Photo Bombin’

 

Some kids playing on a swingless swing set at the Basic School Fun Day

Bluefields Bay Fisherman’s Beach and Protected area

At a contract signing to repave a road in the community. I thought the vagina diagram hanging over the Social Development Committee Manager for the Parish was hilarious.

Dancing On The Ceiling

Publically endorsing Ev as my personal man friend and sidekick has altered the flavor of my life in this little place. There is now an entire entourage of men who have his, and therefore my, back. Who treat me like a sister, or dare I even say, a friend. Up the hill past taxi time? No worries, I now have a personal escort down the steep, dark and lonely road should I require him. A direct result of this is that I have sat out past 9pm watching more domino games than I have since training, I’ve had more conversations with people I only sort of knew before, and I get to go out to parties. And this leads me to my latest experience.
Back home, I am the girl who goes dancing at a club maybe twice a year. If you know me, you know that I prefer the socialization of an organized camping trip or the local “townie” bar to anything loud and showy. That, however, is not how Jamaican’s roll. So this weekend, sensing that Ev and I needed a change of pace, I readily agreed to join him at a dance walking distance from my house. The great thing about most events in Jamaica is that they are held outside, and my social claustrophobia big ups that one. The dance was held in the yard of a small bar with a cook shop hut in the opposite corner serving soup and chicken. Local dogs slunk around avoiding people but scarfing down chicken bones. The yard had the sound system set up on three sides of the yard with the DJ outside the bar, under the tin roof awning. When this bar has dances that I don’t attend, I can hear the music from my house…so it was pretty loud.
Initially, the dancing was mostly swaying and slow winding as men played domino and women slowly trickled in, standing along the roadside to pree the party potential, dressed in the customary party garb: on the bottom, batti riders or just leggings, on top a sheer shirt and matching bra, a marina or a belly shirt, a bright neon color belt (not buckled though), flat sandals or bright, clean sneakers and bold jewelry or hair accessories, either brightly colored or sparkly.
Now ladies, if you want to feel particularly self conscious in Jamaica, going to a dance with your boyfriend who is a particularly adept dancer is probably the way to go. I was content at first to arbitrarily wind with my man along to late 90’s pop and rap, and even tried a little harder once the music became the reggae/dancehall mix. And then the music picked up and the dancing got serious.
Not sure if I’ve mentioned yet just how sexual Jamaican dance is, but even the most cultural and historic dances are pretty obvious about it. Dancehall has taken these cultural dances of strong hip movement and polite distances to a whole new level. I mean, these women would put an accomplished yogi master to shame with the undulating contortions going on in the yard. Bent in half, peering between spread legs as her ass somehow manages to vibrate; in a split to the ground, bouncing up and down to the beat; moving nothing but the ass, as though an extra vertebrae has been specially created to pivot in all directions. I knew these dance moves existed- had often witnessed them with fellow PCV’s or at small dances in the community, but this very provocative display of athleticism, grace and contortion put me pretty far out of my element. To an American, watching Jamaicans dance (esp. dancehall) is a lot like watching people dry hump, or like watching women display their sexual prowess in public (but it’s also captivating, like watching cirque dis ole). To a Jamaican it’s just dancing- like doing the Funky Chicken or a box step.
When a dancehall song began frantically demanding “Bend over, bend over, bend over!!!” and the ladies happily complied while their dance partners wound all round behind them, I became an anthropologist. The extreme homophobia present in Jamaica just doesn’t mesh with these very caboose-focused dance moves. Another piece of advice to future PCV’s, don’t overthink these things in the moment- let it be what it is and pontificate later. I began to shut down around this point as far as my comfort zone threshold went because I stopped being and started overthinking.
And then, a couple climbed up on a domino table, winding skillfully against each other and holding the beams of the veranda roof until, suddenly, they were both suspended, with hands and feet gripping the beams, still winding with each other.
I stuck around maybe an hour after that, not being able to stop watching the spectacle in front of me, or being too stubborn to walk away but regardless, around 3am I decided I was ready to walk back to my comfort zone.
So, what did I learn from this experience that I can pass on to others?
1) Jamaican dance may be provocative to us as Americans, but to Jamaicans, like my boyfriend, it’s just dancing and it doesn’t mean any more or less than that (just imagine how insecure one could feel in that situation if they didn’t know this interesting fact).  
2) When out of your element, stay in the moment, or confide in someone who gets you- freezing up and getting in your head will make it so much harder to rebound.
3) When assimilating, don’t forget that you are not an actual citizen of that culture, and that’s ok. No one expects you to be. And chances are, they’re all looking at YOU with envy too.
I think it’s important to point out as well that I did not come to these conclusions completely on my own, that my other half (the yin to my yang, if you will ) played a large role in getting me to these realizations. Big ups to him! Mi wan lucky gyal fi true.

Quick Glossary Review:
Batti Riders: “Batti” = butt, so a “batti bwoi” is a derogatory term for a gay man, while “batti riders” are shorts that just cover a woman’s ass.
Pree: to stand aside and watch, to check out, to judge. Also one can ask “why yuh pree?” or “why pree?” meaning loosely, “whatcha doin?”

Rumor Has It…

Sometimes I think, “Poor Jamaica, her reputation precedes her and it’s not always a good one”. In my last entry I wrote briefly about how I see tourists and I’d like to make a small disclaimer. Tourists are told things about Jamaica that are generalizations meant to keep them “safe”, but we as Peace Corps Volunteers, particularly as women, were told similar things coming into the country.

Tourists though, do not have the benefit of realizing what is true and what is a generalization, for they are here for only a short while and are rarely without a chaperone or beyond the “safe” part of town. We as PCV’s get a unique opportunity to quell the rumors, big up the reputation and truly understand the method behind the madness that is Jamaica.

When I came to Jamaica I wasn’t sure I’d make friends, I was sure everyone would see me as a child, that I was in for a lonely next two years. Sometimes I still think that, with one exception.

I remember in training the women would get heaps and heaps of advice regarding how to handle men. The general consensus in these conversations went something like “men are dogs, handle with humor”. I was sure I’d never be able to trust a single one enough to be friends, let alone date. The girls from previous groups with Jamaican boyfriends would nod fervently to the advice while giving their own, always with a quick “most of them” thrown in. Now I get it.

If you read this as often as I write it, you’ll remember that my “welcome to Beeston Spring” party involved a one man welcome and pledge for my safety on behalf of the football team. And “pleasant conversation” afterwards. 7 months later, that same man calls me at night for things like:

“baby are you asleep? I don’t have much credit but look out the window, there’s a rainbow around the moon”

I’m not saying that all or even most men in this country are to be trusted. It’s true that most men will cheat on their women, many will want to “spread their seed” and so will jump at the opportunity to get with a white woman, many don’t know how to talk to a woman like a person, most don’t know how to even approach a white (American) woman appropriately, most will cat-call and act a fool, especially around their friends, and the male machismo is stronger than any American frat house could achieve, but most of all, very few believe in “the complete package” and I think that is the fundamental difference between the American ideal of love and the view of love in Jamaica.

Not to make a generalization about American ideals- they are so very diverse- but simply to say that most Americans value having one partner at a time. Whether that partner is for life or simply fits right now doesn’t matter at a young age- that person is a lover, friend and confidant, and free time is spent with that person in either a social or personal setting, because you are enough for your partner, and vice versa.

The complete package is hard to find in rural Jamaica. Like, very, very hard to find. Add the prevalence of the whole teen pregnancy, “baby daddy” and “baby momma” connection, the low graduation rate from high schools and the propensity for rural students to struggle in school, especially in English subjects and it’s almost impossible to widen a worldview enough to accept the idea of “the complete package”, or for people to respect themselves enough to be one. In America, Love IS finding one’s complete package, Jamaicans tend to “love” the woman or man they go home to but have their sexual or intimate desires fulfilled by someone else.

A few months ago I asked a trusted female friend how she knows when a man is safe to date. She gave me a quiet smile and waved her phone by her head. “Talk only, and if they are still interested after a few months, they are probably for real.” Mek sense enough fi mi!

So how did I end up finding a complete package in my rural community choc’ full o’ “typical Jamaican men”? A lot of luck, even more patience (I’m sure none of you ladies have gone on 6 months worth of “dates” with a man before calling him your boyfriend or holding his hand in public), vigilance, self assurance and a little detective work (‘10 out of 10 people surveyed answered “yes” to “is he a good person?”’…in a small community stuff like that is notable) and also, did I mention luck?

And now is the point where I knock on wood before I swallow my words.

ps- meet Poppy Seed, so named for her reddish tint and tiny stature:

Traveling About

Wuh yuh seh friends? I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving, traditional or not.

My Thanksgiving was a mixture of both. I traveled to Kingston to the All Volunteer Meeting the weekend of Thanksgiving and stayed with our Country Director for one of the nights (hot water, air conditioning, internet and a pool, yes please!). There was turkey and stuffing and even cranberry sauce, pumpkin soup and spinach (which is very rare here). The gathering was about 15 people smaller than I’m used to for Thanksgiving, but a Skype session to home brought me those familiar faces. I’m sure I sounded insane with my high pitched excited voice, closed off in the guest bedroom by myself.

The meeting was a great way to give volunteers the opportunity to share their volunteer experiences- what works, what doesn’t, how to handle kids, teach about the environment, make recycled crafts, teach HIV awareness, plan events and all sorts of other fun stuff. It also offered groups 82 and 83 an opportunity to spend time with each other which I appreciated since my Parish has the largest influx of group 83 volunteers, I spend most of my free time with them.

After that two of us joined J in St. Thomas for the next two days. Autumn hadn’t seen her site and I had not seen it since she moved to a new apartment and got a puppy.

On Sunday we walked about 3 miles into a town called Bath, aptly named for it’s healing hot springs. Turning off the main road, we followed an uphill, twisty, turny and very bushy road until we came to the end- a shabby looking hotel with a dirt path branching off before the gate, over a bridge and on the opposite side of a stream (what they call a river). We followed a well traveled but narrow dirt path past shacks selling snacks, jerk and home made pimento massage oil. The Fountain as it’s called is known for it’s healing power, many rasta can be seen there and if you’re into it, you can allow a strange Jamaican man to massage you with the oil on a rock by the stream. Classy place.

When we arrived to the stream we found many more Jamaicans there than we expected and, being the only whitey’s, we wished we’d thought to wear less skimpy bathing attire. Regardless, we made our way up stream to a spot that was not as crowded and made camp. The hot springs seep from the rocky walls above the stream, some springs just trickle down, others are diverted by bamboo acting as pipes which are strung to the trees above. This creates little showers of hot water within the stream. It was quite enjoyable and no one paid us much mind once we walked by them all to get to our spot. I will certainly be going back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This past weekend I went to the annual Reggae Marathon in Negril to volunteer and cheer on PC runners. Most volunteers ran the 10k or the half marathon, one good friend actually ran his first full marathon, we were so proud! I can’t think of anything I’d want to do less than run 26 miles straight in the tropical land of Jamaica. Thankfully the race started at 5:15am so about half of our volunteering was nice and cool (although we didn’t have the opportunity for coffee until the sun was well up, around 9am- not worth it at that point). I was instantly brought back to Mom’s old Marathon-ing days, wrapped in blankets and cheering like crazy people at every check point. This time we manned one station and handed out water, bananas and Gu (remember that stuff Mommy??) And I started everyone out with the cheering, the veteran that I am at this stuff (ha, haha).

 

 

Cheering and Supporting Our Man in the distance

 

 

 

 

The crowd of runners were the most diverse group of people I’ve been among since I got to the Island, and I was immediately aware of a few things while at the festive pasta dinner. 1) People watching is much more interesting once you’ve lived among Jamaicans for 7 months. 2) I am miserably out of the fashion loop. 3) One of our PCV’s has an exact replica of himself wandering around. 4) I am still not used to being treated like a tourist, and I’ve ceased recognizing myself as “A White Person”.

I’d like to address point number 1 because there are a number of reasons for this statement. While the motto of for Jamaica is “Out of many, one people”, it doesn’t stop the fact that most people I am surrounded by on a daily basis range from light brown to black skin, I am always the proverbial “black sheep. Obviously not the case at the marathon. Additionally, Jamaicans are very blunt about appearance, as I’m sure I’ve described already, and in my assimilation process I’ve become significantly less creative in choosing descriptors. I am especially aware of this when blogging for if I allowed the words in my head to spill out they would be very NOT politically correct, which is a highly esteemed behavior by Americans. That kind of goes along with point number 4. While I know I’m white because, well, I AM, I have stopped feeling painfully self conscious of it, and I see beyond it. This often prompts strange comments on my part when a van of tourists drives through my community: “What’s with all the white people?!” My fellow PCV’s do not carry that title in my mind, they too are locals in their own right but tourists, those who are just visiting, who believe the rumors about Jamaica and Jamaicans they are told, are in my mind…White People.

Derogatory? probably. Generalization? maybe. The very stereotype we all fought against, and still will for months and months? Yes, definitely. But as I’m not quite there yet, let’s not mince apart the moral or cultural implications of this realization in this entry, mmkay?