums get damaged by listening to Garth Brooks and Shania Twain lyrics in off-key patois?  If the fad persists, please stick with Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson. Thank goodness, however, for the melodious respites offered by Bob Marley, Jah Rule and Lady Saw.

The end of the week came.  Olga and Osbourne shed tears as we hugged and said our goodbyes. When asked why, they responded that we are some of the nicest folks they’ve ever met, they are surprised we’ve stayed friends for half a decade and we don’t put on airs around the help.  Apparently, not many visitors treat black Jamaicans with the equality and camaraderie we bestowed upon our hosts.  I’ve noticed that, in general, middle-class Americans who travel abroad may not be the most cosmopolitan and, hence, stick out like a sore thumb, but do not put themselves in a class above the locals or help.  The wealthy from any nation and all classes of Europeans, on the other hand, tend to maintain a strict social barrier between themselves and foreigners or those who serve them.  I view it as a remanent of the baron-serf, colonist-colonized, owner-slave relationships that existed between these people and may persist until nations like Jamaica are not viewed as former colonies but as freestanding nations.  Understand that this is a cultural nuance, but not one that has to endure or be tolerated.  Olga, Ozzie and their families are my people now, as it should be.

Reminiscing about this trip, the one thought that floats to the top over and over again is “Thank you for letting me see, hear, feel, eat and breathe this. Thank you for the time to let go. I’m so lucky.”

JAMAICA 2008 PHOTO GALLERY