Everyt'ing Irie...

I arrived today in Jamaica, having no idea what awaits me. I almost didn’t want to get on the plane this morning – probably had a lot to do with the fact that I was getting very comfortable at home. And if that’s the case then it’s a good thing I left when I did for fear of settling too much into a comfort zone.

The trip down here was relatively long considering I spent half of it on airplanes, but the experience was bearable thanks to Lindsey; a woman traveling on business from Chicago to Jamaica. Given our shared city of residence conversation ensued for the duration of our flight as well as our time going through customs. As the man responsible for keeping the flow of traffic moving directed Lindsey to her counter, he stared at me with a confused look and asked, “Why ya don’t wanta go tru customs wit yer wife?”

“She’s not my wife.”

“Watcha mean she not yer wife? In ya come labba labba.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“Ya come in de room talkin’ de ‘ol time. Ya look like de married people.”

“No, we just met on the plane.”

“Buck on de plane? Well don cool yu foot, boss. Gwan and ketch’er den ‘for she getway.”

And that was my introduction to local language, but more on that topic later. For now I was simply trying to get my luggage, get through all checkpoints and see if anyone had been sent to pick me up. There had been a slight misstep in communication so I had no real guarantee anyone had been sent to get me or if my hosts were assuming I would find my own way to them. I was going to find out very soon.

Outside the doors a multitude of cab drivers waited like vultures, spotting fresh meat from afar and quickly moving in to feast on the unassuming. Every one of them offered a cab ride to wherever I was headed and after a polite, “No thank you,” they quickly offered to call the person who was meeting me, provided I had a number. Both the cab rides and the phone calls were blatant ripoffs, but that is to be expected. It’s the game and you gotta play it. I quickly learned that the way to make them go away immediately was to simply say, “I’m cool, boss.”

For the next 40 minutes the immediate area outside the airport exit was my safe haven of sorts. It was the only place I knew and I barely knew it at that. I took a few minutes to simply observe what was going on in front of me and try to get a feel of how things worked. It was easy to tell the regulars from the fish out of water which solidified exactly how much of a painted target I was to swindlers but I had managed alright so far. I spotted no one carrying a sign with my name on it so I started to wonder if I was, in fact, on my own. I flirted with the thought of renting a car and striking out into the land beyond the fences of the airport but decided first to enlist the help of a taxi stand worker and his cell phone. After a quick lesson in, “Nothing Here Is Free,” ($5 American, or $325 Jamaican, for him to make a call for me) my situation was ironed out over the phone and I met up with the priest who had been sent to collect me, Fr. Rowland. He had with him a local boy, Edgarton, from an orphanage at which we would later stop and after brief introductions we started our three hour drive to Bull Savannah, the place where I am staying for the next couple of weeks.

You may be thinking, “Three hours? I didn’t realize Jamaica was that big.” It’s not, it’s about as big as Connecticut, but the roads are no wider than some Chicago side streets and the average speed limit was around 50 km/h. (For those of you struggling to do the math, just know that it ain’t that fast.) But what it cost us in time it made up for in beautiful country. In any given moment we were rolling through populated towns; remote, shack filled areas; through mountains; next to orange groves and finally right up against the south coast of the island at sunset. The Caribbean Sea was a vast pool of orange and red light and behind us a rainbow spanned a small mountain range where a brief rainfall had just given way to drier skies.

I could easily get used to this.

As this Hollywood scripted sunset took place to my right, we continued to wind through the fishing villages of the southwestern coast finally stopping at the fore mentioned orphanage to pick up a few people and to check in on a situation regarding the cutest 3 year old boy I have ever seen. The requisite, “It puts everything in perspective,” or “It makes you appreciate everything you have,” and “You realize what’s really important” could be tagged on here. They’re true. Every once in a while these moments come along (more frequently for some than others) and if you play the law of averages enough, it will happen to you at some time, in some fashion and it had just happened to me again.

I saw an incredible mix of unbridled joy – the kind that only exists in kids who haven’t tasted maturity yet – balanced with a knowing that sat at the back of their eyes; a knowing that something wasn’t how it was supposed to be and that they were living it. As I walked in the house I was met by at least 15 little boys who all looked at me as if to say, “Are you here to give us more of the love we need and deserve but have been denied?

I don’t know.

After our brief stop we continued to ‘Bull Sav,’ as the locals call it, and I met the man with whom I have been in contact these last few weeks, Monsignor Michael. I also met the other men who comprise the Mission Society of Mandeville. From what I understand, these men are all dedicated to missionary work here in Jamaica but are not necessarily Diocesan priests and not necessarily any particular order of priests (think Jesuit, Dominican, Franciscan, etc.) although they are closely aligned with the Passionists; an order founded by St. Paul of the Cross and the church they are running here in Bull Savannah is St. Vincent Strambi, named for a Passionist priest whose history I do not yet know.

Everyone had already eaten dinner by the time I had arrived but made sure to save some for those of us who had come late and as we ate, I tried to keep up with who was who, where they were from, and which languages they spoke. I soon found myself speaking Spanish to a priest from France who had started speaking to me in Italian once I had made my ethnicity public knowledge. I quickly answered him in Spanish figuring it was close enough to Italian that he and I would be on somewhat of a similar page; but the overall issue was quickly resolved when he switched gears to Spanish which allowed us to see that part of our conversation to its logical conclusion.

The night came to a close and I was taken to my quarters; a dilapidated trailer like the ones you find in disaster areas. Quite a different scenario than the luxurious digs I have occupied for the last few months but it only took me 20 minutes to settle in and make it my home. There is duct tape at the bottom of the screen to keep bugs out and I have been told not to drink the water that comes out of the tap for fear of what the locals call, “Leaky Belly.”

Armed with information like that, I am sure to be just fine.