Picture Updates

I should post some pictures since I went away two weekends ago and other stuff has happened…

The Yard, School, Sunsets and Bonfires VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

A Cure For The Common Cold

I think one of the most amusing things that we as Peace Corps Volunteers deal with in Jamaica is a complete lack of respect for germ theory. Not that hygiene is particularly disregarded, but superstition is more of a reality. Can we as Americans politely point out that getting stuck in the rain will not make us sick? Of course, but that won’t stop every community member you pass in a light rain urge you to walk faster to home lest you get sick. It also will not stop any community member who got stuck in the same rain to declare the next day that the rain wet them up and they are sick today. I have yet to figure out if this is purely psychosomatic or a medical anomaly but either way, it happens.

These idiosyncrasies are entertaining and sometimes perplexing when one is in good health (picking ones nose in public here is a commonplace, going barefoot inside will cause your auntie to make you wear your slippers or you’ll catch cold) but I got an insiders look this past week when I actually did catch a cold.

It was the typical sneezing, snotting, earplugged head cold that ends with coughing, a headache you just can’t shake and that same damned ear showing no signs of easing up on the pressure. In Jamaica they would say that you “kech a flu” the minute they hear you sneeze- in American we all know means you’re practically dying of fever and sore joints and can’t leave your bed, not the case here. I will proclaim that I may have had lyme disease, scarlet fever, whooping cough, strep and two cases of shingles but I have never had the flu, bronchitis or pneumonia so… there’s a point in there somewhere.

There is something to be said of the common cold in the tropics. It really does suck. The humidity is everywhere, the heat makes you feel like your head is in a oven wrapped in pillows- then the rain comes, the air pressure changes, your headspace struggles to keep up and you’re in bed with chills and a cup of tea. So having experienced this on day one, I attempted to relinquish my American belief that “im not really that sick” and did nothing but sleep and read for the next 48 hours. You know the resolve it takes to wake up for work and decide in the hour you need to get ready if you should call in for a sick day? Peace Corps volunteers don’t have that pressure because there is not a single Jamaican that would even question if you actually are sick, or sick enough to not be doing what you need to do. I even started proclaiming over the phone or through my gate at inquirers “I have a flu, I can’t be out in the night dew”, not because it’s the truth but it’s their truth so it still works. 

I can’t possibly tell you which cultures’ tactic is better. While I find the basic disregard for proven science frustrating at all times here, I do appreciate the leniency and sympathy people have for illness- it is healthier and less stressful. I think being sick in a new place is always less comfortable than being sick in a climate controlled environment while dad plays piano and mom makes you lipton soup with extra noodles. Thankfully though, my new place has a fan, people who love me and cock soup, an acceptable alternative in all categories.

Thinking of Home

Since I’ve been in Jamaica, there have been at least three distinct tragedies of mass violence against the civilian population of the United States of America. And I’ve been gone for 12 months.

Since I’ve been in Jamaica, there has not been a single attack by a citizen on a random group of citizens here. Murders, homicides and the typical violence that Jamaica is known for have of course occurred, with a few particularly effed up outliers, but these occurrences have never made me personally feel unsafe. I stay away from violent men, gang related business and drug related situations. I am obviously not a part of the collective population, even the general domestic dispute is avoided in front of me.

But yesterday, a PCF (peace corps friend) with internet called me in case I hadn’t heard about the bombs that had exploded at the Boston Marathon. I hadn’t, of course- I live in an internet-less bubble of Jamaican culture and hadn’t heard the radio since early morning. But my heart stopped and tears filled my eyes as I remembered cheering on my mother at that exact marathon around 7 years ago. My mother and my baby sister are avid runners and my sister runs cross country for Tufts University in Boston. Shit, shit, shit.

A call to my mother calmed my fears, Sis is ok, but she was at the marathon, at mile 24, cheering on a friend. I realized with extreme guilt that my family had had a very stressful and emotional day as their youngest daughter negotiated the panic stricken streets of Boston, unsure of exactly what had happened but knowing that travel the two miles to the finish line was no longer on the to-do list. I wished I’d been there, or at least been aware of the tragedy sooner.

This is not an event that many here can empathize with. Nothing like September 11th, the Columbine shootings or any of the other screwed up things that happen in America happens in Jamaica. Bad people are just not on the side of God here, it’s sad but it’s a truth. And it’s a difficult logic to argue without opening up a whole new can of worms.

Laying in bed last night I was seized with the fear of it happening again, taking my loved one. I’m out of the loop and all I know is that it was a citizen attack on other citizens. Do they know who it is? Has he been caught yet? I won’t know until I reach the internet later today. But in my mind, a psychopath who would murder a crowd of marathon runners, is still at large, and my baby sister is still in the city.

Have you even been to a marathon, dear reader? Well, it’s kind of like being at a street party full of goodwill towards man. It’s one of the most uplifting, motivated and inspiring  events you can attend. The Boston Marathon even more-so, since there is a qualifying time to even run it. No one wants anyone else to fail, everyone is proud of complete strangers and the support system is unanimous. I remember the energy and I don’t need to see the news clips to imagine the complete physical and psychological devastation that ensued.

There is not a single cliché that can calm my nerves today. “All things happen for a reason” “God is good” “The world is good and people are bad.” I don’t truly believe any of that. I honestly believe that people are good, but I think our lifestyles are poison. People become unhinged and mentally unstable because of a disconnect with reality, and America seems to be all about disconnecting with reality and building a bubble of ideal perfection molded by the cacophony of cultural sound-waves that can mess with even the stoniest of minds. I’m not going to go off on my own beliefs in the inherent therapy of nature, and I can’t write anything even resembling succinct re: the state of our country. So I won’t. But, unlike on September 11th 2001, I am old enough to feel that my own bubble of perfection has been pierced by evil. This story is too close to home, and I’m too far away.

My thoughts are with the victims and attendees of the Boston Marathon, may you find peace of mind in time.

The Relativity of Productivity

I’m on a roll. With projects, with Peace Corps life, with ideas of life to come, almost everything. A project has dropped into my lap that could actually have a lasting impact on my community (whaaa?!) and I’m taking as many big man strides as I can to make sure that it’s sustainable.

Last week my days were full of brainstorming, proposal writing and sending e-mails in order to spread the word, get feedback and maintain organization as I attempt to turn Beeston Spring into a community that recycles (the first, apparently, in the country). I also wrote all but one proposal to claim the Best Community Competition funding for 2009 and started a 50 slide powerpoint for this years’ competition judging.

This week I hosted two new Peace Corps trainees in my home from Monday until Wednesday morning. I greatly enjoyed their company and I was glad that I actually have projects to talk to them about. It’s true what they say, you don’t truly appreciate your place as a volunteer until you share your experience with a newbie. I can cook uniquely tropical vegetables like cho-cho and yam, I balance my budget, walk between destinations with complete confidence, chat with community members effectively and many other things that were quite intimidating in my first month. After my very productive week last week and my busy first part of this week, mi feel tiyad an mi nuh waan tink bout ee nuh more.

Maybe the things I did throughout my last week would have taken a single day from an office with internet in the developed world. But here things take much longer, as is to be expected. I will never take for granted again the ease and speed with which work gets done when emails are sent, answered and replied to in a 12 hour period. I will also never take for granted the work ethic of Americans again. While it may be slowly killing some people, it’s so much more effective. Not to condone stress, but Jamaicans are practically allergic to the feeling. They physically react to it much faster than the average American, and try getting a Jamaican to work or attend a meeting if they have the sniffles (aka “the flu” here) HAHA no sah, nuttin a go so. And so, sometimes after periods of serious productivity, I pause, realize the speed at which my counterparts are working and instead of being inspired to work more, I feel inspired to sit and wait for them to catch up. Ahhh how the relativity of productivity varies in this country.

I spent three hours at Salem Primary and Junior High School today and I’m feeling quite spent. On Fridays I teach the 7th and 8th grade applied agriculture and I work with the first and second grades on enviracy. Today I had an additional agenda: to spread the word about the recycling project. And so, I went from grade 9 to grade 1 explaining the ground rules of the next few weeks for them.

On a Friday.

That was understaffed.

(…so classes were sharing teachers, teachers were switching grades and almost no one was in a seat). I suppose I’ll explain the project to you now too:

A few months ago the Sandals Foundation’s environmental coordinator told me that she had 6 old bleach bins that she wanted to donate to Beeston Spring to collect recyclables. While this is an admirable idea, it would never work unless an extensive educational campaign was launched, and what better way to do that than through the school? And so, I contacted a new company in St. Elizabeth- Plastic Recyclers of Jamaica- which collects bottles from communities and crushes them to sell to recycling companies in Foreign. After getting the info we needed, we began to empty out the abandoned building turned bottle storage building and filling them into huge 5’x5’x5’ bags. Plastic Recyclers picks up the bags for free and actually pays JD$4 per lb.

So I am now simultaneously working on the school-wide and community-wide education campaign. At the school, every grade will be competing to collect the most bottles (by lb) until May 22nd, when we will hold an after school “Beeston Spring Recycles! Fun Day”. The final weigh in and prizes will occur and then the students will paint their hand prints on the donated bins, which will then be placed in most of the districts in the community. The winning class will receive the worth of the final white bag once it is filled up to do whatever they want with (~JD$800 if they do it right). Needless to say, by the time the lunch bell rang, grade 5 and grade 6 had already collected more than three 26 gallon bags of bottles.

Meanwhile, I’ll be canvassing the shop keepers and other community spaces to educate them and invite them to a meeting where white bags can be handed out to those interested and questions can be answered by reps of Plastic Recyclers.

As I’m typing I’m wondering if I should just have explained this after May 22nd so that if it’s a complete failure I don’t have to write about it. But I just wrote way too much to delete and hey, failures are teaching tools too- a so ee go.

Plastic Recyclers of Jamaica came to Beeston Spring last week to collect the bagged up bottles. Here’s what the pickup process looked like:

Weighing…

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On Perceptions of Family

My dog has decided that the best place for her to poop is directly under my laundry line.

It’s Saturday which means that my day will consist of housework, laundry, blogging and hopefully napping, to explain the previous comment. Without the internet I have no outlet with which to declare the random thoughts that breeze into my mind in the form of Facebook Statuses (stati?), and in the solitude of these Saturday afternoons, that commentary often becomes a blog topic. Don’t worry I’m not about to go into any sort of detail about my dog’s feces.

Since I’ve moved, the dynamic of my daily routine has changed significantly. While daily life is certainly not difficult by Peace Corps standards, I find that much more of my time is spent cleaning- especially sweeping the vast tile floors in my oversized house. I spend a good deal of time considering going to the Spring for drinking water and then just boiling my own tank water instead, and I’ve been waging a war as epic as the Lord of the Rings Trilogy with various species of ants. The other night I entered my house to find the floor literally crawling with the big red ants that bite like fire. When the night gets cool or it is about to rain, these ants are notorious for coming into the house for shelter. Too bad for these guys I’d laid down a strategic and preemptive strike of ants powder, and most of them seized to death before causing much harm. See a picture of the aftermath below.

On a less violent note, being IN the community now has afforded me a new perspective on Beeston Spring that I’ve been greatly enjoying. I wish I had been here while doing my Participatory Analysis of the community (PC acronym # 1bajillion- PACA), I am seeing a much clearer community schedule, gender roles and relationships. Most importantly this American stranger is truly appreciating that this is more than a space of land where people live- this is a family. Now, many New Yorkers who have met Jamaican immigrants are often struck by the differences in family values between the two cultures. It’s not rare for a grandmother to raise a grandchild while the mother moves to Foreign, for aunts to raise nieces or nephews, cousins to raise cousins etc. This, to me, is beautiful (though perhaps might encourage teenage pregnancy- mothers often help raise their daughter’s children without question). What I’m talking about is an even broader idea of family.

Yes, a good majority of the people in this community are related by blood or marriage. But if you are an elder in Beeston Spring, you literally know everyone, and you know who they belong to. Even my boyfriend and his peers- in the 20-30 year age range, have watched every single one of my students at the primary school grow up (also because many of the students are their children, nieces and nephews). Likewise, many of my community partners in the 40-60 age range watched my boyfriend and his friends grow from infancy. So this creates a community of people who have all known each other for years or decades. It creates bonds as tight as family, and bad mind like only families can foster. Everyone knows who gets along with who, and if you’re a good person, you are rewarded with trust and food.

I come from a country where what you earn is sacred, and to ask someone for money is a bold move and I live in a place now where money is fluid and rare. If a community member needs J$1,000 for something important and a friend happens to have it in his pocket, it’s very often relinquished without question. Please keep in mind that in America, as individuals with bachelors degrees we can make about $10-12 an hour at a low tier job. That’s about J$1,000-1,200 - which a Jamaican will make in a day doing hard labour like laying foundation.

For a while this generosity baffled me, until it sunk in that people here are truly “bredren” (kind of like ‘brothers from another mother’). Wouldn’t you give your brother or sister the shirt off your back if they needed it? Wouldn’t you buy your best friend a meal if they were broke? “A so it go” in Beeston Spring, which is why bartering with food is a common practice. Evrick walked into my house with a yam bigger than my face yesterday- the day before it was a bag of ackie. Why? He passed a friend digging yam; he happened to hear a neighbor mention that her ackie tree is bearing. These people know he will pay them back in friendship, until he has something material that he can offer in return.

I am trying now, to not feel “a way” when someone close to me asks for money. My stingy culture frowns upon even asking a stranger for bus fare, but here I’m trying to not furrow my brow when a community member asks me for something reasonable. I am not giving handouts by any means and I don’t really give to anyone outside of my own yard, but the fact that I get a steady paycheck automatically makes me 100% more stable than most six person families in my community. I feel guilty about that. And I feel guilty about the pressure I feel to return home so that I can get a better education and make enough money to enjoy first world luxuries like traveling, car and pet ownership and internet.

When people ask me if I’m bringing Evrick back to Foreign, the response in my mind is always, “would he even like it there?”

Food for thought I suppose.

Anyway my steady paycheck afforded me the chance to go to Oracabesa last weekend for a Peace Corps event. I took some pretty great pictures:

Movin’ on Up

After 3 weeks in Kingston and months of searching, I’ve moved to a new home right in the heart of my community. In Kingston I helped with Pre-Service Training programming for the incoming newbies and accompanied Dan around on some site visits- a process taken very seriously by Program Managers as these visits shape the perception of which new volunteers will go to which sites. Each visit was quite diverse and I found myself recreating what Dan’s visit was like in my community- I can only imagine. I also got a unique opportunity to see the inner workings of Peace Corps Jamaica, how hard the Green Initiative crew and supporting staff works for the volunteers and how they internalize the volunteers experience.

So now I find myself nearing one YEAR in Jamaica- the newbies come in just a few days and I am beginning to feel myself settle into this crazy taxi ride that is Peace Corps Jamaica. The potholes are easier to anticipate, the fat lady next to me is actually a pretty decent pillow and the gospel radio station blaring from the front is music to my ears. I am remembering how it felt to be an American in Jamaica like one tries to remember that day they mastered the art of tying shoes or reading- it’s a vague and confused memory, more emotional than physical, and it’s certainly reassuring to realize that I’ve grown past feeling like a little kid with shoes that are too big. My shoes fit- sometimes the laces fall out and sometimes they get wet and uncomfortable, but I’m not tripping or stepping as carefully. Hey, group 83, are we officially Jamerican??

Anyway, I moved into a big beautiful house in the same yard as a farmer and his children. I can hear church, ballgames, neighbors conversations and taxi’s passing- but I can’t see it in my large yard of mango, jackfruit, banana and ackee trees. I’ve built a compost bin, hung my hammock and pictures on my wall, did my first load of laundry, fed the neighborhood boys with veggie burgers and french fries and had a romantic dinner, made by my man, at my new table in my new kitchen. Neighbors can hail me from the street, see me doing laundry, walking in the early morning without my face on to get a pound a sugar from the shop, sitting idle by the road, and working of course. I can’t describe the freedom I feel walking under the streetlights at night, no worries about taxis or time, the independence of cooking meals and cleaning dishes at my own pace, sitting quietly at a table, blasting my music, sharing meals…I’m a little concerned I’ll never leave.

		Jamaica 2.0 VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

A Foray Into Jamaica’s Healthcare System

*warning- this is not a warm and fuzzy happy day blog post. It is a somewhat graphic account of a very stressful day*

It was a clear skied, sunny Friday morning as I meticulously stared into the mirror wondering if my favorite jean slacks were going to cause me to sweat even more than usual on my walk to school where I’d be teaching soil comparison to the 7th graders and an enviracy lesson, of my own design, to the 1st graders. I packed my new black bag with my computer, lesson plans and various notebooks and filled my water bottle while answering my phone. My boyfriend on the other line, sounding winded, told me that he fell off his bicycle just beyond my gate, can I help him with his cuts? “Yes, sure, come on up,” I said, picking out the antibiotic ointment, some cotton balls and band-aids from my med kit.

6 minutes later a very bloody Evrick walked up to my back veranda, red streaks streaming down one leg. I looked up at his face, my eyes wide- this was not the kind of fall I had expected- and told him to sit down, now. A quick once over told me all I needed to know- he needed stitches in his knee. We patched up the scrapes along his arm and waist, wrapped his knee as best we could and caught a ride with my host mother to the clinic in Whitehouse as I made phone calls to the teachers explaining I wouldn’t be making it to school today.

Arriving at the clinic, a nurse met us at the gate and told us to turn around, there were no doctors in today. We turned around to see my host mothers car accelerating into the distance. Ok, next option, public transport mini-bus.

We approached the area where the busses park to wait for passengers to find that Evrick’s friend from their school days was a driver. They exchanged familiar greetings and his friend invariably asked what happened. Evrick explained and said we were on our way to hospital. We moved to the front seat for more leg room and departed very shortly after that. I was so preoccupied that it wasn’t until we had almost arrived to Sav-la-mar that I realized the bus had left Whitehouse nearly empty, and had hardly stopped for passengers. For a mini-bus driver, this is a heartfelt testament of friendship- basically: “screw the extra money I’d make waiting around man, lets get you fixed up.”

The mini-bus dropped us across the street from the hospital lane, and we walked/hobbled side-by-side along the sidewalk to the hospital gate.

Savanna-la-mar is the capitol of the Westmoreland Parish. It is made up of two main streets and various side roads, it is hot, flat, dirty and smelly with congested traffic and poorly designed open drainage systems. The hospital is a fairly large building that, from the outside, looks like it’s abandoned. It’s pale yellow paint is chipping,it has broken window vents and random wires hanging from the walls. If not for the enormous crowd inside the building, the inside would look abandoned in the same fashion. The waiting room is a huge open space with metal chairs lined up facing the pharmacy to the right of the entrance. More chairs were lined up to the left of the entrance, facing reception windows and a hallway to the rest of the hospital. Directly to the back wall was a single door with a guard standing, calling out numbers for people who needed to be registered. Almost every chair was occupied when we arrived.

We arrived at the hospital around 9:30 am and Evrick, having never been in a situation like this, and I, having never experienced Jamaican healthcare, negotiated our way through the crowded, somewhat ordered chaos that was registration. Through the door with the guard we found ourselves in a very tight hallway with curtained off examination spaces to the right. The hallway opened up into a room that made my heart race. A tiny little wooden nurses station stood amidst more curtained rooms containing dying women and sick individuals, stab victims wandering around in hospital gowns, gurneys in the middle of the room carrying a man with a broken leg, pins visible on either side, and another, much smaller waiting space. Nurses spoke to us without directing their comments at us, told us to go “over there” and then walked away themselves and (while I know they are overworked and underpaid) generally added to our discontent and confusion. Ev filled out paperwork, got his vitals taken and was sent to talk to a doctor. We sat in his office and, without even looking under the bandage, the doctor gave us a yellow piece of paper and told us to give it to the nurse, who then sent us back out into the immense waiting area and told us to wait until we are called.

By that point the adrenaline had wore off and Evrick was admitting to pain. I stood on line at the reception windows to hand in his paperwork while he found us seats, and we waited for about 2.5 hours to be called back.

Finally we were going to see a doctor! This one looked like he was of Indian decent and quite young. He looked from Evrick to me with a poorly masked, puzzled expression and began to address Evrick, asking him the typical questions a doctor must ask his patient. This doctor mumbled to the paper instead of the man in front of him while chewing gum, and every time Ev asked him to repeat himself, the doctor scoffed and shook his head while I repeated the question for him. I told the doctor he was mumbling to which he responded, “well why can you understand me then?”

The doctor sent Ev out of the room for a pain shot and proceeded to ask me questions about myself, barely masking his confusion of why I was dating this common yardie from the bush. In my mind I was screaming “a good man is a good man you well educated asshole!” but on the outside I took it like a champ, hoping he would like me enough to be nicer to my boyfriend. Wrong-o!

We followed the doctor back to the “surgical room”, a poorly organized room with missing tiles in the floor, rusting equipment and a rasta man laying on one of two beds, bleeding from a heavily bandaged foot and onto the floor. We went to the other bed and Ev lay flat while the doctor prepared the kit.

Now, most of you know that I come from a family of doctors and nurses, and that gross medical stuff doesn’t scare me. I’ve watched my gentle and personable father sew up many a human being, including a friend with a very similar slice on his knee. My father talks to his patients in a quiet, even tone while he gently and methodically works. He’ll describes his actions before he starts, what will be required and how long it will take. I am always amazed by his professionalism and empathy for the patient.

If there was ever a 100% stark contrast to my Father, this experience was it. I found myself telling Ev what to expect while the doctor prepared  the kit in silence. I told him not to watch because it would be worse, that it needed to be cleaned first, then numbed and then he wouldn’t feel a thing. With my big black bag slung over my shoulder and my left arm resting on his chest I watched the doctor clean out the wound with distilled water, letting it drip down Evrick’s leg and into his sock and, as if in slow motion, the doctor began mercilessly digging with a gloved hand into the wound, down to the bone, blood seeping up around his fingers. I immediately threw all of my weight onto Evrick’s chest as he shouted in pain and his arms convulsed around my torso. Again the doctor dug and my heart raced as I angrily mumbled “easy man!” at him, my boyfriend cursed as he felt the most concentrated and pure pain he’d ever experienced and I accepted the consequences, holding him down and letting him squeeze my hand and waist until I felt vindicated in a shared discomfort.

We were afforded a break while the doctor threaded his needle. I looked into Ev’s eyes and explained that he just had to make sure there were no rocks in the wound, he would be numb soon. The doctor then forced the novocain shot into the tender and swollen area (another tensing convulsion, for the two of us) and immediately began to force the needle directly into old scar tissue without waiting for the medication to set in. More excruciating pain, more shouting as I tried to convince Evrick not to look, practically laying on top of him, blocking his view with my body. A stitch and a half in the doctor paused, considered his “handiwork” and said “this is too deep, it goes to bone, I want him to have x-rays” and cut the stitches out.

I wanted to cry, punch, kick and throw an all round tantrum. I am small but mighty, I love and I hate equally fiercely, I protect my own at all costs. Like the hummingbird I am, I wanted to stab this mans eyes out repeatedly.

During the hour we waited for the x-ray I shook with anger, fighting back tears of rage and exhaustion. What a completely helpless moment, when someone you love is in physical and mental pain and all you want is to assume their pain for them, but all you can do is shower them in affection and somewhat contrived reassurance. “Well, at least we know for sure that you’re numb this time!”

The second attempt was easier, maybe because Evrick’s sister, an employee at the hospital, joined us in the surgical room, but definitely because he was already numb. The doctor considered his medical kit and the other doctor in the room, dealing with the bloody foot rasta, asked what was wrong. “I should use a curved needle." he said, “Then go an get one” the other replied, “well they’re all the way in the other room,” our doctor answered with a lazy expression. My jaw dropped and my eyes widened at him, obviously demanding seriously?? Why yes, he was serious, I don’t know why I was surprised.

Once again I assumed the position over Evrick’s chest, seriously pep talking him “DON’T WATCH THIS”. He flinched and tensed, but was not in pain. “one stitch down, don’t look!” “Two down, don’t look!” “One left, stop looking!” Finally, the torment was over. The doctor gave him a prescription, we glared him without a word of thanks and I pointedly held my boyfriend’s hand and stared at the doctor as we walked out of the clinic and into the waiting room where the pharmacy had just closed it’s doors for the day.

What did this experience teach me? More than anything how extremely lucky I am to have first world medical care. That my father is a truly talented caregiver. That, perhaps, we experienced projected feelings of prejudice from the doctor. That medical care in Jamaica is biased, and free medical care even more so.

I know I’m not in the medical field, I’m sure some PEPFAR volunteers could write a blog post about this blog post, but from an outsider looking in, this was one of the most trying experiences I’ve had since being in Jamaica.