A Change of Scenery

The sky is a steely grey and I’ve been reunited with some of my favorite clothing items: tall black leather boots, tablecloth sized checkered scarf, black jacket full of zippers and button pockets.

I’m descending the driveway on the back of Dad’s motorcycle, and I don’t want to say it but I wish I’d put on gloves. About 2 minutes down our hometown road, he repeats the sentiment and after we turn around and add a necessary layer, we’re zooming about my gorgeous country home, past post and rail bordered horse farms, big red barns with tall white silos, turkeys sitting on fence posts and every semi-bare tree limb tinged with the pale green of new spring leaves.

The roads, while hardly inhabited, are so smooth. The houses are set back from the road, surrounded by an emerald green ocean of grass, protected by young forests of sugar maple and oak, beautifully painted and proudly maintained. Everything is so organized, so neat.

We pull into a small country store, inside a cluttered menagerie of drinks, snacks, local honey and maple syrup, pastries, toys, a table serving hot coffee and, beyond the pale stained wooden counter is a small deli, ready to serve us breakfast. I walk my cold nose over to the hot coffee, make myself a cup and sit down to order: eggs over easy, multigrain toast, hash browns. A real American breakfast.

How did I get here? Let’s rewind 8 days.

Jamaica, as well as most other developing countries, is developing a pretty serious issue with illegal lottery scammers. These are people who gather information on hardworking Americans and other developed foreigners, call them with ridiculously contrived “American” accents and try to convince them that they’ve won money but they have to send in a sum to claim the winnings. I’ve witnessed this act in many stages. Some men in my community make these daily phone calls across the street from my house, not bothering to mask their activity. A few times I’ve been in a taxi with someone on their way to collect their money at the post office or Western Union (making a phone call to their victim ON the taxi no-less). Other, less tolerable times, I’ve witnessed personally the printing or attempt to print pages and pages of names and foreign phone numbers and addresses from the CDC computer.

Now back to me. I had two weeks left of my service. I’d just assisted with a very successful event aimed at lauding the efforts of my farmers group. We still had some work to do but it could easily be finished in the next two weeks. I’ve never been a volunteer that spends much time out of community, I was speaking more patois than English on a daily basis and was probably slipping into the most Jamaican version of myself I’ve been thus far. I’ve prided myself in that I don’t take foolishness from people who think they can give it to me just because I’m American or a woman (or both). This is because I am outspoken naturally and because I feel strongly that the next volunteer shouldn't be given foolishness for the same reason. Because of my relationship with Evrick, I am a sister-in-law, daughter-in-law, niece and cousin to a good chunk of the population in my community. Children on the street respect what I say to them and obey when I chastise them for bad behavior (mostly). Basically, outside of the Peace Corps I AM a family member and community member. I’m sure many volunteers understand what I’m saying.

So when I prepared myself to leave the office after a tiring day and a group of teenagers asked to use the printer, I rightly responded that there was no ink in the printer. Knowing that this crowd tried their hand and often succeeded at the aforementioned illegal activity, I was especially annoyed at the balls it took to approach me on the issue. Like I’d let anyone touch the community printer without my being there, like I’d print it without seeing the document, like I wouldn’t know what that document IS. Instead of accepting the lack of ink, this group began prodding me and teasing me about why there is no ink and why I won’t help them.

Well, I don’t take stupidness from people and I didn’t take it from them either. My heart is racing with anger just thinking about their smug stares and my foolish pride. If they thought I was blind, I thought it was the time to put them in their place. Do you think I don’t hear you making your phone calls on the street? Do you think I’ve never seen those pages on your flash drives? Do you think I’m idiot enough to not wonder why you’d need pages of addresses and phone numbers from people in Canada?

After an exchange along these lines, I furiously stormed away with tears in my eyes. As accepted and loved as I feel in my community, sometimes Jamaica by her complicated nature just loves to beat me down and down and down. Sometimes us young, inexperienced and passionate volunteers can do nothing for our communities except be the only person who demonstrates that she truly CARES. This I honestly identify as my job description- just care about the people and where they’re going, how they’re getting there…I promise you it’s a change for them. Because I’m “family” I probably care a little too much.

This is where things went wrong. In my rage, I emailed the Peace Corps office and asked what volunteers like us should do in situations where we are handed illegal documents that victimize Americans.

The answer, unfortunately is say nothing, do nothing. In my eyes… be nothing. Roll over and politely say “sorry, this isn’t something I can be involved in” and smile. NO SAH. Sorry, a no mi dat. Problem is, I said something, I did something and I was something very near to a threat against a type of person historically connected with gang violence. These kids were a bunch of punks, no danger to me at all. To Peace Corps staff, they are a real and imminent threat and I must be removed from the situation. 3 hours later I was on my way to Kingston, clutching Evrick’s hand and thinking of all the people I hadn’t said goodbye to.

24 hours later I was on an airplane full of toasted red skinned tourists, the only one in tears on the tarmac.

28 hours later I was at JFK, Lucy’s leash handed to me by my little sister, sandwiched between mom and dad, who presented me with a beautiful bouquet of flowers and love that made me numb with emotion.

So, those are the facts, not the opinions. That is the reason, 12 days before the going away party that had been planned a month before- the day I’d planned to tell my community how proud I am and how much faith I have in them, 15 days before my scheduled departure, 4 days after we breathed a sign of relief for a moment of success, and 40 hours after I sent that fated email, I found myself an abruptly Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. I think it’ll take more than 6 days home to adjust, I think it’ll be a rocky readjustment but rest assured, I’ll be coming back to Jamaica. For my man, my friends, my family. Jamaica… Beeston Spring, is a part of me and we will not be separated by logistics.

I think, for now, I will leave you all here. My Peace Corps experience is over, readjustment has begun, and it feels like a much more personal and emotional process than anticipated. On the plus side, I’m only a phone call, text or drive away, so get at me kids, I’m home.

 

Progress!

Well my friends, it looks like I’m leaving something concrete and usable behind for my community to benefit from, with the help of the new volunteer. It’s a relief and also bittersweet to think about how often I felt underutilized in my community and now we have the tools that I could have kept myself busy, busy, busy with for two solid years. I hope the next volunteer takes advantage of all the new opportunities afforded by the CARILED funding we have received. Below are some pictures of my last month’s successes.

 

Demonstration Plot Progress VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

 

Applied Agriculture Final Quiz and Field Trip VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

 

Greenhouse Workday VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

 

Solar Dryer Workshops and Event VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

Duppy Thieves and Running Away to Burger King

When I moved to a new house over a year ago, I discovered quickly that my new host family was a bit more old school and superstitious than my previous one. This meant some adjustment for me of course, which I did quickly and with few complaints. One superstition that some Jamaicans still maintain is that the ghost or, “duppy” of the dead will manifest itself in a home. If a duppy bat or Black Witch moth comes into the house or verandah, this furthers the assumption that the dead are truly present.

Since I lived in the house of my host father’s dead father, and was frequently visited by duppy bats, my host brother would calmly observe that Grandpa was home, to which I would nod quietly with an innocuous response.

So, when things ($) began to go missing from my bedroom and kitchen, it was logical to assume that Grandpa was taking on some kleptomaniac tendencies. Unfortunately, that damn duppy’s whispy fingertips got a little too sticky recently in a series of events, and I found myself, two months from takeoff, packing my things and moving to a new home in my community. Awk-warrrrd.

Of course it is an option to go right home at this point and still have all of the benefits of an Returned PCV, but one of our biggest proposals for our Demonstration Plot has gone through and some of the funding is to be allocated towards the workshops that a PCV (me) is supposed to execute. (A new volunteer may not run a workshop during their first 4 months). So my last two months will produce the fruits of my labour, and we all know how sweet those fruits can be.

The day I was informed by PCV staff of the necessity of the move, I was on a bus to the Parish capitol to pick up some paperwork for these aforementioned workshops. Struggling to hear the verdict from my phone while the bus creaked, music blared, people talked and the wind blew through the open window, I took the news like a champ and plowed onwards. I was to wait for further instruction from other members of PCV staff throughout the day.

Upon reaching Savanna-la-Mar, (right after a rain so the air felt like it might in Satan’s sweaty armpit), I found that the paperwork wasn’t ready and that I had about an hour to bide my time. Sweat, cat-calls (and other rude comments from passersby), being constantly thieved by a duppy, the imminent move and nothing ever going according to plan soon had me desperately seeking somewhere air conditioned and quiet where I could squeeze out a few tears. That place (and I think any volunteer in any country is with me on this) is Burger King.

But of course even Burger King isn’t perfect. After ordering a veggie burger and getting a cheese burger (even though I wasn’t even hungry) the cashier actually argued about what I had ordered. I’m getting pretty good at Jamaica so I sharply responded “you don’t argue with the customer, fix it.” and left the wasted “food” on the counter. I doubt anyone has ever looked so miserable sitting alone in Burger King before. Or, maybe that’s exactly what someone sitting alone in Burger King would look like.

As it turns out, I’m actually getting the rhythm of riding the PCV roller coaster, so with paperwork in hand I resolved to lean into the turn, take a deep breath and start the climb again. “No use in crying over spilled milk”, “what will be, will be” and of course “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. It also helps to find that your new accommodations (while devoid of boyfriend and a decent hike to the town center) includes hot water and a washing machine.

So I’m recovering from a very stressful past few months of duppy thievery and I didn’t honestly realize the scope of the stress until the doctor in Kingston weighed me and I found out that I’d lost 11 pounds in 6 months (which is more weight than I’ve ever lost in my life).

The next hurdle I get to jump (as of 24 hours ago) is for the Canadian High Commission, which will now be among those attending the workshop I’m putting on the first week of May. They are attending this event so that they can see how our funding is being allocated. The only problem is that the money has not even been released to us yet and we now have 2 1/2 weeks to build a shade house, 5 solar driers and a 1/2 acre of chain link/ barbed wire fencing to “prove” we will be successful. If this doesn’t kill me I’ll have the hide of a Rhinoceros.

In two months I’m going to America, and I’m going to walk down the street and engage those I know and be ignored by those I don’t, and I’ll cuddle with my dog because I can and things go as planned because they should. Then I’ll sit on the couch and OD on Netflix while eating ice cream and an entire NY pizza with broccoli on it which I drove to get and no one will say anything about how fat I’m getting because no one really cares and it’s a rude thing to say anyway.

But for now, Jamaica will stress me because I love her and I dislike her simultaneously. I’ll ride the roller coaster because I paid for a 27 month ride; I’ll take the ups with a smile and the gut wrenching downs like I was born for it and when I go around the loops I’ll close my eyes and scream my lungs out because to be honest, in reality and not a metaphor, roller coasters terrify me way more than Jamaica ever could.

A Day In The Life

This past winter was starkly different from my first winter in Jamaica. Last year the west side of the island was in a drought and we were fighting bush fires caused by a gleaming shard of glass under the suns intense rays. This year we had almost too much rain, and if you ask a farmer, that’s a tough threshold to surpass. Floods occurred and some poorly timed crops were swept away. I hardly complained since I finally own waterproof shoes and I love rain.

Since the start of March though, rain has slowed down to the brief evening shower, which cools down the place but adds nothing to peoples water catchment tanks. This morning I awoke to window panes and unlocked doors slamming in what I rose to realize is a pure and refreshing breeze under an azure blue sky. So I drink my coffee in my hammock and I revel in the sounds of the breeze in the leaves of so many tropical (and therefore finite in my life) plants.

The sugar cane bends willingly to the slightest puff of air, like the tune of lightly falling rain or a gently rolling stream. A reedy, percussive sound joins in as the puff becomes a gust, and the coconut trees join in with a beat. The fragile banana trees are the next song noticed, their big broad-leafed canopies lazily slapping each other and rubbing along leaf ridges so that you can almost, if you close your eyes, hear the sound of a zipper, opening and closing. Of course the mango tree’s trunk likes to creak and the breadfruit trees add their tenor to the star apple’s tiny soprano in the wind. During mango season, the breeze is often accompanied by the thud of warm, sweet fruit and birds quarreling in the canopy. The biggest and scariest thud though, is that of a falling breadfruit on the zinc roof of the CDC office. I jump every time.

If /when the electricity cuts off, I miss the familiar and mashed up sounds of three different radios blasting and echoing in the gulley. But the sounds of  the basic schoolers’ on the adjacent hill carry into my yard so well, I can’t help but laugh at some things 5 year old Jamaicans shout at each other during playtime. Of course we can’t forget that the birds are ever in song, the goats are bleating, roosters are crowing, the cows are mooing and that one. damn. donkey. won’t stop laughing in his fingernails to a blackboard kind of way.

It’s not just the sounds I’ve been noting as my departure nears, but the sights as well. I can walk down my street in the cool breezy hills and, looking straight ahead, the ocean spans out before me, meeting the horizon. At night, when the day has been dry, the tom-toms come out: big clumsy beetles with eyes that glow florescent green and an abdomen that flashes yellow as he flies. Perching in the reeds along the road, it looks as if the land has been overrun by miniature aliens.

Those nights when the stars are out in the millions and we don’t carry a light because the moon is enough, and I carry a sweater but don’t need it, and someone is deep frying chicken in a pot of oil over a wood fire set into a hubcap, and the pimento smoke and fried batter wafts into my nostrils, asking if I’m hungry. Passing the big star apple tree, the patoo (Jamaican Owl) calls in his haunting tone. Meanwhile someone is playing around on virtual DJ, mixing the sounds of old reggae under a top 40 pop song. Someone shouts, but I know they’re shouting a joke and not an insult…something that would have been hard to detect a year ago.

In the morning as I walk to school, trying desperately not to sweat too much, the spring is crowded with mothers washing their clothes, old 5 gallon jugs of what was once cooking oil are being filled with drinking water and lined up by family on the roadside, awaiting the next taxi coming up the hill. Some young men (like my one) don’t always wait and carry that jug all the way up, muscles bulging and sweating through their shirt. People are just coming back from bush at 10am as the sun starts to heat up, rubber water boots clomping against the pavement, dirt covered machete in hand, sometimes leading a donkey with plastic milk crates of reapings slung over its back.

Midday gets quiet: we sit in the shade along the road or retreat inside to avoid the sun. If I’m not busy somewhere, I tend to read or craft. When the school kids come home, one can hear them ascending the hill in a mass, slowly thinning out as the walk becomes longer. I get many visitors with homework questions or quarrels to dissipate and I often have to call them back with a sharp reminder to pick up their sweetie wrappers from my yard. Damn Picknie (mi love dem still).

I could go on, and may at some point, but sometimes a girl wakes up to a perfect lazy day and she just needs to write a little.

Project and Life Updates

Last month I lost my smart phone in a downpour at a reggae music festival. Through the initial shock, I maintained that the phone was carried in a stream of mud and festival litter into the ocean, where a curious crab carried it to safety in its burrow, discovered the camera function, saw itself in the phone and promptly fell in love. I realized about 24 hours later that the most probable scenario involved a stampede of very wet Jamaicans and maybe even a car tire or two. Sigh, Rest in Peace little guy, I miss your internet connectivity every day.

Shortly after this event, I traveled the required distance to seek internet and found that I, your wayward Miniature Musings, have been accepted into a graduate program at the State University of NY College of Environmental Science and Forestry to pursue an MS in environmental and community land planning. So I’ve lost the internet in my pocket, but I no longer have to fret about my future. It’s probably a good thing to purge the internet from my daily life before I’m immersed into the world of smartphones and tablets, which I’m sure has gotten out of hand in the last two years. In fact, on the very day I’m describing, I befriended a young white Jamaican (the classy type), who openly pitied my lack of connection and (chosen) life of poverty. I couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s detachment from the rest of his country, so I chose not to make the point that most of my community members raise children on less than what I live on. I also kind of enjoyed his pity, because for some reason, even without kids, my bank account empties far too rapidly for me to do much more than what is necessary.

Speaking of spending money I don’t really have, one of my favorite people in the world came to visit me and we had an amazing time wandering my community and climbing the Blue Mountain: the tallest peak in Jamaica. Unfortunately though, the Blue Mountain and the one-of-a-kind coffee she produces is a good day’s worth of travel away from me, and then there’s the travel back and food in between. Usually getting out of one’s community, spending time with other volunteers and especially seeing a true blue friend from the other side is worth the subsequent lifestyle of traveling nowhere and eating gifted produce for every meal. Also, the Blue Mountains of Jamaica remind me of the Adirondacks at 6-7,000 feet. Facebook is full of photos so you know we all had a great time.

 Blue Mountain Coffee Beans

Returning from the big mountains to my baby mountains in Westmoreland, I reassumed my duties as PCV and have begun preparing solar drier workshops and composting workshops in anticipation of our CARILED (Canadian aid) funding coming through just under the wire. I am putting together my last 9 weeks worth of applied agriculture lessons and tying up loose ends. My supervisor is also becoming super-woman, handling far more projects than when I arrived.

Finally, Group 83 has been on Island for 2 years! Having just re-read most of my blog entries in celebration, I must say I’m pretty overwhelmed by the journey that is documented. My first months in Jamaica were starkly different to my last few. Many of the “projects” that I excitedly initiated, like the bamboo shade house and community notice board, have been discarded and forgotten while “real” projects such as greenhouses, irrigation, livestock breeding, solar driers and workshops are on track for success. I am an older, wiser and more Jamaican version of the girl who stepped off the plane in Kingston 2 years ago, and I am so proud of my fellow PVC’s for making this journey with me and being a part of the best support system on Island. Respek and bless up Group 83! We are wizened and accomplished individuals!

On the opposite end of perspective, there’s officially a NEW group of newbies on the Island! I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around it honestly as I’m nowhere near where they are emotionally. While I remember my own reservations, feelings and unbridled enthusiasm for a challenge, my only advice to them is to LET GO and just BE, which is honestly not great advice. I know this and I’m sorry but group 85, if you’re going to make it in Jamaica, you’ve got to admit that you know nothing about anything here, and let Jamaica be Jamaica because she’s not changing any time soon.

>>> Enjoy the people who enjoy you, especially children. Work with those who want to work; take time off when you need it; save your money for a bad day/ week/ month because that’ll happen a lot; understand that a lot of people will think they understand you, but they won’t; keep in touch with your family and friends abroad because they know you best, but mind it make you homesick; cook like an American when you can afford it, and a Jamaican when you can’t and above all else, don’t let other people’s hang ups bring you down: choose your battles wisely and learn to let go of the things you have no power to change.

I have to remind myself of these wisdom nuggets every day, all day my friends, practice makes perfect.

Peace Corps Jamaica Has Taught Me: Part 1…

I’ve been compiling the list that you see below since December and I’ve decided to share it with you now instead of May. I believe that a few of these could become future blog topics so, if you my dear reader would like to hear more about anything that I wrote, please let me know and I will be glad to write more! As I learn, I will expand on this list, and share the new one with you at a later date. Carry on, my friends, carry on…

In no particular order:

• To enjoy a good rain
• Patience and humility
• To respect the scope of poverty and all of her unintended consequences
• The joy of a good Christmas Breeze when the sun is hot
• The power of affection
• Which fresh juices don’t require a blender: Sorrel, grapefruit, passion fruit, (sour)orange, soursop
• To live in “Jamaica Time”
• The difference between Tolerance and Acceptance
• To use everyday items as teaching tools or craft supplies
• That a house is a lasting monument to a family
• The value of a fruit tree
• How to listen, especially if you don’t like the conversation
• That taking a step back can revive sanity
• The power of literacy
• To respect my natural inclinations towards introversion
• Little boys are terrifying in a pack
• The joy of singing out loud, wherever you are, just because
• The true nature of a Jamaican community is always off the beaten path (or paved road)
• Turn your darks inside out, or dry them in the shade!
• That an appreciation for the diversity of the world is a blessed gift
• To love my country, specifically, that I DO have attachments to my idea of home.
• To acknowledge what is truly important: That moment when my family walked out of the Arrivals terminal at MoBay airport and offered me a fresh American apple to follow our hug pile.
• To ask for help

Touring Di Island

When Jamaica is mentioned in America, most people’s minds immediately take them to that pristine beach, in a hammock with a coconut in your hand and a little cocktail umbrella sticking out of it.

This spot does certainly exist in Jamaica, but if you are planning a tropical vacation, I must implore you to blaze your own trail and loosen the grips of the All Inclusive Resort around this poor Islands windpipes. While these resorts do employ many Jamaicans at a terribly low pay scale, the environmental, social, political and economic impacts of these places are too far reaching for this blog post. Plus, you’ll never see the roots of this Island nation I’ve come to love so much. Supporting small business is the most important contribution a tourist can make while touring this small impoverished island.

SO, if you’d like to tour the Island, quench a sense of adventure and maybe save some money, step 1: buy The Lonely Planet Guide: Jamaica, step 2: read this blog post and step 3: also check out simplyintentional.wordpress.com, my partners in crime here in Westmoreland.

Recently, I had the pleasure of taking a lot of vacation days with family and friends who rented a car. If you are not an anxious driver, I highly recommend that and a road map. If you can’t bother and prefer to look out the window, there are LOTS of local drivers that you can charter for a day, an hour or 5 minutes. The route taxi system is easy IF you are traveling with less than 3 or 4 people. I’d recommend this mostly for city-city travel, anywhere you stay will have their go-to list of taxi men that they will set you up with for whatever tours or destinations you are seeking.

When I traveled with my family, we had less room for meandering since we were accommodating 5 very different minds. We started in Westmoreland with coffee on my veranda and breakfast on the beach down the street (when renting a car is useful). We opted to relax for the morning, mingle with my community members and then set off to stay the night in Kingston. The next day we drove the windy Junction road from Kingston to Port Antonio in Portland. We stayed two nights at Great Huts, an eco resort overlooking Boston Bay (home of the best jerk chicken on island). If you need air conditioning and solid walls and floors, Great Huts is not for you, but if you want to feel like you’re living in a secluded jungle tree house with wireless internet, this place is awesome. I loved it. We stayed in Boston Bay two nights, laid on the beach and climbed Reach Falls* and moved to a hotel outside of Ocho Rios for the last night.

Some Pics of Great Huts

When my friend Ian visited, we did a great deal of meandering accompanied by a good chunk of planning. We spent a lot of time in country and very little time in any major city. Starting in Beeston Spring, we took a day trip to YS falls and Appleton Rum Estate where we missed the last tour of the day but bought rum anyway. We stayed in Treasure Beach for two nights punctuated by a half day trip to Lovers Leap and Little Ochi and a good chunk of beach time. We then got a little lost in the mountains of St. Elizabeth, after a detour through Bamboo Avenue, which taught us a valuable lesson: If mass public transportation doesn’t take the road, it’s probably a bad road.

YS, Treasure Beach, Lovers Leap, Little Ochi, Bamboo Ave, Trelawney VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

Next we stayed at Time N’ Place outside of Falmouth in Trelawney Parish. We saw Luminous Lagoon at night and the next day went on a shoreline hike to find World Beach… Not sure if we ever found it but MAN, that was some of the most beautiful untouched beach I’ve seen in Jamaica yet (no pics due to sand/water danger).

My Reviews

Treasure Beach, Lovers Leap, Little Ochi

If you want good seafood, laid back vibes, cheap lodgings and beautiful beaches then Treasure Beach is a great place to be. While the main road in town is really quite terrible, most everything is walkable and the community is very safe and well lit at night. Locals don't hassle, and are quick to help with directions or recommendations. There is a large population of expats as well who frequent the shore side bars and local hotspots. I recently stayed at the Waikiki house, which was rustic and simple (35 US for a 2 bed room), but had a cheap restaurant on site and was located on the edge of a beautiful bay. We had all we wanted right at our doorstep. If you want AC and a mosquito free sleep, the Treasure Beach Hotel was on the same cove, and has a pool overlooking the ocean.

If you rent a car and buy a road map, a day trip to Lovers Leap and dinner at Little Ochi is a great way to see the Island. Lovers Leap has an entrance fee of $3 US and it's a pretty quick viewpoint (we spent maybe 25-30 minutes taking pictures and musing in the gardens), unless you opt for a tour or a hike down the cliff. The road to Little Ochi has some winning views, though it’s quite windy. The restaurant itself is less picturesque, but you won't get better seafood anywhere else. Chartering a taxi is also always an option, outings are easily arranged through wherever you stay.

Luminous Lagoon

In the two years I've lived here, I've never had a reason to stop in Falmouth, Trelawney until I heard about the Luminous Lagoon. Accommodations are spread around Falmouth to the east and west, and of course Montego Bay is also about 35 mins away. Ask the concierge (or hostel manager) about chartering a taxi to Luminous Lagoon after dark. We organized the trip from a hostel, so our tour was quite amateur: from a small local marina in a personal boat led by a 20-something year old tour guide. None of that matters once you jump in the brackish water and everything you touch lights up with a brilliant luminescence of phosphorescent algae. We were not the only boat on the water that night, but the experience was singular and breathtaking.

YS vs Reach Falls*

If you are exploring the Island from Westmoreland to Portland and want to play in an amazing waterfall, wait until you reach Portland and see Reach Falls. We organized a local tour for $5 US a person through a small eco resort called Great Huts (Which I highly recommend if you're a nature loving hippie like myself). We drove a rented car (though charter is an option) to the meeting point about 10 km east of Boston Bay and met up with a very knowledgable Rasta man, who secured our backpack high up on his back and led us on a "hike" through the falls and pools of lower Reach Falls. IT WAS AWESOME, but certainly a bit of exercise. This is a cheaper tour for a few reasons 1) it's much more physical  2) it follows the lower falls and the end point is Reach Falls proper. Technically the entrance of the proper falls has a $10 US/person fee, but the hike is on land, and must not be strenuous since many of those relaxing in the upper pools were overweight and smoking cigarettes. Since we didn't pay for that experience, we just took pictures of Reach Falls proper from the property boarder. I don't think we missed out at all.

If you don't make it to Portland though and you want to see a waterfall like Reach (a "step" falls with small falls and pools throughout), then opt for YS which is a more built up tourist destination, but beautiful and well equipped for diverse family dynamics. There is a zip line option, a bar, gift shop, food and a rope swing over a pool that makes you feel like Tarzan.

Roadside Stops (from Westmoreland to St. E)

Roadside shops and food shacks are a cultural norm in Jamaica and a few are certainly worth a short detour. Near me the border of Westmoreland and St. Elizabeth is home to a famous stretch of fish and bammy shacks. Bammy is a grated cassava patty often lightly pan fried or roasted to crispy perfection and is traditionally served with fried, steamed or roasted fish. Just pull over and roll down your window for quick service or sit at a picnic bench and enjoy a meal. For directions, ask for “Border” or “Border Fish n Bammy”.

Not far down the road is Middle Quarters of St. Elizabeth, famous for “pepper shrimp”: crayfish boiled in scotch bonnet pepper, pimento and other local seasonings. I’m not a fan of anything involving pepper, but it’s a common stop for locals and visitors and Ian even went back for seconds. It is most common to just pull over and wait for the ladies selling to crowd around your window and shove shrimp into your face. You’ll get a good idea of the Jamaica In-your-face tradition here- be decisive and kind and no one will get hurt Bags are sold for JD$ 200, 250, 300 and 350 depending on where you stop and what size bags they happen to have.

Nearby is a famous jerk hut that also sells fish and cups of soup. I’ve never stopped but it’s right on the road you turn off for YS falls/Appleton and I’ve heard great things.

And finally, Bamboo Avenue. I certainly took this regularly traveled portion of road for granted until I saw it with new eyes. 2 miles of road lined with bamboo, bordered by a expansive sugar cane field and dotted with stands selling fresh peanuts and cold jelly coconut water, it’s a nice cool stop to quench your thirst, grab a snack, have a pee in a bamboo grove and take some pictures. The people selling at the stands are kind and willing to answer any questions you may have about the area and help you eat your first jelly coconut like a local.

Tick, Tick, Tick…

…tick, tick, tick, tick…

“…four, months, four, months…”

“…are you ready? are you ready…?”

After ten days, my fabulous and (thanks to Jet Blue) extended on-island family vacation came to a close; my body readjusted to the cold showers, hot rooms, limited diet and overall lack of Beltrani’s- and dust seemed to settle. Through an opaque cloud of silt I heard a clock ticking, and my heart matched the sound: “four months left, are you ready?”, and as the dust cleared, (which took until this Tuesday) I saw the clock. Oh god there it is, that terrifying and oh so alluring countdown to a gigantic open ended question mark.

While January is hardly over, our Close of Service Conference is next week, I have more (planned) vacation the week after, and then I have 4 months to DO WORK and prove to myself, and my people, that I can finish my job well. During those same 4 months I also have to prove to America that I am qualified to be considered for graduate school or a job... the real world.

Yet business proceeds as usual here, slow and steady wins the race and all that. I’m assimilated, this shouldn’t phase me except why can’t anyone else hear that damn ticking???

The “are you ready?” is the worst one. Ready for what? What exactly is “ready”? Am I ready to go home? yes! Am I ready to leave Jamaica? No! What will my work amount to? What am I qualified for? Who is America Me again? She’s looking a little fuzzy from here…

I used to pride myself on my eloquence but now when interacting with Americans (such as the Beltrani clan), I trip over my words and shorten everything to a confusing mixture of English and patwa that’s more English than patwa but not enough patwa to sound like another language. It is SO much faster to say almost anything in patwa so I’m not surprised that my tongue has gotten lazy. Is that a valid excuse in an interview?

As an example of my plight, below are a few phrases I’d rather say in patwa.

Wa’apn- What happened? What’s happening?

Wa’apn to yuh- What happened to you? What’s wrong with you?

wuh yuh se – what did you say?

wuh do yuh- what’s wrong with you?

weh yuh go?- Where are you going?

eeeh?- Really?

gweh!- go away!

cho!- Whatever!

Keep in mind that jamaicans slur their soft sounds together so “wuh yuh se?” sounds more like “wuha se?”…

It’s much more work for one’s mouth to make words with consonants and spaces, and the Jamaican propensity for small talk means that I have far fewer intellectual conversations. As a disclaimer, I am terrible at small talk and I envy those who can pick out details of ones day and converse endlessly about them, which is why I practiced. Now I’m still not very good at small talk, but I’m not that great at big talk either.

So you see how the need to simultaneously consider ones life in a multitude of dimensions and cultures can make a woman a bit anxious.

I am nearing the end of my journey friends and I’m pumping the breaks while squinting my eyes to see what lies at the crossroads.

But I can’t see it. I won’t see it until I reach it.

Am I ready?…. It doesn’t matter, I’m not there yet.