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.
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