Our tiny white van sputtered and spun its way through the Jamaican mountains. The journey was a never-ending roller-coaster ride. After a slow and steady ascension, we back-flipped over potholes, corkscrewed around steep mountainsides, somersaulted over treetops, and held on to our lap-belts so tightly, our knuckles became whiter than the sands of the Jamaican beaches we would scarcely set foot on. My nostrils were filled with the exotic aromas of lignum vitae and banana trees, yet not even the scents of the tropical delicacies could stop my temples from pounding furiously into my skull. I would not make it. Two hours crammed in this van with my peers was too long. How do people do this?
“How do people do this?” Is a simple question. One that prompts an even simpler response: they have no other choice. That is when I first realized why I signed up for Loyola’s immersion trip: The Jamaican Experience. That is when I stopped thinking about the nausea that overwhelmed me, the headache that would not cease, and the elbow of my new friend sitting beside me that was digging into my side. That is when I let go of the United States and began to see the real Jamaica.
Never had I seen so many colors. Outside of the van, thousands of shades of green, brown, and blue intermingled, creating a collage. Palm trees, and Jamaican caper bushes lined the streets, serving as the only buffer between the mountain ledge and the valley’s bottom two hundred feet below. The valleys were painted in various hues of emerald, and displayed a collection of sharp, pointed rocks and delicate rivers. Within the depths of the valley, there stood a Jamaican Pantheon. It was an ancient concrete structure adorned with strips of neon painted plywood. Between the dangling wood, there were large square window holes which revealed the altar of the Jamaican temple, the kitchen. This kitchen was not a sacred tabernacle. It had no appliances or stools, and had nothing a proud Jamaican grandmother could use to cook dumplings or fry up fish. This entire temple had been abandoned for sometime, but unlike its Grecian counterpart, it had been left by its inhabitants to decay for the rest of eternity.
Above the valley, a little way down the road, there were lines of bars and fruit stands. The bars were lined up in groups of two and three, and boasted eccentric names like “Sexy Ladies” and “Party Time.” They were saturated in the colors of sensationalism, neon greens, banana yellows and flamingo pinks cacophonously vying for the attention of passers-by. Each bar door was propped open, allowing people to peek in and see what was in store. Two tiny stools sat next to each other facing a wooden counter top. Behind the counter was a selection of red stripe, and white rum that would bring a smile and watering mouth to any Jamaican. These bars were tiny, and modest. Some could not house more than four people at a time, yet their infectious atmospheres were palpable, and brought smiles and giggles to my peers and I as we whirled past their facades.
Fruit stands stood quietly and proudly alongside their more rambunctious neighbors. They were the snowflakes of Jamaica. Each one was completely unique to itself. Some were intricately designed, and possessed details so painstaking that it was hard to imagine a human crafting something so finely. Others looked as if they were made by a group of excited five-year-old's during arts-and-crafts. However, the more intricate the design was not an indicator of the quality of the stand’s content. The most beautiful stand was made of woven branches, and stood strong and firm in the hot sun, yet the only fruits in sight were the four coconuts strewn out across its surface. Some of the more grotesque stands boasted bunches of perfectly ripened yellow bananas, orangey green papayas that were plump and delectable, and the tiniest, most delicate mangoes ever seen. Despite the contrast in appearance of the stands, they all were run by proprietors who had more in common than first perceived.
It was difficult to make eye contact with the operators of the fruit stands. They all wore the same tattered and torn tunics, and carried themselves with tired defeat. The looks they carried on their faces were usually not infectious smiles. Rather, they were marred with fear of the unknown and anxiety for the future. It was clear that as those men and women held their precious delicacies in their hands, they were also holding their livelihoods. They were not only holding a sweet midday snack, but they clenched the cab fair that would get them to the hospital, they grasped onto the resources that would keep their children well educated and well feed. When they looked my peers and I in the eye, it was hard not to read their minds. “Buy me fruits” they thought, “Or me childs gonna go ‘ungry.”
As our ascension continued, more people of Jamaica revealed themselves to us. Countless kids charged up the sides of the mountain, climbing continuously to reach home. The tiny boys wore smiles, frowns, and a brown outfit that made them all look like they were of the same blood. The girls trudged behind, wearing pink and blue frocks decorated with the dirt and sweat accumulated over the course of the treacherous climb home. Maybe some of the kids only had a short climb left to get home. Maybe they all live 10 minutes from school, and walked together to help each other avoid the dangers of the sidewalk-less streets. Maybe they lived 30 miles away, and were walking from one dangerous bus station to the next. Maybe some of the kids six years and younger were lucky, and were included in the fifty percent of Jamaican six-year-old's that have a father in their household. Maybe we should have passed thirty or forty more kids, but they could not go to school that day because their last pair of shoes were completely worn out. Maybe each little child I passed lives a more complex life than I could ever dare to understand.
After we passed by the little ones, there was another section of bars. These were all as eclectic and eccentric as those we had previously passed, yet there was something different about them. There was reggae music pulsating from one of the bars, and upon further inspection, a young Jamaican woman was spotted standing in the door frame of the bar, and quickly became of the most memorable individuals I have ever laid eyes on. I will not remember her for her impressive dance moves or infectious laugh, and I will not remember her for her beautiful singing voice or flowing hair. I will now and forever remember this woman as the lady who danced in the door frame of a tiny bar with no pants on at twelve o’clock in the afternoon. She was large of stature, and bopped back and forth with the music as if she were a bobble head doll perched on the dashboard of a car. She jounced left and right with every move, and made a spectacle out of herself so intriguing that it was impossible to look away.
As we neared the top of the mountain, everything that my peers and I had just passed burst back into our vision. Every bar stool, treetop, dilapidated building, and child all appeared in a myriad of color and motion. The children continued their slow trek, but this time they were the size of tiny ants that could barely be seen between the thick greenery that covered the mountains. Between the trees, the neon tips of the bars could barely be made out, but their vivacity extended far beyond the mountain tops. The fruit stands disappeared but we were now in their parent country, and passed hundreds of banana trees, and palms with brown coconuts hanging, awaiting their turn to be axed down and savored. Everything was small, delicate, different, and had a story that was compelling and complex.
As the journey came to an end, and the van ceased climbing and turning, I took a large breath. Within this breath I could taste the sweet ripe fruit of the bananas sitting patiently in their bushels. I could hear the stories of the children walking up the mountain, returning to who knows what. I could see the lives of my peers beginning to change as we were witness to the world that is beyond what we have grown so accustomed too. I could feel myself becoming different. Not in a way that could be seen outwardly. I still have the same round face and chubby cheeks. I still have the same messy brown hair and baby hands. What was different was something I could not yet but my finger on. What was changing was within the depths of me, and continued to awaken as I experienced Jamaica.
