The Sun Smells Too Loud

I've been in Jamaica for a month but somehow it feels much longer. Instead of the old cliche that time flies when you're having fun, I'm finding exactly the opposite - the barrage of new experiences, sensations and situations seems to be making time slow down. Or maybe it's just my perception adjusting to a more laid-back pace of life.



Tatiana rocks out



The past week has been a case in point. I arrived in Old Harbour a little over a week, but as I sit here and think of all the things I want to write about, I've got enough for about three entries. So bear with me, this might be a long one.

 The last few days at CCCD had a touch of sadness about them. No one seemed to want the academic year to end and the sumer holidays to start, nothing like the air of open celebration I remember from school at this time of year. Teachers spoke with concern about sending the children out into the big bad world for a couple of months, some of the pupils openly made it clear they didn't really want to go home (understandable when you think that, for deaf kids, home might mean somewhere where few people can communicate with them), and as the students began to trickle home from Thursday afternoon onwards, the school started to feel empty, quiet and a little folorn.

Ready to zip slide

Nonetheless, an atmosphere heavy with goodbyes and the return of the rain clouds wasn't going to stop the group from Florida making their trip to YS Falls, and with nothing much for me to do on the final day of term, I once again tagged along. It was a bit like deja vu from the week before - after torrential rain all night, the clouds lifted just in time to give us a hot sunny day to enjoy the water, only to return as soon as we got back to the school. With longer at the falls this time, a fair chunk of the group decided to try the zip lining over a series of five slides, the longest and most spectacular of which sends you whizzing down the gorge high over the falls, giving you awesome views. I was definintely in, but having discovered I hadn't brought enough cash to cover the hefty$20 US cover price, group leader Ted insisted on paying my share. Again, I felt humbled and grateful for the generosity of the people I've met so far on this trip.

Saturday morning quickly came and after saying final goodbyes to the dorm parents and remaining pupils at breakfast, I was surprised to get a call from Paperfoot, the main contact/mentor responsible for looking after me over here, a full hour before the time we'd arranged to meet. I hurriedly got in touch with school manager Nicholas, who had kindly agreed to run me into Mandeville to meet Paperfoot, to ask if he could drop me off early, and off we set to the rendevous point outside the police station, where we waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Gabe in action

Apparently Paperfoot hadn't been ringing me to say he was near Mandeville, but to make sure I got there early and he wasn't waiting for me. Someone must have tipped him off about my time keeping. But all was quickly forgiven when he turned up in a friends car - I had been expecting a rough journey in a crowded route taxi with two huge bags all the way down to Old Harbour, but instead he had convinced a lady he knew from Kingston called Pat to drive all the way over to Albert Town where he lived (in the north west of the island, Kingston being on the south east coast), pick him up and then drive him down to meet me and run us both to Old Harbour. I wasn't about to complain.

After three weeks perched high up in the serene, breezy, sleepy seclusion of the Manchester mountains, landing bang in the middle of hot, bustling, noisy Old Harbour certainly woke me up a bit. Here was the so-called 'real' Jamaica I'd read about - hot sunshine, reggae blasting from all corners, dust, people and the smell of smoke (of various kinds) filling the air. The 'yard' I am to call home for the next month-and-a-half is a large open space filled with a thick covering of fruit trees and five buildings (three homes, a wood-carving workshop and a cookhouse). At any one time it is usually filled with wood carvers working, women washing, a gaggle of children playing, dogs barking or sleeping, goats chewing on anything and everything they find, and chickens clucking and crowing. The permanent soundtrack is a continuous mix of reggae and dancehall courtesy of the excellent Irie FM, blasting out from dawn til late at night from a stereo in the carvers' shed.



Tatiana, Jonelle, Sam, Mr Herbert, Ted, Ordaine and Me on last night at CCCD



All of this belongs to the Mighty Gully Youth Project, the brainchild of the late Lancelot Bryan. Mr Bryan's legacy hangs thick over this place - a talented and renowned wood carver who, from very humble beginnings, ended up having work commissioned by the likes of Queen Elizabeth, Prince Charles and Archbishop Desmond Tutu, he turned this yard into a training centre for aspiring young artists keen to follow in his footsteps, offering young men and boys, many with few other prospects in life, a place to learn a skilled trade, a way to express themselves, and a sense of belonging.

As his daughter, Kara, told his story to me, Mr Bryan started out camping in a large mango tree by what is now the gate to the yard, before building the small bamboo structure which now serves as the cook house for the Rastafarian members of this small community-within-a-community. As he developed his reputation as a carver, he began to teach local youths the art, eventually earning notice from the Jamaican government, who helped fund development of the facilities. In the mid-1980s, My Bryan's work was spotted by Prince Charles. Funding from The Prince's Trust helped additions such as the construction of a large, central house for the use of visitors from England from the youth exchange programme, now also occupied by members of Mr Bryan's immediate family.

Some carvings in various stages of completion

The Mighty Gully Youth Project is very much a family affair. I am living directly with his first wife, Althea, daughters Kara, Kayah and Kadaye, and son Jayvan, who is now in charge of the project, as well as 'Crazy' Chris, Kadaye's baby son Keshaun (not sure of spelling!) and Ryan, the five-year-old son of a family friend. Across the way live Mr Bryan's elderly parents, brother, sister-in-law and sister, plus assorted neices, nephews, and grandchildren, while in the third house in the yard live another of Mr Bryan's daughters, Marsha, her partner Stretch (also known as 'Rasta' and creator of some awesome vegan Ital food) and their children.

The rest of the extended family is made up of the wood carvers. They spend their days, from morning until sometimes late in the evening, transforming lumps of lignum vitae, the hardest wood in the world and known as 'iron wood' for its durability, into fantastic works of art - birds, animals, portraits and, frequently, beautifully executed and stylised female nudes. Watching them work is an education in patience, precision, skill and vision - the wood is notoriously difficult to work so the job can be physically demanding, but one false move can ruin an entire piece. And once happy with the carving, each piece has to be meticulously course sanded, fine sanded and polished by hand until it literally shines in the sun. They are the proteges of a recognised master and it shows.

Me sporting Breadfruit

After the quiet nights at CCCD, it's good to have people to talk to and hang out with, even if I am still trying to get my head round patois ('Yes Paul, wha' gwaaan!!'). Even if I can't always follow the conversations, everyone has gone out of their way to make me feel welcome, often through the medium of food - Kara has taken it on herself to teach me how to make authentic Jamaican dishes like turned corn and spicy steamed callalloo (a kind of cabbage), while Jayvan is constantly bringing me fruit from the various trees in the yard, mainly mangoes and delicious, watery Ethiopian apples at the moment as they're in season, and I've already mentioned the fantastic Ital food from the Rasta cookhouse. As a side note, I've gone vegan again now I'm cooking for myself (well, unless someone insists on cooking for me!) and it's surprisingly easy over here, plus it gets me serious props from the Rastas. And seeing as everything is laced with searingly hot Scotch Bonnet chilli peppers, I'm in my element food-wise.

After CCCD with it's hundred-or-so pupils, the school I'm working at Marlie Mount Primary and Infant School - is HUGE - well over a 1000 pupils, making it as big as most UK high schools. With just 50 staff and not enough space to accomodate all pupils at once, the school runs a shift system - the first lot of pupils come in at 7am and leave at midday, the second starting at midday and leaving at 5pm. It must be exhausting for the teachers - with it being the last week of term and things easing back a bit, the longest day I worked was 7am til 4pm and that absolutely knackered me. But, through a lot of dedication and hard work, they make it work, and the school has a very proud record for achievement in all areas of school life.

Marlie Mount Infants performing at graduation

I arrived first morning not really knowing what to expect, having not even spoken to the principal yet as I had kept missing her the previous week when I'd been trying to call. As it was, she wasn't in that morning, but the deputy principal welcomed me kindly and quickly gave me a class to go and 'sit in with' - 5.3 (they 'graduate' at grade 6, which is 11-12 year olds here). No sooner had I walked in the classroom and the teacher, Mr MacIntosh, had introduced me than he sat down to mark some books, giving me a quizzical look -'they're all yours to teach, Mr Newham'. Clearly he wasn't expecting someone with absolutely no teaching experience or training to his name to walk into his classroom.

Somehow I felt like I'd be letting him and the class down (given as they had all cheered in unison when he told them I'd be 'teaching' them) if I explained that I didn't have a clue what I was doing, let alone a lesson plan, and had never taken a class before. It was all too sudden to be nervous about it anyway, so I just decided to go for it - I asked them what they had been doing in English, they said 'nouns', so away I went - nearly two hours later, I had somehow managed to take them through the distinctions between common nouns, proper nouns and pronouns, spent some time on adjectives and the correct grammatical ways to describe things, and also touched on verbs and tenses, before finishing off with a quiz about where various countries are using a map I'd brought. The fact that I more or less held their attention all that time seemed to make it a success.

Graduation crowds

The thing that impressed me most in class, and has continued to do so all week, was how well behaved and respectful the kids are. There was no back chat, no smart alec remarks, no tantrums, no attention seeking - yeah, they talk and fidget, fool around, bicker and sometimes whack eachother, but when a teacher raises their voice and demands attention (including me), they listen. It's probably worth pointing out that corporal punishment is still very much part of school life in Jamaica, and I've seen a fair few kids get hefty whacks off teachers. But as someone who has always thought the backlash against smacking in the UK is ridiculous and is a direct reason why so many kids grow up thinking they can behave as they please, I don't think this is a bad thing at all.

And anyway, it's not like the kids are unhappy or live in fear of getting beaten - just the opposite, they seem really happy, and the enthusiasm they have shown towards me has made me feel like some kind of pop star at times. The troop of students, mostly girls, I have had literally hanging off my arms and fighting eachother to stroke my hair has made me feel like a cross between the Pied Piper and Justin Bieber. I have had classes arguing with eachother and begging me over who I teach next, the best being 3.1A (who I have to admit are my favourite class) trying to put me off taking 3.2A instead of them by telling me they 'all like to use cuss words and tell lies' and that '3.2 acting up on you would be my worst nightmare, sir!' Another reasons I get on with 3.1A so much is that their teacher, Mrs Smith, has been teaching them sign language, so I've ben able to pick up some of that with them and had a lot of fun.


Bruce Golding, Jamaican PM



As school wound down to the end of term, class time increasingly became play time and I started spending most of my time out on the playing fields trying by best to avoid sun burn and not sweat so much. But this was not before the showpiece event of the week - graduation. I've never heard of a primary school having a graduation ceremony in the UK before, but I already knew these things were a big deal over here from the one at CCCD I went to the week before - there were only 7 students graduating then, and the ceremony still lasted well over three hours, with an array of sermons, speeches and dancing. The Marlie Mount event was even more grandiose - it seemed like everyone in Old Harbour had turned, all dressed to the nines as if they were on the way to a wedding. Then when I saw a police motorcade enter the school gates escorting a plush-looking car, I guessed some local politician must have been invited. It turned out to be Mr Bruce Golding, prime minister of Jamaica, whose father it turned out had been instrumental in opening Marlie Mount school when he was a constituency MP. The whole thing was accordingly filmed for national TV.

Well I think that's about it for now, thanks of you've stuck with it this far!