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.
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
So who are those random students in my photo albums? Read on...
I’m here in Jamaica through a company called Projects Abroad; a company that organise voluntary working holidays in placements throughout the world, on activities ranging from teaching to care to medicine to conservation. One of their major destinations is Jamaica, from where they run multiple projects in healthcare, teaching, sports, building, agriculture, and my own project – disaster management. Most of the projects run from Mandeville, Jamaica’s fifth largest city of around 50,000 people; whereas my project runs from Black River in the neighbouring parish of St Elizabeth, around an hour and a half from Mandeville and the Projects Abroad office.
Mandeville is crawling with students from around the world, working on a variety of projects for five days a week. Then on the weekends, they go travelling to some of the most beautiful destinations in Jamaica – Negril, Ocho Rios, Port Antonio, and Montego Bay. They are the random young people seen in my photo albums on facebook – all here from various places for varying reasons and varying lengths of time. The whole experience is therefore very enriching: not only are we experiencing Jamaican culture, but meeting other young people from all over the world with their differing backgrounds and skills. Definitely a worthwhile and enlightening trip!
Mandeville is crawling with students from around the world, working on a variety of projects for five days a week. Then on the weekends, they go travelling to some of the most beautiful destinations in Jamaica – Negril, Ocho Rios, Port Antonio, and Montego Bay. They are the random young people seen in my photo albums on facebook – all here from various places for varying reasons and varying lengths of time. The whole experience is therefore very enriching: not only are we experiencing Jamaican culture, but meeting other young people from all over the world with their differing backgrounds and skills. Definitely a worthwhile and enlightening trip!
Miss Merle and Jamaican inequalities
Breakfast is most definitely my favourite meal of the day. Pancakes, fish, omelette, toast, fruits, fried bananas, porridge, sausages, and tea… mmmmmmm. The variety is endless; one savoury delight after another. And all prepared by Miss Merle, my family’s maid, a wonderful cook and able household assistant. She has an incredibly bright smile, and her eyes always seem to be laughing at me and my Englishness. That is about as far as our conversations go; neither of us can understand the other’s accent, and neither like to ask the other to be more comprehensible. But her cheery “Mornin’, John!” is enough to cement our friendship.
It’s not unusual for the new Jamaican middle classes, the nouveau riche, to have household help; my host sister, Vanessa, tried to count the number of her friends who don’t have servants but was unable to. She has just finished an all-girls boarding school, and all of her friends’ parents work in powerful full time jobs. It is natural, then, for the women of the house to employ help; Arlene, my host mum, is Far Too Busy with two businesses and various kids to look after. For Miss Merle, the job is a vital and reasonably pleasant source of income. Yet it seems that this new order of things is a way of preserving the existing inequalities within Jamaica; Miss Merle and her family remain trapped within their poorer district, and can never aspire to a house of my host family’s quality in our richer district of Black River. The continuing development of Jamaica has led to a distancing between rich and poor; a polarisation in the income structure, which makes Jamaica the most unequal country I have ever been to.
It’s not unusual for the new Jamaican middle classes, the nouveau riche, to have household help; my host sister, Vanessa, tried to count the number of her friends who don’t have servants but was unable to. She has just finished an all-girls boarding school, and all of her friends’ parents work in powerful full time jobs. It is natural, then, for the women of the house to employ help; Arlene, my host mum, is Far Too Busy with two businesses and various kids to look after. For Miss Merle, the job is a vital and reasonably pleasant source of income. Yet it seems that this new order of things is a way of preserving the existing inequalities within Jamaica; Miss Merle and her family remain trapped within their poorer district, and can never aspire to a house of my host family’s quality in our richer district of Black River. The continuing development of Jamaica has led to a distancing between rich and poor; a polarisation in the income structure, which makes Jamaica the most unequal country I have ever been to.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Port Antonio
Jamaican scenery is truly beautiful. I have now been to about nine of Jamaica’s thirteen parishes, and I haven’t yet found one with a flat horizon. There are mountains everywhere, often covered in lush green tropical forest, incised by precarious winding roads and dotted with houses perched on stilts like large birds. The coastline varies from the beautiful sandy beaches and coral reefs of Negril to the beautiful rocky cliffs of Portland or Lover’s Leap, plunging into deep blue Caribbean ocean.
Port Antonio on the north east coast has some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve seen anywhere in the world. The town is famed for its grand colonial architecture and harbours, separated by high peninsulas. Out of town, east along the coast, is particularly spectacular: Blue Lagoon (location of the eponymous 1980 movie which launched Brooke Shield’s career) is said to be bottomless, so deep is the teal water. It is an incredible spot: the green hills plunge into the Caribbean Sea with a slim line beach, the sand sticky and soft. To the south, a freshwater spring bubbles in, giving the currents of the water a confusing mix of cold fresh and warmer salt currents. We accessed the lagoon by bamboo raft; an experience uncannily similar to punting in Cambridge. That is to say, the bamboo pole reminded me of punting, but I guess apart from that, the experience was very different!
Then there is Frenchman’s Cove, possibly my favourite place in Jamaica. The reasonably large white sandy beach is protected by two large cliffs, which enter the sea like pincers on either side of the cove. The waves grow monstrous where the cove narrows. Steep jungle hills surround it, incised by a deep blue fresh water stream. It looks amazing, and I would recommend it to anyone!
Port Antonio on the north east coast has some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve seen anywhere in the world. The town is famed for its grand colonial architecture and harbours, separated by high peninsulas. Out of town, east along the coast, is particularly spectacular: Blue Lagoon (location of the eponymous 1980 movie which launched Brooke Shield’s career) is said to be bottomless, so deep is the teal water. It is an incredible spot: the green hills plunge into the Caribbean Sea with a slim line beach, the sand sticky and soft. To the south, a freshwater spring bubbles in, giving the currents of the water a confusing mix of cold fresh and warmer salt currents. We accessed the lagoon by bamboo raft; an experience uncannily similar to punting in Cambridge. That is to say, the bamboo pole reminded me of punting, but I guess apart from that, the experience was very different!
Then there is Frenchman’s Cove, possibly my favourite place in Jamaica. The reasonably large white sandy beach is protected by two large cliffs, which enter the sea like pincers on either side of the cove. The waves grow monstrous where the cove narrows. Steep jungle hills surround it, incised by a deep blue fresh water stream. It looks amazing, and I would recommend it to anyone!
Thursday, 15 July 2010
My Job - yes, I do have one...
Ok, so by now most of you will be wondering if I’m actually doing any work in Jamaica. Well, I am. Just not an awful lot. And I can’t work out whether to be worried by this or not.
My department is officially titled the ‘Disaster Preparedness Office’, dealing with the 128,000 strong Parish of St Elizabeth on the south west coast of Jamaica. We don’t seem to have an official job description: Renee, the young woman in charge, is responsible for identifying risks; initiating strategies to minimise the disruption caused by disasters; coordinating relief efforts; making building inspections; and delegating responsibilities at various meetings. We play a major role in developing St Elizabeth’s economy and infrastructure, working closely with the Planning Department to ensure things are done sustainably and with disaster in mind. And then this runs alongside random day trips for career workshops in schools and first aid courses for fishermen – an extraordinarily large job description, and all managed by one person.
There are four volunteers in the office to help out – three students from the UK (including me) and one mature student from Australia. Our current job description – the thing we have to do when we’re in the office – is work on the vital community profile of the south coast of the Parish: a summary of the demographics, economies, environment, health and public safety, and education of nine communities which will form a brand new administrative unit integral to the Parish’s thirty year development plan. This combined profile will show planners what the area already has, what it is lacking, and What Should Be Done.
So you’d think that in such a large, vital department, things are permanently busy and very intensive, run off our feet with phone calls, emails, and Things To Do – particularly during the current hurricane season. But not so. Much of our work relies on other departments, and Jamaicans – lovely people that they are – aren’t famous for being workaholics. It’s against their culture, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. Here, the car park of the Parish Council doesn’t fill up ‘til 11; it is empty by 5. Our work on the development plan, a vital piece of work for the Parish and involving close collaboration between multiple departments, relies on receiving certain pieces of information from the Social Development Commission in Santa Cruz; the information takes achingly long to arrive. We have received five community profiles already, but may be unlikely to receive the other four by the end of the month. Nothing happens here in a hurry.
Hence, our work at the disaster department involves lots of sitting around, riddles, random chats about our differing cultures, games of hangman, and procrastination on YouTube. Such a vital department reduced to doing crosswords.
So this is what we do, Monday to Friday, 9 ‘til 4. Then on the weekends, it’s off on exotic adventures to the tourist resorts. Work hard, play hard. Except balanced in favour of play. Let’s hope we aren’t hit by a hurricane.
My department is officially titled the ‘Disaster Preparedness Office’, dealing with the 128,000 strong Parish of St Elizabeth on the south west coast of Jamaica. We don’t seem to have an official job description: Renee, the young woman in charge, is responsible for identifying risks; initiating strategies to minimise the disruption caused by disasters; coordinating relief efforts; making building inspections; and delegating responsibilities at various meetings. We play a major role in developing St Elizabeth’s economy and infrastructure, working closely with the Planning Department to ensure things are done sustainably and with disaster in mind. And then this runs alongside random day trips for career workshops in schools and first aid courses for fishermen – an extraordinarily large job description, and all managed by one person.
There are four volunteers in the office to help out – three students from the UK (including me) and one mature student from Australia. Our current job description – the thing we have to do when we’re in the office – is work on the vital community profile of the south coast of the Parish: a summary of the demographics, economies, environment, health and public safety, and education of nine communities which will form a brand new administrative unit integral to the Parish’s thirty year development plan. This combined profile will show planners what the area already has, what it is lacking, and What Should Be Done.
So you’d think that in such a large, vital department, things are permanently busy and very intensive, run off our feet with phone calls, emails, and Things To Do – particularly during the current hurricane season. But not so. Much of our work relies on other departments, and Jamaicans – lovely people that they are – aren’t famous for being workaholics. It’s against their culture, and you wouldn’t want it any other way. Here, the car park of the Parish Council doesn’t fill up ‘til 11; it is empty by 5. Our work on the development plan, a vital piece of work for the Parish and involving close collaboration between multiple departments, relies on receiving certain pieces of information from the Social Development Commission in Santa Cruz; the information takes achingly long to arrive. We have received five community profiles already, but may be unlikely to receive the other four by the end of the month. Nothing happens here in a hurry.
Hence, our work at the disaster department involves lots of sitting around, riddles, random chats about our differing cultures, games of hangman, and procrastination on YouTube. Such a vital department reduced to doing crosswords.
So this is what we do, Monday to Friday, 9 ‘til 4. Then on the weekends, it’s off on exotic adventures to the tourist resorts. Work hard, play hard. Except balanced in favour of play. Let’s hope we aren’t hit by a hurricane.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Black River
The small town of Black River, capital of St Elizabeth Parish on the south west coast of Jamaica, is my place of work and home for four weeks. It’s a small place, but its population of 5,000 makes it one of the larger urban centres of the Parish. The main street, running parallel to the rocky coast line, is bustling during the day; street hawkers ply their goods, old women lay out their yard’s produce in the back alleys, taxi drivers shout noisily for your custom, men saunter lazily in the shade of the colonnaded pavement; reggae music wafts from one of the clothes shops whilst down the road a sound system mounted on a car roof blasts out loud gospel music, advertising God to the passersby. Heat beats down, permeating the air and saturating your clothes with perspiration. Everything is loud; people are everywhere. The smell of petrol, sea salt, roadside Jerk stalls and detergent are intoxicating. The bustling market is alive with atmosphere: vendors sell every small good you could think of from ramshackle huts, most no bigger than garden sheds or Wendy Houses – haircuts, clothes, fruit, vegetables, meats, spare parts for various appliances. At night, it’s a different story: the place is a ghost town.
It is not much of tourist destination; its main attraction is the river of the same name, Jamaica’s longest. Black River is a refuge to most of Jamaica’s surviving crocodiles; it draws its water from the surrounding Great Morass, an area of swampy and ecologically vital wetland that spreads out to the north of the town. Tourists come to Black River for the famous river safaris, a must for those interested in wildlife – and those who want to hand feed the largely tame crocodiles!
My office is in the yard behind the large white courthouse, a grand and imposing neo-classical structure, now with peeling paint, missing window panes, and goats skittering through its open air corridor. The complex of outhouses in the yard behind is now the nerve centre governing the Parish; here is the Mayor’s Office (grandiosely named ‘Mayor’s Parlour’), the planning department, revenue department, buildings department, the run-down poor relief department with its missing door, and my own office – the Disaster Preparedness Office.
Yet Black River has not always been so sleepy. It’s architecture, most of it in a perilous state of near collapse, tells a different story. At the turn of the nineteenth century, the burgeoning logwood industry turned Black River into a boom town, second only to Kingston. The High Street is lined with pretty Georgian mansions of varying pastel shades, colonnaded verandas and gingerbread trim, built by the entrepreneurs of past ages. It was the first town in Jamaica to be supplied with electricity; the first to have a motor car; the first to have a telephone. But its glory faded with the passing importance of the logwood trade; the spa and racecourse are now derelict, the houses falling in around their owner’s ears. The confidence of the town’s architecture is now faded with time and neglect, colours muted and weather beaten.
Monday, 12 July 2010
Negril
Imagine the perfect Caribbean resort. Think pure, white sand; a golden sun; shallow blue seas of astonishing clarity; and picture-postcard sunsets. You are imagining Negril, an incredible fulfilment of every tourists’ imaginary Caribbean.
My group of about 30 students travelled halfway across Jamaica (a three hour journey) in a packed minibus, blasting out reggae at 60 decibels and leaving behind trails of dust and weed smoke – certainly a memorable (and migraine-inducing) experience. But this was only the beginning: described by my guidebook as ‘Jamaica’s shrine to permissive indulgence’, Negril has a heady mix of blasting live music, ganja, and sex tourism, attracting a young crowd and an air of permanent partying. Hustlers jostle for your attention, young gigolos target white females, and a haze of people like a cloud of flies tries to sell you tourist tat and jewellery. And fruit. And cigarettes. And marijuana. And sex. But the people and the parties are only a peripheral distraction from the main appeal – sun, sand, and sea.
So began a weekend of pure relaxation. I drifted between the small cottages we were staying in, the bar, and the beach, getting into conversation with hustlers and friendly (usually high) Rastafarians. Hustlers are everywhere, and are well practised at quickly establishing a friendly rapport with hapless tourists, who easily succumb to their persuasive selling. My own attempts at “No thank you”, given at their first advance, were met with the killer “What – are you afraid to talk to me?”, said in hurt voice with big eyes. I considered this an affront to my sociability (they are evidently apt judges of psychology), and would say EVERY TIME without fail, “Of course not – I love talking to people!” and from then on I would be hooked, drawn into a conversation about how they longed to visit England, or had a sister in Solihull, or a favourite brother also called John, or about what I was doing in Jamaica, or how they ‘liked me’ and were going to give me a special offer. And then it was impossible to get away from them.
Friendly Rastafarians were rather more manageable. They’re a staple feature of Jamaican life; everywhere you go, you will see the trappings of Jamaica’s newest and most visible religion. Red, gold and green drape every other shop; Peace and One Love are emblazoned across fruit stalls; and dreadlocked men amble around happily, smoking ganja and greeting everyone with “Respect”. They’re always amiably interested in who you are, where you are from, and what you are doing; occasionally they will start preaching about One People with One Love, and remind you that we are all brothers and sisters heading to Zion. Nothing like a bit of philosophy to go with your beach holiday.
The highlight of the weekend was undoubtedly snorkelling off Negril’s eastern coral reefs. It was the first time I’d worn a snorkel, which was a rather uncomfortable experience in which I swallowed half of the Caribbean Sea. But the water was amazing: crystal clear, dappled warmly in the sunshine. The underwater world was breath taking. It wasn't the largest or most homogenous of reefs, consisting of clumps of coral of varying size and composition; purple alien fans, bright yellow pillows, dull brown organ pipes, and pink maze-like brains, all alive with different types of colourful fish. They seemed totally unafraid of humans, with schools getting close enough to reach out and touch. It was certainly nothing like the Technicolor dream world of Finding Nemo; the reef seems to suffer from bleaching and damage by tourists, with no guidance for ignorant swimmers on how to behave. Several people in the group snapped off pieces to take home, whilst it was all too easy to accidently damage a delicate reef by a misaimed kick. But the total experience remained breath taking: a sudden insight into another world entirely. An incredible distraction from the World Cup finale.
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
My heart will go on...
It is in the interest of taxi drivers all over the world to make as much money as possible. In the UK, this is by charging a bombshell for short journeys and even more for longer ones; in Jamaica, where hour-long journeys can cost £2, drivers try to make maximum returns by cramming in as many people as possible. There are no seatbelts; the back seat is more of a long, cushioned bench… so nothing to stop them cramming three, four, five people in??
Our journey to Santa Cruz, about 40 minutes long, was slightly incredible: perhaps the most surreal journey I have ever made. Katy (from Australia) and I, in the back seat with another young guy, had assumed the back seat was already full. Not so. We exchanged gulps as a larger woman flagged down the taxi, clambering in with difficulty. There we were, four of us wedged into the back, the driver speeding along as is usual for Jamaican taxi men; careering around corners, bibbing the horn, overtaking on bends, avoiding obstacles by the narrowest of margins. All of it accompanied – not by the usual reggae/dancehall/rap beloved of most Jamaican people, but by two CDs of Celine Dion’s greatest hits. There we were, four of us wedged in the back, Philip relaxing in the front, windows wide open (creating a virtual hurricane in the back), careering through some of Jamaica’s most spectacular countryside; whilst Celine belted out ‘my heaaart willll go onnn a-and on…’ at full volume.
The worst was yet to come. As soon as one person got off, the driver would start looking for other potential customers to keep the total at a cosy five passengers. On our last stop, the teenager who got on was accompanied by a full size television. Katy and I, the larger woman, the teenager, and a 16 inch television, in 30°C, wind whirling around us, all to the sound of Celine singing serenely ‘How will I… oh how will I breeeathe…’ The irony was evidently lost on the singer.
Our journey to Santa Cruz, about 40 minutes long, was slightly incredible: perhaps the most surreal journey I have ever made. Katy (from Australia) and I, in the back seat with another young guy, had assumed the back seat was already full. Not so. We exchanged gulps as a larger woman flagged down the taxi, clambering in with difficulty. There we were, four of us wedged into the back, the driver speeding along as is usual for Jamaican taxi men; careering around corners, bibbing the horn, overtaking on bends, avoiding obstacles by the narrowest of margins. All of it accompanied – not by the usual reggae/dancehall/rap beloved of most Jamaican people, but by two CDs of Celine Dion’s greatest hits. There we were, four of us wedged in the back, Philip relaxing in the front, windows wide open (creating a virtual hurricane in the back), careering through some of Jamaica’s most spectacular countryside; whilst Celine belted out ‘my heaaart willll go onnn a-and on…’ at full volume.
The worst was yet to come. As soon as one person got off, the driver would start looking for other potential customers to keep the total at a cosy five passengers. On our last stop, the teenager who got on was accompanied by a full size television. Katy and I, the larger woman, the teenager, and a 16 inch television, in 30°C, wind whirling around us, all to the sound of Celine singing serenely ‘How will I… oh how will I breeeathe…’ The irony was evidently lost on the singer.
One Epic Weekend :)
No sooner had my feet landed in the sleepy town of Black River than I was whisked off again. Philip, the other volunteer at the Disaster Management Office, was going to Treasure Beach with some of the volunteers who lived in Mandeville (Projects Abroad, the company I was travelling with, run a number of voluntary projects in Jamaica mostly centred on the town of Mandeville, about an hour from Black River). Despite the fact that I had only just arrived, I thought it would be a good opportunity to meet some of the other volunteers and see some of Jamaica’s beautiful resorts.
Treasure Beach is a string of fishing villages along the coastal road, now geared towards community tourism. The area isn’t as packed or as commercialised as at the Northern resorts, where the benefits of tourism are monopolised by unethical and uncaring international hotel chains. Rather, the tourism of Treasure Beach remains firmly in the hands of the locals: the small and sleepy bars, restaurants, kiosks and accommodation are largely run by locals. It’s a quiet place; tourist high season runs in the winter. That meant it would just be us, the fishermen, and the beach… my idea of the Caribbean!!
Then I entered the Chill Time. There wasn't much to do save go to the beach, watch the football, chat, play dominoes and swig rum. There were 11 of us in total, from all over Western Europe and the US.
On Sunday, five of us decided to chance the weather (rainy season in Jamaica equals cloud, cloud, and some more cloud… and rain) and make the journey by boat to the famous Pelican Bar – a wooden shack built in the middle of the ocean on a sand bar, and now one of the most famous bars in Jamaica. “That owner there is now a millionaire,” our guide Junior informed us. “Everyone wants to go to that bar. Every time there’s a hurricane, he can afford to just go and build it right up again.” It was certainly a ramshackle affair, and the sea wind whistled straight through it.
We then sailed onwards to Black River, the town at the mouth of the river of the same name. At 44 miles, it is Jamaica’s longest; the crystal clear water is turned an inky black by the moss and mud at the bottom of the river. The river runs into the Great Morass, one of Jamaica’s most important wetlands; but it is most famous for the crocodiles which inhabit the area! The boat sped through the mangrove forests and swamps, and on the way we spotted several crocodiles. One particularly large one (apparently only an infant) basked in the heat on one of the piers, perilously close to the town. We weren’t in any real danger though – the crocodiles are virtually tame: the local tour guides have a vested interest in keeping the crocodiles around, and once the crocodiles have been called over (they each have names) happy tourists can hand feed them.
Once Junior and our driver had sped off, we discovered that it had only just turned noon: plenty of time, then, to pack in a visit to one of Jamaica’s premier natural phenomena, the fabulous YS Falls just half an hour away. It’s a series of ten greater and lesser waterfalls on the YS River covering some 36m from top to bottom; each cascade separated by a pool of perfect turquoise, ideal for bathing. There are zip wires and swing ropes for the more adventurous, and guides can take you through the falls and point out the best places to swim – and jump!
Our guide, Mikey, was only 18 and had had already worked at the falls for three years. It is a job that many would kill for: he takes tourists around the falls, taking photos and videos and helping them navigate the waterways, all in the midst of tropical forest in the coolness of the mountains. The swing rope was terrifying: I hate the “G Force” and any kind of rollercoaster, and my teeth were firmly gritted as I felt my feet leave the wooden platform and lurch into open space! At the right moment, I let go and fell clumsily into the pool a few meters below. After what seemed like an age, I resurfaced and gasped for air. Jumping off the waterfall ledge was a similarly terrifying experience!
After an hour relaxing in the icy shallow pool by the gift shop, we made our way back to Black River after what had been an incredible weekend. What a way to begin my four week odyssey!
Treasure Beach is a string of fishing villages along the coastal road, now geared towards community tourism. The area isn’t as packed or as commercialised as at the Northern resorts, where the benefits of tourism are monopolised by unethical and uncaring international hotel chains. Rather, the tourism of Treasure Beach remains firmly in the hands of the locals: the small and sleepy bars, restaurants, kiosks and accommodation are largely run by locals. It’s a quiet place; tourist high season runs in the winter. That meant it would just be us, the fishermen, and the beach… my idea of the Caribbean!!
Then I entered the Chill Time. There wasn't much to do save go to the beach, watch the football, chat, play dominoes and swig rum. There were 11 of us in total, from all over Western Europe and the US.
On Sunday, five of us decided to chance the weather (rainy season in Jamaica equals cloud, cloud, and some more cloud… and rain) and make the journey by boat to the famous Pelican Bar – a wooden shack built in the middle of the ocean on a sand bar, and now one of the most famous bars in Jamaica. “That owner there is now a millionaire,” our guide Junior informed us. “Everyone wants to go to that bar. Every time there’s a hurricane, he can afford to just go and build it right up again.” It was certainly a ramshackle affair, and the sea wind whistled straight through it.
We then sailed onwards to Black River, the town at the mouth of the river of the same name. At 44 miles, it is Jamaica’s longest; the crystal clear water is turned an inky black by the moss and mud at the bottom of the river. The river runs into the Great Morass, one of Jamaica’s most important wetlands; but it is most famous for the crocodiles which inhabit the area! The boat sped through the mangrove forests and swamps, and on the way we spotted several crocodiles. One particularly large one (apparently only an infant) basked in the heat on one of the piers, perilously close to the town. We weren’t in any real danger though – the crocodiles are virtually tame: the local tour guides have a vested interest in keeping the crocodiles around, and once the crocodiles have been called over (they each have names) happy tourists can hand feed them.
Once Junior and our driver had sped off, we discovered that it had only just turned noon: plenty of time, then, to pack in a visit to one of Jamaica’s premier natural phenomena, the fabulous YS Falls just half an hour away. It’s a series of ten greater and lesser waterfalls on the YS River covering some 36m from top to bottom; each cascade separated by a pool of perfect turquoise, ideal for bathing. There are zip wires and swing ropes for the more adventurous, and guides can take you through the falls and point out the best places to swim – and jump!
Our guide, Mikey, was only 18 and had had already worked at the falls for three years. It is a job that many would kill for: he takes tourists around the falls, taking photos and videos and helping them navigate the waterways, all in the midst of tropical forest in the coolness of the mountains. The swing rope was terrifying: I hate the “G Force” and any kind of rollercoaster, and my teeth were firmly gritted as I felt my feet leave the wooden platform and lurch into open space! At the right moment, I let go and fell clumsily into the pool a few meters below. After what seemed like an age, I resurfaced and gasped for air. Jumping off the waterfall ledge was a similarly terrifying experience!
After an hour relaxing in the icy shallow pool by the gift shop, we made our way back to Black River after what had been an incredible weekend. What a way to begin my four week odyssey!
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Yes - I finally had time to write something!
It’s been an eventful first few days here in Jamaica, jewel of the Caribbean: an island of rich culture, loud music, Rastafarianism, paradise beaches, ganja and an aching gulf between rich and poor. An island of fabulous natural beauty and diverse, friendly people; this is certainly going to be a memorable month!
The plane journey (all 9hours 50 of it) was fairly uneventful, save for the guy I was sitting next to: a Jamaican expat who has lived in England for the last 50 years. Now a retired taxi man, he’s been travelling back and forth to the home country fairly frequently over the last 50 years. “Believe me,” he said as I looked in dismay at the ‘fish pie’ (actually not that bad, but it looked atrocious), “airplane food has improved a lot since the 80s!” My first sight of Montego Bay was breathtaking: clear white sands, palm trees, resorts, and an infinity of gorgeous blue Caribbean Sea. I thought at one point that the plane was making a sea landing, but a tiny runway rose out of nowhere and we touched down.
The Jamaican immigration official was quite possibly the scariest person I have ever encountered. She interviewed me in great depth about what I was doing, where I was going, who I was seeing, and how long I was staying; she looked Highly Sceptical at every mumbled reply I gave – my nerves probably didn’t help!
My next experience was Kevin, my taxi driver who would take me from Montego Bay airport to Black River: a journey from the north of the island to the south coast. Now there was an experience I will never forget! We whizzed through the streets of Montego Bay at what felt like 90mph, dodging street hawkers, cars, lorries and traffic lights, weaving between lanes and making frequent use of the horn. But that was before we got into the countryside: we drove right through the mountainous Cockpit County, a region of hairpin bends, narrow roads, and exotic forests dripping with vines and bright fruit. Here, he accelerated up to what must have been 190mph. Sadly (or perhaps it is a relief) I will never know as his speedometer was broken, fixed permanently at 15. We careered around the bends, missing the goat herders, roadside shacks and rickety trucks that looked as if they were held together by sticky tape and blind faith by the narrowest of margins, overtaking cars just in time to avoid being crushed to death by oncoming traffic. Meanwhile the radio blasted out dancehall and R&B, beloved all over Jamaica; commercials were dominated by adverts for parties, with lines such as “Where ALL the girls will be SEXY in BIKINIS!” I finally know where the YouTube PowerAde spoof came from – I’m sure it was the same voiceover.
As we drew up to my new bungalow two hours later, I finally realised that I had to start breathing again, and went out to meet my new family: mum, dad and two kids: Vanessa, 17, and Christopher, 11, both off from school for summer. There are also a succession of uncles and cousins who come and go, and a menagerie of motley animals (my Jamaican mum owns a small food company who sell assorted items to tourist resorts).
I found my placement the next day: a short walk from my house, up the high street and facing out onto Black River Bay with its tiny blue waves and solitary shipwreck. Black River is a diminutive place of 4000 people, but is the capital of St Elizabeth Parish: the offices of the Parish are concentrated in the dilapidated Georgian courthouse and the yard behind it. My office – one room with a single computer – is a miscellaneous department covering disasters and development, dealing with the multiple hazards facing the people of Jamaica. It’s a relaxed place, consisting of our boss Renee and one other volunteer from East Anglia University (we are soon to be joined by two more volunteers). Certainly doesn’t seem like an awful lot of work is going to get done!
The plane journey (all 9hours 50 of it) was fairly uneventful, save for the guy I was sitting next to: a Jamaican expat who has lived in England for the last 50 years. Now a retired taxi man, he’s been travelling back and forth to the home country fairly frequently over the last 50 years. “Believe me,” he said as I looked in dismay at the ‘fish pie’ (actually not that bad, but it looked atrocious), “airplane food has improved a lot since the 80s!” My first sight of Montego Bay was breathtaking: clear white sands, palm trees, resorts, and an infinity of gorgeous blue Caribbean Sea. I thought at one point that the plane was making a sea landing, but a tiny runway rose out of nowhere and we touched down.
The Jamaican immigration official was quite possibly the scariest person I have ever encountered. She interviewed me in great depth about what I was doing, where I was going, who I was seeing, and how long I was staying; she looked Highly Sceptical at every mumbled reply I gave – my nerves probably didn’t help!
My next experience was Kevin, my taxi driver who would take me from Montego Bay airport to Black River: a journey from the north of the island to the south coast. Now there was an experience I will never forget! We whizzed through the streets of Montego Bay at what felt like 90mph, dodging street hawkers, cars, lorries and traffic lights, weaving between lanes and making frequent use of the horn. But that was before we got into the countryside: we drove right through the mountainous Cockpit County, a region of hairpin bends, narrow roads, and exotic forests dripping with vines and bright fruit. Here, he accelerated up to what must have been 190mph. Sadly (or perhaps it is a relief) I will never know as his speedometer was broken, fixed permanently at 15. We careered around the bends, missing the goat herders, roadside shacks and rickety trucks that looked as if they were held together by sticky tape and blind faith by the narrowest of margins, overtaking cars just in time to avoid being crushed to death by oncoming traffic. Meanwhile the radio blasted out dancehall and R&B, beloved all over Jamaica; commercials were dominated by adverts for parties, with lines such as “Where ALL the girls will be SEXY in BIKINIS!” I finally know where the YouTube PowerAde spoof came from – I’m sure it was the same voiceover.
As we drew up to my new bungalow two hours later, I finally realised that I had to start breathing again, and went out to meet my new family: mum, dad and two kids: Vanessa, 17, and Christopher, 11, both off from school for summer. There are also a succession of uncles and cousins who come and go, and a menagerie of motley animals (my Jamaican mum owns a small food company who sell assorted items to tourist resorts).
I found my placement the next day: a short walk from my house, up the high street and facing out onto Black River Bay with its tiny blue waves and solitary shipwreck. Black River is a diminutive place of 4000 people, but is the capital of St Elizabeth Parish: the offices of the Parish are concentrated in the dilapidated Georgian courthouse and the yard behind it. My office – one room with a single computer – is a miscellaneous department covering disasters and development, dealing with the multiple hazards facing the people of Jamaica. It’s a relaxed place, consisting of our boss Renee and one other volunteer from East Anglia University (we are soon to be joined by two more volunteers). Certainly doesn’t seem like an awful lot of work is going to get done!
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