Day 4, “Roots”: Jamaica 2012,
SCIIIx (LOTSWild)
Before
I completely leave Day three let me just say the German Bar was cool. I walked past it and saw the flag. It drew me in because there were only 2
people sitting there, on the cliff, and cheeseburgers were $350J. I was also curious as to what defined a
German Bar. I hoped they might be
playing techno or something, but the flag was the only thing I could discern as
being distinctly German. Maybe some
German people were hanging out somewhere else, LOL, also part of the
question. I overheard a fellow at the
bar lamenting about his sailboat which he used to keep tied right there off the
cliff. A hurricane smashed it along with
his hopes of renting it out. He ended up
being the owner of the bar. His son,
back in South Carolina, worked at or ran the Charleston Sailing School, one of
the places I have considered for more advanced sail training – with an eye
toward captaining my own ocean worthy vessel one day. As I found myself more and more at home with
this fellow, the cheeseburger, and Red Stripes the title of the bar vexed me
more. I left not having any idea why it
was the German bar. Well, I don’t know,
isn’t Burger a German word?
So
officially on to the next day;
One
of the things I really enjoy about staying with the Jamaican people is the
sharing of what I call roots culture.
That’s sort of a catch all phrase that has different meanings depending
on all sorts of backgrounds and assumptions.
I’ll define it as things that do the following; define a geographical
cultural area, encourage both self-sufficiency and awareness of total
dependency on natural cycles and the Earth, and expose the strengths and
vulnerabilities of a certain group.
Farming, for example, bonds people of a geographical region, it promotes
both dependence on greater things and a fierce self-reliance. It showcases an intimate knowledge of the
land and plants and can also mean distance from trends, the in-thing, or an
absence of certain education. Let’s put
this in really plain language; hillbillies.
While some may choose to return to the holler after lengthy travels and
educational pursuits, some never left.
But they can build a car, shoot anything that moves, grow great corn,
and be wonderfully genuine. Now add a
little bit of history, the passing of knowledge from generation to generation,
and the strange disconnection that most of us in the modern world have
experienced from such things, and you get;
Roots. Grounding, anchoring,
solid. They are what hold us steady when
storms want to rip us up, be they political, financial, whatever. They are carriers of civilization, these
roots. Existing closer to a more
primitive lifestyle, for the most part, they are available and useful as the towers
of Babylon shake and move with the wind.
They are your family history, your language, your people, and even more
fascinating the things that YOUR people had in common with MY people. Real oneness, and real diversity, without a
political mandate. Sorry – HA! I’ve done
well so far, just be glad you don’t have to read my college papers.
So
Mary’s neighbor Ronnie is a fellow I knew from back in the day. In fact, one of his daughters saw us training
out in the yard one morning and remembered me.
It’s hard to believe - the memory of Jamaican people for faces. For her it was perhaps more; on our first
trip we were learning roots knowledge from a Rasta - things like natural
medicines from plants. Ronnie was
panicked about a worsening infection in his daughter’s foot from a nasty glass
cut or something. We treated her to the
best of our ability using this old knowledge since he couldn’t afford a doctor
and she got better. Now she is 24 years
old, she was 14 when I had known her then.
Her dad Ronnie is a tough dude fallen on hard times. He is one of the squatters – folks who moved
into the Negril backwoods long ago, before any interest in deeds and titles,
and built a house. Some houses were,
still are, little wooden sheds with a dirt yard. Others, like Ronnie’s, are fairly complex
concrete structures built to survive the next hurricane and resist nature’s
onslaught on Sun and rain. Some of these
locals have managed to sell their parcel to foreigners who then discover the
seller has no deed or title. Even more
interesting is how some locals have sold the same piece of land to different
foreign buyers over and over and over. But
when they are given the chance to purchase the land from the government they
have to pay up or be removed. That
removal is in process now, has been, and will continue to be for a while. Ronnie is on the edge. He is trying to sell his place for $100,000US
but doesn’t own it. The government is
going to evict him shortly unless he can pay the actual price of $20,000 each
for two lots. When he’s gone they will
bulldoze his buildings so he has no claim to the property and someone will
finally have a piece of paper that looks as official as you can get in
Jamaica.
Someone
hit Ronnie in the face with a pipe not too long ago so most of his vision is
shot in one eye. The other eye isn’t
great. He walks with a cane and a severe
limp, remnants of some accident that left his leg shattered and scarred. His constant pain is what brought us together
for our meeting this morning, my fourth day.
He asked if I had any pain reliever, and I did – BC powder or Goodies
(looks great at an airport security check let me tell you). It’s a critical part of my first aid plan
since I get migraines on occasion that wipe me out. I gave him two powders. I later learned he made a salve with them and
rubbed them on his leg, easing the pain for the first time in weeks. I said, “Try eating them”, he made a
face. Well Ronnie offered to take Zach
and I up into the bush, to learn some history, some plant knowledge, good old
fashioned Rasta wisdom – Roots.
We
found ourselves weaving through a maze of trails that followed parallel to
White Hall Road up through some very African looking plains. A young man who called himself Junior also
joined us with his two kids. He was
taking his little girl for a walk to teach her “history and plants”. My kind of guy. There’s a lot to be written about Junior
later on, this was a momentous day!
There
was some minor exchange between Ronnie and Junior over us, the visitors. I think Ronnie was worried about losing us to
a charming new guide who would then also benefit from some potential tip, but
Junior responded that no such thing would occur. All but 20-30% of the conversation, remember?
Heh heh. I was a little more sensitive
to not run off and leave hobbling Ronnie and his one eye when we saw the Cotton
Tree. Ronnie explained that National
Geographic had studied the tree and taken samples of it. Rumors surrounded it as regards wishes,
healing, and special properties, as they would any living thing that had
survived over nine centuries, perhaps ten.
The branch I sat on was as large as virgin forest trees back home – many
times what I could reach my arms around.
Junior displayed a wide base of knowledge doing very much what I love to
do back home; picking leaves to eat or smell, showing properties, odors,
tastes, and how to use different parts.
We gathered almonds planted at the base of a small castle long ago and
perused crumbling remnants of the Whitehall Great House. Rubber sap turned to, well, rubber, in our
hands and the mythical Leaf of Life found its way into our increasing bundle of
tea and medicine herbs.
On
our way home we visited some secret hangouts; rock overhangs with old car seats
for comfort, a cock isolation unit, and hand built tarp frames. Yes, a cock isolation unit is where you put
diseased male fowl so they don’t infect the flock. As it turned out Junior operated, in addition
to his massive charcoal production system, the local cockfighting ring – in his
yard. The thing was complete with a huge
cage, concrete walls, elevated seating and a tin roof; amenities he described
as “creative, different, something unusual to set I apart from the all the
others.” Little did I know what a big
deal it was!
His
charcoal was produced the same way we do it in the mountains, by burying
hardwoods and burning them sans oxygen then digging out the charred wood. It sold to restaurants and handcart boys,
roadside meat cookers and the like. Here
is a man who knows how to wield a machete.
Junior was a first rate farmer, too.
He understood pollination, hydration, soil, sun, and fertilization. So much so that his little abode surrounding
the UFC (ultimate fighting cock) Cage was dotted with peppers, corn, yams, and
beans. I told him about cock fighting
back home, that it was illegal but folks still do it. Especially where I live. We talked about farming, and children.
After
we returned to the hill I asked Kevin, a primary caretaker and assistant on the
hill, what a good tip for these fellows would be. His response; “Five US would be ok but ten
would make him really happy.” I felt
like Junior was a good guy to know and wanted to establish him as a contact for
future potential camps and visitors, a guide of sorts and trusted fellow. “Fifteen”, came Kevin’s response. Jamaicans
take care of one another, and references and tips find their way back home soon
enough. Zach and I pitched $10 US a
piece in as a thank you, a move that somewhat shocked Junior I later found out. Sometimes, though, a good connection is like
the credit card commercial: priceless.
Anything I needed that Junior could provide was in reach, now or later. More importantly I met someone I could
consider a friend and invest in that both now and in the future. I had a good feeling about him. Ronnie…well, we didn’t forget him, all he
asked for was a few smokes and a shot of rum.
I learned he had a growing credit balance at the little roadside store
so I did what I could there before leaving.
___________
Learning
to get a taxi seems like an easy thing, right?
It is. In fact it’s hard not to
get a taxi since every other car beeps at you to see if you want a ride
somewhere. Beginners, however, may
benefit from a short tutorial. I’ll use
our jaunt on Day 4’s evening as the learning context.
Downtown
Negril is marked by a noticeable road feature called the Square, or the
Roundabout. The Roundabout is just like
it sounds; roads converge from 3 directions, drivers yield to those already in
the circle and you continue around it until you exit in your desired
direction. Don’t think that means
driving it yourself is a piece of cake, but that’s the theory anyway. The place is a central hub of Negril
activities. It’s usually bustling with
all sorts of things; money changers, fruit vendors, a supermarket, bank, sugar
cane carts, and lots of people catching rides.
If you think of Negril as a wheel, and the roundabout a hub, it’s a
certain small fee from anywhere to the hub, or from the hub to anywhere. To go from one place through the hub to another place is like traveling from one spoke
of the wheel to another. It’s twice the
price of just getting to the center. For
that reason I often walk to the roundabout, or get a ride to the roundabout and
walk from there to my destination. If
time or body function limits walking then I check my budget to double the
fare. The going rate as of February 2012
was around $100J for any given one way local distance to or from the
roundabout, that’s about $1.25US at the current rate of exchange. When I hear an approaching car or van beep
behind me I shake my head without looking so they know to pass on by, but if I
want a ride I just point a finger out.
Most of the time I’ll shout my price at the driver and where I want to
go to make sure we’re on the same page before I get in, especially if it’s
something unusual or for more than one person (listed price above is per
person).
Brian, Chris,
and I walked down the long dusty Whitehall Road, turned left onto the highway
that heads toward the roundabout, and flagged a taxi. Our goal, or my goal anyway, was some place
on the cliffs toward the West End that had a good stereo, cheap drinks, and
most important a place to swim. I
couldn’t remember any specific places other than Rick’s Café which is
internationally famous, and Xtabi. “600J
to Rick’s Café”, I called to a driver who stopped for us. He nodded.
We climbed in, ever alert to the stream of motorcycles and cars whizzing
by and beeping. Zoom! Off we went. If there’s room expect the driver to cram
another passenger or two in, drop someone off, get another, and so on. If you live in a big city this is old news
but for a country boy like me it’s quite the novelty. Walking the road out to the west end is fun
on one hand but has some dangerous curves with tight concrete walls – it takes
some thinking and alertness to keep from getting run over. A buck might be worth your leg.
Before we get
into Rick’s I want to hit another point on Taxis. One afternoon coming home from the beach a
driver called out “Taxi?” as I walked past.
I shook my head assuming his price would be too much – he was hanging
out in the park right past the resort area – a shaded grove of trees and grass
where Jamaicans often visit for holiday.
I was headed to the roundabout to save money. He insisted I talk to him – here’s the fine
line that’s a hard study. You cannot get
hung up by every person that wants to sell something or talk, but it’s universally
rude to just walk away. On my first few
days I walked away from more than a few folks.
This guy reminded me to slow down and show more respect for others; a
lesson that turned out favorable later in the trip many times over. He said $500J to my destination, I shook my
head and turned around. He yelled, a bit
forcefully, “Hey, come talk to me.” I decided to, I mean, he’s either going to
change his price or not, I don’t have anything to lose. He asked what I wanted to pay, “$200J”, I
told him. “Get in”, he said. Well, that
was easy. I looked at him closely - I
could kill him if I had to. You probably
think I’m kidding. On the ride he said,
“Don’t walk away from someone when they are talking to you.” And it seemed like
sincere advice, not a reprimand. It was.
He was appreciative for the work and doing what he could to make as much
as possible, that was all. I apologized
and explained how hard it is, as a tourist or visitor, to NOT offend someone
given the demands of the environment, the hassles, the lack of understanding
culture and language, and the constant need to push folks aside. He
also understood these things and we seemed to connect from one true person to
another, all details aside. And that’s
where the deeper secret is.
Can you reach communication,
intuitively, without words, without getting hung up by station or skin color,
language or even superficial actions, dress or worth? The Jamaicans are there, ready to receive,
ready to relate, but we have been taught to send shallow signals, not the deep
transmissions of a partly telepathic people.
Roots; what MY people and YOUR people have in common.
NOT what was at Rick’s Café!
LOL. Zach said, “This must be where all
the white people hang out.” Ha! Sure, and that’s not all bad. Sometimes a stranger in a strange land can
benefit from a company of peers. The
place was slam packed with all aged visitors, drinks were expensive, and the
smiles were not warm. But, for what it
was, it was cool. I just wanted a place
to swim. I pushed through the crowd and
found a view of the divers. These hard
bodies really put on a show. I haven’t
heard Brian talk about anything on the whole trip as much as these guys jumping
into the water from high places. And
sure, it’s impressive, but I wanted to do the jumping and wasn’t excited about
the massive crowd or the pushy tip seekers that demanded money for jumps and to
simply watch the jumpers. Give me a
break.
I followed the stairs down to
the water – that blue, clear, hypnotic liquid that called to all the sore spots
and stiff joints in my body. I had been
sticking to my hammock and tent floor.
Not from sweat but from that “scratch” I took the first night, on my
back. Somewhere in the scratch was
something more like a hole, and it wasn’t fully healed. The trip to the ocean was more than idle
pleasure, it was medicine – I needed to get that thing healed up quick. Much to my horror there were guys at the
bottom asking for tips there too, just to swim.
You have got to be freaking kidding – and of course they were asking
stupid prices. Well, I did my thing and
got them down to $100J, the Universal ‘at least you’re giving me something’
barter, and started shedding layers. I
had a sinking feeling though, this wasn’t at all what I was going for. “Is this what Negril had become?” I thought
to myself. Sick.
The water took
my worries. It took my stress, my
questions, even the sting in my back.
For a moment I was free floating – mindful of the dropping bodies from
cliffs on high, just above, but quite blissed.
About that time a man yelled, “Hey! Go round da corner mon.” Confused, as I often seemed to be, I acted
like I knew exactly what he was talking about and pointed around the rock
cliff. “Ya mon, stay close.” He jumped
in beside me and motioned to stay next to the rocks. I hardly had time to wonder why when BOOM! A
heavy body hit the water a few feet to the right. Oh yeah, the cliffs. Turning the corner I swam to a small cove with
rocks jetting up out of the water. This
was nice. The fellow gave me a hand up
onto a rock adjacent to his own. He
smiled, legit. No crowds, no eyes, no
nothin’ but blue water and serenity.
Here came his buddy, “Ok, it’s on”, I thought. Naa. I
can’t carry money in the water, they should know that. But then the man who invited me around the
corner whipped out a wad of Jamaican bills, the water didn’t slow him down a
bit. The two argued for a second over
who had actually seen me first, unaware that I followed every word. Smiley said, “I’ll take you through the
cave.” Go with the flow Spence, just feel it out and roll. I was so past spending any money at this
point and made that clear and said that deep sea caverns with mermaids wouldn’t
get more than $100J out of me. He was
disappointed at first but didn’t give me any crap, and then perked up and said,
“I’ll take you anyway, come on mon!” I
guess he was tired of hustling drunk would-be swimmers up the stairs – I can’t
imagine. So in we went.
Each 15 second period of time
was marked by a rapidly increasing awareness that this whole cave thing was
pretty sick. As in ill. You know, a good thing. There was some needed instruction happening
as he described where to put each foot and what to hold on to. We left the open sea through a small fissure
that went from surface level to far overhead, scarcely wide enough to squeeze
through sideways. The gentle waves gushed
and gurgled below my feet, glowing an iridescent blue, being the only source of
light in the darkening interior. Before
long I couldn’t see my feet and we had to step across a water hole about 3 feet
across. “Jump in here”, he said. I looked closer, downward. Why would I jump into water of an unknown
depth in a black cave lined with sharp rocks in every direction? He knew what I was thinking. “It’s sand, there’s a beach back here.” I chuckled as I saw myself in this character,
the guide. My summer camps are filled
with these types of things, pushing comfort zones, habitats I call home and places
I love, and know, so alien to outsiders and rich with awe and a touch of
fear. I hopped into the water and hit
invisible sand about two feet down. Now
it was fun. We walked on into the
blackness and sat down on a beach so dark all I could see was the faint blue
glow of the ocean sneaking in under the rock wall. I was thinking to myself, “Man, this would be
a great place to – “, when he said, “OK!”
Ok what? He waded to the black
wall, underlined by a gurgling liquid sky, and said (not exactly what I was
hoping for), “Come right after me, don’t wait, go right when I go, ok?” . . .
“And stay low, down by the sand.” Uh.
Swoosh, he was gone. Under the
rock wall, back out through the cave, except, under the cave. I got down on my knees and looked
through. I could almost imagine getting
a breath in the little pockets of air below the rock and water, slowly,
carefully. Then a wave filled the entire
cavity forcing me back a few feet and positively dashing any hopes of having some
breathing room in the narrow passage below and between the stone surfaces. No problem, this guy ends up in here with
people more inebriated than me, I got this.
So I did, and it was raw. As in
really good.
After it was over I told my
guide about Chris and offered him $5 US to take the young lad through just as
he did me, but to keep a closer eye on him.
Chris was up for the challenge. I
saw that the experience really was worth a tip and was impressed that the
fellow took me for a dollar. I think
Chris’ experience was equal to or greater than my own. The flock of Jamaicans huddling around the
water’s edge asked me again for a tip to swim, I was done with it. I dismissed them with an air of boredom,
tired of their questions. That unlocked
something, “Where you stay?” asked one of them.
This loaded question says everything about who you are and what
resources you have, who you know, and what you are looking for. I never give exact details for security
reasons but usually answer, “Up Whitehall Road, Good Hope.” Puzzled looks are the most common
response. “Who you know up dere, where
you stay?” “You know where dey have dem
cockfight?” I said, “There’s one tonight.”
Suddenly the guy erupted in a flurry of motion and words calling out to
all the other men around the water, climbing the cliffs, signaling in a hard to
follow announcement that a cock fight was happening up Whitehall Road this
evening, and they should all go. More
than a few faces turned my way, “Who dis white guy dat knows about da cockfight?” Heh heh.
Let them wonder. I turned and
climbed the long, stone, staircase up to the Café in search of my party.
After watching a few more superb
athletes fall into the water to the roar of the crowd we turned our attention
to the sunset. That glorious feature of
west Jamaica – low clouds, a rainbow of color, reflection on the water – our
company at the café grew more silent as cameras snapped and fires grew along
the water’s edge. We left Rick’s, not to
return. I took the guys by Blue Cave
Castle and also showed them Winton’s sister’s place. A funny thing happened, like a level-up in
this strange reality video game. I asked
a woman to make a phone call and apologized for only having $20J, which is
around a quarter in US currency. She
looked at me, almost offended but not, probing to see whattagowan wi dis. I said in thick accent, “Sorry sistren, it
all I have, local call.” Chris and Brian
waited in the wings. As she came around
and began to fish her phone out of a bag a street Rasta sitting down near her,
in front of a little wooden shop, said, “Him ruff, him a ruff mon.” The woman
looked at me again, with different eyes.
I stared at the Rasta, “Respect bredren.” He nodded and ripped off some
fast patois about how I was a Jamaican to the woman who kindly gave me the
phone. I found a hundred J in my pocket
and gave her after the call, just as a thank you. The Rasta called out as I was leaving, “You
know tings mon, good tings.” I
nodded. Once again I felt that deep
connection, the language beyond words that happens so quick on the jungle
island. I have pondered since that night
what he was talking about. I think if I
make something up and it feels right in the heart, it is right. Maybe dems da tings I know.
Before we draw day 4 to a
restful close; sword forms and all, I’ll share Chris’ yoga lesson. Winston had a surprising background of
experience and education that I would never have expected. I perceived through his excitement about
martial arts that his story was true; he had trained at various martial arts
academies throughout the west Indies and was a full on Yoga Instructor. Winston, meet Brian, top shelf martial artist
and former school owner in the Iyengar Yoga system. Your people, my people. There in the quickly fading light of a golden
sunset, along the cliffs, Winston and Chris assumed the Lotus position and
discussed body mechanics, breathing, and other stuff. I stared out at the black water and was moved
by the mystery of it all. That, and
getting back home with these guys.
“600J, Whitehall
Road!” “Where?” “Up by the cockfight.”
“Oh ya mon, you a go up dere by da cockfight?” “True.” “Ya mon get in.”
