Have now arrived safely back in the Midlands after possibly the best month of my so far… lots of great experiences, great friends, and memorable moments which will stay with me forever!
Nothing major to report on the way home – another crazy drive with Kevin, including several near would-have-been-fatal accidents. This was followed by a friendly and fairly rapid check in – getting out of Jamaica was much easier than getting in. I didn’t sleep a wink on the flight, try as I might, so arrived in England at 9am (3am Jamaica time) excessively tired and feeling disgusting, to met with “Do you fancy a trip to Brighton?” So there I was, 14 hours after I’d left my host family in Black River, walking down Brighton Pier in the windy English summer. We eventually got back on the road only to stop in Guildford to see the Cathedral. I shuffled around the spacious, airy columns like a zombie. I eventually got to bed at 10:30pm English time… I’ve no idea how long I’d been awake by then – but I certainly slept well!
I miss Jamaica already. English roads are so boring compared to the adrenaline rush experienced when negotiating a giant pothole/other vehicle/goat at 120kph; gone are the roadside Jerk shacks, the mountains, and the sunshine. I've got to know Jamaica in an extraordinarily personal way - there is no better way to experience a country than to live with the locals. Bah humbug to all inclusive resorts.
So there we have it. Four weeks in Jamaica… one experience of a lifetime.
Saturday 31 July 2010
Tuesday 27 July 2010
My work part two - my legacy to Jamaica
One thing Renee likes to do is play to the strength of the volunteers. Katie from Australia is a qualified first aid teacher; thus two days were scheduled to run a first aid course in Treasure Beach for local fisherman. It was part of an island-wide initiative to enable community members to act as ‘first response’ after a disaster. We were well prepared; Katie had her lesson plan, the bandages had been accumulated, and we were off to Treasure Beach at 8am. The journey would take just under an hour. Just as we left, Renee got a phone call. She came back to report to us, sitting in eager anticipation in her pickup truck.
“Ok, so there’s good news and bad news.”
“What’s the bad news?” asked Katie apprehensively.
“The fishermen aren’t there.”
“WHAT?! Where are they?”
“They’ve gone fishing.”
“Oh… when will they be back?”
“Next week.”
“Right… “said Katie in disappointment. Katie and I would be back on our respective continents by then. “So what’s the good news?”
“We’re still in Black River.”
So there was a two day project out of the window.
Luckily, the one other project that was scheduled went ahead; whilst Katie and Philip gave their long-awaited first aid demonstration at Santa Cruz infirmary, Alison and I headed off to Brogues to give a presentation to a summer camp of students on disaster causes and prevention. Alison is a fellow geographer here doing a dissertation on disaster management, so has the relevant expertise, whilst I was the glamorous assistant. Luckily, it went very well; the crowd of over one hundred young people seemed responsive and applauded enthusiastically. Hopefully, this one task helped to empower a small part of Jamaica’s next working generation on what to do if emergency strikes. That can be one legacy of my time here of which I can be proud.
“Ok, so there’s good news and bad news.”
“What’s the bad news?” asked Katie apprehensively.
“The fishermen aren’t there.”
“WHAT?! Where are they?”
“They’ve gone fishing.”
“Oh… when will they be back?”
“Next week.”
“Right… “said Katie in disappointment. Katie and I would be back on our respective continents by then. “So what’s the good news?”
“We’re still in Black River.”
So there was a two day project out of the window.
Luckily, the one other project that was scheduled went ahead; whilst Katie and Philip gave their long-awaited first aid demonstration at Santa Cruz infirmary, Alison and I headed off to Brogues to give a presentation to a summer camp of students on disaster causes and prevention. Alison is a fellow geographer here doing a dissertation on disaster management, so has the relevant expertise, whilst I was the glamorous assistant. Luckily, it went very well; the crowd of over one hundred young people seemed responsive and applauded enthusiastically. Hopefully, this one task helped to empower a small part of Jamaica’s next working generation on what to do if emergency strikes. That can be one legacy of my time here of which I can be proud.
My work part one: Disaster Meetings - in every sense of the word...
So: with my time in Jamaica drawing to a close, how much of an impact have I made on disaster planning in the Parish of St Elizabeth?
Well, that’s a difficult question to answer. My hours in the office have been consistently slow; we finished the five community profiles, but there is still no word from the Social Development Commission on when the remaining four will arrive. As an example of Jamaican work ethic it’s hardly surprising. It is hard to over emphasise just how slow – frustratingly slow – the pace of professional life can be on the island. For Renee, our young, stylish, professional boss, it is frequently a source of near despair. Thus I am leaving with our section of the south coast development plan yet to be completed.
I have been to two disaster meetings during my time here. ‘Disaster meetings’ is an appropriate term to use, as Renee pointed out ironically. The first was with RADA, the Rural Agricultural Development Something-or-other; a group of older-middle-aged farmers with representatives from the police and National Works Agency, discussing how they could lessen the impacts of hurricanes on the agricultural sector. We had been told the meeting started at 10am; when we arrived, the secretary knew nothing about it. After half an hour waiting in an empty room for a non-existent meeting, we were told that the meeting had been rescheduled at 2pm. No one had told our department.
So how will the agricultural sector respond to a disaster? Having attended the meeting, I haven’t a clue. Tasks were passed around the room and re-delegated to other departments and the emergency services, with none of the committee members there seeming to accept any responsibilities.
The second meeting was the actual Disaster Committee of the Parish – the highest authority on disaster response within St Elizabeth, chaired by Renee and involving the Mayor and all councillors. It started 45 minutes late; no aid agencies had turned up (it was soon clear why) and neither did half the councillors. None of the council members seemed to be interested in what was being said: phones were continually going off; private conversations and secret laughter were shared whilst others were talking; and the atmosphere occasionally bordered on the raucous, with shouting, people talking over one another, others not listening, phone calls, and councillors leaving and arriving at will. For the older male councillors, it seemed more of a demonstration in power politics – who could talk the loudest for longest without actually saying anything.
The younger members – Renee, the official from the national disaster committee, and Shane from the Planning Department – were unable to keep the meeting on track, despite their best efforts. The two dominant topics of discussion were “when should our meetings be scheduled?”, eventually settled by the Mayor (having concluded the topic to his satisfaction, he left) and frustration vented at the absence of the Red Cross and other aid organisations. But considering that the meeting lasted only forty minutes, started almost one hour late, and didn’t conclude anything save the timings of monthly meetings, it was clear that there was no need to bother showing up. The only way St Elizabeth can cope with disaster is through the preparedness of the general community, and the resourcefulness and expertise of key people like Renee.
Well, that’s a difficult question to answer. My hours in the office have been consistently slow; we finished the five community profiles, but there is still no word from the Social Development Commission on when the remaining four will arrive. As an example of Jamaican work ethic it’s hardly surprising. It is hard to over emphasise just how slow – frustratingly slow – the pace of professional life can be on the island. For Renee, our young, stylish, professional boss, it is frequently a source of near despair. Thus I am leaving with our section of the south coast development plan yet to be completed.
I have been to two disaster meetings during my time here. ‘Disaster meetings’ is an appropriate term to use, as Renee pointed out ironically. The first was with RADA, the Rural Agricultural Development Something-or-other; a group of older-middle-aged farmers with representatives from the police and National Works Agency, discussing how they could lessen the impacts of hurricanes on the agricultural sector. We had been told the meeting started at 10am; when we arrived, the secretary knew nothing about it. After half an hour waiting in an empty room for a non-existent meeting, we were told that the meeting had been rescheduled at 2pm. No one had told our department.
So how will the agricultural sector respond to a disaster? Having attended the meeting, I haven’t a clue. Tasks were passed around the room and re-delegated to other departments and the emergency services, with none of the committee members there seeming to accept any responsibilities.
The second meeting was the actual Disaster Committee of the Parish – the highest authority on disaster response within St Elizabeth, chaired by Renee and involving the Mayor and all councillors. It started 45 minutes late; no aid agencies had turned up (it was soon clear why) and neither did half the councillors. None of the council members seemed to be interested in what was being said: phones were continually going off; private conversations and secret laughter were shared whilst others were talking; and the atmosphere occasionally bordered on the raucous, with shouting, people talking over one another, others not listening, phone calls, and councillors leaving and arriving at will. For the older male councillors, it seemed more of a demonstration in power politics – who could talk the loudest for longest without actually saying anything.
The younger members – Renee, the official from the national disaster committee, and Shane from the Planning Department – were unable to keep the meeting on track, despite their best efforts. The two dominant topics of discussion were “when should our meetings be scheduled?”, eventually settled by the Mayor (having concluded the topic to his satisfaction, he left) and frustration vented at the absence of the Red Cross and other aid organisations. But considering that the meeting lasted only forty minutes, started almost one hour late, and didn’t conclude anything save the timings of monthly meetings, it was clear that there was no need to bother showing up. The only way St Elizabeth can cope with disaster is through the preparedness of the general community, and the resourcefulness and expertise of key people like Renee.
Monday 26 July 2010
Jamaican Nightlife
Jamaican’s love their music. That’s perhaps the most important aspect of their culture, and the island’s biggest export. Hand in hand with this goes a love of dancing – Jamaicans have many different styles of dancing and the night life of the island is famed around the world.
Unsurprisingly, I had major expectations of clubbing in Jamaica. My host cousin Crystal, a twenty year old student in Kingston, had told me all about it; all Jamaican dancehall tunes have a particular dance to accompany it, promoted in the music video – many of them extraordinarily energetic. It is the ambition of every trendy young person to learn the moves and perform them on the dance floor; Crystal assured me that some people can actually do back flips and break dancing in the middle of the clubs, with people crowding around them in support. If you know the dance that matches the song, you become the coolest person there.
Consequently, I was more than a little disappointed with the club in Negril. It was the biggest one I have ever been to, with two huge floors and five or six different bars. But the dance floor was filled with sunburnt westerners; very few Jamaican’s were dancing; and after about 2am, we were almost the only ones there.
But Montego Bay, Jamaica’s second largest city, had greater promise. Margaritaville is one of the most famous clubs on the island. It is extraordinarily tacky: it has a plastic sea plane floating from the ceiling, the stage is a fake ship, and the DJ deck is in a colourful plastic shark mouth. It’s all rather like Disney Land. However, the atmosphere was electric; the DJs were incredibly talented. The sunburnt westerners largely left by midnight, whilst well dressed, hip young Jamaican’s poured in.
It was an amazing night with some truly spectacular dancing. Whilst there were no back flips (disappointingly), it was clear that Jamaican’s knew how to dance; the music is super loud whilst club goers compete for who can wear the least and move the most. And move they did; two guys dressed to the nines knew the steps to virtually every song played, and could move their body with extraordinary rapidity and dexterity, performing to a hooting crowd circled around them. Meanwhile, women in their hot pants and skimpy clothes performed some truly outrageous moves on their male counterparts – a lot of Jamaican dancing is simulated sex, with women competing for who can bend over the furthest (and gee whizz are they flexible). I won’t go into details.
It was a night to remember, eclipsed only in enjoyment by Sumfest the evening after. Jamaicans know how to party.
Unsurprisingly, I had major expectations of clubbing in Jamaica. My host cousin Crystal, a twenty year old student in Kingston, had told me all about it; all Jamaican dancehall tunes have a particular dance to accompany it, promoted in the music video – many of them extraordinarily energetic. It is the ambition of every trendy young person to learn the moves and perform them on the dance floor; Crystal assured me that some people can actually do back flips and break dancing in the middle of the clubs, with people crowding around them in support. If you know the dance that matches the song, you become the coolest person there.
Consequently, I was more than a little disappointed with the club in Negril. It was the biggest one I have ever been to, with two huge floors and five or six different bars. But the dance floor was filled with sunburnt westerners; very few Jamaican’s were dancing; and after about 2am, we were almost the only ones there.
But Montego Bay, Jamaica’s second largest city, had greater promise. Margaritaville is one of the most famous clubs on the island. It is extraordinarily tacky: it has a plastic sea plane floating from the ceiling, the stage is a fake ship, and the DJ deck is in a colourful plastic shark mouth. It’s all rather like Disney Land. However, the atmosphere was electric; the DJs were incredibly talented. The sunburnt westerners largely left by midnight, whilst well dressed, hip young Jamaican’s poured in.
It was an amazing night with some truly spectacular dancing. Whilst there were no back flips (disappointingly), it was clear that Jamaican’s knew how to dance; the music is super loud whilst club goers compete for who can wear the least and move the most. And move they did; two guys dressed to the nines knew the steps to virtually every song played, and could move their body with extraordinary rapidity and dexterity, performing to a hooting crowd circled around them. Meanwhile, women in their hot pants and skimpy clothes performed some truly outrageous moves on their male counterparts – a lot of Jamaican dancing is simulated sex, with women competing for who can bend over the furthest (and gee whizz are they flexible). I won’t go into details.
It was a night to remember, eclipsed only in enjoyment by Sumfest the evening after. Jamaicans know how to party.
Reggae Sumfest... Oh My God
Sumfest is BIG. I mean, really big – Jamaica’s equivalent of Glastonbury. It has dominated TV and radio for weeks now, with speculation over the line up and interviews with the artists. Meanwhile, flights from the US and Europe become overbooked; hotel rooms are as scarce as hens teeth; and the cost of living in Montego Bay rockets sky high. The artists who have been involved reads like a who’s who in Reggae, dancehall and R&B – Beenie Man, Vybes Kartel, Elephant Man, Buju Banton, Bob Andy, and Morgan Heritage have all performed there, as have international artists such as 50 Cent, Destiny’s Child, UB40, and Kayne West. Some 55,000 tickets are sold every year.
So, perhaps not normally my sort of music – but the opportunity was there and seemed too good to miss. Around twenty of us had booked tickets for International Night 2, one of the biggest nights of the weeklong festival.
We arrived at ten. The music had already started, but the venue was half empty, and the crowd rather lifeless. Jamaicans live and breathe music – it is one of the most important parts of their culture, and it takes a lot to impress them. As the night wore on, the acts were increasingly famous; the crowd loved Christopher Martin, winner of a Jamaican Talent Show contest, who had an amazing voice and some rather wholesome lyrics promoting peace and harmony. Then there was Gramps Morgan, an older Rasta and member of an old Reggae Band; he was followed by Jamaica’s biggest export, Shaggy. The atmosphere changed as if someone had turned a switch. The lifeless crowd rose to their feet as one and started cheering; Shaggy worked them up into a frenzy, performing all of his hits (Mr Boombastic; Angel; It Wasn’t Me) interspersed with some remarkably intelligent wit (and an unexpected and surprisingly good impression of Bill Clinton).
The big guns were out now. After a lengthy stage change, the music rose up, quivering on the night air; the lights turned down low; and dancers gathered on stage. The air was breathless with anticipation.
And on came Usher. It was electric; the crowd were wild with adoration, as he stomped through his major hits for an hour and a half. It was an incredible performance – his dancing was the best I’d ever seen, backed up by brilliant dancers and an amazing band. And he knew how to work his fans – he was very dramatic and flashed his chest muscles with impeccable timing, turning the women into gibbering, foaming wrecks.
Then came the big surprises: on came Beenie Man, one of Jamaica’s biggest stars, to do a duet; he was followed by Elephant Man. Usher, the young international star, and Elephant Man, an old Jamaican Heavy Weight, having a dance off. But then came the MAJOR star – after a short speech from Elephant Man, the two artists turned to the side to welcome a man in white, who suddenly ran on; I swear I immediately went deaf. The scream that went up from the crowd at that moment was surely heard in Cuba.
“Who is it?” I asked my friend Brit urgently, who was hyperventilating.
“Oh my God!! It’s Chris Brown!” she shouted.
Usher, Chris Brown, and Elephant Man. On stage together. If I was a Jamaican, I’d have thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Despite the incident with Rihanna, Chris Brown remains highly popular on the island.
By the time Usher finished with his mega hit ‘Oh My God’ – expertly staged and truly mesmerising –it was half past three. We ached from standing for so long and were all covered in mud. We really wanted to see Beenie Man, who was one of two acts left. But the stage transition took so long that we gave up, and tramped through the mud to find a taxi at around four.
It had been an incredible night. The performances had been extraordinary; the atmosphere intoxicating. I think I’m a new convert to R&B.
So, perhaps not normally my sort of music – but the opportunity was there and seemed too good to miss. Around twenty of us had booked tickets for International Night 2, one of the biggest nights of the weeklong festival.
We arrived at ten. The music had already started, but the venue was half empty, and the crowd rather lifeless. Jamaicans live and breathe music – it is one of the most important parts of their culture, and it takes a lot to impress them. As the night wore on, the acts were increasingly famous; the crowd loved Christopher Martin, winner of a Jamaican Talent Show contest, who had an amazing voice and some rather wholesome lyrics promoting peace and harmony. Then there was Gramps Morgan, an older Rasta and member of an old Reggae Band; he was followed by Jamaica’s biggest export, Shaggy. The atmosphere changed as if someone had turned a switch. The lifeless crowd rose to their feet as one and started cheering; Shaggy worked them up into a frenzy, performing all of his hits (Mr Boombastic; Angel; It Wasn’t Me) interspersed with some remarkably intelligent wit (and an unexpected and surprisingly good impression of Bill Clinton).
The big guns were out now. After a lengthy stage change, the music rose up, quivering on the night air; the lights turned down low; and dancers gathered on stage. The air was breathless with anticipation.
And on came Usher. It was electric; the crowd were wild with adoration, as he stomped through his major hits for an hour and a half. It was an incredible performance – his dancing was the best I’d ever seen, backed up by brilliant dancers and an amazing band. And he knew how to work his fans – he was very dramatic and flashed his chest muscles with impeccable timing, turning the women into gibbering, foaming wrecks.
Then came the big surprises: on came Beenie Man, one of Jamaica’s biggest stars, to do a duet; he was followed by Elephant Man. Usher, the young international star, and Elephant Man, an old Jamaican Heavy Weight, having a dance off. But then came the MAJOR star – after a short speech from Elephant Man, the two artists turned to the side to welcome a man in white, who suddenly ran on; I swear I immediately went deaf. The scream that went up from the crowd at that moment was surely heard in Cuba.
“Who is it?” I asked my friend Brit urgently, who was hyperventilating.
“Oh my God!! It’s Chris Brown!” she shouted.
Usher, Chris Brown, and Elephant Man. On stage together. If I was a Jamaican, I’d have thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Despite the incident with Rihanna, Chris Brown remains highly popular on the island.
By the time Usher finished with his mega hit ‘Oh My God’ – expertly staged and truly mesmerising –it was half past three. We ached from standing for so long and were all covered in mud. We really wanted to see Beenie Man, who was one of two acts left. But the stage transition took so long that we gave up, and tramped through the mud to find a taxi at around four.
It had been an incredible night. The performances had been extraordinary; the atmosphere intoxicating. I think I’m a new convert to R&B.
Friday 23 July 2010
I awoke this morning to find that my house was without water. Again. It has happened, on average, once a week during my time in Jamaica; power cuts are rather more frequent (most memorably during a world cup match, much to the anger of all Parish Council workers). It is one of the reminders – sheltered as I am in an air conditioned office or a comfortable middle class home – that Jamaica is still a developing country, and a dodgy water/power supply are just two of the hazards you have to learn to live with. As Arlene (my host mum) pointed out ironically, Jamaica may be land of wood and water, but here in Black River we have yet to get a reliable supply of a basic human right. The situation is worse in rural areas, where communities rely on wells that are slowly being degraded, dried out, or silted up. It seems unlikely that Jamaica can make the list of More Developed Countries whilst its residents still rely on bottled supplies of such a precious resource.
Fast Food Culture
Fast food is an oxymoron in Jamaica. It may be food (although I guess people who care about nutrition levels would dispute that)… but it is most certainly never fast. It takes the grumpy looking women behind the counter at least ten minutes to complete your order before they stuff it is a plastic bag and throw it at you,by which time you are beginning to think "I may as well have gone to that nice restuarant..." and wonder whether there is any point to this so-called 'Fast Food'. Jamaicans love it nonetheless; the most popular is Juici Patties, serving ‘Jamaican’ cuisine and indigenous to the island. Then there are the big American chains: Burger King and the particularly popular Kentucky Fried Chicken. All have queues running around the restaurant during lunch time – and due to the speed of service, it is unsuprising.
Every place is the same: plastic tables and chairs, surly looking female servers, and dubious sounding fruit drinks on the menu (in a country famous for its tropical fruits, why is all of the fruit juice I've come across composed of mere flavourings?). Juici Patties seems to be the most popular; it serves a distinctly Jamaican brand of Cornish Pasties, full of meat and cheese and exceedingly tasty. Then there is the equally popular KFC, which has no doubt made successful inroads due to its use of chicken. Jamaican’s LOVE chicken; it is served for nearly every meal, most often with the ubiquitous and quickly tiring rice and beans. However, one thing you won’t see in Jamaica is the golden arch: McDonald’s is present in 119 countries, but Jamaica ain’t one of ‘em. Reasons for this are debatable; the franchise arrived in 1995 and stuck around for a decade, but didn’t make enough of an impact on locals. Reasons are debatable: KFC has done well due to its use of chicken, but then Burger King - similar in food style to the Big M - has also done well. Theory goes that the McDonald’s meals just weren’t big enough. Jamaican’s like big portions; they like to stretch back after a meal and pat their belly in satisfaction, sometimes with a contented burp. McDonalds and their Happy Meals failed to fulfil that expectation.
Every place is the same: plastic tables and chairs, surly looking female servers, and dubious sounding fruit drinks on the menu (in a country famous for its tropical fruits, why is all of the fruit juice I've come across composed of mere flavourings?). Juici Patties seems to be the most popular; it serves a distinctly Jamaican brand of Cornish Pasties, full of meat and cheese and exceedingly tasty. Then there is the equally popular KFC, which has no doubt made successful inroads due to its use of chicken. Jamaican’s LOVE chicken; it is served for nearly every meal, most often with the ubiquitous and quickly tiring rice and beans. However, one thing you won’t see in Jamaica is the golden arch: McDonald’s is present in 119 countries, but Jamaica ain’t one of ‘em. Reasons for this are debatable; the franchise arrived in 1995 and stuck around for a decade, but didn’t make enough of an impact on locals. Reasons are debatable: KFC has done well due to its use of chicken, but then Burger King - similar in food style to the Big M - has also done well. Theory goes that the McDonald’s meals just weren’t big enough. Jamaican’s like big portions; they like to stretch back after a meal and pat their belly in satisfaction, sometimes with a contented burp. McDonalds and their Happy Meals failed to fulfil that expectation.
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