Yard Life

I wouldn’t even like to guess at the number of hours I’ve spent in the yard here at Mighty Gully over the past month, watching, talking, laughing, listening, playing and (occasionally) working. The yard is the centre of everything, work place, playground, garden, meeting place, family home. So I thought it was about time I had a go at describing what yard life is like.

Days here start early, typically 6am or thereabouts (the Jamaican habit of rising early is not something I’ve latched onto all that well yet), signaled by one of the carvers turning up the radio, setting the rhythm to which the day will be played out to. There are about 15 carvers working here. Most of them live elsewhere in and around Old Harbour, with Jayvan, Stone, Stretch, Buju and Crazy living at the yard. Of all of them, Jayvan, Stone, and perhaps Sean and Junior too, are recognized as the best of the bunch, the ‘master carvers’ and tutors to the rest.

Shame about the shirt, Jayvan

As Mr Bryan’s step-son, Jayvan carries the weight of his father’s legacy on his shoulders and is nominally the boss man here. He is a brilliant carver, he has had a chisel in his hand since as far back as he can remember and is the one everyone looks up to as capable of making practically anything out of a lump of wood. He also has an artist’s temperament – sometimes he sounds and looks like the entire world is against him, and regularly confides in me about the frustration he feels about his surroundings, his family, his work mates. He is a dreamer struggling to find a way of shaping life around him, and particularly the project he has inherited, as easily as he can shape pieces of wood into beautiful works of art.

Saying that, however much his nature might not make him a born leader, he doesn’t shirk the responsibility. Last week a truck turned up with a huge load of wood, big thick chunks of lignum vitae which took two or three men each to shift. Jayvan had been toiling away all week in Kingston chopping up this year’s supply of wood for the yard, only getting help when the pieces needed moving to the yard. After the pile had been unloaded, bathed in sweat, he confessed to me that he’d been working so hard all day all he’d had to eat was a cup of tea and a mango.

Mr Conard Stone

Stone is a workaholic. A country boy, he moved to Mighty Gully to study under Mr Bryan when he was 15, to realize his dream of becoming an artist. He talks about carving with a big grin on his face, admitting he simply loves what he does. He is usually the first to start work and will sometimes work late into the night, alone with the radio sat under a solitary light bulb. He is also a very good draughts player – I’ve yet to beat him. His work tends to be delicate and intricate, as if he is always trying to push his boundaries. He is level-headed and talks passionately about the importance of Mighty Gully and his determination to help keep the project going long into the future, describing the problems it faces as challenges that will ultimately make it stronger.

Aza whips up some callaloo

The carvers spend a lot of time together, maybe 12 hours a day six days a week, although some will come and go more frequently than others. The working day is broken up with conversation, banter, occasional arguments, smoking and cooking. Many of them are Rastafarian, and most pitch in to prepare food in the cookhouse, with not a scrap of meat or dairy produce in sight. Cooking over a wood fire, on some days they will make food for the whole yard, maybe 20 people at a time, and if ever I’m sat outside at meal time, a plate will always be handed to me whether I’ve asked for a share or not. The food is always great, with typical meals like red pea soup and dumplings, spicy steamed callaloo and rice and ackee with rice and peas.

Freshly plucked ackee

The arrival of ackee season has been a culinary revelation to me. The yard is bursting to the brim with Jamaica’s national fruit, with six or seven trees laden with them. Ackees are orangey-red in colour when ripe and shaped a bit like pears with three or four distinct, rounded segments. They are harvested by someone climbing high into the tree and knocking them down one by one, causing them to split open when they hit the ground to reveal marble-sized black seeds that look like alien arachnid eyeballs. Only the cream-coloured flesh surrounding the seeds is eaten, usually cooked by frying with a little garlic, pepper and onion, and the result is like a better, creamier version of scrambled egg. The first time I was given some, chopped up in some rice, I’d not have known the difference if someone had told me I was eating egg fried rice. What I don’t understand is why it only seems to be Jamaica that has latched on to how awesome this strange fruit is, especially as it is far and away the best egg substitute for vegans I’ve ever come across.

Fruit picking is an important yard past-time, and a kind of rite of passage for the boys in particular. Bam-Bam, the son of Mr Bryan’s eldest daughter Marsha and 13 this week, is now old enough to climb the guinep tree (guineps are a small sourish fruit something like a cross between a grape and a mango), whereas cousins Jason, 8, and Alex, 7, jealously watch him go about this manly work from the ground, sometimes sneaking half way up the ladder before they are screamed at to get down. Guineps and mangoes form a kind of yard currency, being shared out on a daily basis by whoever has taken the time to get a decent harvest and ensuring a temporary halt to all work and play.

Bam-Bam, Jason, Austin and goat

Playing with or watching the kids play takes up a fair chunk of my time. There are plenty of kids to play with – I’ve joked about setting up my own summer school in the yard for them all. Bam-Bam and Renae (known as Mumsil), Alex’s sister, are the oldest kids in the yard and spend much of their time working for and with the adults and looking after the younger ones. Bam-Bam is the entrepreneurial type, collecting empty beer bottles to earn the deposit you get for returning them to the recycling truck once a week. He’s quickly latched on to the fact that I’m a steady source of income. Him and Jason are also in charge of herding the goats owned by Jason’s dad, Buju, back to the yard every afternoon, which is usually a good laugh watching as the goats slip their ropes while the pair of them chase them round haplessly.

Alex busting some moves

Jason and Alex are inseparable and make a good double act. Jason is cheeky and cock-sure, delighting in winding up any and everyone, and always has an answer, usually a funny one. Alex is the entertainer – all the kids love putting on a show by singing and dancing at every opportunity, but Alex is the star. His dancing has me in stitches - he does an awesome body popping kind of thing where he makes his eyebrows go up and down in time to the music which is so stupid it’s genius (and saved by the fact he has good rhythm). He also does magic tricks, builds kites and wants to be a cricketer, although when it comes to singing he has to play second fiddle to Bam-Bam’s younger sister Whitney, who has a lovely clean voice and a whole stack of songs she knows by heart.

Probably the most entertaining of all the kids, however, is Austin, Jason’s three-year-old brother. Known as Brown Man, which in itself makes me giggle, he looks like an angel – big bright light brown eyes in a head too big for his body that gives him a funny wobble when he walks – but behaves like a little devil. When he’s not spitting, swearing or throwing rocks, he might suddenly decide to show off a bit of his whining technique, except he does the girls’ part where he bends over and shakes his backside up against whatever happens to be close. He also has an anger problem – when he gets told off or smacked (quite a lot given his behaviour), he’ll quite often fly into a blind rage, screaming and running around looking for something to bite to take his frustration out on, usually poor Jason’s arm.

Whitney shows off some licks

Kids being kids, as soon as they cotton on to the fact that I have something of interest to them, they badger me for a ‘turn’ until I end up giving in and letting them have it. This tends to end in one or two ways – either whatever it is gets lost or broken, or they all argue so much over whose turn it is I take it back. My chess set now only has enough pieces to play draughts while the cricket bat first broken at the deaf school is now officially an ex-bat. My MP3 player is now on strict rationing it caused so many arguments and I’m taking the same approach with the guitar I’ve borrowed from Marlie Mount school on the pretext of fixing it up – not only do I not want it mashed up any more than it already is (it’s missing two strings and tuning pegs), after seven weeks of having no guitar it is very much my toy and I want to play with it.

With all the attention from the kids, I’m usually grateful for some adult company. Once the sun sets and the carvers start to drift off home, I’ll spend a lot of evenings sat outside chatting to Joel. Joel is a mad keen footballer and has dreams of one day playing abroad. Last season he played for Jamaican Premier League side Boys Town’s youth team but after being told there would be no money to pay him next season, he’s currently training with another Premier League team in May Pen, hoping to earn a contract.

The one time I’ve seen him play, however, is probably not something he’ll want to remember. He also turns out for a team in the local Old Harbour Bay Community League, the Black Survivors, so one afternoon I decided to head down with Bam-Bam to watch him. Considering this was just a local amateur league match, it drew a great crowd – there were perhaps three or four hundred people sat or standing around, with stalls selling soft drinks and beers out of ice boxes, making for a really good atmosphere. Unfortunately, Black Survivors didn’t rise to the occasion – their opponents, Cave United, recognized as one of the strongest in the division, demolished them 10-0, and it could have been more. It’s no exaggeration to say that I haven’t ever seen a team defend so badly in all my life, every time the ball was pumped forward the Black Survivors’ defence would be nowhere to be seen as two or three Cave United forwards had a free run on goal. Maybe they couldn’t handle the searing afternoon heat – why anyone would want to play football at 3pm in July in Jamaica is beyond me, but there you go, I only had to watch the carnage.

Crazy the rat catcher

Another regular evening companion is Crazy, who works as a welder when he can get work and carves when he can’t. He is always good for a chat over a glass or two or rum, he really knows his music and is happy to educate me to fill in the wide gaps in my knowledge about reggae. I did wonder, however, where he got his nickname from, as he comes across as more sensible uncle than crazy man. That was, however, until one evening when a few of us were sat outside and suddenly had our attention diverted by a series of loud bangs coming from the direction of the carvers’ workshop. No one had a clue what was going on, until a minute or so later Crazy emerged carrying a mallet in one hand and a dead rat in the other, looking incredibly pleased with himself. His reflexes must be so good he should change his name to Chris the Cat instead.

Partying with Kadaye

When they’re not making me food, sisters Kadaye, Kayah and Kara take great delight in trying to set me up with their friends. So far they’ve been better cooks than matchmakers. Sundays in particular are all about one of them spending the afternoon cooking up a huge meal for the house and extended family. Although it is a close-run thing, so far Kadaye stands out as the best of the bunch – I have to admit the smell of her fried chicken had me considering jacking in 13 years of vegetarianism, and how she got rice and peas and steamed callaloo to taste so good I have no idea.

Marlene (right) with strange polo man

The sisters have also become my main party companions, letting me tag along whenever they’re off out. Last week they took me to the birthday party of one of their friends, Marlene, which was mainly notable for a guy turning up in a welders’ mask, jodhpurs and polo shirt and carrying a golf club to do nothing much more (that I could see, anyway) than lead the cutting of the birthday cake. This Sunday just gone we also went to a pool party, which consisted of an oversized paddling pool set up in front of a new set of shops just up the road. When I passed it being set up in the afternoon, with the hot sun beating down, this seemed like an awesome idea. It was unfortunately a bit of a let down – by the time we headed over at 8.30, most of the water had already seeped out of the pool and someone was desperately trying to re-fill it with a trickle of water spouting from a pathetically limp and tiny house pipe that looked like a wet noodle hanging over the side of a wok. The pool action consisted of two girls (one being the aforementioned Marlene) splashing around a bit and going through the motions of the now familiar dancehall moves – not a bad sight, I’ll admit, but not quite the bikini-and-rum orgy I’d hoped for.