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.
No comments:
Post a Comment