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.

Going With The Flow

A major motif of my Peace Corps experience thus far has been: She learns to “go with the flow”.

The ability to complete this action aids in some of the US Peace Corps’ favorite terms: integration, assimilation, adaptation… and so on. But often, I don’t realize that I’ve Gone with that Flow until I think back.

For example, that time that I was wedged in the back of a mini bus between a young, unkempt man and a young mother carrying her tiny infant and a diaper bag both on her lap. The ride was about 3 hours long and about halfway through it the woman handed me her baby and started rustling through her bag for the baby formula. The young man had already made his interest in the white girl clear and immediately began delving into the topic of my babies: Do I have any? Do I want any? He can give me one. I pleasantly cooed over the baby and warded him off, I can’t honestly remember how. I also held the baby after the mother finished feeding him so of course he spit up on my chest immediately.

Honestly, I was kind of thrilled to be cuddling a baby, it made the dude sitting next to me feel much further away. I must admit though, while the man hit on me, he was very supportive of the young mother, and showed her nothing but respect.

That’s also not the first time I’ve been handed other peoples babies. Babies are everywhere in Jamaica.

I’ve gotten much better at going with the flow in the past 3 months. There was a moment, when I entered the school yard and saw the 4H seedling nursery strewn around in the grass and carried away by yesterdays rain storm. I only thought, “well damn, I guess I can’t be surprised.” And it was a moment of growth, I believe.

The students and I had found a nice protected area under the eaves of the school where we placed our egg crate seedling trays, labeled with vegetable names. Only one teacher knew about it, and the kids found them first. *Shrug* Scenarios like this have happened in the past.

There was a time when these small failures would have made me feel ashamed, but sometimes there’s just nothing more you can do, so you improvise, and you go with the flow. Now our school garden is almost exclusively peanuts… because that’s what we got for free.

I go with the flow a lot on public transportation. I have a “likkle batti”: I fit everywhere. But public transportation in Jamaica defies a lot of American Norms, for instance- once you’re in the car, you’ve made a commitment, you can’t get out and take a different taxi. The driver will often go on alternative routes, run a quick errand for a community member and get gas with passengers in the car.

The other day I needed to buy bread, but there was one taxi waiting to leave for my community and I couldn’t take the time to walk to the bakers and then miss the only taxi so I just got in the car and we left immediately.

The driver mentioned that he needed to pick up his friend and the passengers nodded in ascent, so we took a side street towards the ocean front, slammed a few huge potholes and found that the lady wasn’t ready yet.

But we didn’t turn to leave for home, we drove back to Whitehouse square to pick up another passenger and when we arrived… it was full taxis waiting to go to my community.

Sometimes you just gotta skip the bakery and take a joy ride.

Goats!

It was a seasonably cold morning, a few weeks before Christmas 2011 and I am thawing my fingers as my oatmeal wirrs around in the microwave, still apprehensively unaware of my Peace Corps placement. It’s 9am at Sprout Creek Cheese Farm and the cows and goats are munching on their breakfast in the barn, their udders pleasantly relieved and our milk tank satisfyingly full.

Two tall black men crunch their way over frosted grass to the café entrance, their breath a translucent grey cloud preceding them and they look at my female coworkers and I curiously. In a strong Caribbean accent they ask if we have goat meat to sell. Confused and a tad horrified (as our dairy goats are our babies), we reply that we have dairy goats, which hardly have much meat, plus we only sell them in retirement as pets. The men shake their heads and say they are looking for a male goat to cook for Christmas dinner. No less horrified we respond that we use our bucks for breeding, we only have four of them anyway and they are not for sale. The men zipper back their jackets, resigned to continue their search.

We fell promptly into cheerful speculation, where does one get goat meat around here? How and where were they planning on butchering the thing? How could they possibly use all that meat? Were those men Jamaican? They must be cold…

*********************

It is December 2013, three weeks until Christmas; my dairy farming days are long over, but my meat goat farming days have just begun.

As with most developing countries, goats can be found just about everywhere in Jamaica. From a taxi in Kingston I once witnessed a mating pair nonchalantly going at it on a (sort of) grassy median. There are city goats that live on a 50-50 diet of grass and garbage, and country goats, which are much more prized in the meat industry. Goats in my community sun themselves in the road, keep the yard cut and get into the garden. Some are tied simply with a rope to a tree, some are followers, some don’t mind people and others have never left the bush (it should be noted that “bush” implies “out in the woods” or “jungle” but also can refer to farmed land far from home). Goats are rarely sheltered or fenced in Jamaica unless the herd is large or the property is near the road/other properties.

Goat meat is the pride and joy of Jamaicans. They love it curried, brown stewed and of course, in soup. The proper term for goat soup is “mannish water” but I’ve also heard “goat head soup”. It is still unclear to me exactly what parts of the goat are in the soup: I’ve heard everything from the head to the testicles, and if Jamaican meat eating habits are any indication, I’m sure it’s both and everything in between. Due to my stubborn vegetarianism I don’t have much first hand experience.

Now, all male goats, or bucks (mistakenly called “rams” by 99% of Jamaicans), are notorious for their very strong, distinct musk which Jamaicans describe as “rank”, as in “bwoi dat rammy deh smell renk!” This is not said in a tone of disgust but appreciation: a good cup of mannish water should smell (and taste) vaguely rank and musky, just like the goat itself.

While female goats are also sold for meat, this is more likely to be a poor breeder and will be processed and packaged in parts, sold at a grocery store or butcher. Ram goats are most often sold around the holidays and at parties and they are butchered and prepped specifically for the event.The value is in the size of the goat, and his musk. A good, fit and mature native male goat can sell for upwards of $20,000 JD (~$200 US) and I know a few in my community who are valued closer to $30 or 35,000 JD.

Because goats are widely eaten, highly valued and very easy to feed when rain is falling, most families in my community have anywhere from 3 to 10. My supervisor probably wins the numbers game with a herd of 40 wandering her auntie’s property. Goats in my community are an insurance plan of sorts: just the other day my boyfriend commented that he might sell his 1 year old rammy because he needs the quick money. I talked him out of it since goats don’t reach full grown size for the first four years- he’ll sell for much more this time next year.

You may notice if you visit that all goats in Jamaica get to keep their horns! This is not a breed thing, it’s simply a matter of resources and purpose. Having horned animals living together in close quarters on a dairy farm is actually dangerous; burning horns off of a solitary goat in the backyard is a waste of money.

Native goats in Jamaica are a small, hardy goat with varying combinations of characteristics depending on how and when they were cross bred. They are highly efficient eaters, largely disease resistant and persistent breeders, but they are often small, which is a limiting factor in meat production.

This is where the farmers group Goat Breeding project will come into play. Since goat rearing is mostly a hobby in my community, the breeding process is not strongly emphasized, but if it were, even for a small backyard herd, the value of the goats would go up tremendously. As such, the CDC has set aside funding for the farmers group to buy a pedigree Boer buck and a few pedigree does (females) and run some workshops. The farmers in the group would be responsible for the daily care of these animals and in return they can use the buck to serve their does for free, or be eligible for one of the offspring. The community members can also breed their does to the pedigree buck for free, but must buy the offspring from the farmers group. Persons outside of the community can pay a service fee and breed their does to the ram or buy offspring as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Boer goat

In this way, we heighten the overall value of every goat in the community by cross breeding the hardy native goat with a large, persistent meat breed. This increases the backyard insurance plan significantly, and will teach people to take a proactive approach in maintaining their small herds to secure the highest value they can for their goats. Additionally, I plan to encourage best practices with workshops focused on breeding and feeding. While most farmers know the plants that goats like to eat, it’s important to point out the nutritional value of the forage, especially for does about to kid. While it’s not a common practice to plant out goat forage, I’d like to demonstrate this as a viable alternative to feeding bag feed during the dry time when grass doesn’t rebound as fast.

It should also be mentioned that there is not a single dairy goat farm in Jamaica.

I used to dislike goats due to their loud bawl and obstinate nature. I’ve also never been trampled by a horse or a cow, but I was trampled once by a herd of goats. Now I accept them as the most cost effective species of livestock on a small island, a valuable investment for people with little in their pockets, and ok, they are pretty cute.

Glossary

Persistent Breeder: A doe who gives birth to 2-3 kids every time

Kid: baby goat; kidding: the processes of giving birth to a baby goat

Buck: male goat (ram= male sheep, but Jamaicans use ram when referring to male goats)

Doe: female goat (ewe= female sheep, is also used interchangeably with doe)

Serve: To breed, the male serves the female

Forage: goats are “browsers” which means they will eat leaves, stems and even bark or twigs. Forage is food that the goat “finds”, anything that grows naturally without cultivation.

Craft Corner

To piggy back off of another PCV couples’ blog about creative ideas in the PC household, (www.simplyintentional.wordpress.com) I realize that I have done many activities with my students using simple, everyday ingredients.

Home Dyed Sand Art

Supplies: Sand, Medicine dropper, Sieve , Food Dye (at least the primary colors), old cups/bowls, Newspaper, cookie sheet/tray/wood board

This is super easy and the kids LOVE it. We all made sand art as kids either by gluing it to paper or stacking the colors in a clear bottle. It’s great for kids to learn colors, patterns, shapes or to just be creative.

The best thing about this activity is that you live on an ISLAND! You are literally surrounded by beautiful white sand! Next time you have a beach day, carry a scandal bag (double bagged) and fill ‘er up. That’s step one. done.

Step 2: Sift the sand to get out any organic matter, shells or stones.

Step 3: Decide what colors you want. Pour the amount of sand you want into your cup or bowl then add a few drops of the food dye. Stir the dye into the sand and add a few drops of water if the sand becomes clumpy. Don’t let the sand get too wet! 

Step 4: Lay the sand out on 3 or 4 pages of folded newspaper and lay the newspaper on something solid. Leave sand in the sun until dry. If your sand is too wet the color will leach out into the newspaper which is ok but may effect the intensity of your sand color.

Step 5: Repeat steps 2-3 for all of your colors. If you mix your prime colors to make green, orange or purple start with a few drops of each and mix sand in between drops. Purple was the hardest color to get right and I’d be lying if I said I’ve ever had a successful purple.

I used my sand for a nametag activity during my summer program. The kids wrote their name, an adult came around with glue and the kids added the sand. We used the name tags every day to collect “good behavior” stickers on.

 

Upcycled Paper Crafts

I broke my blender trying to make paper. As such I have not made any since that fateful day so I have very few pictures, my apologies for that.

Supplies: Blender or Food Processor, Newspaper, Warm water, Pot or bucket, Flour, Glue

Step 1: Break up newspaper into strips or chunks or whatever other way you like and let it soak in a pot or a bucket overnight.

Step 2: In your blender add half water and half or 1/3 newspaper. Blend slowly at first, then enough that you get a smooth pulp. STOP if your blender gets over heated or slows down. Add more water and remove some paper if this happens. Continue until your newspaper is used up.

PAPER BEADS

Additional Supplies: something long and straight-  wire clothes hanger, chopstick, toothpick or knitting needle

Step 1: Remove and strain the pulp from the water, add a bit of glue and press into shape around your long flat tool. Squeeze out the excess water while you shape your bead. Remove from tool and dry in the sun.

Note: I’ve also made some pretty flat flower beads that could serve more as a button. Do this activity outside or over a LOT of newspaper with kids.

 

UPCYCLED PAPER

Additional Supplies: Old picture frame, old panty hoes, pot or shallow pan bigger than frame

Step 1: Fit a pair of old panty hoes or a piece of screen around the old frame.

Step 2: Fill the pot or pan with the paper pulp and add enough water to submerge the frame. Add some glue for a better hold.

Step 3: Submerge the frame in the pulp water and sift it back and forth as you raise it out of the water (like you’re prospecting for gold in a river). The smaller the pulp particles are that settle on the panty hoes, the finer grain your paper will have. Finer grains float better than the big pieces.

note: Since my blender broke, my paper was a chunky grain, so after I shaped my paper I added decoration to make it look intentionally crafty. I’ve seen this done with leaves and flowers and a little glue/ mod podge as well. I also accidentally dripped some yellow food dye on my example… so I dripped a few more drops to make it seem intentional. I’m not a naturally crafty person, I admit.

Step 4: Set your frame and paper in the sun to dry

PAPER MACHE SHAKERS

I did this activity for a cultural music lesson and I actually ran out of paint for it but I had plenty of glue, so I cut up some soda bottles, filled them with glue and added food dye. The paint job turned out quite pretty but it’s certainly not an easy medium to work with.

Additional supplies: Seeds or John crow beads plastic bottle, torn up newspaper, paint

Step 1: Tear up newspaper and soak in warm water

Step 2: Make the mache- Mix two parts water to one part flour and add some glue if you have it

Step 3: Teach kids how to paper mache… it’s very messy so it will require a demonstration

Step 4: Cover the surface of a soda bottle (any size) with paper mache. Leave the cap alone though. Let dry in the sun.

Step 5: Put some John crow beads, sunflower seeds or pebbles (I find that seeds work best) inside the bottle until the desired shake sound is achieved.

Step 6: Paint!

Beer Bottle Cups

*This activity is a fire hazard, do NOT try it alone for the first time*

Supplies: 100% acetone, cotton string, ice, bucket/sink, lighter, coarse sand paper

Step 1: Fill your bucket or sink with cold water (if you have a water tank like me, you’ll need ice)

Step 2: Loop a long piece of string (friendship bracelet string/ cotton twine) approximately 6-12 times around the wide part of the bottle, where you want it to break. You don’t need to tie the end, just smooth it against the rest of the string

note: I find it easiest to measure my arm length, then half the string, put the loose end through the loop and encircle the bottle counter to the loop…

Step 3: Carefully remove the circle of string and submerge it in acetone briefly, so that the string is soaked through.

Step 4: Return the string to the bottle so that it fits tightly around the glass. Try not to let it drip. Hold it horizontally over your bucket or sink, light it with your lighter and immediately twist the bottle around and around until the fire goes out. Immediately drop the bottle (gently) into your cold water and voila! Your glass has broken. BE CAREFUL grabbing the bottle from the water, there will be shards and sharp edges waiting for you.

Step 5: Sand down the lip of your new cup until it is no longer a danger to yourself and others.

It didn’t break? There could be a few reasons why. I’ve learned that red stripe bottles are not universally thick, it may not break along a tidy line or at all. Don’t give up! Wrap your bottle with a bit more string, soak in the acetone and make sure that you spin that bottle nice and fast so that the heat covers the bottle evenly. Sometimes the bottle needs to bump against the bucket/sink bottom to jolt the pieces apart.

Wine, Gin and other alcohol bottles break the same way! Just use a bit of extra string and spin it quick!

Also, I turn my cut off tops into candle holders!