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?”
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?”
No comments:
Post a Comment