During the first few months after I first arrived in Jamaica (in Kingston), I knew very little about Rastafarians or their religion, but was very curious. I wasn't quite as uninformed as some I have met here in Colorado, who think Rastas soak their hair in mud then never wash it, worship marijuana, maintain harems, and participate in sacrifices, but still I had a lot to learn.
Lloyd Hamilton, then a co-worker at an advertising agency in New Kingston, began telling me all he knew during our evening and weekend excursions into the country. There came a day when he began to tell me about a "Rasta Camp" east of Kingston a couple hours, where Rastafarians had a communal lifestyle, without machines or technology, living separate from the world and its evils like true Nazarenes. Said he, they lived in harmony with nature and each other according to the details of the Old Testament/Talmud laws, which few anywhere can manage, except possibly for Hassidic Jews. This I had to see, in this modern world with all its temptations, luxuries and conveniences.
So Lloyd set it up for me with friends, to spend a few days in their camp learning and living and writing down all I experienced for posterity. This short story is an encapsulated summary of those experiences.
We set off early one Saturday morning from my home in the Norwood area of Kingston, on Shortwood Close, heading East toward Bull Bay. Lloyd had never been to the camp himself, so was to spend the day there at Nine Mile with me, and if he felt confident I would come to no harm, leave me for six days to pick me up before sundown the following Friday. Sunset Friday to sunset Saturday was their Sabbath, when NO work was to be done, including operating machinery such as cars. Lloyd explained how much argument he'd had to provide for them to allow us to show up on Saturday before sunset, but that had been necessary as the "road" up the hill to the camp was barely passable in full daylight and treacherous at night. Lloyd had a prior engagement for the Sunday so Saturday was a must.
It was a balmy morning, not to sound cliche, but there was a lovely breeze and it was around the low 70's, because I remember the 7-9 a.m. period being just blissful, driving along the coast road in semi-silence absorbing the sights, sounds and smells, especially after the section of our route from Barbican Road, down Mountain View Avenue and as far as Old Harbour, which, even at 6 on a Saturday morning, is crowded, dirty, and noisy; bus stops gathering crowds, goats rifling piles of jackfruit skins, empty mackerel tins, and cane scraps; vendors calling out, hawking their wares, "Stttttaaar! Stttttaaaar! . . . . Skkkkkyjuice! Skkkkyjuice!"
Getting out of Town to the East, driving along the hairpin turns of the coast road with the breeze rustling the bamboo and palms, and some spots where you're close enough to watch and listen to the gentle waves along the shore, these are a welcome contrast to the bustle of the city.
I miss being so close to someone, mentally and spiritually, in such unity with someone like Lloyd, that we enjoyed each other's company just as intensely when we were silent as when we were speaking, exchanging ideas and witticisms about the world around us. I've had few relationships where I could sit in comfortable silence and not be wishing I was elsewhere, or with someone else.
So it was, that morning on the way to Prince Emmanuel's little village in the hills above Bull Bay. We were both excited about what we'd find there and stimulated by the newness of what we'd see and do, and maybe even a bit fearful or nervous about the adventure, since those in our circle, the silk ties, high heels Sheraton New Kingston soiree types, had all heard what we HOPED were tall tales about things that went on out there with the Rastas.
We turned off the coast road at a tiny red, green, and gold-painted board nailed to the post of the "official" road sign marking Nine Miles, which itself was just a small plywood, painted board. The road up the hill was worse even than we'd heard and we averaged only 3-5 miles an hour heading up it. Some damage was done to Lloyd's car which Grimax repaired later, never knowing exactly how and when the damage was done.
At last we could look up and see a great wall of red, green, and gold-painted bamboo topping a hill above us. I had never seen such a tall fence made of bamboo and Lloyd explained its construction to me-how tall bamboo can really get and how very strong it actually is. We parked down a hundred yards from the entrance and walked up. No easy task for me since I was wearing a full-length skirt, as instructed by Lloyd's friend who explained I would not be allowed into the camp for an hour, let alone a week, in my usual attire.
But we were allowed in at the gate, and were relieved we hadn't come so far for nothing. There was a small kiosk at the entrance, with shelves and wooden boxes on the shelves. Our watches and jewelry were removed by us, as our attendant was not permitted to touch them, especially on a Saturday. We also placed in the boxes our cameras, Lloyd's Swiss Army knife, and anything else metal, tool-like in nature, or in any way controversial to a devout Rastafarian. I was given a sort of scarf to wrap around my head ( I had wisely already worn my long hair in a bun on the back of my head). I remember the somewhat fearful look in Lloyd's eyes as he took a last look backward toward the wooden box in the gazebo that housed his wallet and car keys. Then they led us away to immediately pay our respects to Prince Emmanuel upon entering his commune.
We trod up a steep hill, the tallest in the walled compound, where sat the largest house in the compound; largest being a big front covered verandah, a front sitting room, and three small bedrooms, with detached kitchen alongside and outhouse to the rear. But it was a true house, compared to the others, in that it was constructed of lumbered wood, in contrast to the rough-hewn versions dotting the rest of the hillside inside the brightly-painted walls. One thing I noticed about those tall bamboo walls was that, even though they had separated themselves from the world, Prince Emmanuel's followers were not oblivious to it-the walls were painted the Ites colors only on the outside.
We joined Emmanuel and his wives for tea on his verandah. He surprised me, I hadn't realized he was quite so old. He was tall, about 6'3" as I remember, taller than my husband that I met years later (this is how I compare the height of all men I meet-if not their other "attributes" heh heh). Prince Emmanuel was very thin and had coal-black skin and snow white hair, including a snow white beard. This made for a very striking and memorable appearance. It also struck me impressively to see and meet his many wives, some as young as mid-teens, who seemed to nearly worship him. I guessed his age to be in the low 80's or at least upper 70's. I remember the question crossing my mind as to whether or not he was still able to make one of these girls his wife in the true sense of the word, or were they more trophies, offered out of respect by families he ruled, and accepted, despite the cost of feeding and clothing them, as symbols of his status and authority.
The Prince must have read my mind, or seen my thoughts through my eyes as I looked at the girls then at him. He began flirting with me and regaling me with a resume of his virility, that of a man a half-century his junior, so he claimed. Lloyd and I shared some amusement over this weeks later.
The official wives sat on the porch with us, but in silence, as Lloyd, I, Emmanuel, and a couple of his aides discussed politics, religion, and life in his commune. Lloyd and I were particularly interested in the governmental structure of his little village, which then housed several hundred souls. "Was it a democracy or a dictatorship?", was the question in our minds. As Emmanuel explained the hierarchy of the commune (there was one so it wasn't truly a communist commune), his unofficial concubines prepared a wonderful Ital meal for us.
I say prepared but it was more like laid out, as no cooking was permitted after sunset Friday, so the Sabbath meal was eaten fairly early on Saturday, and was a cool meal, sans oils and such, as no fires were to be made either. But it is amazing what one can learn to do, with weekly practice, to make raw fruits and vegetables into an appealing cool meal. There was also some sort of thick, cake-like, bread and rice concoction with syrup over it, as I recall. I have never since located the recipe for this or heard anyone discuss it, but I remember it was spicy and delicious, with an African sort of flavor. It must keep well, since it had been made on Friday and of course, no refrigerators or electricity existed at Nine Mile. It was a cross between bread and rice pudding but more solid and sweeter.
I'd love to have it in this website's recipe section. Oops, that sounded like a solicitation in the middle of a story!
After we dined on the verandah Prince Emmanuel retired for meditation. I was pretty sure that meant he needed a nap, belying his age, and since he was wise and intelligent in the two hours we'd conversed with him, I thought the siestas must be doing his brain some great good. One of his aides was instructed to take us on a tour of the compound, its huts and homes, its farms and even its plantation, outside the walls. Yes, of course there was a plantation! These were Rastas after all, and could not be expected to BUY their sacraments!
It got terrifically hot that afternoon and by the end of the tour we relished the cool shade on the porch of, let's call him BabaJohn (only because I just don't recall his name after all these years). He was a Rasta in his early 40's, with no wife, not even one, who had a decent wood home down the hill from the Prince's own. He also had a decent plot of land and there was some knee-high corn and a few bean vines and carrot and potato stalks viewable from his porch. Lloyd was completely relaxed in the environment by now, and I was getting that way myself. Lloyd stretched out in a hammock and I sat in a rattan rocker on the porch that BabaJohn proudly introduced as a work of his own hands. It was comfortable and did not collapse when I sat in it, and the squeek when I rocked was from old age or the wood floor boards I was sure.
With no more ceremony than any other Jamaican performed at times like these, BabaJohn cleaned, rolled and lit a massive ganja spliff. Lloyd and I looked at each other and laughed out loud. We had gotten to that point in our relationship, the reading each other's thoughts with a look point. So I don't know if we had thought there'd be some sort of Rasta version of a Japanese tea ceremony at The Lighting of The Spliff but we felt a little let down when he took his first toke, gave thanks to Jah! Ras Tafari! as he exhaled, and passed it on.
He wanted to know what was so funny and I told him with embarrassment that we expected more pomp and circumstance at the taking of the sacred herb. "No mon! Jah know! Each and every step of a mon life a ceremony." He tapped his chest. "I and I ah de temple of Jah Holy Spirit an every word, every ack of a mon is a worship unto de Mos' I."
Properly rebuked, I agreed with him, and mumbled something about how I hoped when all my actions were judged one day, there'd be more to my credit than to my fault. He then gracefully complimented me for having the courage and curiousity to come visit with them for a few days. He said they did get visitors on occasion, and I was nowhere near the first to stay over night, but never a woman; a white woman, and a Yankee to boot. So that comment and the respect that came from my courage and curiousity let me know why I was, over the next few days, allowed to speak, move freely, and offer opinions, which time in the camp revealed was not normally advanced to those of the female gender. There was a line that I crossed though, my fourth day in the camp, through no fault of my own, that made me an outcast and exile until rescued by Lloyd from the dungeon they locked me in. But more on that later.
After getting a nice high on, I felt no trepidation as I hugged Lloyd goodbye in the afternoon, and his own eyes were cherry red so he also felt no fear of me disappearing forever after he left me alone in the camp. BabaJohn and I had walked Lloyd back to the front gate. When I'd reached for Lloyd's things in his box at the kiosk to hand them to him, BabaJohn caught my wrist and held it. "No, Sister. Let de mon pick up im tings, you cannot, it not dark yet and oono one ah us now."
I cast a glance at Lloyd and he looked like he was having second thoughts about leaving me. "It's okay, I'm fine" I assured him, and Lloyd knew me well enough to know I did whatever I wanted and no one could stop me. "See you in a few days, babe." I added.
Life in the Jamaican bush after dark is De Bes! to me. Place your mind in this picture: It's pitch black, no electricty or lights for miles. You can see thousands of stars in the sky above and hundreds of peenie wallies as they flit around the camp at night. You could only tell the peenie wallies from the tips of the spliffs because their light was more yellow and higher in the sky. The darkness that first, no moon, night was so thick that as we sat on BabaJohn's porch talking and smoking, we could not make out even the outlines of the huts dotting the hillsides inside the camp. We only knew where they were from the bobbing orange glows on each front porch, and the low murmurs that floated along the breeze.
"All a dem a chat bout you dis night, lady." BabaJohn informed me. His daughter, about ten or eleven years old, looked up at me, then rubbed her fingers on my forearm. He scolded her and she went and sat just inside the open door. I let him know it didn't bother me, I was used to small children in Town rubbing my skin to see if the white would rub off. Strange as it may sound to say, but I sort of missed that in the nineties, when children in Jamaica have seen more white people and are generally better informed and educated than in the seventies. Jamaican children no longer grab your hand and rub your skin, and I always enjoyed the innocence and inquisitiveness of the look on their faces when they did it, so I miss it.
Over the following three days in the camp, I was kept very busy. Everyone wanted to meet me and talk with me. Several of the elders wanted to know what I knew, know what Yankees think of Rastafarians, was I a record producer interested in recording tribal/natural music, did I think the cause of RastaFari important enough to tell others about and spread the word to "the important people." And there were many who believed I should use my time there to learn as much as possible so there were Ital cooking lessons, bible sessions, parenting classes, and the strangest "church service" I've ever had the privilege of attending.
They called them meetings. Prince Emmanuel sat in a big chair up front and there were rows of benches; that was similar to most "churches." But the benches were spread to leave a big space in the middle and after the quiet and ceremonial beginning, the "service" involved smoking, dancing, and chanting. And they were interspersed with these sort of "prophesy" sessions from the Prince, when the drums would go low, the chanting become a murmur, and the dancing become a shuffle, while he spoke. Then it would all raise in pitch again like a fire stoked, until the next time everyone somehow psychically knew the Prince had something important to "prophesy." One thing I must say, take it with a grain of salt since it was pretty freaky, is that during his little speeches, his voice sounded completely different. I had talked with him many hours and gotten used to the sound of his voice and style of speech. Whether practiced or from some divine energy source within him, when he "prophesied" his voice was stronger, deeper, louder, more powerful and less inflective than his normal voice. It did still have a Jamaican accent though, so I guess God is Jamaican, not Hebrew.
During these first days I learned so much about the Rastafarian belief system. It was truly enlightening. I think in the early days of the "Movement," calling Rasta beliefs a "system" was not accurate. Their ideas were liquid, flowing through the crowds and individual parts adhering to many. There were some foundational ideas that ALL shared in those days about the sacred herb, not eating meat, natural living, Haile Selassie and their identity as the Lost Tribe, but the details were sort of fluid and were adopted and changed as befit the individual believer. Rastafarianism has since solidified and formalized, becoming another pillar in the temple of this planet's diverse belief systems. A particularly colorful and ornate pillar compared to some, like say, Methodists, of whom I grew up as one; a boring lot to say the least. Certainly no red, green, and gold satin turbans worn to meetings by Methodist "priests." And Jah know, no dancing in the aisles!
But on the morning of the fourth day in the camp a catastrophe transpired. That special visitor only women ever receive came to stay for a few days. It was something I'd known could happen so I had brought preparations. But being not completely versed in Talmudic Law, I hid nothing and the truth came out immediately upon completion of my morning hygiene.
I had not slept with BabaJohn, FYI, during the previous few days, despite his efforts and wonderful adeptness at seduction. I slept innocently next to his daughter in a narrow coir mat bed in the front room. I am not sure why he was not successful, he was genuine and literate and a real sweet talker, as virtually all Jamaican men carry this gene and develop it fully before puberty. But for whatever reason, probably loyalty to Lloyd as our relationship was still in that new and passionate stage, I abstained from the pleasures offered by my Rasta host.
This fact somehow escaped his daughter, who liked me on the one hand, as I whispered stories to her before sleep each night, but disliked me on the other hand, because he'd been paying less attention than usual to her. I gathered they'd gotten very close after her mother died and she was Daddy's girl. No not like that, Jeez, he was a good man, that BabaJohn. Jeez! Americans!
So anyway, that fourth morning I went to throw out my trash and though wrapped, my feminine protection was obvious and brought to BabaJohn's attention by his daughter. He promptly ushered me off to the Women's House. I have myself nearly convinced these days that he didn't do it as revenge for me failing to fall to his charms.
The Women's House consisted of a small one-room hut with no windows and a tin roof and matless wood bunks nailed to the walls. It easily reached 120 degrees in there under that tin roof in the afternoon. It had a small yard attached, with a high fence around it, and sitting there in the dirt under the sun (no trees or shade) baking was highly preferable to broiling in the little house during the peak afternoon hours. There was no opening in that little yard save the one gate, it was a mini-fortress, built to protect God's Men from the uncleanness of women.
Lloyd would not be back until Friday, no one else knew I was there, there was of course no telephone lines or cel service, woe is me. I spent 2 1/2 days in that hell and went through every stage of human emotion you can imagine; hate, anger, righteous indignation, racism, tears, stifling, soul-draining boredom, counting the seconds til Lloyd's rescue. I could not even talk to the other four women there because I'd thrown such a temper tantrum when they shut me in there that none of them would have anything to do with me. None of them could relate to what I was saying about this injustice because all of them had grown up in this commune and being sentenced to this house was something that happened 12 times a year and they just dealt with.
God knows how! No magazines or books, no games, no music, of course, since the only music in the whole camp was the drums and acoustic guitars they had. I watched them play their little games with twigs and rocks by the hour, wash themselves obsessively (they really bought into that "unclean" crap!) and talk to each other at a distance from me. I had no idea what they were saying and was too angry to care. I even hated them for an hour here and an hour there.
I was never before and have never been since, so GLAD to see a face as Lloyd's on that Friday. I was still bleeding so they brought him to the gate of the Women's House and would not let us hug or touch each other. They escorted us directly to the front gate and all along the way people came out and watched us from a distance, BabaJohn included, but no one spoke to us. Just before leaving I looked back, up the hill to where the Prince sat on his verandah, and I flipped him a bird. No one but Lloyd knew what I meant, it was not a Jamaican custom, so I left without assault.
When I look back on my visit I remember it fondly, but it took about two years to reach that point. I was angry a long time. The Women's House was a worse hellhole than Saint Jago de la Vega in Spanish Town, by far. And even worse, in a way, than #13 Barnett Street in Montego Bay. It was a monthly punishment for being a woman, a way for males to subjugate and dominate women, and an abuse that I only hope has not survived to this day.
I met a lot of good-hearted and intelligent people at Nine Mile with wonderful and creative ideas and philosophies. But the Women's House just again showed me clearly how quirky the human mind can be. I am sure the good Germans that went along with Hitler and the intelligent kool-aid drinkers that followed Jim Jones also had good hearts and creative ideas.
Moral: Always question, never accept, and never settle or allow. Let your inner voice guide you in all things. Because I cannot believe ANYONE'S inner voice told them to build the Women's House!
My first business in Jamaica was a store for locals in Orange Bay. During the many, many trips back and forth between Lauderdale/Miami and Negril/Orange Bay, I had accumulated quite a customer base for everything from motorcycle parts, to stereos, to shoes, to car tires. As I occasionally dated a certain MoBay customs man, I never paid import duties, even when I brought in tv's and refrigerators! Never once paid duty!
I thought I might turn a pretty penny bringing in items from South Florida for sale in my shop, as I had already made a bundle on that as a sideline to my other business. So I set up the house next to mine on the street to Negril with shelves and a counter and all, and went to the Flea Markets and discount stores of South Florida. I was making about a 400% profit on the items I'd bring back, obtained inexpensively at the world's largest swap meet in Fort Lauderdale, and still selling better quality items at half what their counterparts would sell for in Jamaica, if they could be obtained at all in Ja. I could bring back a pair of leather ites colors tennies for $12 that would be the equivalent of $100 US if bought in Kingston.
And about 1/2 my sales were "custom" orders. I could bring back an affordable silk dress for a woman in Logwood to wear to church, for the price of a cotton one in Ja. Of course, these ladies had never worn silk before and scrubbed it in the washpan with lye soap every time, despite my warnings. But at least they'd get one wear out of it. I usually lent them my camera for whatever event the dress was for. Well, okay, charged them a minimal fee but only so I didn't let them take me kindness fe weakness.
Things went along lovely in the store for awhile, and I made no export business, didn't have to. But there is one problem with a store for local Jamaicans in a tourism area-no money in the summer, not a dime. And being young and stupid, I hadn't calculated expenses for the slow times. As I wasn't about to touch the savings from the other business up in the States, I had to come up with something that would bring in the dunsa year round.
I was sitting on Jasmine MacGregor's balcony at Falcon Crest, and she, Leslie, and I were sipping rum and discussing possible uses for the store. Their suggestion was something crucial to life, something people HAVE to buy, year round. Music, clothing, shoes, toys, motorcycle and bicycle parts, all those are luxuries that you buy in season when tourist dollars flow. "But food" says Jasmine, "they can't live without." Leslie and Jasmine agreed that I should definitely open a little grocery in the shop, since I'd already brought fridge units down previously. Plus the Negril Ice Truck passed by here every morning on its way to town.
But I was still enjoying the faster-paced lifestyle and rep and couldn't see myself as the neighborhood grocer. "Too boring," says I, and I'd have to wear an apron! Any other ideas?" Leslie replies, with a sidelong glance at his wife Jasmine, "There is one other thing people never stop doing, even when dollahs a tight...drinking. You open a bar dung dere, the men'll stop by."
Now that was more up my street than bammie, mackeral, and Dettol. I latched onto that one and hired a team of men to set to work within the week.
The first thing I did was hire a dumptruck and haul in 6 loads of maul, since my home and the home for my helper and friend Suzy (God rest her soul) sat, literally, in a swamp. But we made solid ground there, which took a week to dump and spread (a week and cases of red stripe for the workers in the hot June sun).
I then hired a cement truck and we made a wonderful "lawn" behind and to the side of the shop. Nice smooth concrete and they did a wonderful job laying it. I then had a 40' x 60' concrete pad to enclose, which I thought would be plenty of space for any traffic I could hope for in that small town. Little did I know! I was soon to find out how many people actually live in the hills around Orange Bay!
I ordered a fence, a nice tall bamboo like the one in Bull Bay, for me to string lights along, like Tropics in Kingston, my inspiration for design. We stained it to weatherproof and color it and it looked very nice with the lights all along its top. I had tapped the house power for the shop/lawn so I had this wire running across that somehow became a popular perch for this filthy john crow. I think it was attracted by the grave of my dog, who'd been sent flying by a minivan out on the road. It was so sad! But the lawn looked nice, especially with the huge blue mahoe that overhung part of it, for shade in day and cover at night.
I had a 3' tall brass Unicorn statue then. I collected unicorns in my youth. I decorated the interior of the shop with the unicorn art, statues, curtains, etc. I had and had a couple nice signs painted for the main road, in each direction. "Marble's Unicorn Lawn"..."1/2 mile ahead."
The Lawn immediately became the early-morning Logwood bus stop, which honor had previously belonged to the bar/grocery down the road, but which opened later in the day then. I had some woodworkers build tables and chairs for me and I bought a dozen sets of dominoes in Lauderdale. I would drop Calypso (my daughter) to school in Green Island and place my liquor order there, then ride to Lucea to rent a couple karate videos or buy groceries for the shop and my home. It's amazing how much you can carry on a motorcycle (I had a blue 90cc rice burner) with strong handlebars and some good woven shopping bags!
I showed movies three nights a week with only a one drink minimum (rarely sold only one to anyone but that's psychology at work). Monday, Wednesday, and Thursdays it was Bruce Lee, Chuck Norris, Jean Claude Van Damme. All the local boys would come for the "show" on the tv, because videos and even 27" inch color tv's were a rarity in Jamaica in the 80's, especially in Orange Bay/Logwood.
I started hearing the rumors that the local females were getting pretty pissed at me. The married middle-aged men would come in the afternoons and play dominoes and drink, and the boys would come in the evenings. That was cutting into time and money spent on the local girls and even though I had many friends from things I'd brought from the States for cheap or free (I sometimes gave lagniappes for the kids of mothers who'd bought something) their patience with me wore thin.
So every night became ladies night at Marble's Unicorn Lawn, no cover, no charge for drinks with purchase of date's drinks. It worked too, but slowly. Til my first session, Woi! What a surprise!
I brought in two sound systems for a Clash at the Lawn on a Saturday night in the tourist season, November or Decemeber I think-I remember it being chilly after dark. The dj's were all locals from Lucea and Green Island; no one famous outside Hanover really. One was Suzy's brother, who was a talented dj as I recall. I had put up flyers and a few posters around Orange Bay, Logwood, and Green Island, and expected maybe 200 to show up. Still, Suzy and I slaved away and made curries and chowders and rice n'peas for 500-just in case. Bought liquors for 500 as well.
Some of you will be thinking, "Why didn't you advertise in Negril?" Well, frankly, neither the previous store, nor the current bar, were geared for a tourist clientele. That was my intention and I liked it that way. At that time I'd had enough of some of the Negril runnings and was perfectly content to serve Jamaicans. I remember thinking how funny it would have been if I'd put up a sign on the front of my bar "Blacks Only - Whites Drink Down the Road."
At any rate, my nightclub served some great food every evening, prepared wonderfully by Suzy, and some good herb, the best Westmoreland could offer, and good vibes. But our tables and chairs were planks, nailed and painted, and the atmosphere was strictly Yard Style. I didn't advertsie the dance in Negril because I did not want to lose my daily clientele behind a few tourists showing up at my dance making people uncomfortable or less comfortable. And I didn't want to have to smack around some snob from Boise that thought my seats should have cushions and I should stock St. Pauli Girl.
So Suzy, her family, (Miss Coolie made the veggies) and I geared up to serve about 500 max. But we had the 500 by dark, when the sound system was still doing sound checks. By 9:30 pm there were at least a thousand men milling around in the street listening to the music, and more coming all the time. But only about 20 couples were inside dancing. I had already broken even as the shop had front window/counters that opened onto the street and I was selling drinks and food to all the men who would not pay to come inside. But I started hearing the clink of coin in my head and realized how much money I could make if I could get those guys to go get the women and come inside (with a cover charge of course). I brainstormed with Terri, Suzy's son, and came up with an idea.
I jumped on my bike with a handful of US dollars and Mitchie in his brown Toyota in tow. We flew into Negril, to the beach, to Bigga's, a lean-to style restaurant on the beach in those days with some of the best food, especially fish, in Negril. We closed him down, fe real. We bought everything he could cook in 30 minutes and loaded it all into Mitchie's trunk. Then we went to Archway and Chicken Lavish and bought another 60 dinners (which we stretched to 90 in Orange Bay).
When we got back about 10:30 we put the word out that there would be free admission, dinner, and one drink to all Jamaican females that were attended by a paying guest. By 1 am the place was bursting and I thought the bamboo fence would fall down! We had to run to Negril twice that morning for more booze! I was excited and it was a great evening for me! And better still, I was back in the good graces of the local females, because I fed them and got them tipsy at no charge!
It was a lot of work putting together, keeping together, and cleaning up after (I slept til 7 pm that next day!) but we had nearly 2,000 in and around my little lawn and it's a night and a memory I'll cherish forever.
I awoke early, before dawn, not an uncommon occurrence for me, a lifelong hyperactive insomniac. Do you ever wake in a particular mood or with a certain obsessive thought because of a dream just before waking? It happens to me often. On this morning I’d had one of those dreams that fills you with such feelings of pleasure and well-being that, after waking, all you can think of is getting that feeling back. It must be what gamblers or alcoholics go through when they walk away from the table or wake up with a hangover. There’s probably a scientific name for it, endorphin withdrawal syndrome or something, but whatever that feeling is, it hit me hard after waking that morning.
My helper Suzy was still asleep. It was only 4 a.m. But Suzy knew me well and put up with my quirks. I dressed in my typical uniform; a swimsuit, denim mini, cotton top, and riding sandals (I had a few pair that fit snugly enough to frequently switch gears on my 90cc without having them slip off). I snuck quietly out of the house and went over to Suzy’s door and tapped lightly, hoping she hadn’t brought Carlton over for the night and I’d be waking him too. Carlton, then an employee of Mariner’s, was good for Suzy, probably the only person who’d ever loved her unreservedly.
At this point I want to interject that Suzy is no longer with us, and for a ludicrous reason. She died of a simple asthma attack while I was living in Miami, because she had no access to an inhaler. Let me take another opportunity to emphasize that the Jamaican healthcare non-system drastically needs REFORM! I’ve lost too many I cared about due to pathetic Jamaican health ”care.”
Suzy was a lady I was introduced to by Markie, a vendor alongside Norman Manley Boulevard in Negril, in the 80’s. After the debacle with the previous helper (see the story on the first page of Jamaican adventures), I was in drastic need of some help with the bar, my home, my kids, cooking, cleaning, and the ever-painful, scrubbing our clothes with bar soap in a pan in the backyard at the pipe. I later became the second owner in Orange Bay of a washing machine, the first being Jasmine at Falcon Crest. I had been stricken with guilt every wash day to see Suzy scrubbing our clothes, especially after we became friends. Eventually I couldn’t stand it and brought a machine back from Miami on one of my exportation trips. I swear it was not the selfish motivation of having my silks last longer because Jamaican women insist on scrubbing them in a bucket with lye soap.
Suzy and I DID become close friends, and rather quickly after her employ. She was traveling each evening back and forth to her home with her mother, Miss Coolie, in Green Island. I decided to make her life easier by bringing my husband’s and my first home together down from the Orange Bay Housing Scheme hillside where it had long sat vacant. Once set up 20 yards across from my home, she brought her children in and they lived reasonably comfortably there behind the bar. She was very grateful, since they’d been overcrowded at her Mother’s, with a wide variety of other relatives in residence there as well.
Suzy was around my age, just two years older, and during the evenings we’d sit around smoking and eating on the verandah with whomever dropped by that evening. We’d discuss spirituality, politics, life in America, relationships, whatever popped into our heads. And that was liable to be almost anything, once the kutchie went round a few times.
Because of the type of lady she was, intelligent if not well-schooled, open-minded if not cosmopolitan, thirsty for knowledge if not well-traveled, I never treated her like most people treat “servants.” I actually hate that word and all it implies. She was an employee and a friend and was well-compensated for the aforementioned “quirks.” Like getting awakened at 4 a.m.
I heard stirring after I tapped on the bottom of her door. The house sat up on higher-than-usual blocks when it was first brought over. It’s floor was almost 4 feet off the ground. We’d had to do that to get the maul spread under it properly, since we hadn’t been prepared in time. We’d basically stolen the house from it’s previous site rather quickly, without my husband’s consent, for reasons well-justified, relating to a break in/marital rape, and an attempt at self-defense that punctured my waterbed and flooded/destroyed some expensive items of my property. We eventually brought the house down to a few inches from the ground, to keep the children from falling out and getting hurt. But at that time it looked rather like these Florida Gulf Coast beach-side homes on stilts.
Suzy came to the door buck naked and I raised my eyebrows. She was half asleep and hadn’t realized she’d stripped during the hot summer night. “ I guess Carlton up in dere wid you.” I said with a lascivious smirk. She looked down at herself, more awake then, and quickly grabbed a towel lying on the floor to cover herself. “Nu mon, jus de pickney.” She looked up at the sky. “It hot nuh rass eeh?” she complained. The sky was overcast and stagnant, no breeze, no stars. Not until then had I realized I needed to buy her a fan for her house. She’d never asked or complained.
We both laughed as she turned at a noise from Terry, her son, behind her, and dropped her towel. “No problem, Suze, I’ve seen it all before.” We occasionally closed up the bar on hot afternoons while Calypso was in school to jump on the bike and find a nice cove or waterfall for a cool dip, usually skinny-dip. Before your twisted American brains read something into this, remember it was the 80’s and Jamaica. No, I’m not in the closet.
“Whappen Mahbul? Caan sleep AGAIN?” Suzy asked. “Bad dreams likkle pickney?” She asked, making fun of me as usual.
“No mon. GOOD dreams. GREAT dreams. Me have a GREAT dream and then I wake up to rass!”
She looked at me with understanding, knowing me well. “You wah fe tek a fas ride nuh true?”
I looked at her sheepishly. She sighed. “I’ll mek up brekfas fe de pickney and de shop at 6.”
I felt guilty and showed it. She sighed, rolled her eyes toward the heavens and added, “Gwan fe you ride nuh gal!” She shoved me at the shoulder away from her door. “Move from me door nuh mon. Me wah sleep!” She often pretended to be angry with me, especially at trip times before I left for Miami. Clothes and chains usually followed.
The worst thing about these early morning escapades was pushing the bike a quarter mile up the road to keep from waking my kids and my neighbors at Falcon Crest. It had been much easier when I’d had a 50cc Honda, it was very light. But my husband had brought his posse to my home on a particularly pissed-off day and just took it away, in attempt to ground a bird that loved flight more than breathing. “Let’s see if you no keep you rass home when you deh pon foot.” He’d said, as if it was any of his business if I stayed in MY home or wandered the countryside. Ha! Within 24 hours I’d gone to Sav and bought a new spanking Suzuki 90, bright blue, a color he always said he hated. He was a red, green, and gold kind of guy.
On this particular morning it was oppressively hot and by the time I pushed the bike to the “Marble’s Unicorn Lawn Ahead” sign I’d put up on the road toward Green Island, I was dripping with sweat. No matter though, I knew the breeze would blow me dry and cool shortly.
What can I say about speed? Those of you that love it as I do need no explanation. How can I explain the feeling to those who don’t? All I can say is there is NO greater rush (believe me, I’ve tried them all-chemical or sexual) than rushing down the highway, no stinking American helmet law in place, through a cane field or along the coast, wind on your face, hair and clothes flapping, eyes and brain taking in the beauty that is Jamaica. And it was a full moon night. Riding along the coast, calm sea glittering with a billion diamonds in the blue light, night birds calling, tree frogs chirping, the whole planet sound asleep but me, I was as near to heaven as I’ll ever be in this world (and probably the next, with my record). Who remembers sweet Jacob singing, " Dreadlocks dreadlocks flying through the air, and all I've got is love to share" or Big Youth and his many raps about his bike trippping. God he loved his bike!
I looked at my watch and realized I couldn’t make it to anywhere I could watch the sunrise over the water so I opted for a mountain view. I had some favorite spots in Hanover that I tended to gravitate to regularly, and a little natural spring pool on a small flat piece of a hillside a few miles from Pennycooke was one of them. It happened to face East, and though I’d never seen a sunrise from there, I couldn’t think of a reason why it wouldn’t be wonderful. There were some Third World roads between where I was and there, but I had nearly two hours to make it a few miles.
Because some of the roadway in the hills is narrow and the trees close to the road, even on a full moon night you’ll find yourself walking your bike, or taking it very slowly in first, up some of the lanes, due to lack of light. All the roads I needed to take that morning were paved, a BIG plus, and it hadn’t rained in a couple days, so I made it easily, if not quickly, to my spot. I chained my bike to a fence and walked up the dirt track to the spring just a few minutes before dawn.
What is it about the word “dawn” that evokes such pleasant feelings in people? I presume it’s a universal positive vibe since so many people name their children dawn, or the equivalent in their own language. I theorize “dawn” evokes feelings of new hope, fresh starts, a chance to make things better, accomplish something, leave a mark behind in the world after you’re gone. I think this must be what most everyone feels at the idea of dawn, possibly excepting crackheads, graveyard shift workers, and sloppy drunks. Which of you, reading this site, haven’t, even after the friskiest night, walked out of their room, seen the crystal turquoise waters of the Caribbean at your door on a cool Yard morning, and worshipped the dawn? Aaah, so you do understand.
As I dropped my clothes alongside the spring’s banks and dropped myself into the water, I was so near Nirvana I decided to forego my usual “morning coffee”-the traditional fattie rolled to perfection just before bed. Remember I hadn’t, at this period in my life, discovered the joy of living a natural high. No matter how great things were then at any given moment, I’d believed they could be made better with a ganj-altered-state. I’ve long-since learned that reality can be just as wonderful enjoyed as is, unadulterated.
I eased into the water, a lovely 74 degrees give or take, and spread my arms across the bank, letting my body just float, totally relaxing every muscle in my legs and torso. Though riding fast is an awesome rush, your muscles do tense with alertness if not caution, and each increase in KPH increases that muscular tension. A cool relaxing dip afterward washes away all that tension, and offers a stimulating pendulum swing. It reminds me of the swing from steaming sauna to rolling in the snow naked immediately after with the crazy Finns in the UP of Michigan, where I was stationed in the Air Force. It’s those extremes from one side to the other that can be so titillating to the senses. Red hot heat and getting slapped with evergreen boughs, to the whole naked family rushing outside buck naked into the 40 below zero cold to close up their pores rolling in the snow (to keep the evergreen oil in I was told).
So there I floated, watching the puffy clouds as the sky lightened from black to midnight blue to a touch of orange at the top of the hills across from the hill where I was bathing. All God’s creatures were awakening; flocks of birds hit the sky, heading for the coast I thought, flying in unison and cawing out their good mornings to each other (or so I fantasized).
Before long I could see, looking down on a tiny cluster of houses from my higher vantage point, a few doors open and some plastic pans set under the pipes for the morning wash ups. It had been a hot night for all and one well-endowed older gentleman emerged from his back door naked with an old-style stove top coffee percolating pot in hand. He filled it at the pipe, not knowing he was being observed, as I sat appreciating ALL of the wonders of nature.
Dawn came in full, the sun finally pulling over top the hills, and I did not take my eyes off the sky for a second. First a sliver of yellow peeking over the hilltop, as the firmament turned to plum and royal blue. Then, growing bolder, the sun rose over the hills as the sky and its cottony inhabitants succeeded through shades of lavender and turquoise, with touches of orange and pink along the edges of the clouds smeared across the heavens to the North.
As an amateur photographer hoping to someday have the skill to capture sights like this on film to share, I know I am hopelessly inadequate. It was so perfect, so divinely created, it’s almost as if it existed for those brief moments in time only for the capture of the human eye, and the mind’s eye. And after the moment passed and I took a few more to worship the Creator, I considered it had been created only for me, because as I looked down on the homes below, the Yardies were going on about their morning rituals with not so much as a passing glance at the wonder overhead.
Aaah, so sad a feature of human nature, that when blessed with little wonders on a regular basis, we end up taking them for granted.
