Oh, Death...

I know, I know. “Way to bring things down, Konold.” What happened to funny stories of things lost in translation, living in a rundown trailer or gorgeous terrain in all directions? Well, those are all still there I assure you. In fact in the last week I had to ask a man to repeat something seven times before I understood him, went to war with a colony of cockroaches in the ceiling of said trailer and woke up to crashing waves at a nice beach house in the area. And that’s all well and good; it all definitely adds to the experience, but life here ensures that there are opportunities to see the not-so-pretty side of things. The very first day I had arrived in December it was discovered that a very prominent elderly couple in the area had been kidnapped. It was not until I returned in January that the bodies were found. It turns out that they were the wrong people, to boot. They just happened to have the same last name as the intended targets and the kidnappers had made a mistake.

All that aside, I have death on the brain tonight because I learned this week that the grandfather of a very close friend of mine passed away recently, a man I had the privilege of meeting a handful of times while I was growing up in Connecticut. In the e-mails I have been able to exchange with my friend this week it has become painfully clear how much of a loss this is to him. He looked upon his grandfather not only as a hero but as someone who taught him much about life and how to be a good man. Mr. Drabik, you will be missed.

As I have mentioned, I have been helping to teach the poetry section of the literature classes of the upper grades and one of the poems we covered is named, “Traveling Through the Dark.” Its overall theme is death and as the class delved further and further into it the students became confused at my interpretation of things as I concluded that, at least for me, the setting of the poem was a metaphor for a wake and/or funeral. Their confusion was rooted in the fact that the poem is entirely too somber to remotely resemble anything they experience when it comes to sending the departed on their way.

First let’s cover the wake. They don’t really have one in the sense that we do and what they do have is not called a “wake” but rather a “set up.” A set up, which occurs nine days after the person passes away, is a huge party wherein a very, very large speaker stack is erected at the home of a relative of the departed and in a pot luck type of fashion, food is made and brought, along with a health supply of drinks, and music is played at Earth shattering levels. This party, which begins somewhere in the vicinity of 7:00pm, lasts until at least 6:00am the following day. In the weeks before I took my trip home in March, a relative of one of the parishioners passed away and set up was at her place which is roughly a quarter mile away from the compound. I went to bed at 11:30pm that night, with ear plugs in, and when I woke up at 6:30am the next day, the music was still blaring and I could hear it perfectly. I was amazed, not to mention thankful for the ear plugs.

With respect to funerals here, not only does everyone accompany the body to the cemetery, no one leaves until the casket is in the ground and all of the dirt is placed on top of it. When I explained to them that in the States we accompany the casket to the cemetery, conduct a closing service there and then leave it above ground to be later lowered and covered, they were aghast. “Sir! Ya mean ya just leave da body der!? Ya not scared someone a come a take tings!?”

“Well, grave robbing isn’t too rampant where I come from.” From the way it has been explained to me, it is not entirely uncommon for material objects to be placed in the casket and, if left unattended, said material objects will rise and vacate the casket much sooner than the dearly departed.

“Sir, how could ya just leave da body? Respect da dead, sir. It not ovah ‘til ya can’t see it, sir!” And even after the burial, reminders of the dead are still be quite visible. Many Jamaicans do not have the money to have their loved ones buried in a cemetery and so it is not uncommon to see one or more headstones or semi-above ground tombs (much like what you would find in and around New Orleans) in the front or side yard of someone’s property which plays a large part in locals’ belief in ghosts, which they call “duppies.”

We went back and forth on this one for about ten minutes and then one of the students tried to explain to me that they tend to embrace the verse found in the Bible which talks about crying when a baby is born and laughing when a person dies. The former being a result of knowing the hardship the baby will come to face as a result of being on the Earth, the latter being a celebration that they have moved beyond this world to a promised paradise. And while I understood that on a cerebral level, it was a head-scratching thought for me simply because it defied that which I am used to. The convenient misunderstanding between me and the students had come to its logical conclusion.

And we here at the compound have had to contend with death recently in a unique way. Back on my birthday I wrote that one of the dogs, Petruscha, had gone into labor and was ready to deliver puppies for which we had been waiting for some time. In total she was carrying nine puppies and unfortunately five of them were stillborn and one of them died shortly after being born, leaving us with 3 puppies. Eventually two of the remaining three also passed and then Petrushca herself succumbed to unstoppable internal bleeding.

Two days later the one remaining puppy also died but in a most unusual way. He was napping and began to wake up and stretch and in the middle of it he let out a high pitched noise and then just stopped moving. Not to be cruel, but it seemed like he stretched himself to death. It was most bizarre and sad but in a sense, Petruscha and her 9 offspring are all in puppy heaven. The remains of all of them have been cremated for that is how things are done here.

And so it is that I remember that death is a part of life. It’s good to be reminded of the finality of it all. I think sometimes the sight of the horizon is lost for the sake of the ground directly in front of us. That immediate ground has its place, to be sure, but it is not healthy when the horizon line is constantly sacrificed for the here and now. And as uncomfortable as that end time may or may not be, I think it needs to be put on the front burner so that the steps taken when focusing on the ground right in front of us is done with intention.

Culture...

Since coming here I have had “plenty chance” to experience things authentically Jamaican and have done what I can to relay those experiences in these pages. A lot of them usually spark from some comedic exchange wherein something was easily lost in translation or I just had not idea what to do with myself because I was that out of place. Fair enough. It’s to be expected.

And then there are other things that I have either seen or heard and have done my best to simply describe. So it is with this quick post. A few things that are authentically Jamaican that make me stop and think to myself, “Huh. Never really seen that before.”

Bashment: Similar to a backyard cookout, this huge party is centered on an extremely massive speaker stack which is cranked up to unbelievable heights and can be heard for miles around – that is not an exaggeration. We had the privilege of having one occur directly across the street from us and the aforementioned speaker stack was a good quarter mile from my room yet the music was so loud, it sounded as if there were speakers right outside my door. The music starts playing around 3:00pm and it usually kicks off with old R&B and cheesy 80’s love ballads. In one minute I was hearing Percy Sledge’s, “When A Man Loves a Woman,” followed immediately Lionel Richie’s, “Hello, Is It Me You’re Looking For?” People eventually arrive and from what I could see, there isn’t much socializing in the way of talking which, no doubt, is directly related to the volume of the speakers. Seriously, I think there was an article in the news about astronauts in the International Space Station jamming to reggae. All interaction consists of people dancing with each other in ways that can most easily be described as “blatantly inappropriate.” And this goes on until 6:30am.

Bun and Cheese: As far as I can tell so far, this is mainly an Easter tradition and it consists of a long loaf of break, similar to the color rye bread, but its taste is spicier and sweeter; almost like it had been baked with cloves and all spice. It’s quite a thing to have bun and cheese on the table. If you find yourself with bun and cheese, you know it’s important. People here talking about making their “Easter bun” and even the packaging of bun bought in the grocery story wishes you a great Easter. Thanks to the generosity of parishioners, not to mention the fathers’ love of bun and cheese, we have had a constant supply of bun and cheese for two weeks now and while I never really thought pairing cheese with a fruity loaf of bread would be good, I have quickly become a fan of bun and cheese.

Let’s Burn Everything: While the island has some semblance of a garbage removal system, sometimes it is just easier to burn everything. This especially comes into play when it comes to handling garden trimmings and the like. It is not uncommon to look upon the sides of the local mountain ranges and seeing random columns of smoke decorate it. The bottom line is that sometimes it’s just easier to burn everything than it is to haul it somewhere or wait for someone to come and get it eventually. Burn bans and things of that nature do not exist here, at least they don’t in “back-a-bush” places like Bull Savannah. When Petruscha gave birth to her puppies, she decided to do it on a futon and while the metal frame was salvageable, the mattress was not so we simply put it in a previously-made fire area along with other items on the grounds, doused it in gasoline, dropped and match and let it burn for the day. By nightfall it was all ashes.

Billy: This is more of a local thing than a nationwide thing, but I’m sure there is an instance of Billy in every pocket of the island. Billy is the local bookie. He’s also the guy you want to see if you want to convert U.S. currency to Jamaican. Billy sits in the shade among some buildings in the next town over, Junction where he and his girlfriend run a liquor store. Billy spends his days sitting by his detailed, black, Honda Civic coupe along with five to ten other people hanging around him, a form of security I’m sure. As people approach him he simply greets them and does business with them. One of his unique talents is the speed of his mind with numbers. Every time I have walked up to him with some money to exchange, he does the math quickly in his head, takes out his pocket calculator to ensure he has done it right and to show me what he’s about to give me, places the U.S. money under the floor mat of his car, takes out a monstrous wad of Jamaican money and quickly flips out the amount promised. All of this takes place within 10 to 15 seconds and Billy gives a better rate than the banks. The kicker is, when the banks or currency exchange joints run out of money to use, they walk across the street and conduct business with Billy who is more than happy to help out.

That’s what I’ve got for right now. I know it’s a slight departure from my usual narratives but we have just started school again this week after a beautiful two week break, much of which was spent at a beach cottage belonging to a member of the diocese with whom the priests here have a wonderful relationship. So I could tell you of the numerous times where I either fell asleep or awoke to crashing waves and ocean breezes all while enjoying a comfortable queen size bed and a room the size of my old condo, but somehow I don’t think you want to hear that.

Birthday...

I would have thought that milestone birthdays were the most memorable: 20, 25, 30, 40, etc. I never would have thought 32 would turn out to be one of the most memorable, but then again I never really thought I’d be spending it here. Let’s just start with the fact that

I haven’t had a birthday this warm since 1983 when my family and I were living in California. In September of that year we made our way to New England where I lived until I left for college in 1993 and, unless I am forgetting any globally-warmed off year, it never really reached the 60’s. Once I was in Milwaukee and Chicago in the years to come it was pretty much guaranteed that the warmest it would get on my special day was in the 50’s and that the lowest temperature was always up for grabs. Fair enough. So the chance to trek around the coastal area of St. Elizabeth parish in 80 degree weather was firmly grasped.

For a few days now we have been entertaining the mother and cousin of one of the other volunteers here at St. Vincent Strambi. Judy and Carrie, Aaron’s mother and cousin respectively, are two very dynamic, vibrant and all around good people who are great to spend time with and so having a chance to show them around certain parts of the island we volunteers, myself, Aaron and Jason, piled into one of the pickup trucks and rattled down the less-than-smooth roads of the island and made our way to Treasure Beach. Upon arriving we indulged in a lunch at the well known restaurant, Jack Sprat, a seaside establishment which serves incredible seafood and, of all things, pizza. Pair your fare with a cold Red Stripe beer and you have found yourself a small slice (no pun) of heaven. Treasure Beach is an interesting locale on the island because it is known well enough by people to be populated and semi-flourishing but it’s not as touristy as Negril, Montego Bay or Ocho Rios. It is kind of that destination for the slightly more daring traveler but not so far off the beaten path that locals would stare at you like you fell out of the sky. The people of Treasure Beach are very welcoming, open and eager for you to relax the way they do. With the Caribbean Sea right there and a front row seat for every sunset, it’s kind of hard to be any other way.

With lunch firmly polished off we hopped back in the truck and made our way down the road to the town of Black River, a town centered on a river which allowed goods to be brought from the coast to the inner parts of the island before the advent of paved roads and delivery trucks. It was the first town in Jamaica to have a telephone and if memory serves, electricity. There is a huge street market which buzzes daily and jams the roads with pedestrians. On extra busy days it can take ten minutes to travel the quarter mile strip of the town center whereas on holidays it looks like a certifiable ghost town. Our interest, however, was not the street market but the children’s home there which is affiliated with the Mission Society of Mandeville. A handful of the students at the school live there and two of the priests of the society, along with a group of nuns, keep the place running. It is home to more than 30 kids, boy and girls, who have been abandoned for one reason or another and who are now the recipients of the love and care of those who run it.

Those of you who know me very well know that I could not let this part of my birthday pass without some piece of introspection which mainly revolved around the fortune of my life and the times where I have been so wrapped up in said fortune that I have let it stop me from taking certain risks. And while I was musing around in all of that I was brought back to the lightness of the day when one of the boys placed a large laundry basket over his head, began roaring and then started chasing some of the other kids around like a deranged monster. I laughed so hard I almost fell over and lamented that the price of growing up is the precious commodity found in children: living purely in the here and now and not being aware of, or worried about, life in the larger context. Once the moment of the laundry monster had passed I went back to my previous train of thought and found myself tying the two moments together. These kids, who are more in the present moment than most people could ever hope to be, have very little in the way of personal possessions and those things they do own have probably been donated in a charity drive from a far off place and maybe this is one of the factors which produces what I judge to be a less inhibited lifestyle here in Jamaica. To quote Mr. Dylan, “When you’ve got nothin’, you’ve got nothin’ to lose.”

Once our time with the kids was up we indulged in a truly tourist activity: a boat tour of Black River and its crocodile inhabitants. They are all over this thing and these tour boats bring you right up next to them to the point where the crew leans out the door and either drops fresh pieces of chicken in the water for them, pets them, or both. And while the captain’s offer to jump in and swim for a while was tempting on this hot day, there was something about these beasts and their open jaws that kept me in the boat.

We bid adieu to the crocodiles and the folks of Black River and made our way back to Treasure Beach by way of seldom-traveled roads. The condition of these thoroughfares was so bad that my back and butt begged me to revert to the tactic used in February when we descended from the Blue Mountains – stand in the bed of the truck, hold on the to the makeshift roll bar and duck whenever branches come along. This worked much better and provided a really great point of view for taking in the landscape. Extra thick rain clouds gathered over the mountaintops in the distance while directly above us and out towards the sea was the clearest sky around.

We arrived in Treasure Beach around 5:00pm which left us plenty of time to take in one more touristy thing which is been on my list of things to do since the moment I set foot on the island: Pelican Bar. The Pelican Bar is a fine establishment built on a sandbar 1 km out at sea. It is the most rickety structure I have ever seen; it is made of sticks and plywood and I would not be surprised if chewing gum were holding it together. I used to build forts more stable than this. For a moderate fee we hired Joseph Brown, captain of the One Love, to take us out there to drink overpriced beer. By way of comparison, a Red Strip at the bar up the road from where I live costs $90 Jamaican which is the equivalent of $1.50 in the States. However, at the Pelican Bar a Red Strip will cost you $200 Jamaican, which is the same as $4.00 US. I guess I wasn’t paying so much for the beer but more for the chance to sit at a bar in the open water with a completely unobstructed view of the sunset. We arrived at this watering hole an hour before the sun dipped below the horizon and watched in wonder as it peeked from behind scattered clouds and changed the color of its canvass from yellow to orange to a fiery pink. Check it out.

All that was left for the day was a boat trip back to shore, a breezy drive back to Bull Savannah and burgers and fries for dinner. My day’s companions surprised me with a birthday cake and we scarffed it all down with a vengeance. I love cake and more specifically, frosting! We may be limited to dial up access for the internet here but I can still get frosting so all is not lost.

For some reason 32 is hitting me with a certain weight; and I mean that figuratively of course. Those of you who know me intimately are aware of my inability to weight more than 160 pounds and yes, I hear you all groaning in disgust. I don’t feel physically older than I did yesterday, last month or last year but for some reason there is a sobering effect when I say the number “32.” Of course when it’s framed in the context my Uncle Jim used it doesn’t seem so bad. “I was at your christening party in Boston for chrissakes!” he wrote. “Stop it already!”

And it would appear I may not be the only one that will have a birthday around here. One of the dogs here, Petruscha, has gone into labor tonight. She’s been carrying puppies in her belly for a while and we have eagerly anticipated their delivery and there is still time for one to be born and share a birthday with me. The whole thing really makes me miss my own dogs, Mojo and Savannah, but it also reminds me of how many good things there are in my life and if you are reading this, you are counted among those many good things. Thank you.