And Then There Were Two...

So six months has all to quickly become just six weeks (and counting) remaining on this beautiful sun-kissed island, and as each day passes my thoughts are turning homewards more and more, mainly because it has started to dawn on me how much work is involved in picking your life up again after you decide to park it for half a year and do a runner to a tropical country. I have, for example, discovered that if I want to do my teacher training at primary level next year, my application has to be in by December 1, two days after I land back in the UK. Reality bites, as they say.

However, there’s still a lot of living to be done in six weeks, and things are gearing up for the living to be good. The last week has been full to say the least, but I shall start at the beginning and try my best to include all the important bits.

I'm well handy, me

Things started taking a detour from the usual routine early last week. The guys here had been on about tidying up the house a bit in time for the next set of volunteers (glad they made the effort for me haha!) and needed to get a couple of extra beds to accommodate all six of us who will be here for November. When I told them the next group of four after Joanne were arriving on October 21^st and not early November as I’d been told, this sent everyone into a bit of a panic, and by the time I got home from school on Wednesday, not only had two new beds been purchased and delivered, but the house was in an advanced state of redecoration, with paint and furniture everywhere and a large chunk of the extended Bryan family clutching a brush. There was nothing else for it really but to grab a roller and pitch in. By Thursday evening, the whole house was painted, save a shower block where Crazy was meticulously chiseling a shower pipe out the wall to replace a broken tap, and by the time Joanne arrived mid-day Friday, the place was spotless. But more about that anon.

Alex dressed as Alexander Bustamante

It was a bit of a different week at school as well as Jamaica celebrated Heritage Week in the run up to National Heroes Day on 17^th October, a public holiday dedicated to seven individuals honoured for their role in creating the modern free, independent Jamaica. The celebrations included each class performing dramatic scenes from key moments in Jamaica’s long and painful road to nationhood – the Maroon Wars fought between escaped slaves and the British, the civil disorder that led to Emancipation following the abolition from slavery, the political struggle for independence itself – culminating in a morning of singing, dancing and performances about the lives of the seven heroes on Thursday, which was also dubbed ‘Bandana Day’. Being a bit of a tit, I thought when the kids were told to remember to wear their bandanas, the teachers were referring to the pieces of patterned cloth that people wear around their head, neck, arm or sticking out their back pocket, and promptly rushed to Old Harbour to buy one in a fetching purple so I wouldn’t be left out. It turns out that ‘bandana’ is actually a traditional Jamaican costume comprised of a red check pattern. Thankfully I hadn’t walked to school with my bandana on my head and it stayed safely in my pocket out of sight for the day.

Bandana!

Coming from a country where anything resembling patriotism immediately gets horribly knotted up with debates over racism and the artificial conflicts between right- and left-wing politics, the uncomplicated attitude taken towards teaching kids to recognize and celebrate their heritage and national identity were at the same time refreshing and also a bit weird. It was really good fun, with all the kids dressed up in their costumes and fried breadfruit and bammy for lunch giving it a proper celebratory feel. But I realized as I watched that we had done nothing like this when I was at school  – all our holidays are religious rather than having anything to do with the heritage of our country, and then as now, St George’s Day was barely acknowledged, let alone celebrated. British history was still taught, but it had become terribly unfashionable to imply there was anything special or, god help us, to be proud about in our country’s past. In the performances the kids gave, I was watching one very good reason why – the history they acted out was British history, too, and their heroes throughout the ages had one common enemy, the British settlers, planters and colonial authorities who enslaved, degraded, impoverished and dispossessed the ancestors of the vast majority of today’s Jamaicans. Not much there to be proud about I agree, but are the evils of the Empire really reason enough to abandon British/English heritage to the bigots and idiots who use it as a tool to divide rather than unite?

I like the fact that Jamaicans are, on the whole, proud of being Jamaican. I don’t like the idea of people being ashamed of where they come from, or feeling awkward about their pride, nearly as much as I can’t stand people claiming that they have some kind of ownership over a particular lump of land that gives them the right to lord it over other people. It isn’t about countries, nations, us v them, ‘belonging’ to one place or another. I see it as being proud of one of the fundamental things that make us human, the things we share in common with other people – the landscape we grow up in, the way we talk, the food we eat, the shared histories of our communities. That was what I was watching in the children’s performances on Thursday, not some mindless, tribal flag-waving – it wasn’t about defining ‘us’ by also defining a ‘them’, the way the shithouses in the BNP, EDL and all the rest try to do by describing who does NOT qualify as British in their blinkered eyes. It was about Jamaicans of all backgrounds – African, Indian, Chinese and European – learning about and acknowledging the often painful facts of their island’s past as a source of shared pride and strength. I think we miss that badly in Britain – it’s like we’re so paranoid and obsessed about issues of identity that we forget the whole point, that it’s all about shared, communal experiences, bringing people together, not forcing them apart. If you take any kind of pride in your own personal history as the product of your family, your friends and the communities where you have lived and grown up, is it not just as ok to occasionally acknowledge and share the history of the country you live in, no matter how made up national borders might be?

The Marlie Mount Cub Pack

And as I was to find out, it’s not like anyone is excluded, not in Jamaica anyway. Despite my obvious association with the nasty white British men who most of the heroes were pitted against in the dramatic scenes unfolding on the quadrangle, I was afforded the honour of leading the cub scouts on their march up to the flag pole for the ceremonial unfurling of the national flag. Unfortunately, I had missed the practice drill two days earlier when a soldier Ms Frith knew had come in to put the boys through their paces, although his intervention didn’t have much of a noticeable impact – when I ran through it the next afternoon, the boys still couldn’t decide as a group which leg was definitely left and which was definitely right, with the result that I had about as much chance of trying to get a bunch of wild cats to march in time through thick fog. So I was feeling pretty self-conscious about leading a raggity group of boys in front of the entire assembled school to salute the flag and sing the national anthem – it was like a test of my worthiness to be considered a citizen, if I screwed it up I’d not only embarrass myself, Id be insulting the heritage of an entire nation during a solemn and important ceremony. As one teacher kindly put it after we’d shuffled and stumbled our way through the march and grand unfurling, it was ‘a little rough but we got through’. I’ll take that and run, thank you very much. And hey, this is Jamaica, it’s not like any one minds – no problem, man, welcome to the party.

So much for my contributions to Jamaican heritage and the worldwide cub scouting movement – on the flipside, I might not be able to march, but I’m proud of the fact that I’ve written and taught my cubs a new song, a re-write of ‘In the Jungle’ from The Lion King to tell the story of The Jungle Book and cub scouting (not quite as good as Captain Hotknives’ classic about the racist jungle, but slightly more suitable for 8 year olds). I’m toying with the idea of learning to play Bare Necessities for them this week.

Jayvan & Joanne ready to party

School finished at lunchtime Thursday for a four-day holiday weekend, with the imminent arrival of Whitey 2 the following day. After four-and-a-half months out here on my own, it had crossed my mind that it might feel strange having someone from back home here. There were no guarantees that I’d get on with another volunteer, and besides, I was facing an invasion of my space – I’ve carved out a neat little niche for myself here, why would I want anyone else coming in and disrupting it? I even had to move out of the room I’ve lived in for the last four months to make way for the new arrival, as I will be sharing the big room with three other lads who arrive next weekend.

Fortunately, I knew from the previous weekend in Black River that I was not going to have any issues getting on with Joanne, she’s a lovely, warm, genuine and outgoing person, easy going and happy to take the experience here at face value for what it is, without and expectations or prejudices - exactly the sort of person you’d want to meet in these circumstances. And I’ll be honest, having someone from back home to talk to and hang out with feels good – the facts of geography and culture will always mean you share more in common with people closer to home, it just makes conversation flow that little bit easier. It is also nice to have someone to share the experience of volunteering with, to laugh with when strangers chat you up in the street and kids tell you you look the same because you’re white, and to get out and about to do things with. One thing I’ve found difficult in seeing the rest of the island so far is that I’ve usually had a choice between going off on my own or paying for someone to go with me, neither of which have always been feasible or appealing. And even the house feels different – it doesn’t feel like I’m living with a Jamaican family so much, and although I’ve enjoyed that, little things like the water not running out and the dishes being done more often are very welcome.

Bad Bwoy

As luck would inevitably have it, hopes of throwing off the shackles and welcoming Joanne with a bang were dampened by the fact that she arrived in the middle of a torrential two-day downpour which ruined any chances of doing much. If you’re wondering why a little rain should stop us going anywhere or doing anything, the truth is that in Jamaica there is no such thing as ‘a little rain’ – it only has one setting and that is absolutely lashing it down, the kind of rain that soaks you as much from the splashes made by the giant-sized droplets as they land as by direct contact. You’re only choice is to sit tight indoors and wait it out, which is what we did until Sunday, giving Joanne ample opportunity to meet the family, learn about Jamaican food, drink rum and be bugged to hell by the kids. The rain did stop long enough to go next door on Friday where a party was being kept – I say ‘party’, but in truth me, Joanne, Jayvan and Crazy had the place to ourselves, huddled under a tarpaulin and singing along to Mavado songs as they were belted out full blast on the sizeable sound system just for us.



You're On TV, Love...



By Sunday, the clouds were cleared and the sun was hot once again (the previous two nights I’d slept without a fan AND with a sheet over me, a sure sign of the onset of winter), and we would have gone to the beach if it wasn’t for the fact that my laundry situation was now critical, having been delayed for several days by the rain, and needed to be addressed immediately. The rain had also brought an unexpected guest – after all my efforts to see a crocodile in Black River the week before, by Sunday there was an excited clamour that a croc had been found in the gully that runs at the back of our yard. It was true and all – small and very much dead, but definitely a crocodile washed up on the bank near the bridge yards from our house. I’d previously taken stories about crocs being seen in that gully with a pinch of salt, but now I might just be a bit more careful where I walk at night.

Any feelings of guilt I might have been harbouring about Joanne being stuck in the yard for most of her first weekend were dispelled by news of a pool party on Sunday night. I’d been to a pool party at the same place before – no one bar the hostess got into the pool, and few people from the small crowd bothered to dance – but beggars can’t be choosers, and we needed something to do. Being the night before a public holiday, it was actually quite busy, although no one went near the pool this time. After my enthusiastic descriptions of the ‘dutty whine’ and other such dancehall mating rituals, Joanne was understandably disappointed by how little x-rated dancing went on, mainly because the girls seemed unusually shy and reluctant to gyrate their posteriors in the general direction of whatever members of the opposite sex happened to be at hand. It was instead left to the boys to get the party started, first with a group of three or four lads doing some pretty impressive synchronized dance routines, then copied by groups all around the place. They all must practice for hours to get so good, and there’s obviously a lot riding in terms of local pride on being the crew with the tightest and baddest moves (it probably also helps get girls – one of the only lads lucky enough to have it ‘backed up ‘pon him’ was a little chap of about 15 whose ability to throw shapes in times with his mates earned him the amorous attentions of one girl). Anyway, it was a fun night, and I got more drunk than I’ve been in a while, probably something to do with the fact that I decided to buy a flask of rum for the road and promptly downed it with Jayvan in about 10 minutes. Well, I’ll be home soon, I need to get in pub shape again.



Hellshire Beach

What wasn’t quite so much fun was getting up early the next morning after about four hours sleep to go to the beach. I’ve been wanting to go to Hellshire Beach, the other side of the Portmore Bight isthmus from Old Harbour, ever since I arrived here, as it is both the nearest beach and the beach of choice for Kingstonians, with a reputation for some serious weekend partying. Waking up with a fuzzy head and a bad case of rum mouth wasn’t ideal preparation, but I took strength from the fact that Jayvan had suffered far worse, his night having ended in him being sick on the kitchen floor, and he only just managed to drag himself out of bed at the last minute to come along with us.



Hellshire, again

For reasons I don’t entirely understand, Hellshire Beach isn’t well served by taxis or busses from anywhere except Kingston, and is a bit of a mission to get to. It is well worth it, though – the beach itself isn’t the prettiest or the biggest you’ll ever see, but it is uniquely Jamaican, with nearly the whole length of the beach crammed with brightly painted bars and fish joints packed tightly together, hand-made rough wooden loungers huddled in the shade under their awnings to be used by proprietors to lure in their punters. The beach is protected by the current of the open sea by a small reef a hundred yards or so out, while over to the left, beyond the small promonotory where the coast curves round out of sight, you can see Kingston spread out under the Blue Mountains out across the bay.

Ice Jelly (fresh coconut water)

It was a gorgeous day, a strong sea breeze taking the edge off the heat of the sun, a soundtrack of 90s club classics and disco anthems thumping out of the soundsystem at Prendy’s Bar. While Joanne and Jayvan treated themselves to a full fried fish dinner (or, to be more accurate, Joanne treated Jayvan), I got sweet-talked by one of the bar owners to get some food at her place. Explaining I didn’t eat fish or meat, I instead ordered four huge festivals and bottle of cold Guinness, a more than satisfactory meal as far as I was concerned. However, still incredulous that I could turn down his wife’s fish, the owner’s husband started to quiz me in depth about my diet and why I didn’t eat flesh. Finally, still not satisfied with my answers, he got down to the nub of his concerns – ‘But him CYAN’T fuck him woman if him no eat meat!’ Enlightened, I hurried back to call my brother to boast about being sat on the beach while England shivered in the first cold snap of the coming winter.

By the time we left at about 4pm, Joanne having successfully disengaged herself from the attentions of a middle-aged shop owner from Spanish Town, the beach was absolutely heaving, the rum was starting to flow freely and there was a carnival atmosphere that I reckon will have lasted well into the night. If only I could spend every day on the beach.