Little 'Ol Me...

In July of 2004 my sister got married and in true Italian style, the whole family was invited which meant cousins and their respective spouses and/or significant others. One of said couples was my cousin Andrea and her husband Conrad. Conrad is a hard core Bostonian. In fact, that last sentence did not do him justice; it should have read, “Hahd cohr Bostonian. Yankees suck!”

Much of the initial conversation that day revolved around catching each other up on our various endeavors since he and my cousin had made a pilgrimage to Chicago to visit me the year before and at some point I began telling him of the work I was beginning to do with the Theatre Arts Program of Thresholds, Illinois’ largest psychosocial rehab center. I told him how they use story theatre as a means of artistic expression for those living with mental illness but also as a tool to help inform people about what mental illness is and what it is not.

“Wow,” he said. “That’s pretty amazing. You know, a lot of times in the summer I eat my lunch in a park near where I work and I see people who seem out of it, or talk to themselves – who are probably mentally ill – and they come up and ask me for some change or something, so I give it to them because I want to help out a little. And it gets me down because I think, ‘There is such a huge problem in the world, what can I do to change it? I’m just Little ‘Ol Me.’”

That was in 2004. Fast forward to yesterday.

I was making my way toward the high school building and crossed paths with one of my favorite students here. “Sir,” she started, “Are you a teacher back in America?”

“Nope.”

“Then why you come here to help the faddah’s teach?”

“Because it seemed like a good thing to do right now.”

“Do you have a job in America?”

“Sort of. It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Did you leave a job to come here?”

“Not exactly, but I left a lot of other things.”

“Why did you throw everything away to come to Jamaica?”

“I didn’t really throw it all away. Much of it is waiting for my return.”

“Okay. Sir, I’m glad you’re here. I’m learning a lot from you.”

With that, she walked off.

This girl is one of my favorites here because her story is a complete inspiration. She is one of the smartest kids in this whole school and I know I mentioned her in one of my posts from my first trip down her. When I grade papers for her class, I always save hers for last because it will be the most well written, most intelligent one in the bunch and I can then end my experience on a high note. She has so much potential and such a future in front of her I’m almost afraid to bring it to light for fear of jinxing it.

The amazing part of her story is that she doesn’t have all of her school books simply because they are too expensive. She is here on a scholarship, which has been donated by a benefactor oversees, and during the day she is known to borrow from her classmates the books she does not have and she studies during her breaks and off periods. She accomplishes all of her homework, studies as much as she can and then returns the books to their owners by the end of the day and she nearly aces every test she takes. She does so well, in fact, that when I came back in January she told me, “I’m thinking of dropping English because it’s tough and if I don’t do well I won’t make the honor roll.”

“That’s a possibility,” I said. “But if you drop it you will make the honor roll the easy way. Where’s the fun in that? Wouldn’t it be more satisfying to know you walked the harder path?”

“Yes,” she responded, almost knowing where I was headed next.

“Besides, I have a feeling you’ll rock the class anyway. You’re very smart.”

“Sir, what does that mean?’

“What?”

“‘Rock the class.’”

Right.

In an entry detailing my arrival in December, I wrote about being met at the airport by a priest and his traveling companion; an 11 year old boy who lived at the orphanage at which we stopped while I was brought to Bull Savanna. This boy, along with seven others, is brought up here from the orphanage every day, goes to his classes and is then transported back when the day is done. One of the advantages these boys have over other students is that they are always around adults who speak more than just Patois so their development at this stage is slightly ahead of other students, not to mention their reading skills. But the cost to educate them is high, as is the cost to clothe and feed them.

Some of you may be wondering what my conversation with Conrad has to do with the kids at this school. The answer is best summed up with the words of Mother Teresa. “Not everyone can do great things but everyone can do little things with great love.”

While I was home over Christmas I often told the story of the aforementioned girl and people asked how they can sponsor the cost of her books. Others expressed wanting to sponsor the tuition of some of the boys. What’s more, I have been contacted by a Kindergarten teacher I know in California (read: my sister) and her class has chosen to hold numerous mini-fund raisers to help cover the cost of a child’s books or tuition. None of these is anything on the scale of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation or that of Mr. Warren Buffet but they can still be done (and will be done) with great love and I am currently working with the principlal of the high school, Fr. Sam Alloggia, to ensure that they are. Like all of the other priests I have mentioned in this space, Fr. Sam is one of the Mission Society of Mandeville and he recently told me how the mission society is registered in the U.S. as a non-profit which makes financial contributions easier to implement here.

Last week one of my old co-workers paid me a pretty high tribute in a comment to one of my posts and mentioned feeling badly that he wasn’t doing more in his life and as I mentioned at the beginning, Conrad wondered what “Little ‘Ol Me” could do. Not everyone has to quit their job and move 10,000 miles away to help out a stranger, although I might appreciate the company. A lot of you have asked if you can help and you can simply by e-mailing me and letting me know if you want to make a donation to the mission society. I’ll make sure your act of great love is successfully brought to life here..

We often hear that the greatest gift anyone can give is to lay down one’s life for another. But it doesn’t always mean you have to throw yourself in front of a bus to do it.

Blue Mountain Pt. III

The top of the mountain was wide with many spots to take in the views from the four directions. To the North was the coast and in the distance, somewhere in the haze, was Cuba. Directly behind me was the South coast and Morant Bay. To the East were the John Crow Mountains and the once again to the ocean; to the West lay the remainder of the Blue Mountains and in the distance we could see the plateau where Mandeville resides. The whole island was in view and the land around us sat in the shadow of the mountain we had just conquered. To help underscore the moment I put my earphones in and played the soundtrack to Braveheart because well, why not?

The sun continued to rise casting different shades and shadows all over the place; I was taking pictures like it was going out of style and continued to marvel in the fact that in four hours we hiked up a mountain and reached the top while much of the island below us was still asleep. Of course the way I felt, you could have told me it was really 2:30pm and I probably would have believed you.

At the top of the mountain is a rundown concrete hut which people can use for shelter if necessary. It is in bad shape, parts of it crumbling, covered in graffiti and against one main wall are the remnants of fires lit for extra warmth. Many of us changed in to dry clothes that we had brought and hung our drenched items on bushes to dry in the sun. Not too long after some snacking and more pictures it was nap time. Yep, I came all the way up here to take a nap! I was out for 40 minutes and it felt great. My knee was still not happy with me but it was a small price to pay at the moment. For that window of time, I was king of the island and nothing was going to diminish that.

Nothing except for a prolonged and painful descent.

After three and a half hours of enjoying our success we decided to get out of dodge and make our way back down for lunch. Obviously the walk down was easier than the walk up, gravity was on our side and the temperature was climbing quickly. Our path down, which was slippery just a few hours before, had dried out in most places and we were able to snap even more pictures of the trail that we could not see on the way up. I managed to snap a black and white which, to me, looked like a tree offering the orb of the sun to the sky. You can find it in the “Black and White” photo album I have placed online.

By this time my knee was really starting to hurt. Every time my foot came down to support my weight a dull pain surrounded my knee and shot up my leg. It made for a long trek down and for a while, I tried taking steps by swinging my right leg out and around so as to avoid bending my knee. Awkward though it was, it certainly alleviated the pain.

Ninety minutes later we were back at Portland Gap and looking back towards the tops of the mountain, we noticed that a fog had enveloped them all and was coming steadily towards us. After twenty minutes we continued down the mountain amazed at just how steep some of the drop offs were and exactly how close we had come to a perilous fall. We rounded corners which constantly gave way to expansive views of valleys below. Soon we were back at the top of Jacob’s Ladder and walked down the switchbacks towards the bunk house and arrived back at our original starting point in a mere three hours. Lunch was waiting for us (it was the same meal as the night before) and we devoured in record time. They served coffee with it and even though I had 2 cups of it, there was zero chance of me staying awake for anything in the near future.

Back at our cabin I rinsed off the journey with a semi-cold shower. Hot water is something of a rare bird up here, as is water pressure, and I had to make due with what I had. The remainder of the day was spent recounting the journey and playing cards. There was not a whole lot of movement going on. We ventured up to the bunk house for dinner and quickly returned to our cabin for an early bedtime. My knee still didn’t like me.

We woke today for a breakfast we were told would be ready by 9:00am. Upon arriving at the bunk house we discovered that it wouldn’t be ready for another 90 minutes. This is not uncommon in Jamaica and it is one of the hardest things for me, as an American, to get used to. Eager to start our trek back to the other side of the island, we Americans decided to get breakfast on the road, piled into the monster truck and began our trip out of the Blue Mountains. I rode in the back with Emmett and it was considerably easier to take in the terrain and the effects on the truck by standing up and holding on to the roll bar for support. People in houses and towns looked at us quizzically, shouted things in Patois and waved. We waved back only to quickly return our hands to the bar for support. And of course the views continued to impress. Seeing these mountainsides in daylight, not to mention the peak we had conquered helped reinforce just how beautiful Jamaica is. John Crows, which look like a cross between a vulture and a hawk, glided in the air above the valleys letting thermals and winds direct them all over the place with practically no effort from them. I kind of wanted to stay.

About an hour later we arrived in Mavis Bank, gathered the truck we had left two days before and continued down the mountain roads to Guava Ridge, Gordon Town and finally Kingston. A short while later we were on the highway out of town and back to the half of the island we call home. My knee was still not happy with me.

The rest of today was spent crossing the island back to where we began. We have recently arrived home here in Bull Savanna, it’s late in the day, dinner “soon come” and as soon as dinner is “soon gone” it will be time to sleep.

I think I may have left something back at the mountain top. Oh well, I’ll get it when I go back.

Blue Mountain Pt. II

2:00am came very quickly this morning but what came even more quickly was 1:30am. I am happy to report that it was not my anxiety which woke me up 30 minutes before my scheduled alarm but rather the need to do something about all the water I drank before going to bed. Having answered the call of nature, I returned to my bed and tried to fall back asleep but wondered what the point would be. Would an extra 30 minutes really make a difference? I didn’t want to get up and start milling about and then wake up my companions so I simply lay there with my eyes open letting my mind work at a mile a minute.

Am I physically able to do this? I’ve never tried anything like this before. How hard could it be to hike a trail?

I have heard stories of how easy it is to get lost in these mountains. What the hell would I do if that happened? Could I really survive in the mountains if I had to?

If I collected a whole bunch of coffee beans, roasted them and saved them, I could probably save myself a whole bunch of money. It might not taste as good as other coffee but it’s the principle of the matter, right?

Someone had explained the reason the coffee is so good from Blue Mountain and how the whole system here works. The coffee beans grow on plants all over the mountainside and various estates exist at various altitudes. The higher the altitude, the more prominent and wealthy the estate and as a result, one particular estate (obviously located high up and with a vast swath of land) is the preeminent coffee here. You cannot buy it in stores, only at the estate and when any high falutin’ head of state comes to Jamaica, this is the coffee served. However, the way the mountain hike was structured, we would be going nowhere near anything like this. No, we were destined for backwoods and trails no wider than me, which isn’t very wide.

At 2:00am we all woke up and spent 20 minutes gathering our things before heading up to the bunk house. Before going to bed we had arranged for Vinny, an old Jamaican with a gray beard and few teeth, to have some coffee ready for us; a sort of jolt to send us on our way. Upon arrival at the bunk house we encountered a group who had just driven in from Montego Bay with plans to camp in the mountains for the weekend. Our conversation with them stirred Vinny out of his sleep and when he came down; he offered to make it saying it would, “soon come.”

“Vinny,” we said, “everybody in Jamaica says, ‘soon come.’ We need the coffee in five minutes.”

“No, mon. It take longa dan five minutes.”

“Forget it. We want to start walking.”

Our plan was to start the trail as soon as possible and summit by 5:30am; 6:00am at the latest. We were looking at a vertical gain of roughly 3000 feet and needed to do it in four hours. The actual distance to the summit was just less than six miles and seemed easily doable and so we started, us and the newly arrived group we had just met.

Fortunately for us this group had done the hike before so they knew the way to get started. Armed with flashlights and decked in rather light clothes (it was around 70 degrees when we started) we started up a series of switchbacks they call “Jacob’s Ladder.” There are 11 in total and they are fiercely steep, not to mention gravely and riddled with deep puddles. Had it not been for the flashlights and some quick maneuvering it would have been ugly early.

It took us about 30 to 40 minutes to get through the switch backs, longer if you include the 10 minute rest we took half way through them. Early on we noticed that the trek was going to be difficult for one of our crew so we carried their pack and did what we could to make sure they weren’t left behind. I was the first to carry the extra backpack and it turned out to be a blessing because it helped balance out my own backpack which, thanks to the added gravity, was having a field day with my shoulders. This extra weight helped keep me more upright.

Once the switchbacks ended the path began to narrow and soon we found ourselves following a trail which was sometimes exposed to the night sky and sometimes covered with a canopy of branches, leaves and vines. The moments when we could see the open sky were amazing; it was as like a million diamonds on a blanket of velvet. Whenever we stopped to rest we tried to do so in an open area so we could see the heavens. As the trail went on we sometimes saw different constellations and from them were able to ascertain which side of the mountain we were on and in which direction we were facing. We came to the half way point of the walk around 4:30am, a place called Portland Gap which was a good sized clearing that we could make out in the bright light of the moon.

The moon turned out to be a tremendous asset during the hike. In the open parts of the trail we were able to turn our flashlights off and see all we needed to see and it was odd to think of myself being able to clearly follow a path in the middle of the night with nothing but the moon to light my way. Though one of our group continued to experience difficulty, is was obvious no one was getting left behind; but I began to suspect that at our current pace, reaching the summit before sunrise might not be in the cards for us. We pressed on now that we were properly watered and snacked, and the opening of Portland Gap quickly gave way to a covered, slippery, dark, rocky and somewhat spooky trail. At times we could tell that a wrong step to the right or left would have us succumb to gravity in a way that would, well let’s just say it would put a damper on things.

Shortly into the second half of the hike half of our team forged on more quickly, still holding on to the possibility of making it to the top in time for the sunrise while two of us stayed further to the back. As things went forward the vertical gain began to increase and certain points became instantly steep which slowed us down greatly. As the trail pressed forward the canopy of trees and growth thickened which increased the slickness of the trail and its rocks. As 5:00am approached I concluded that getting to see the sunrise from the top of the mountain was definitely out. I began to become angry.

It was something I had wanted, something I had set my sights on and knew was in my grasp and now the sudden disappearance of it left me feeling betrayed. I stewed in this anger for about 3 minutes and then came to the realization of two things:

1. It’s not like this is the only sunrise I will ever see, God willing. There will be others.
2. I hold in high regard the chance to support people as they attempt to accomplish their goals and often the accomplishment of a group far outweighs an individual one. To quote my favorite line from the movie Little Miss Sunshine, “No one gets left behind!” (If you haven’t seen the movie, do yourself a favor and get on the good foot.)

Sunrise continued on as we continued up. I could see on the horizon clouds going through phases of orange and red; mountain ridges gaining more and more definition and stars fading away with every passing minute. The trail became better lit and eventually flashlights were put away. The peak of the mountain loomed above our heads, it was clear to see where our final destination lay and by this time I had managed to pull something in my right knee so every step was a painful one. Putting weight on it to push off and continue upward had me wincing every few seconds and we were only 500 feet from the top.

We pressed on and came around a corner which put us on an exposed side of the mountain and whoosh! A gust of wind came out of nowhere pressing my sweat-drenched clothes against my skin causing me to call out to the Almighty to ensure she was awake. 50 steps later I found myself at a clearing; the summit of Blue Mountain with the sun only a few degrees off the horizon.

6:34am. Success!

Blue Mountain Pt. I

Today a group of us set off to hike to the highest elevation in all of Jamaica, Blue Mountain. Known more for its great coffee than for being Jamaica’s tallest peak, it is a climb which most people begin in the dead of night so as to summit before the sun peeks above the ocean’s horizon in the East. The mountain range sits on the Eastern side of the island which means before even considering an ascent, my group and I had to travel from our Western locale through the narrow roads of the island and into Kingston, Jamaica’s crime-infested capital.

After a quick drive to Mandeville, our nearest ‘big’ city, we were joined by the final members of our group and departed. In total there are six of us: Emmett, Larry, Margaret, Jason, Aaron and myself. Like me, Jason and Aaron are volunteers at St. Vincent Strambi, Margaret works with Catholic Relief Services, Emmett is a volunteer serving in a civil engineering role for the diocese and Larry works for a local Aluminum mining company. Exactly how our six paths converged to this moment is not important right now. What is important is that we have decided to take this physical challenge.

We left Mandeville around 12:30pm and headed East through towns such as Porus, Spanish Town and finally arrived in Kingston around 3:30pm. It was an easy drive punctuated only by a quick traffic stop where a police officer was checking papers and identities for reasons unclear to us. Having nothing to hide and having gone through a couple of these so far, our two drivers, Emmett and Larry, breezed through the checkpoints and we entered the outskirts of Kingston.

Entering Kingston is similar to riding into Chicago via Irving Park Blvd. It is two lanes of traffic on either side and it’s not uncommon to find vendors and random people roaming the crawling lanes of traffic. As we moved bit by bit closer to the downtown area we passed many a shack-ridden area. Rusted corrugated tin made up the walls and roofs of these houses and it was hard to tell where the rust stains caused by rain stopped and the stain of the red clay began on these houses. Add in some overgrown wild grass, junked cars, tattered laundry hanging on sagging clothes lines and I am left with another seared image of poverty on this island. And just like any other large city it has its more affluent areas to offset the poverty.

As we wove through the streets of Kingston I detected a slight gain in elevation which stood in contrast to the lower flatlands of Spanish Town through which we had recently passed. We turned a corner and from around a consulate building the Blue Mountains suddenly appeared. Looming tall and majestic over Kingston, I could not believe that I was able to see houses and buildings as high up as I did. Having learned that the quality (and sometimes existence) of roads in this country is horrible, I wondered how in the hell life in the places I was about to reach went on. I was about to find out.

We cleared the bustling avenues of Kingston and on the other side quickly found ourselves at the last town before really ascending the mountain, Gordon Town. Comprising no more than 12 or 15 buildings which house some restaurants, clothing shops and a hardware store (plus some various businesses which now escape me) it is a town exited as quickly as it is entered and here is where things started to get interesting.

As we exited the aforementioned Gordon Town the roads quickly narrowed and began zig zagging along the mountainsides. It was not uncommon for a tight turn to come out of nowhere and for us to find ourselves negotiating with another truck or van as we moved around the bend. It reminded me of times when I have moved a large couch through a doorway and had to negotiate with my fellow movers on how and when to turn so as to successfully move on. “Okay, now you drive forward a bit and turn your wheels left, I’ll move towards the spot you just came from and you head towards where I was and we’ll avoid rolling a thousand feet down a steep incline to our deaths. Sound good?”

We seemed to be driving at a constant ten degree angle for close to 40 minutes when we finally came around and bend and began descending the back side of the mountain we had just climbed. Towns such as Paraiso and Guava Ridge seemed to pop up out of nowhere and every once in a while, when we checked with locals to ensure we were headed in the right direction, a few of them would ask for a lift to the next town in exchange. Having plenty of room in the back of our trucks we obliged and pressed on towards a small town named Mavis Bank.

Please take note of the fact that I just said the word “trucks,” as in plural. The first truck is an older Nissan which rides fairly close to the ground; the other is a newer Toyota which has the clearance of most modern SUV’s. The Nissan, driven by Emmett, was the lead truck and the Toyota, driven by Larry, followed. Knowing that the roads we would take to get where we are now are treacherous, we planned to park the Nissan at a Police Station in Mavis Bank, transfer all gear and occupants into the Toyota and continue the journey. After roughly an hour of being out of Kingston we arrived at Mavis Bank, consolidated everything into the behemoth Toyota (4 in the cab and 2 in the back with all the gear) and pressed on.

We finished a descent of sorts into a valley at the base of the innards of the Blue Mountains and crossed the Yallahs River. Dusk had a firm grip on the landscape and everything was dimly lit as we crossed a concrete slab of a bridge over the narrow river. It was very easy to see that a heavy rain could easily wash out this road and bridge and leave the higher mountain locales stranded for days at a time and suddenly I found myself regretting that I had not checked the weather before leaving.

Once we had crossed to the other side of the river we began a 40 minute ascent which had me laughing in disbelief for nearly the entire ride. The incline of this road was similar to that of a roller coaster while it climbs; seriously, gravity was forcing me into the back of my seat from this point forward. To boot, some of these roads were nothing more than dirt with huge gaps and trenches carved out from rain water. Larry shifted our trusty truck in to 4 Wheel Low Drive after a while and negotiated not only the terrain but hairpin turns with oncoming traffic.

You read that correctly: oncoming traffic. I really have no idea how a late model Honda Civic hatchback or Toyota Minibus gets up and down these mountains without needing a new transmission every month but they do and we came across a few of them. We also came across many a vehicle that found its final resting place along the side of this path as well as a few natives leading donkeys in the night to which Aaron quipped, “Hey Mark, watch your ass.”

With night in full swing and no street lights of any kind, we finally arrived at our destination, Whitfield Hall. It’s a large bunk house which can house up to 40 people. Its main lounge is gloomy, if not all out creepy, with a large fireplace and a smoke-stained ceiling. We have arranged for the use of a separate private cabin located just down the road and like the main bunk house it has no electricity and no hot water. Kerosene lanterns and bottled water are in full swing as I write this. We have just finished a great baked chicken dinner up at the main bunk house complete with rice and peas (a staple at most Jamaican meals) and some juice. Now it is time to force myself to sleep for we will wake up and begin our trek at 2:00am which is a mere five hours from now.

Nature, It's All Around Me...

That title is the opening to a song by The Samples. If you don’t know it, do yourself a favor and find a copy. You’ll thank me.

In one of my posts from my first trip I mentioned how the priests here have a set of prayers they do in the morning followed by Mass. It’s really quite beautiful and serene sitting in a church just before the sun comes up right over a point where the Santa Cruz Mountains meet the Caribbean Sea. Palm trees rustle outside the church as breezes find their way through the windows and brush away stress and fatigue only to replace them with a deep calm.

And I get to start every day like that!

On the weekend, things get pushed back an hour in favor of a little more sleep and I saw this as a great opportunity to fully catch and photograph a sunrise before prayers and Mass on Saturday morning. Those of you who know me well know that I can wake up early when I have to. 5:30am was not foreign territory in my days at LandAmerica but left to my own devices, 8:00am would be rise and shine time for everyone. My alarm kicked in and I grumbled out of bed wondering, “Is a sunrise really worth it? There will be another one tomorrow, right? Besides, I’m here for a few months. I’ll catch it later.”

During the night one of the German Shepherds that guard this compound had conveniently placed himself outside my window and at the moment I was getting ready to fall back into bed, he saw a bird roaming the grounds and launched into a barking fit and chased after it like a Greyhound at the track. This startled me out of my grogginess so I proceed to slap on a pair of pants and my sandals, gathered my camera and set off for a field I have recently discovered which gives me an incredible view of the sea and the mountains. The road leading to said field is partly paved, partly gravel and partly dirt but worst of all, it is very hilly; something I (and my leg muscles) have grown unaccustomed to in Chicago. My destination finally reached, I started snapping.

Aside from some of the views, I took note of how quickly the temperature changed during this outing. When I walked out of my trailer (yes, you read that correctly: trailer) it could not have been more than 68 degrees. By the time the sun was peeking through some clouds and shining over the top of the mountain, things had easily gone up ten degrees and by the time I started to head back to the compound, it was near 80 – and it wasn’t even 8:00am yet. Ultimately it reached 93 degrees that day; kind of odd for this time of year.

On the complete opposite side of the coin is the beauty of a night sky in these parts. Lights are confined to those in houses and street lights are rare so gazing up at a plethora of constellations usually results in me laughing in disbelief that something this beautiful exists. Over the weekend I had an opportunity to travel to Mandeville, the nearest big city, to watch the Super Bowl. Hell, if troops can watch the game at 2:00am in Baghdad I should be able to catch the game here, right? Thank goodness for CBS Caribbean.

As soon as the Colts had secured victory (my condolences to Chicago fans) we decided to start the trek back. The overall distance is a mere 25 miles but to travel it takes 45 minutes if not a little more. The roads are not wide, they’re in terrible condition and a good portion of the trip consists of switchbacks on the western side of the mountains. In short, it’s not really a quick drive. But this time was probably the most exciting it has ever been because I had the opportunity to experience it while riding in the back of a pick up truck. Typically something like this is sort of commonplace. Who among us hasn’t ridden in the back of a truck even if just down the street? What made this trip so memorable was being able to take in the night sky I just described for 45 minutes. To boot, the full moon was only a day old so it was up there shining like a spotlight and bathing the Jamaican mountains and countryside in a cool shade of blue.

For all the poverty and somewhat harsh conditions in the undeveloped areas of the island, Jamaica really is a beautiful place and it makes sense why their pledge and national song talk about the island’s beauty and their promise to increase it. Locals refer to remote areas of the island as “de bush” and even more remote areas like Bull Savannah are called “backabush.” I have been fortunate to see areas like Montego Bay, Negril, Ocho Rios and Kingston as well as “backabush” and the latter is leagues more beautiful than the former because it remains untouched. A lack of modern facilities, especially hospitals, makes it nearly impossible for a resort to open down here and it’s sort of a catch 22 for locals. They want modern resources for themselves but realize the moment those resources arrive, it’s open season on their untouched countryside which would bring on a downward spiral of crime, poverty and spoiled environment similar to that found in the fore mentioned cities. But without those resources, it remains difficult to break the cycles of what plagues them: poverty and a wide spread lack of good education.

Mother Nature also popped up this weekend in a way I never would have expected. We had an earthquake. Its epicenter was about 75 miles to the Northwest of the island and had registered 6.2 on the Richter scale. It shook us pretty good; one of my fellow volunteers was napping and when the rumbling woke him up he was at first convinced somebody was under the bed shaking it and having a laugh at his expense. A few items fell from shelves and other items were moved from their usual resting spots. No major damage took place which is a blessing. More than 90 percent of the buildings in Jamaica are made of concrete, mainly because it is what stands up best to hurricanes. I have no idea how they hold up in an earthquake or what kind of havoc would come about if they came crumbling down and I’d rather find the answer via Google than firsthand.

And that’s your nature report for this week, folks. No massive insights, no learning, no new perspectives. Just sheer enjoyment of backabush Jamaica. Now if you’ll excuse me, there are some thick rain clouds coming over the mountains which will envelope our clear blue sky in roughly 20 minutes and I know a place where I can watch the whole thing unfold.