I Don't Want To Be A Tourist...

The good news is I’m alive. I am three days into this initial trek and have seen a ton in just 72 hours. My first three days were spent being shown around Mandeville as well as the communities the missionaries aim to serve.

My first day was a dizzying attempt to get a lay of the land and make heads or tails of what goes on here. The simple fact that I am not actually staying in Mandeville still has me somewhat disjointed. No one had mentioned anything about Bull Savannah to me prior to my arrival but that just makes the adventure that much more fun, right?

Monsignor Michael was in meetings for the duration the day so he put my care in the hands of Ranny; a man in his 40’s who has a mischievous twinkle in both his eyes. Part of what he does for the diocese is work out of their distribution center which is in charge of making sure all donated goods reach their proper destinations and so as we traveled to such exotic locales as Hatfield, Balaclava, Braes River and Magotty, he gave me the lowdown on how things work here. From what I have gathered, the Diocese of Mandeville serves the parishes of St. Elizabeth, Manchester and Clarendon. Bull Savannah rests in St. Elizabeth while the actual town of Mandeville is in Manchester.

Eager to jump right in, I spent some time at the distribution center helping the people there sort the multitude of boxes they had received into groups which would be delivered to orphanages, churches, and clinics. Once we had that done, Ranny and I set out for a four hour expedition delivering furniture to a boy’s home, a washer and dryer to the equivalent of a nursing home, and medical supplies and other goods to a clinic. We then rounded out the day by moving a dozen beds from one church to another.

Having contributed some of my amassed ‘stuff’ to charity causes, I have often wondered what happened to all of the collected things once they were shipped to a poverty stricken area that I could easily find on a map. I was now being acquainted with that last piece of the puzzle. I have no idea whether or not anyone in these remote parts of Jamaica will put to use the sun stained plastic chairs, tattered brown briefcases or random purses I saw lying around the warehouse but there was much in said warehouse that I know will go to immediate use. For example, I came across a box bursting with empty prescription bottles and it immediately dawned on me how something which litters a medicine cabinet well beyond the date of the medicine’s expiration is something people here feel fortunate to have a supply of so local residents can take with them something as simple as Tylenol. Wow.

Our job done, Ranny and I returned to Mandeville and along the way he asked, “You hungry?”

“Yep.”

“You want Burger King?”

“Ranny, I didn’t come here to be a tourist. I want some real Jamaican food.”

“Don worry ‘bout dat, mon. You spend time on dis part of de island, you not a tourist!”

I had my first jerk pork lunch and it was amazing! I could have used a warning that they keep parts of the bone in the meat; a lesson I quickly absorbed on my very first bite. After that it was smooth sailing and I devoured the rest in no time. Soon after my meal and a stop in at Monsignor Michael’s office, he and I were on our way back to Bull Savannah.

Now would be a good time to elaborate on the motor vehicle culture of Jamaica. This is the only arena of Jamaican life that I have seen so far in which they demonstrate any form of being in a hurry. Like many other aspects of their culture, there are those drivers who take their time – really take their time. Simultaneously there are those who understand the idea of ‘having some place to be.’ When those two ideas collide (no pun intended) it can make for a harrowing experience.

As I noted in my last post, some roads are no wider than some of the side streets of Chicago which can lead to a slightly raised heartbeat when there is oncoming traffic. Couple that with the fact that they drive on the left side of the road (which really only matters if you are not used to it) and the fact that the posted speed limit carries as much weight as a casual suggestion, and it is bound to elevate one’s heart rate just a little. Where it gets downright scary is when it comes to passing someone who happens to be creeping along. If there is no oncoming traffic it’s not really a big deal. But often there is either someone heading straight towards you (kind of like a game of Chicken), there is a blind curve or the crest of a hill over which you cannot see looms in the distance. Any one of these scenarios, seasoned with the descriptors at the start of this paragraph makes for all the thrills of a theme park rollercoaster, but without the feeling that everything will be alright once things slow down.

My second day was not entirely different from my first in that it was spent in Mandeville and was meant to give me a broader picture of the work that goes on here. I spent the day at the cathedral which is part of a larger compound which houses two schools. The Brother with whom I was spending my day, Brother Philippe, and I were given a tour of the schools by Sister Maureen, a Irish woman who came to Jamaica in 1952. A lovely and knowledgeable woman, she took us by classrooms full of kids who were not the least bit shy when it came to a camera. We were even given our own private concert; “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” sung by a chorus of 5 year olds.

Education is a weighty issue here in Jamaica. The majority of the population is poorly educated so if you can learn to read and write properly, you have a leg up. There was a huge brain drain in the 70’s as the country came within an inch of becoming a Communist state. The middle to upper-middle class packed up and took off for friendlier environs and in their wake was left a lofty and thin upper class and a lowly and plentiful poor class. At least that is how it was explained to me in a nutshell, and a large part of the ministry that goes on here is simply education; get them to learn how to read, write and think and improve the situation here one child at a time, one day at a time. Of course being work that is Catholic-based there is also a huge emphasis on spreading the faith. 80 percent of the island is Christian and a dwindling number of that 80 percent is Catholic.

For me, that has been one of the greatest blessings of this trip so far. I am staying with a group of priests who begin and end their days with a prescribed set of prayers. In the morning they say Mass after the prayers and in the evening they say the rosary. I am not required to attend any of this but I do for a few reasons. First of all, it is Advent and it is difficult for me to get in the Christmas spirit in a tropical environment. Palm trees look markedly different than pine. Secondly, my curiosity wants to know what it is like to be part of a daily practice like that. Third, and most important, is the fact that I believe it will help reinforce a faith I have let decline in small but significant ways during recent months. And from what I am seeing, that can be remedied with some help from daily Mass at sunrise and a cool breeze coming in off the ocean to fill the church in which I am sitting.