I stumbled across a blog the other day, from a couple who are working with MCC (Mennonite Central Committee) in Haiti. It wouldn't have been anything more than an interesting blog, except for the fact that I actually met this couple when they came as guest speakers for a class that I took in the semester prior to this one.
Now I realize that I borrow a lot of texts and ideas in my own blog (perhaps I really have been brainwashed by the process of essay writing and always finding secondary sources), but you'll have to forgive me because I'm going to do it again. This was writen by the couple, of a man who also accompanied them in the guest lecture that I saw:
"Our favorite person to talk to Haiti is a man named Ari. He was (and still is) a pro-democracy activist that MCC helped hide during the devastating military coup from 1991 to 1994. Today, he works to connect North Americans with Haiti and Haitian culture. He is one of those people who exudes wisdom with each word he speaks. In Creole, they would say, he has anpil bet nan tet li, or many animals in is head. During one eye-opening conversation, he said his big wish for Haiti would be to have all North Americans to visit Haiti, but only to sit, and listen, and then leave. That is, many of the problems of the developing world could be solved if we in North America (and Europe) would simply listen to the strong voices of people living in these “poor” countries and share that voice with our family, friends, and neighbors."
(http://blogs.mcc.org/serviceworkers/joshmary/)
Jamaicans are expressive, loud, assertive people. To take classes here was completely unlike Canada, where professors practically have to beg their students to speak. Jamaicans speak. And for me, I was often frustrated by my comparative silence. There is no denying the fact that I can be pretty quiet. I don't think its necessarily timidity, but it's something. I guess I just prefer to listen than be heard.
I will be the first to admit that there are times when I could, and should speak up more than I do. And of course, I think this is where some of my aforementioned frustrations lie. But at the same time, I think Ari's ideas, and my own experience having spent a semester in a place which was utterly foreign to me, have some merit. I have had a whole heap of insight and wisdom imparted on me, I am realizing, simply because I am pretty good at letting people speak. The key now, as I prepare to leave, is to acknowledge the fact that what I have taken from this place, and from its people, does not end with me.
On the other hand, I have met plenty of people who can speak, and speak, and speak and never really say anything. And in this way, I have learned that the world could do with a few more listeners.
So yes, I am feeling reflective today. Yesterday, I said goodbye to two very wonderful people, after spending an amazing week reconnecting with my mom and sister. They flew into Kingston last Friday, where we spent a brief but lovely evening in my Jamaican hometown, before setting off for Lucea, to an unbelievably beautiful resort which would practically convince me that I was no longer in Jamaica. I am so thankful for the time at that crazy resort, and it was certainly hard to say send off two people whom I felt I had just said hello to.
But as I returned to a room on the same hall that I lived all semester, I realized that my time here had pretty well come full circle. After another, admittedly tearful, goodbye (thankfully, a few less tears this time) from an aiport terminal (this time my mom and sister were the ones leaving, not me), I was back to an empty campus, in a strange room, with a stomach full of nerves, wondering what the heck the next few months would look like.
Only this time, I am only a few hours away from another familiar face, and for this, I am thankful. I leave tomorrow for Mexico (Swine Flu and all) to meet Cameron, and after a few weeks, Bethany too!
As the name of my blog suggests, these are Jamaican updates, and should in theory, end now. I would like to update this along our trek through Central America, but no guarantees.
So incase this is my last post, thanks so much for following it- for all the prayers, e-mails and encouragement. They were so, SO appreciated. I'm home July 29. Let's connect then.
As always, lots of love.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Kingston Loooooove
Kingston, like any city, can be measured by its neighbourhoods, districts and regions. If you were to catch a route cab from the university, you would hear the taxi drivers, looking for customers, shouting, "Papine, Liguanea, Halfway Tree!" It's meant to be a question- like, "Excuse me, miss, would you like to go to Papine today?"- but most often it comes out like a demand. Men hang out of the sides buses shouting this phrase, also looking, irrespective of how full the bus might already be, for more travelers. It is a phrase which I, although I have not tried, could probably even speak with a Jamaican accent, simply because I hear it so often (sadly, I haven't really been able to pick up the Jamaican accent otherwise).
Pushy taxi drivers serve as only one of many nuances which characterize the place that I have called home lately. I knew within the first couple of minutes being out of the airport that I did not instinctively love it- Kingston, that is. I remember thinking that if I was going to love this place, it was a love that would have to be acquired.
Four months, one semester, and countless taxi rides later, and I've acquired it.
Don't get me wrong. Kingston, with its barbed-wire fences, garbage-littered streets and edgy stray dogs can be entirely ugly. The pavement, when you begin to walk it, speaks of a kind of unapologetic brutality. It is true that I have not experienced that brutality- the kind of brutality which translates into the murder rates that Kingston is so infamously known for- first hand. But one does not need to see the violence to know that it exists. Simply observing the way Kingstonians interact with each other, and with me, speaks to the way that brutality shapes people into survivors.
And if it's not brutality, it's fear of it. My friend Jessica likes to use the term "victimization"- as in, "Jamaicans fear victimization." And she's right. Fenced communities create enclaves of well-to-do housing; mansions sit safely on the mountains overlooking and removed from the sheet-metal shacks down below; and unless you're a night-club or street party, you're gated and closed as soon as the sun goes down. And the problem with this, is that as soon as you buy into it- that danger lurks around every corner, or that no one can be trusted- the more this is likely to be true. By not going or not trusting, it reinforces the fact that one should not go, should not trust- and that is a difficult cycle to break.
Sadly, I feel like these things that I have just described, are the stories you would expect me to tell. They are true, of course, and I am constantly in awe of the way that the things I read in books, or learned in classes are actually true, because I see them being lived everyday here. It's incredible to me, having spent an extended period of time here, but in Rwanda too, to see the way that circumstance and history combine to create very distinct cultures, identities and sets of people.
But to focus strictly on these things, is to overlook or underreport, much in the same fashion as the nightly news, the good and the beauty and the resiliency of this city. I'm not talking only about its aesthetic merits, although there are some. The Blue Mountains maintain a majestic shadow over the city, and regardless of where you're positioned in Kingston, it's impossible not to continue to marvel at them.
Yes, quiet moments where my soul whispers, “I love this place,” have certainly occurred while admiring those mountains (although those same mountains also induced some not so quiet moments of cursing- see the Blue Mountain Adventure post if you’re not sure what I’m talking about). But really and truly, that genuine feeling of peace and love has been most vivid when I am interacting with, holding my own against and journeying alongside some of the inhabitants of this city. I say this not to suggest that I have made an incredible impact on people’s lives here, but I say it because they have had an incredible impact on mine.
Last weekend, I went to Life Fest, my second stage show in Kingston. We showed up just as Stephen Marley was beginning his set (and man oh man, he was like a mini Bob- it was great). (On a side note: Damian Marley was supposed to be there too. I was so, SO sad when my friend translated Stephen’s Patois to tell me that he had just said that his brother wasn’t going to be able to make it.) Plastered over top of the stage was a blown up photo of a boy’s face. It wasn’t until a few days after the show that I learned that the boy in the photo was the son of Spragga Benz, one of the artists performing that night. The concert was a tribute to him, a 17 year-old who had been needlessly murdered by the police in August of last year.
And sure, as the MC bellowed the rhetoric of ‘more peace, more love,’ it was hard not to find this fairly empty in light of the fact that the artists themselves could not even manage to secure a sense of unity (there were rumours afterward that there had been conflict behind stage between Spragga Benz, Sizzla and Stephen Marley). But the heaviness that hung in the air that night spoke of collective mourning, as if not to say, “This is the way our country is,” but rather, “Something has got to change.”
Of course, this is all my own speculation and perception of the night’s events. On one level, it was just entertainment, and a darn good show at that. But at the same time, it gave me a lot of insight, once again, into the factors which influence the face of this city and the heart of its people.
I’ve been spending time at a boys’ home, cleverly named Jamaica Christian Boys’ Home. Jessica and I will go during the week, after the boys have finished school and on Saturdays, when all the boys are there. We go, often with a few ideas of activities to do with them, and usually we don’t end up doing any of them, because we get too carried away with totally informal and unstructured hang out time. I love this. Here too, I have all at once been frustrated by the bleakness of these boys’ futures, and amazed by their spirits and sense of life.
And so I'm having trouble fully articulating the love that I have come to feel for this country, and this city especially. It is, as I have come to learn, a land of extremes and stark contrasts- of wealth and poverty, of religiosity and violence, of beauty and ugliness. But instead of existing in isolation from each other, I think they combine to the place which is distinctively Kingston.
I am leaving you with Damian Marley’s Halfway Tree Interlude, not only because his music helped me get through the arduous hours of studying these past couple weeks, but it speaks to the way that this city, for me, will be remembered:
So that is why this is 'Half Way Tree'
Cause this is where,
This is where the sewers will meet the rivers,
You know?
And the skyscrapers will meet the mountains.
You know what I mean?
Yeah the streets will meet the beach,
An' yuh know wha' a mean?
The city will come down to the island,
And best of both worlds.
Sending to you some Kingston love.
Pushy taxi drivers serve as only one of many nuances which characterize the place that I have called home lately. I knew within the first couple of minutes being out of the airport that I did not instinctively love it- Kingston, that is. I remember thinking that if I was going to love this place, it was a love that would have to be acquired.
Four months, one semester, and countless taxi rides later, and I've acquired it.
Don't get me wrong. Kingston, with its barbed-wire fences, garbage-littered streets and edgy stray dogs can be entirely ugly. The pavement, when you begin to walk it, speaks of a kind of unapologetic brutality. It is true that I have not experienced that brutality- the kind of brutality which translates into the murder rates that Kingston is so infamously known for- first hand. But one does not need to see the violence to know that it exists. Simply observing the way Kingstonians interact with each other, and with me, speaks to the way that brutality shapes people into survivors.
And if it's not brutality, it's fear of it. My friend Jessica likes to use the term "victimization"- as in, "Jamaicans fear victimization." And she's right. Fenced communities create enclaves of well-to-do housing; mansions sit safely on the mountains overlooking and removed from the sheet-metal shacks down below; and unless you're a night-club or street party, you're gated and closed as soon as the sun goes down. And the problem with this, is that as soon as you buy into it- that danger lurks around every corner, or that no one can be trusted- the more this is likely to be true. By not going or not trusting, it reinforces the fact that one should not go, should not trust- and that is a difficult cycle to break.
Sadly, I feel like these things that I have just described, are the stories you would expect me to tell. They are true, of course, and I am constantly in awe of the way that the things I read in books, or learned in classes are actually true, because I see them being lived everyday here. It's incredible to me, having spent an extended period of time here, but in Rwanda too, to see the way that circumstance and history combine to create very distinct cultures, identities and sets of people.
But to focus strictly on these things, is to overlook or underreport, much in the same fashion as the nightly news, the good and the beauty and the resiliency of this city. I'm not talking only about its aesthetic merits, although there are some. The Blue Mountains maintain a majestic shadow over the city, and regardless of where you're positioned in Kingston, it's impossible not to continue to marvel at them.
Yes, quiet moments where my soul whispers, “I love this place,” have certainly occurred while admiring those mountains (although those same mountains also induced some not so quiet moments of cursing- see the Blue Mountain Adventure post if you’re not sure what I’m talking about). But really and truly, that genuine feeling of peace and love has been most vivid when I am interacting with, holding my own against and journeying alongside some of the inhabitants of this city. I say this not to suggest that I have made an incredible impact on people’s lives here, but I say it because they have had an incredible impact on mine.
Last weekend, I went to Life Fest, my second stage show in Kingston. We showed up just as Stephen Marley was beginning his set (and man oh man, he was like a mini Bob- it was great). (On a side note: Damian Marley was supposed to be there too. I was so, SO sad when my friend translated Stephen’s Patois to tell me that he had just said that his brother wasn’t going to be able to make it.) Plastered over top of the stage was a blown up photo of a boy’s face. It wasn’t until a few days after the show that I learned that the boy in the photo was the son of Spragga Benz, one of the artists performing that night. The concert was a tribute to him, a 17 year-old who had been needlessly murdered by the police in August of last year.
And sure, as the MC bellowed the rhetoric of ‘more peace, more love,’ it was hard not to find this fairly empty in light of the fact that the artists themselves could not even manage to secure a sense of unity (there were rumours afterward that there had been conflict behind stage between Spragga Benz, Sizzla and Stephen Marley). But the heaviness that hung in the air that night spoke of collective mourning, as if not to say, “This is the way our country is,” but rather, “Something has got to change.”
Of course, this is all my own speculation and perception of the night’s events. On one level, it was just entertainment, and a darn good show at that. But at the same time, it gave me a lot of insight, once again, into the factors which influence the face of this city and the heart of its people.
I’ve been spending time at a boys’ home, cleverly named Jamaica Christian Boys’ Home. Jessica and I will go during the week, after the boys have finished school and on Saturdays, when all the boys are there. We go, often with a few ideas of activities to do with them, and usually we don’t end up doing any of them, because we get too carried away with totally informal and unstructured hang out time. I love this. Here too, I have all at once been frustrated by the bleakness of these boys’ futures, and amazed by their spirits and sense of life.
And so I'm having trouble fully articulating the love that I have come to feel for this country, and this city especially. It is, as I have come to learn, a land of extremes and stark contrasts- of wealth and poverty, of religiosity and violence, of beauty and ugliness. But instead of existing in isolation from each other, I think they combine to the place which is distinctively Kingston.
I am leaving you with Damian Marley’s Halfway Tree Interlude, not only because his music helped me get through the arduous hours of studying these past couple weeks, but it speaks to the way that this city, for me, will be remembered:
So that is why this is 'Half Way Tree'
Cause this is where,
This is where the sewers will meet the rivers,
You know?
And the skyscrapers will meet the mountains.
You know what I mean?
Yeah the streets will meet the beach,
An' yuh know wha' a mean?
The city will come down to the island,
And best of both worlds.
Sending to you some Kingston love.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Sunrises and Shooting Stars
"For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible." - from Alice in Wonderland
It's been hard not to feel a little like Alice in Wonderland these past few weeks. I look at the date of my last post, and I am in disbelief that it has been, yet again, almost a month since I wrote. The time has been full of both school work (two weeks ago, for the first time in my life, I spent the night at the library- what a strange experience), but of adventure as well.
I'm not sure what triggered this explosion of travel, but it feels like I've been able to see a lot of the country lately (it is, after all, a fairly small island). In the 1980s, when Jamaica was forced to undergo a series of structural adjustment measures, their public transportation system, among other social programs, took a severe beating. Unemployment, combined with the continued need for scrapped services, gave way to a thriving informal economy (not that it didn't exist before structural adjustment, but it is certainly more pronounced now). No where is this more evident than in transportation services. For this reason, taking advantage of both regulated and unregulated route taxis and buses, I have found it unbelievably easy, and cheap, to get around.
The International Students Office offered to plan a trip for us exchange students. Thinking that it would be overnight, we all suggested Negril. Much to our disappointment, we learned that it was only to be a day trip. A little unsure about driving all the way to Negril and home in one day (since it is pretty much the Western most point on the island, it's the furthest trip you can make from Kingston), I knew it would still be better than spending the day in the library. And so I went, and it turned out to be such a good decision.
Although we did some sight seeing in Negril, we didn't get to a beach until almost 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Around 5 o'clock, as Jessica had just sat down to a bunch of food, and I was about to order a Red Stripe, someone from the group came over and told us to start packing up, we were leaving. Assuming I would just have to suck it up, I stopped thinking about how good a cold beer would taste at that moment, and began to think about leaving. But Claire, another exchange student from Toronto, would not have it, and began convincing Jessica and I to stay behind. Jessica wasn't hard to persuade. I was a little more hesitant. We had no place to stay, no clue how to get home (I had not yet discovered the joys of the bus system), and only a little bit of money which was draining much quicker in touristy Negril. But soon the middle-aged women at the bar beside us joined in our debate, reminiscing about their college days, and reminding me that you only live once. So I caved.
Somehow we convinced the rest of the group to leave us behind. (Understandably, they weren't too pleased.)
And quicker than I could say "Red Stripe," I had one in my hand, courtesy of Sandra and Lisa, the women from the bar. Haha! As much as I was still feeling uneasy about our decision, I was past the point of return, and could not do anything except make the most of it.
Following a sunset spent swimming in the ocean, we knew we needed to find a place to sleep. And it was Sandra and Lisa to the rescue again. Not only were they staying at the Tree House Hotel, a mere two steps down the beach, but Lisa also knew the owner, and said she would try to find us a deal. We met up with her later after she had found us a room. We kept asking, "So, how much is it going to cost?" And she kept saying, "Just let me show you the room, and I'll tell you how much it is." So we were all preparing ourselves for her to show us this amazing room, tell us it was wayyyyy over our budget, but that we should do it anyway, because you only live once. She did show us an amazing room. But when we asked, again, for the price, she replied (and this is my favourite part of the story), "It's covered."
It's covered?
Then came the squealing, hugging and jumping you would expect out of three broke university students who had just been told they were being given free accommodations at a beautiful hotel. The only conditions were a) we had to remain dedicated to our studies, and b) we each had to pass on a favour like this to someone else one day. No problem (mon).
We all slept in that king size bed, but were up and swimming for the sunrise the next morning. The free room came with access to the hot tub, which we indulged in after sunrise, AND, and complimentary breakfast, which we milked for all it was worth (I think the waitresses must have thought we were starving). It was like a dream.
Oh dear, I've spent way too long talking about Negril. I think because that trip was a blessing which signifies a huge turning point for me. I returned to Kingston after that weekend, of course a bit sad to be separated again from the beach, but with a totally new perspective. I noticed myself walking much slower around campus, finding myself late for all of my classes, and decidedly less concerned about all the school work which was looming in front of me. I think for the first time, I accepted this trip for what it was, and not what I was expecting it to be. And in accepting that, I was reacquainted with that feeling that I had before I left- that anything is possible.
I spent this past Easter weekend with a group of exchange students in the parish of Portland, the Eastern most point of Jamaica. This is my favourite part of the island so far. Kingston, while definitely not touristy, has a certain edge and hardness to it. The big places in Western Jamaica- Ocho Rios, Montego Bay, Negril- are a world away from Kingston’s aggression, but can begin to reek of tourism and materialism. But Portland, while embodying a bit of all of these places, feels very rootsy and genuine. I escaped dancehall, and finally found some reggae.
We stayed at a basic guesthouse in Port Antonio, a town where we, as a group of obvious foreigners, soon became recognized and familiar. From there, we took route taxis around the surrounding area. From Winifred Beach on the first day, to Reach Falls and Blue Lagoon on the second, and finally Long Bay on the final day, we jam packed our weekend away with some of the most beautiful sights I have seen since being here.
Most notably, on Sunday morning, Claire and I got up to watch the sunrise in Jamaica once again. Just as the stars were disappearing, and the sky had turned to pink, something shot through the sky which, at first, I thought was a firework. I think we both did. But within seconds, as we were waiting for the ‘pop’ which follows a firework, we realized it was a shooting star- and certainly the most vibrant and incredible one that I have ever seen. It seemed like we were the only people awake amidst a sleeping city, and so it was hard not to feel like this display was a show that God put on specifically for us.
Again, I returned to Kingston refreshed, and filled with awe and thankfulness. Plus, I finally got the sunburn/tan that I have been chasing since getting here. Yesterday, when I was at the supermarket, a man in the checkout line started to speak to me in Spanish. I managed a, “No hablo Espanol,” to which he replied, “Oh, you don’t speak Spanish? I thought you were from Columbia.” Hahaha!
It's been hard not to feel a little like Alice in Wonderland these past few weeks. I look at the date of my last post, and I am in disbelief that it has been, yet again, almost a month since I wrote. The time has been full of both school work (two weeks ago, for the first time in my life, I spent the night at the library- what a strange experience), but of adventure as well.
I'm not sure what triggered this explosion of travel, but it feels like I've been able to see a lot of the country lately (it is, after all, a fairly small island). In the 1980s, when Jamaica was forced to undergo a series of structural adjustment measures, their public transportation system, among other social programs, took a severe beating. Unemployment, combined with the continued need for scrapped services, gave way to a thriving informal economy (not that it didn't exist before structural adjustment, but it is certainly more pronounced now). No where is this more evident than in transportation services. For this reason, taking advantage of both regulated and unregulated route taxis and buses, I have found it unbelievably easy, and cheap, to get around.
The International Students Office offered to plan a trip for us exchange students. Thinking that it would be overnight, we all suggested Negril. Much to our disappointment, we learned that it was only to be a day trip. A little unsure about driving all the way to Negril and home in one day (since it is pretty much the Western most point on the island, it's the furthest trip you can make from Kingston), I knew it would still be better than spending the day in the library. And so I went, and it turned out to be such a good decision.
Although we did some sight seeing in Negril, we didn't get to a beach until almost 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Around 5 o'clock, as Jessica had just sat down to a bunch of food, and I was about to order a Red Stripe, someone from the group came over and told us to start packing up, we were leaving. Assuming I would just have to suck it up, I stopped thinking about how good a cold beer would taste at that moment, and began to think about leaving. But Claire, another exchange student from Toronto, would not have it, and began convincing Jessica and I to stay behind. Jessica wasn't hard to persuade. I was a little more hesitant. We had no place to stay, no clue how to get home (I had not yet discovered the joys of the bus system), and only a little bit of money which was draining much quicker in touristy Negril. But soon the middle-aged women at the bar beside us joined in our debate, reminiscing about their college days, and reminding me that you only live once. So I caved.
Somehow we convinced the rest of the group to leave us behind. (Understandably, they weren't too pleased.)
And quicker than I could say "Red Stripe," I had one in my hand, courtesy of Sandra and Lisa, the women from the bar. Haha! As much as I was still feeling uneasy about our decision, I was past the point of return, and could not do anything except make the most of it.
Following a sunset spent swimming in the ocean, we knew we needed to find a place to sleep. And it was Sandra and Lisa to the rescue again. Not only were they staying at the Tree House Hotel, a mere two steps down the beach, but Lisa also knew the owner, and said she would try to find us a deal. We met up with her later after she had found us a room. We kept asking, "So, how much is it going to cost?" And she kept saying, "Just let me show you the room, and I'll tell you how much it is." So we were all preparing ourselves for her to show us this amazing room, tell us it was wayyyyy over our budget, but that we should do it anyway, because you only live once. She did show us an amazing room. But when we asked, again, for the price, she replied (and this is my favourite part of the story), "It's covered."
It's covered?
Then came the squealing, hugging and jumping you would expect out of three broke university students who had just been told they were being given free accommodations at a beautiful hotel. The only conditions were a) we had to remain dedicated to our studies, and b) we each had to pass on a favour like this to someone else one day. No problem (mon).
We all slept in that king size bed, but were up and swimming for the sunrise the next morning. The free room came with access to the hot tub, which we indulged in after sunrise, AND, and complimentary breakfast, which we milked for all it was worth (I think the waitresses must have thought we were starving). It was like a dream.
Oh dear, I've spent way too long talking about Negril. I think because that trip was a blessing which signifies a huge turning point for me. I returned to Kingston after that weekend, of course a bit sad to be separated again from the beach, but with a totally new perspective. I noticed myself walking much slower around campus, finding myself late for all of my classes, and decidedly less concerned about all the school work which was looming in front of me. I think for the first time, I accepted this trip for what it was, and not what I was expecting it to be. And in accepting that, I was reacquainted with that feeling that I had before I left- that anything is possible.
I spent this past Easter weekend with a group of exchange students in the parish of Portland, the Eastern most point of Jamaica. This is my favourite part of the island so far. Kingston, while definitely not touristy, has a certain edge and hardness to it. The big places in Western Jamaica- Ocho Rios, Montego Bay, Negril- are a world away from Kingston’s aggression, but can begin to reek of tourism and materialism. But Portland, while embodying a bit of all of these places, feels very rootsy and genuine. I escaped dancehall, and finally found some reggae.
We stayed at a basic guesthouse in Port Antonio, a town where we, as a group of obvious foreigners, soon became recognized and familiar. From there, we took route taxis around the surrounding area. From Winifred Beach on the first day, to Reach Falls and Blue Lagoon on the second, and finally Long Bay on the final day, we jam packed our weekend away with some of the most beautiful sights I have seen since being here.
Most notably, on Sunday morning, Claire and I got up to watch the sunrise in Jamaica once again. Just as the stars were disappearing, and the sky had turned to pink, something shot through the sky which, at first, I thought was a firework. I think we both did. But within seconds, as we were waiting for the ‘pop’ which follows a firework, we realized it was a shooting star- and certainly the most vibrant and incredible one that I have ever seen. It seemed like we were the only people awake amidst a sleeping city, and so it was hard not to feel like this display was a show that God put on specifically for us.
Again, I returned to Kingston refreshed, and filled with awe and thankfulness. Plus, I finally got the sunburn/tan that I have been chasing since getting here. Yesterday, when I was at the supermarket, a man in the checkout line started to speak to me in Spanish. I managed a, “No hablo Espanol,” to which he replied, “Oh, you don’t speak Spanish? I thought you were from Columbia.” Hahaha!
A number of my classes have ended, although some are still going strong. I handed in my last paper yesterday (phew!) and should begin now preparing for exams. I am really not looking forward to this, as all of my exams are worth 60% of my final grade, and I continue to hear horror stories of how intense they are. But, I’ve survived the “rigorous” work load thus far, and hope this trend continues. Plus, I am far too laid back to allow stress to creep back in- I hope.
I will try to update more often, but no promises. You should know though, that I remember everyone at home when I’m basking in the sun, wondering what that thing called winter was, again? Haha, sorry, I just had to rub it in once more before springtime in Canada relieves the winter blahs.
Much love to you all.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Passa Passa Moments
He makes winds his messengers,
Flames of fire his servants.
Psalm 104:4
You should see the expressions I encounter when I tell the Jamaicans on campus that I’ve been, and continue to go to Passa Passa. No, I didn’t die, and yes, I did enjoy it. And as they shake their heads and pick their jaws off the ground, I say, “Wait, there’s more…”
I didn’t know what Passa Passa was before I came here. I had no clue that the “video-lights”, the invasive camera people, capture dancehall events like Passa Passa, where they are sold and dispersed to people across, and beyond the country. You can look those videos up on YouTube, but please don’t (and I bet that is exactly what you’re going to do after you read this). The longer I am here, the more uncomfortable I am with dancehall culture and the values that are portrayed in the music, dance and attitudes surrounding it. I say this not to assign judgment to the practice, because that is not the intent of this post. But I say it because there is something which keeps me going back, despite my discomfort, and I think it’s worth saying.
I am learning that reality- the reality I thought I would smack me in the face when I came to Jamaica- can, despite my initial reactions, be understood from the lives of people on campus when you begin to listen. But to be honest, I still love any excuse to get off campus and into the company of people who seem to have reality inscribed on their bodies and souls. So when I find myself at Passa Passa, a weekly event which peacefully hosts people of all classes, colours, races and genders, I feel strangely in my element. And believe it or not, I get far fewer “hey, it’s a white girl” stares and double takes there than I do on campus. At Passa Passa, I’m just another member of the crowd.
There is something about standing amidst such diversity. It’s impossible for me not to marvel at the uniqueness of God’s humanity, and at the way that He knows and loves each of us. And every time I experience Passa Passa, I think I enjoy being encircled by such a sea of individuals, recognizing our commonalities.
I think my lovely friend Bethany is right (and I hope she doesn’t mind that I am borrowing this idea) - there are forests of trees, and forests of people. We are a jungle of delicately messed up people. But on the street of Tivoli Gardens at 4 o’clock in the morning, I have been able to recognize God in my conversations and interactions with strangers in the same way that I recognize Him in the rustling braches of the forest. And if I’m not attuned to it, I will miss it. But if I’m still, beyond the raging music and obnoxious DJ, there are quiet messages to be heard in the pulse of creation.
And I would be lying if I said this exchange has been easy, or even close to what I expected it would be like (and I thought I was approaching it without expectations- bahaha). But despite the challenges, doubts and frustrations, there have been Passa Passa moments like this scattered encouragingly along the way. Nope, no grand revelations. And as much as I wish for those sometimes, I’ve come to accept that there probably won’t be any, and that’s okay.
So my time here is almost half over. I hope that the second half is filled with less frustration and more assuredness that coming here was a good decision to have made. But even if it’s not, there’s beauty in the journey, and undoubtedly, more Passa Passa moments to experience.
I hope your journey is filled with them as well.
Peace and love, y’all.
Flames of fire his servants.
Psalm 104:4
You should see the expressions I encounter when I tell the Jamaicans on campus that I’ve been, and continue to go to Passa Passa. No, I didn’t die, and yes, I did enjoy it. And as they shake their heads and pick their jaws off the ground, I say, “Wait, there’s more…”
I didn’t know what Passa Passa was before I came here. I had no clue that the “video-lights”, the invasive camera people, capture dancehall events like Passa Passa, where they are sold and dispersed to people across, and beyond the country. You can look those videos up on YouTube, but please don’t (and I bet that is exactly what you’re going to do after you read this). The longer I am here, the more uncomfortable I am with dancehall culture and the values that are portrayed in the music, dance and attitudes surrounding it. I say this not to assign judgment to the practice, because that is not the intent of this post. But I say it because there is something which keeps me going back, despite my discomfort, and I think it’s worth saying.
I am learning that reality- the reality I thought I would smack me in the face when I came to Jamaica- can, despite my initial reactions, be understood from the lives of people on campus when you begin to listen. But to be honest, I still love any excuse to get off campus and into the company of people who seem to have reality inscribed on their bodies and souls. So when I find myself at Passa Passa, a weekly event which peacefully hosts people of all classes, colours, races and genders, I feel strangely in my element. And believe it or not, I get far fewer “hey, it’s a white girl” stares and double takes there than I do on campus. At Passa Passa, I’m just another member of the crowd.
There is something about standing amidst such diversity. It’s impossible for me not to marvel at the uniqueness of God’s humanity, and at the way that He knows and loves each of us. And every time I experience Passa Passa, I think I enjoy being encircled by such a sea of individuals, recognizing our commonalities.
I think my lovely friend Bethany is right (and I hope she doesn’t mind that I am borrowing this idea) - there are forests of trees, and forests of people. We are a jungle of delicately messed up people. But on the street of Tivoli Gardens at 4 o’clock in the morning, I have been able to recognize God in my conversations and interactions with strangers in the same way that I recognize Him in the rustling braches of the forest. And if I’m not attuned to it, I will miss it. But if I’m still, beyond the raging music and obnoxious DJ, there are quiet messages to be heard in the pulse of creation.
And I would be lying if I said this exchange has been easy, or even close to what I expected it would be like (and I thought I was approaching it without expectations- bahaha). But despite the challenges, doubts and frustrations, there have been Passa Passa moments like this scattered encouragingly along the way. Nope, no grand revelations. And as much as I wish for those sometimes, I’ve come to accept that there probably won’t be any, and that’s okay.
So my time here is almost half over. I hope that the second half is filled with less frustration and more assuredness that coming here was a good decision to have made. But even if it’s not, there’s beauty in the journey, and undoubtedly, more Passa Passa moments to experience.
I hope your journey is filled with them as well.
Peace and love, y’all.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A Weekend in the Blue Mountains
It's hard to believe that the Blue Mountains I imagined hiking long before coming to Jamaica are the same Blue Mountains that I experienced this past weekend. They were something that all of us exchange students agreed we wanted to see, probably because each of us had our own spectacular ideas of what that would be like. It's because of this, that when Jessica spotted a poster advertising an organized trip through the Geography and Geology Department, we all jumped on the opportunity.
So on Friday evening, we arrived at the designated parking lot, backpacks full and expectations high, and we waited. Now when we were told about the trip, we were told to be ready for 6:30 sharp. Emphasis on SHARP. And so, against my better judgment, I thought this might actually be an instance of a Jamaican event running on time. No, no, no. At 8 o'clock, after jamming over 40 students with hiking gear on a minibus (twice, because the first time there was something wrong with the bus), we set off for Mavis Bank, where we would begin our ascent.
We exploded out of the bus at Mavis Bank, where, you guessed it, we waited some more. Now, it was 11 o'clock when our tour guides finally showed up, and we were ready to begin on what we thought would be a three hour hike to our camp.
Within the first half hour, we found ourselves unlacing our shoes, taking off our socks and crossing two rivers. A task which would have been a little tricky in daylight was especially difficult at 11:30, and before I knew it, some uneasy footing and a shaky rock found me flat in the middle of the river. Determined not to let this ruin my spirits (wasn't this was the trip I had been waiting for!?), I picked myself back up and took comfort in the fact that at least it was still relatively warm out.
The next three hours are a bit of a blur. But I do know that when we finally made it to the half way point, I was glad for the rest, because my legs had already begun to feel like lead poles. It was just past 2 in the morning, and as a small group of us sat, regrouping and trying to wrap our heads around the fact that there were still at least another three hours of hiking to come, it began raining. So those of us with rain jackets put them on, and we continued, because there really wasn't anything else we could do.
Another hour of blurry hiking. Another rest stop. But this time it was different, because we were about to embark on Jacob's Ladder- the last part of the journey, and naturally, the most difficult. I spent the next two hours by myself, following the flashlight which was always a corner ahead, crying out to God to make my legs start working again, and wondering if there were any other options besides continuing to hike because I was ready to call it a night (it was, after all, almost 5 in the morning). It was probably a good thing that it was raining, otherwise I might have slept in the woods that night. (And actually, the next day we all heard about the one guy who actually plunked down in the middle of the path, and let himself sleep, knowing that there were people behind him who would surely wake him up once they caught up.) It was also probably a good thing that everyone was either ahead or behind me, because I was glad there was no one to see my ugly agony being played out in those final moments of the hike.
I praised God when I saw the sign for the camp. I praised Him when I flopped down on the sponge they called a mattress. I praised Him when I curled up into my damp, but not wet, sleeping bag.
Although I think I was sleeping, I could hear people arriving at 6:30, 7:30, even 8:30, and I was thankful that I had been in shelter of our cabin for three hours already.
After the unexpectedly rough journey of the night before, there weren't many people who still wanted to hike to the peak the next day. So it was a much smaller group of us who started for the peak around 11 o'clock the next morning. After another two hour hike, where I was reacquainted with the why-don't-my-legs-work sensation, we made it to the top. I will admit to breathing a sigh of relief, but not a sigh of awe. There wasn't much to be seen, except mist and stumpy vegetation associated with higher levels of altitude.
So on Friday evening, we arrived at the designated parking lot, backpacks full and expectations high, and we waited. Now when we were told about the trip, we were told to be ready for 6:30 sharp. Emphasis on SHARP. And so, against my better judgment, I thought this might actually be an instance of a Jamaican event running on time. No, no, no. At 8 o'clock, after jamming over 40 students with hiking gear on a minibus (twice, because the first time there was something wrong with the bus), we set off for Mavis Bank, where we would begin our ascent.
We exploded out of the bus at Mavis Bank, where, you guessed it, we waited some more. Now, it was 11 o'clock when our tour guides finally showed up, and we were ready to begin on what we thought would be a three hour hike to our camp.
Within the first half hour, we found ourselves unlacing our shoes, taking off our socks and crossing two rivers. A task which would have been a little tricky in daylight was especially difficult at 11:30, and before I knew it, some uneasy footing and a shaky rock found me flat in the middle of the river. Determined not to let this ruin my spirits (wasn't this was the trip I had been waiting for!?), I picked myself back up and took comfort in the fact that at least it was still relatively warm out.
The next three hours are a bit of a blur. But I do know that when we finally made it to the half way point, I was glad for the rest, because my legs had already begun to feel like lead poles. It was just past 2 in the morning, and as a small group of us sat, regrouping and trying to wrap our heads around the fact that there were still at least another three hours of hiking to come, it began raining. So those of us with rain jackets put them on, and we continued, because there really wasn't anything else we could do.
Another hour of blurry hiking. Another rest stop. But this time it was different, because we were about to embark on Jacob's Ladder- the last part of the journey, and naturally, the most difficult. I spent the next two hours by myself, following the flashlight which was always a corner ahead, crying out to God to make my legs start working again, and wondering if there were any other options besides continuing to hike because I was ready to call it a night (it was, after all, almost 5 in the morning). It was probably a good thing that it was raining, otherwise I might have slept in the woods that night. (And actually, the next day we all heard about the one guy who actually plunked down in the middle of the path, and let himself sleep, knowing that there were people behind him who would surely wake him up once they caught up.) It was also probably a good thing that everyone was either ahead or behind me, because I was glad there was no one to see my ugly agony being played out in those final moments of the hike.
I praised God when I saw the sign for the camp. I praised Him when I flopped down on the sponge they called a mattress. I praised Him when I curled up into my damp, but not wet, sleeping bag.
Although I think I was sleeping, I could hear people arriving at 6:30, 7:30, even 8:30, and I was thankful that I had been in shelter of our cabin for three hours already.
After the unexpectedly rough journey of the night before, there weren't many people who still wanted to hike to the peak the next day. So it was a much smaller group of us who started for the peak around 11 o'clock the next morning. After another two hour hike, where I was reacquainted with the why-don't-my-legs-work sensation, we made it to the top. I will admit to breathing a sigh of relief, but not a sigh of awe. There wasn't much to be seen, except mist and stumpy vegetation associated with higher levels of altitude.
The group of us that decided to go up.
Above: Jessica, Ozzie and Anders mustering up some excitement!
Below: This is us, at the peak. Lots to see, eh?
It wasn't until the next day, as we were descending the mountain, that the cloud cover broke, we saw blue skies and a finalllllly, a view of the mountains. And although I was really grateful for, and totally humbled by the experience up until that point, they were those final moments which made the trip completely worth it.
Much love.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tick Tick Tick Tick Tock
The title of this blog is the chorus of a dancehall song that I hear fairly regularly here. I thought of it as I was considering where the time goes?
Today is the 23rd, which marks exactly one month since my arrival, and two weeks since my last blog post (sorry). Little did I know in my last entry that the busyness I anticipated with 'Rex Week' would continue with increasing measures. I was hit with a swift reality check at the beginning of last week when I realized that despite the fact that I am in care-free Jamaica, I still have a presentation and two papers due at the beginning of March, and, OH SHOOT, March is really close! I think I've recovered, but sadly, getting down to business and avoiding procrastination is just as hard (correction: probably harder) in a different, and exciting environment. (And admittedly, this entry is motivated by both guilt that I haven't posted in a long time, but also by an attempt to avoid the paper which awaits me after I finish this.)
I've decided that instead of trying to relay every experience and adventure of the past two weeks, I will spare you the boring details and let you in on some specific stories and thoughts which have occurred along the way. Even this seems like a lofty task, as I find myself wondering where to begin?
Okay.
I have my answer down committed to memory. Usually I can sense it coming. I'll meet someone for the first time, and when we reach that lull in conversation, it seems the instinctual question is then to ask, "Of all places, why the heck did you choose Jamaica?" And I hate that question. I've never had a clear sense of why Jamaica tugged at my heart, and the longer I'm here and the more I feel like an oddball in this place, the further away I feel from being able to answer that question. But I have to say something. And so I usually mumble something about studying development, and about how I wanted to learn from both my classes and the environment in which I was living... blah, blah, blah. One of my flatmates asked me a funny question the other day after she overheard me giving that answer (probably for the 4th or 5th time). She looked at me with her forehead crinkled and said, "So, are we objects in your study?" WOA! Without knowing Kim, you would think this to be a very aggressive and judgmental question, and I was, obviously, a little taken aback. But she asked it lovingly and earnestly, and after I giggled a little, I told her that I wasn't studying her anymore than she was studying me.
Now when I answer the question, I try to do it with a little more tact. Unfortunately, it still flusters me every time, so I don't think I've become any more eloquent with my response.
But it's forced me to ask myself if I'm really doing this. Am I really taking everything that I can from my classes, but also from the place where I'm at? And while I don't think that I will really be able to answer that question until long after this semester is over (if ever), I've still tried to evaluate it. Automatically I think about my Caribbean Culture class- a class that, in only the 5th week, has already afforded me so many insights and opportunities into this country. The class is based largely around field trips and guest lecturers, and our only assignment (besides the final exam) is to write a (hefty) paper on one of these experiences. I've heard about Rastafari beliefs from a practicing Rastafari (who I later saw on the local Jamaican TV show "Religious Hard Talk"); about the history and evolution of music in Jamaica from the director of performing arts at the university; and about the ins and outs of the Jamaican music industry from a member of a reggae group, VoiceMail.
It is thanks to this class that I found myself in Tivoli, a decidedly lower-income area than Mona is (where the campus is located), between the hours of 2-7:30 in the morning, dancing as the sun came up. I'm still not really sure what to make of Passa Passa, but I will say that it was a place where I felt completely welcome. There were so many people from such diverse walks of life, and yet here, in this so-called "ghetto", we all coexisted so peacefully.
Passa Passa, around 4 o'clock in the morning.
On Saturday, I went back toward Ochi with my flatmates to spend the day at Dunn's River Falls. This day was especially lovely, not only for the chance to climb a waterfall (however safety proofed and tourist friendly), but because I was able to experience this very touristy attraction without feeling like a tourist. Allison, you are a tourist. I know, I know- I guess I still am. But, not only did my flatmates get me in for the Jamaican price (there are different prices for tourists and for Jamaican residents), but for one of the first times since being here, I felt like a member of their community, and not simply the foreign exchange student.
I am leaving you with one final thought, which had particular weight today.
Of the many ways that being white has affected (often frustratingly) my reality here, it has given me a certain ability to be recognized around campus. Today, for some reason, I noticed it especially. People I've never seen before know my name, and will say hello, and even people who don't know my name feel compelled to introduce themselves. I feel bad sometimes, like I've forgotten meeting someone. But for the most part, I have met some really wonderful and loving people just by way of their friendliness.
So I am beginning to see that everyday I've spent here has been filled with blessings. Today their names were Fursan, Malesha and ‘Ro.
Much, much love.
Today is the 23rd, which marks exactly one month since my arrival, and two weeks since my last blog post (sorry). Little did I know in my last entry that the busyness I anticipated with 'Rex Week' would continue with increasing measures. I was hit with a swift reality check at the beginning of last week when I realized that despite the fact that I am in care-free Jamaica, I still have a presentation and two papers due at the beginning of March, and, OH SHOOT, March is really close! I think I've recovered, but sadly, getting down to business and avoiding procrastination is just as hard (correction: probably harder) in a different, and exciting environment. (And admittedly, this entry is motivated by both guilt that I haven't posted in a long time, but also by an attempt to avoid the paper which awaits me after I finish this.)
I've decided that instead of trying to relay every experience and adventure of the past two weeks, I will spare you the boring details and let you in on some specific stories and thoughts which have occurred along the way. Even this seems like a lofty task, as I find myself wondering where to begin?
Okay.
I have my answer down committed to memory. Usually I can sense it coming. I'll meet someone for the first time, and when we reach that lull in conversation, it seems the instinctual question is then to ask, "Of all places, why the heck did you choose Jamaica?" And I hate that question. I've never had a clear sense of why Jamaica tugged at my heart, and the longer I'm here and the more I feel like an oddball in this place, the further away I feel from being able to answer that question. But I have to say something. And so I usually mumble something about studying development, and about how I wanted to learn from both my classes and the environment in which I was living... blah, blah, blah. One of my flatmates asked me a funny question the other day after she overheard me giving that answer (probably for the 4th or 5th time). She looked at me with her forehead crinkled and said, "So, are we objects in your study?" WOA! Without knowing Kim, you would think this to be a very aggressive and judgmental question, and I was, obviously, a little taken aback. But she asked it lovingly and earnestly, and after I giggled a little, I told her that I wasn't studying her anymore than she was studying me.
Now when I answer the question, I try to do it with a little more tact. Unfortunately, it still flusters me every time, so I don't think I've become any more eloquent with my response.
But it's forced me to ask myself if I'm really doing this. Am I really taking everything that I can from my classes, but also from the place where I'm at? And while I don't think that I will really be able to answer that question until long after this semester is over (if ever), I've still tried to evaluate it. Automatically I think about my Caribbean Culture class- a class that, in only the 5th week, has already afforded me so many insights and opportunities into this country. The class is based largely around field trips and guest lecturers, and our only assignment (besides the final exam) is to write a (hefty) paper on one of these experiences. I've heard about Rastafari beliefs from a practicing Rastafari (who I later saw on the local Jamaican TV show "Religious Hard Talk"); about the history and evolution of music in Jamaica from the director of performing arts at the university; and about the ins and outs of the Jamaican music industry from a member of a reggae group, VoiceMail.
It is thanks to this class that I found myself in Tivoli, a decidedly lower-income area than Mona is (where the campus is located), between the hours of 2-7:30 in the morning, dancing as the sun came up. I'm still not really sure what to make of Passa Passa, but I will say that it was a place where I felt completely welcome. There were so many people from such diverse walks of life, and yet here, in this so-called "ghetto", we all coexisted so peacefully.
Passa Passa, around 4 o'clock in the morning.
Sun's coming up. 
And we made some friends along the way.
It also thanks to this class that I spent Friday, travelling by bus, to Trelawny, a parish between Ocho Rios and Montego Bay for something called Outameni. We stopped on the way there to buy some food at a restaurant, and I, feeling both tired and a little bus-sick, wasn't all that hungry. I saw other people buying what looked like chicken noodle soup, and thought that instead of blowing the bank on Jerk Chicken, I would opt for a cheaper, and easier on my stomach option. Jessica, kept asking me, "What kind of soup is it? Shouldn't you ask what kind of soup it is?" And I kept saying, "Why? They tell me it's chicken. It looks appealing." So I went ahead and ordered it. When they ran out of disposable bowls, and I found myself waiting and watching other people get delicious looking chicken and rice, I knew I should be changing my order. But I didn't. And finally, when they put my soup into two hot cups, I realized that what I thought were noodles, were actually CHICKEN FEET.
Chicken foot stew.
Gross, gross, gross, gross. I couldn't handle it. I tried transferring the feet from one cup to another, in an attempt to still eat the broth, but that was too much. Yuck! I managed to take a photo, because I needed to get something out of this disgusting lunch. Needless to say, from now on, I will always opt for the Jerk Chicken.
On Saturday, I went back toward Ochi with my flatmates to spend the day at Dunn's River Falls. This day was especially lovely, not only for the chance to climb a waterfall (however safety proofed and tourist friendly), but because I was able to experience this very touristy attraction without feeling like a tourist. Allison, you are a tourist. I know, I know- I guess I still am. But, not only did my flatmates get me in for the Jamaican price (there are different prices for tourists and for Jamaican residents), but for one of the first times since being here, I felt like a member of their community, and not simply the foreign exchange student.
I am leaving you with one final thought, which had particular weight today.
Of the many ways that being white has affected (often frustratingly) my reality here, it has given me a certain ability to be recognized around campus. Today, for some reason, I noticed it especially. People I've never seen before know my name, and will say hello, and even people who don't know my name feel compelled to introduce themselves. I feel bad sometimes, like I've forgotten meeting someone. But for the most part, I have met some really wonderful and loving people just by way of their friendliness.
So I am beginning to see that everyday I've spent here has been filled with blessings. Today their names were Fursan, Malesha and ‘Ro.
Much, much love.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Raindrops and Sunshine
It's raining right now. I'm sitting under a tarp within the courtyard of my residence, and am watching people, avoiding my homework and attempting to blog. Rain feels different here, because it's so warm, and perhaps that is why people aren't walking any faster with the rain falling. Nobody is scurrying, or rushing into their cluster. This strikes me as strange, because I think I would have to fight every urge inside of me not to make a run for it.
It feels like I just blogged, and am impressed with myself that I am blogging again. But I anticipate this being a busy week, and I have begun to explore this place beyond campus, so there are things to say.
I got groceries downtown on Friday. After a few days of conspiring with some of the other exchange students how to see this country, I was feeling quite ready to put words into action. And so it was that Jessica, Anders and I, along with Jessica's friend Dave, caught a taxi, which whisked us away from campus, and into a seemingly different and wonderful world. Ripe with smells of raw sewage, rotting produce and marijuana, downtown stood in stark contrast to the institutional environment which I have come to call home these days. As a lover of people watching, I was in heaven. From every corner, there was music playing, and children running, and women hair-doing, and men smoking and I knew that this was the Jamaica that would be the easiest for me to love. It was the most inefficient way of doing grocery shopping, because every shop is set up like a hallway, where the products and employees stand behind bars and wait for you to order your groceries like you were asking to see a movie. But it didn't matter that in the moment the only things I could remember to buy were Cheerios and Kraft Dinner, because I had rubbed shoulders and captured eye contact with so many storied humans that I could have gone home empty handed and been happy.
On Sunday, along with 2 other exchange students, we caught a taxi back downtown, and from downtown, to Port Royal. What was once a bustling port, and pirate central, was on Sunday a strangely dead town. Together, we explored the historic part of the city for a bit, bought some snacks, and then waited for a boat to take us from Port Royal to Lime Cay, a tiny island and beach. A BEACH! Over two weeks into my stay here, and I finally touched some sand and swam in the ocean.
I finished the weekend feeling so full of sun and thankfulness.
This week promises to bring more adventure and excitement. Sunday kicked off 'Rex Week', a week full of activities for people in my Hall. I am even part of a choir which is performing in a competition on Tuesday or Wednesday- bahaha. Yes, I am the only white girl in my cluster's choir, and yes, we are singing contemporary Jamaican songs, and yes, we have included the ever popular 'Romping Shop' song as part of our medley. This is your cue to laugh. You should know though, that the other option was dancing (because no participation is really not an option), and as much as my flatmates would have loooooved to witness my attempt at dancing, I am hoping to embarass myself less this way. I will let you know how it turns out.
That's all. I'm going to go fight my instincts, and catch some raindrops in my hair.
Love to you.
It feels like I just blogged, and am impressed with myself that I am blogging again. But I anticipate this being a busy week, and I have begun to explore this place beyond campus, so there are things to say.
I got groceries downtown on Friday. After a few days of conspiring with some of the other exchange students how to see this country, I was feeling quite ready to put words into action. And so it was that Jessica, Anders and I, along with Jessica's friend Dave, caught a taxi, which whisked us away from campus, and into a seemingly different and wonderful world. Ripe with smells of raw sewage, rotting produce and marijuana, downtown stood in stark contrast to the institutional environment which I have come to call home these days. As a lover of people watching, I was in heaven. From every corner, there was music playing, and children running, and women hair-doing, and men smoking and I knew that this was the Jamaica that would be the easiest for me to love. It was the most inefficient way of doing grocery shopping, because every shop is set up like a hallway, where the products and employees stand behind bars and wait for you to order your groceries like you were asking to see a movie. But it didn't matter that in the moment the only things I could remember to buy were Cheerios and Kraft Dinner, because I had rubbed shoulders and captured eye contact with so many storied humans that I could have gone home empty handed and been happy.
On Sunday, along with 2 other exchange students, we caught a taxi back downtown, and from downtown, to Port Royal. What was once a bustling port, and pirate central, was on Sunday a strangely dead town. Together, we explored the historic part of the city for a bit, bought some snacks, and then waited for a boat to take us from Port Royal to Lime Cay, a tiny island and beach. A BEACH! Over two weeks into my stay here, and I finally touched some sand and swam in the ocean.
I finished the weekend feeling so full of sun and thankfulness.
This week promises to bring more adventure and excitement. Sunday kicked off 'Rex Week', a week full of activities for people in my Hall. I am even part of a choir which is performing in a competition on Tuesday or Wednesday- bahaha. Yes, I am the only white girl in my cluster's choir, and yes, we are singing contemporary Jamaican songs, and yes, we have included the ever popular 'Romping Shop' song as part of our medley. This is your cue to laugh. You should know though, that the other option was dancing (because no participation is really not an option), and as much as my flatmates would have loooooved to witness my attempt at dancing, I am hoping to embarass myself less this way. I will let you know how it turns out.
That's all. I'm going to go fight my instincts, and catch some raindrops in my hair.
Love to you.
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