Jamaica
I've been in Jamaica for a week. It feels like longer in the most comfortable way. I walk down the streets and know faces. I know where to buy my pumpkin and mangoes and that Judith will be at the fresh market on Monday to sell me gorgeous tomatoes. Clive brings me bananas from the mangroves where he lives. John will try to give me another tour and Scadu will suggest a smoke with just his deep brown eyes. I cannot sit at the marina without getting into a conversation with a local, a cruiser, a fellow yacht crew.
Ting and Red Stripe are in the cooler, ackee and saltfish leftovers in a container in the fridge. Callaloo and okra grace my frying pan sizzling with local curry spices. I know what Jackfruit tastes like.
I have been to sprawling, music-thumping Kingston. I have driven around the remnants of Port Royal far out on the peninsula, 500 years ago the richest city in Caribbean. I can picture it thriving under the lush peaks of the Blue Mountains, the azure blue water of the bay full of privateers and cargo ships from Europe. The history of the island written in stone walls and large plantations, fields of sugarcane and pineapple.
I have been warmly welcomed and sometimes teased and have danced at the "roadblock" weekly street party. People call to me Hey California or Hey New York (how do they know where I live? Just kidding- more Jamaicans live in Queens than in Jamaica. The same might be true for LA) or hey White Girl. As I am the only white girl on the street I know who they are talking to- it is a more a description than a slur. Or that is what I choose to think.
I know that Jamaica is not all rosy. I have met the old and starving, the disturbed, and I walked for a while with a young man slashed with a machete at school. I have also (unfortunately) been stolen from. But this does not define my experience here. These are the truths of the world. There is darkness but there is also much light.
Last night I had dinner with the harbormaster at a house overlooking the Caribbean Sea, a rum and 7-up in hand, a job offer on my plate next to homemade spiced chicken and rice. I have been invited to see a nearby farm in the morning owned by a Rastafarian Empress who has the intention of healing women in her community and who wants to welcome like minded travelers to join the sacred space.
Is this the water and dirt I am looking for? Maybe it is because I am living in the moment more than I have been able to do in the past, or maybe it is this place (or the Blue Mountain coffee) but I have been in Jamaica for a week and it feels a little like home.
Ting and Red Stripe are in the cooler, ackee and saltfish leftovers in a container in the fridge. Callaloo and okra grace my frying pan sizzling with local curry spices. I know what Jackfruit tastes like.
I have been to sprawling, music-thumping Kingston. I have driven around the remnants of Port Royal far out on the peninsula, 500 years ago the richest city in Caribbean. I can picture it thriving under the lush peaks of the Blue Mountains, the azure blue water of the bay full of privateers and cargo ships from Europe. The history of the island written in stone walls and large plantations, fields of sugarcane and pineapple.
I have been warmly welcomed and sometimes teased and have danced at the "roadblock" weekly street party. People call to me Hey California or Hey New York (how do they know where I live? Just kidding- more Jamaicans live in Queens than in Jamaica. The same might be true for LA) or hey White Girl. As I am the only white girl on the street I know who they are talking to- it is a more a description than a slur. Or that is what I choose to think.
I know that Jamaica is not all rosy. I have met the old and starving, the disturbed, and I walked for a while with a young man slashed with a machete at school. I have also (unfortunately) been stolen from. But this does not define my experience here. These are the truths of the world. There is darkness but there is also much light.
Last night I had dinner with the harbormaster at a house overlooking the Caribbean Sea, a rum and 7-up in hand, a job offer on my plate next to homemade spiced chicken and rice. I have been invited to see a nearby farm in the morning owned by a Rastafarian Empress who has the intention of healing women in her community and who wants to welcome like minded travelers to join the sacred space.
Is this the water and dirt I am looking for? Maybe it is because I am living in the moment more than I have been able to do in the past, or maybe it is this place (or the Blue Mountain coffee) but I have been in Jamaica for a week and it feels a little like home.
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