Excerpts from the Journal

Since I’ve been so delinquent in my blogging for the past 2 months I’ve decided to give you the profound priviledge of reading some of my journals. Although I now see that it is hard to find anything that actually makes sense or is not too personal or offensive.

March 6, 2008

I just had a twinge of the longing to go home feeling. The wanting to crawl into to a shell. The wishing I was the lizard high on the church building, above the preacher’s fiery sermons, above judgements, stares, guilt. Just being. Living. Watching. The gravitational force enticing me towards hermithood – always there waiting, lurking. Am I naturally predisposed, hard-wired to withdraw? I have a feeling in old age there will be no stopping it. No counter-force of common sense, no drive for self-improvement, or approval. Maybe just a lack of energy, to balance the natural tendency to which I swing. I’ll just snap back, recoil like a spring into a retreated state. My years of molding and shaping against the grain come to nothing.

But I’m probably exaggerating a little. Today I’m just not looking forward to teaching a craft to 30 screaming, whining kids.

April 8, 2008

Today I was feeling a little low. A little angry. Then I realized it wasn’t 10 o’clock yet and I’d been told I was getting fat, my hair looked like a bird’s nest and I looked pale. PALE!!??? This is as brown as I get hun.

I know ‘fat’ doesn’t have the same negative connotations that it does at home, and many people actually aspire to have some ‘meat’ on them. But although I was at first pleased to find that the ideal for beauty here is not the skinnier, the better – I soon found out that similar to home – women’s bodies and looks are of constant attention and routinely objectified. What’s worse, people feel at liberty to make comments to you – not just behind your back! haha. When people make comments about my weight it immediately enrages me to want to do one of two things. Eat and ton and get really really fat – just as a big F (that stands for fudge) you, I don’t care what you think.. Or to stop eating completely and get super super skinny – also and a big F (fabulous) you, look what you made me do. Of course I know it’s ridiculous and I could never go through with either. Mostly because I know the biggest F (friendship) you of all is to actually really just love the way I am right now. But thats the hardest one isn’t it.

Weight is an issue. If I think about it, I’ve been trying to eat healthy, exercise and not gain weight since about grade 9. I’ve had the message that fat is bad, thin is good and will solve every last one of your problems and life will be perfect – force fed/shoved down my throat for the past 23 years. One year abroad in a country that is confusingly ambivalent about the issue and still has a strong Western thrust, is not going to change anything really, I shouldn’t be surprised. Nor should anybody be surprised that Jamaica hasn’t converted my psyche. I consider myself lucky that I don’t have an eating disorder.

April update

Hi!!

I know its’s been forever since my last post and I really never meant for it get this long.  You know how it goes.  But I’ll try to fill you all in on how I’m doing here. 

I now have only 3 months left, and I can’t believe it.  My time here has gone by so fast.  I want to enjoy and make the most of my time left here, but at the same time certain aspects of coming home are becoming very appealing.  Like driving.  Or being able to pick up a large coffee pretty much anywhere I am.  (Of course seeing friends and family is number one – obviously).  I’m starting to hatch out all these plans in my head of what I’m going to do when I come home.  Something that has been hard for me here is that even though I’ve been here for over 6 months and am pretty comfortable in the day to day life, I still often feel like a stranger, not really understood and alone in many of my beliefs.  Jamaica is a very Christian culture, an extremely homophobic culture and a patriarchal culture (although some would argue with me- but I’ll leave that for another day).

My time here is full of highs and lows.  And I’m always surprised when I’m feeling the extremes.  Like I never expected I would or something.  One day I’ll look around, stunned by how much I love the place, the people, the vibe.  And the next day I’ll be hoping for a rain day, wondering where that feeling went.  Overall I know it is an experience that has made me grow in so many ways and I would not trade it.  My goal for the last stretch here (’cause I know it will fly by too), is to continue to try and reach out and make connections with people here.  Thanks for all your continued support.  Lots of love,

Suzanne

Brown Gyal

Dude! Exciting news.  My tan has progressed to the point where my race/nationality is apparently indeterminable.  People have been confused, on multiple occasions now, so it’s no fluke.  My taxi driver the other day, after greeting me, ”hi Brownie”, actually then asked me if I was a brownie or a whitey.  I can’t help but somehow feel a sense of accomplishment.  Meg finally has reason to be proud.  “Brownie” is my new nickname at CUMI.

A Day in the Life of a SALT-er

Just an ordinary day.  No life threatening events or enlightening epiphanies, just an average day.

 Wednesday morning.  My favourite morning because I don’t have to be at school until late.  I have hours to spare compared to the days I’m out the door at 6:30.  Always dragging behind April, who is one of those people who wakes up in overdrive – springing out of bed.  I am one of those people who will never understand how.

But Wednesdays I get to do things my speed.  Jamaica’s speed I like to think – although many Jamaican’s are very early risers.  Lounge. coffee. cereal.  mmmm.. cereal. another bowl. read a chapter.  Eventually I’m out the door.

“Pssst.”

Oh please no, not already.  I haven’t even reached the gate yet.  I know it’s Spragga, the neighbour, without even looking.  Ignore.  Of course this only enspires a louder, longer Psssssssst!  PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST!! 

Fine! smile and wave, quickly escape out the gate.

At Reading Prep School, I see TJ a fourth grader.  He doesn’t hide on me in his usual spot in the library today.  He tries behind the door.  Good one TJ.  The library is one small room with really no good place to hide except a little storage closet where I can always see a limb or the tip of a head poking out from behind boxes.  I quiz TJ on his 6 and 5 timetables.  He is leaning dangerously back on 2 legs of his chair, back against the wall.

“TJ sit up, you’re going to fall.”

“No I’m not.”

Continue on. Sure enough 30 seconds later, legs give out, he slides down the wall, a slow motion drop into heap on the floor.  It’s impossible not to laugh at his shocked, terrified, sheepish expression.  We read 2 books and play “Pass the Pigs” (thanks Rachel).  TJ “creams” me and doesn’t let me hear the end of it.

As I leave, 2 little girls look at me quizzickly, “Who ARE you?”

I turn as I walk by, “who are YOU?”  They squeel, giggle and scamper off.

I go to the highschool.  Enter grade 7 classroom- cautiously.  They should really have a sign on the door, ‘Enter at Your Own Risk’.  Seven boys, occasionally supervised.  Today the aren’t, and it’s a war zone.  Crunched up baber balls are zipping through the air, ricocheting off walls, desks, heads. Shouts, laughter, scrambling, desks become barricades.  One kid dashes out the door, chased by a whizzing paper bullet and another kid.  Something flies by my ear.  I quick grab my kid, Shavoy, and leave them to their chaos.

We sit at the table outside under a tree and read about orphaned kids on a grand adventure in WWII, running from the Nazis.  Believe it or not, its not any worse than the country and western the grade 8’s are reading about a roaming cowboy.

Time’s up.  Brandon’s turn, another grade 7.  He’s a bit of a handful (a gross understatement).  I find him still highly occupied by the riveting game of whip paper balls at people, simultaneously involved in coin hockey on the desk.

“Brandon you have a choice, you can come outside and work with me, or I’ll see you next week.”  A little bit of reverse psychology.  Not sure that it’ll work or if he even heard me, but I don’t feel like a fight.  I go outside and start to read, waiting for school to be over – when I see my next student.  Surprisingly, a few minutes later Brandon turns up, out of breath.  Dramatically, we make our way through the timetables. 

Home.  Grab my beach volleyball (which doubles as a soccer ball) and head for the yard.  Although the fence separating the yard from the road is largely covered by trees and bushes, I do not go unnoticed by the many passer-bys.

“My Ball!” I look over to see a boy slapping his chest- as if I’m supposed to kick the ball over the fence and through all the shrubbery to him.

A couple of minutes later, “I didn’t know you played football.” I wave to a schoolgirl I often share taxis with. 

Some more kids on their way home from school cluster near the gate, peering in.  “Suzanne! Suzanne!”  Somehow they all know my name.

Now some guys are out there.  One is saying something in patois.  All I can make out is something like how some girls in Jamaica think playing sports is childish.  I realise how a white girl playing football might be somewhat of a spectacle around here. 

“You can juggle!”

I laugh to myself, boot the ball across the yard, running after it.

“I’ll come back and look for you later, play football.”  hahah. sure thing bud.

I know if I took my ball outside the gate, a game would flare up immediately.  A football in Jamaica has some kind of powerful magnetice force drawing in everyone within earshot, like kids to candy. No, kids here would prefer football to candy anyday.  A few times now games have spontaneously sprung up in Meg’s yard with some of the neighbours and the three ‘pip-squeek’ relatives of Meg’s that regularly stop by.  Its quickly becoming a Sunday afternoon ritual.  Lasting hours.  Until the sun has set and we can no longer see the ball.

A Visit from the North Pole

The North Pole, Canada, same thing isn’t it? This past week I was lucky to have my mom, pops, bro and bro’s girlfriend, Rachel come to visit me. Or rather, they were lucky to escape from the arctic and get a taste of what the tropics are all about.

I made it my duty to give them a true authentic Jamaican experience. No rented car, no all-inclusive resorts, many compact but ”efficient” taxi/bus rides fitting at least 5 more people and a few parachutes (backpacks) more than you would have thought possible. Even cold showers, until they figured out how to work the hot water. I do not get this luxury very often and have to admit enjoyed listening to them suffer. One night we were also blessed with a power outage, in true Jamaican form, at which time we took the opportunity to sit around kerosene lamps and poke fun at the parents. Oh what an endless source of entertainment that is.

And how can I forget the food. Jerked chicken, jerked pork, ackee and saltfish, Julie mangoes, rice and peas, curried goat, tropical fruit smoothies, conch soup, stewed everything, curried everything, bami, plantains, blue mountain coffee, and of course Jamaican pattees. And lots of great non-Jamaican food in between. I am still full a week later.

We visited many beaches in Mobay, Duns River Falls in Ocho Rios, Ron and Gus in Kingston, the Blue Mountains, CUMI, my school, my house, my church (which happened to be a baptism day – add another tick to the authenticity score). And of course we can’t forget, after an entire week of hearing Phil chirp about it, we visited the bird sanctuary. All packed into 7 short days. Expertly planned by me, I must say. I think I may have wore them out though. Mom went home with laryngitis, Pop with some undiagnosed pussing poison rash (yet again – who’s surprised really?), Si with self-diagnosed sunstroke (yeah right Si, you just ate too much), and Rachel continued her travels to Portland covered in mosquito bites.

I must say it was a great little vaca for me who suffered none of the above. Seriously though, it was really good to see the fam, even considering the few times I found myself, to my horror, helplessly sandwiched between the rents. Nothing triggers a panic attack like the overwhelming stifling feeling that you have somehow reverted back to an infant cradled between two doting parents. Now that I have exposed this phobia I’m sure, when I come home, they will take every opportunity to exploit it. I know I really shouldn’t complain and feel more than slightly guilty saying this after visiting the over-capacity children’s orphanage down the road.

But the week flew by and it was definitely hard to see my visitors go again. Partly because it meant back to work for me. I found myself jealous of my brother returning to school. Oh what a great life is that of a student. At least in January. Of couse, if I were a student still I would box myself in the face for saying anything of the sort. I now only hazily remember writing my last paper of University (my third or fourth all-nighter of the week) and saying- remember this, never again. Simon tried to help me gain perspective though by assuring me that Jamaica is “infinitely more exciting than Canada”.

But for some reason, returning to work here was preceded with much angst. I don’t know why. Yes I do. I am my mother’s daughter.

Angst is the worst feeling. Somehow it builds up the the littlest thing I have to do to be the most dreaded painful thing I have to just get through and over with – even though logically I know its no big deal. The daily tasks I have to perform clump into one cumulative overwhelming unbearable heap. And then on top of that I often have this little voice in the back of my head telling me its pointless anyhow. Me being here is meaningless and a waste of time.

Fortunately all that is through with for now. I’m breathing a sigh of relief as the first week back comes to a close and I realize that all of that worrying whatever it was, was as per usual unfounded, unnecessary ridiculousness. I’ve been surprised to have each day turn out kind of great, and have new exciting things to look forward to like teaching arts and crafts to 2 classes a week, piano lessons to one girl, and holding cute little spitty-upy-babies.

Jamaica is so chill. I love the chillness that is Jamaica. Jamaica no problem.

Tis the season

Hello again!  As the weather back home is turning frigid (or so I hear) the rainy season here has finally ceased and we have been graced with the warm, sunny weather the Carribbean is famous for.
Things here are getting busy as the holidays approach with Christmas parties and the like, although Christmas in the tropics still feels like somewhat of a contradiction. The carols are the same, still full of snowmen, frightful weather, winter wonderlands, and coniferous trees.
Yesterday everyone here at CUMI went down to one of the highschools for the much anticipated, annual Christmas party. Practicing for this event started over a month ago… oh it’s big. The highlight of the year for people here. April and I decided to do a little diddy and rewrote the lyrics to Rockin’ around the Christmas tree. I know, I know, it sounds like I’m turning into my dad, but in my defence it was April’s idea and she wrote the words (apparently I’m not a good rhymer). I just played the guitar and sang.

Rockin’ around the palm tree
With some sorrel in my cup.
Two Canadian girls are here to see
What is all up.

Rockin’ around the palm tree
With some reggae music to sing.
Later we’ll have some ackee
And drink a little Ting.

We have enjoyed our time here in Jamaica.
The patois language is hard to learn,
We want a tan instead of a burn.

Rockin’ around the palm tree
Have a happy holiday.
Away from home is what we are
Learning the no problem Jamaican way.

It was definately a big hit.
‘Warmest’ wishes from the sunny south

white gyal

Its been awhile since I’ve written on here, and the guilt is building up. Sorry to those who are loyally checking the site, I’m surprised that anyone still is actually -my bad. By the time I get to an internet cafe for my one hour at the end of the week, what I want to say somehow always escapes me. I wish that I could paint you a complete picture of my life here so that you could see everything I see. But I know this is impossible, and as each day passes, the larger, more daunting and more impossible the task becomes. But I will at least try and provide you with a glimpse into my experiences here. Thanks for the comments and emails- keep ‘em coming! I love hearing from you.

It’s still rainy season. A long long rainy season. Ron and Gus, my country reps say they haven’t seen a rainy season like this for the 10 years they’ve been here. I’ve been here for about 2 1/2 months now – a relatively short time. The weeks fly by, but at the same time I feel like I’ve been here forever. I think I’m gradually losing my foreign eye. Less and less things stick out to me and strike me as odd. However, today I was once again jolted when driving downtown I spotted a huge pig taking a leak in the middle of the crammed road.

One thing I have gotten used to is standing out. I am a very visible minority. I often forget the degree to which I stick out here- which is good. It means I’ve gotten over the initial feeling upon arrival of overly self-conscious angst, looking around the airport and realizing that we were the only white people.

Something I still haven’t grown completely accustomed to, a huge part of living in Jamaica, is dealing with what it’s like to be a white ‘girl’ here. How to even describe the constant attention.. overwhelming, comic, nonstop, tiresome, disheartening. Being a female here, especially a white female, is apparently an open invitation for all males to vocalize the first thing that pops into their head in an attempt to get your attention.

“white gyal!”
“sexy gyal”
“I like you”
“when will I see you again?”
“looks like its going to be a white Christmas”
“gyal! wha yuh name?”
“you look like an angel dat fell from di skyiy”
Holding hands up in the air, “I see di light!”
Or I’ll be walking along and just here random shouts guessing my origin.. “French!”, “English!”

Although most comments are of a complimentary nature, do not be fooled. They are impossible to escape or ignore and can become very frustrating. My coping strategy – laugh about it. I try not to take anything too seriously, try to see the humour, go home and exchange the most hilarious, ridiculous stories with April. Some days its easy to laugh, some days I just want to go about my business harassment free, and scowling comes more naturally. I’ve thus far resisted the temptation to respond in a more crude manner which would probably only escalate the problem.

In any case, never does a boring day go by.

At the market, a ‘rastaman’ waves me over to his stand.
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Uh, I don’t think so”
“Where are you from”
“Canada”
“Ahh.. see?”
“You know me from Canada?”
“Yeah mon!”
I buy some watermelon from him.

Waiting for a taxi to go to a school, a guy stops me
“Do you have a husband?”
“Yes”
“Black or white?”
“What?”
“Is he black or white?”
“Uh…white” – wrong answer apparently, should have seen it coming…
“Do you want a black one?”

It seems that staring is not rude here. Everyone stares. I’m spotted easily even within a moving vehicle. Vendors walk along the traffic jammed roads selling water, nuts (nootsa! nootsa!), donuts, bag-juice. Spicy shrimp on a platter. Driving home with Meg one day, we’re stopped at a light. “Wata, Wata!” a vendor yells walking by. He spots me and April. Stops, smiles and shoves his hand in Meg’s window, “Wata, Wata!” he yells more desperately. Meg starts to drive, he starts to run, hand still in window. “Hey pretty ladies, what’s yuh name?” Meg speeds off.

Everyday is something new, something comic, something frustrating and I’m enjoying myself here quite a lot. I hope it doesn’t sound like I am complaining too much, or making too many generalizations. Of course not all Jamaican men feel the need to comment, leer, hiss in my direction. Many have been very kind and polite – i don’t know how many people have stopped to make sure I’m alright -  and I actually do feel fairly safe in Mobay.

The Rainy Season

We’re at the heart of the rainy season here in Jamaica. For a while every afternoon, right on schedule, dark ballooning clouds would quickly roll overhead accompanied by some distant rumbling and dump down buckets of water. Then every afternoon turned to every morning. On Thursday it just didn’t stop. All day. All night. Flash flood warnings for parts of the island were in effect.

I love a good rain storm, don’t get me wrong. An excuse to stay inside and be lazy. Or grab a sweater and marvel from the comfort of a porch. Meg has a great porch for this. But by now the excitement and novelty of it all is wearing thin, and I’m ready for rainy season to be over.

For one thing, there are the mosquitoes, which seem to have a special love for foreigners. We’ve kept our bedroom windows shut for over 2 weeks now. They get you while you sleep. I’ve learned to be able to sleep with a sheet over my head.

All the rain creates havoc on the roads, more than usual. Flooding some roads down to one lane, traffic backed up for hours. The taxi rides home long, hot and stuffy. The drivers more irritable and reckless.

I carry an umbrella with me now everywhere I go now (I learned that lesson the hard way). Trying to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible when the rain lets up for a moment. Dodging the rivers running down the street sides, and spray from passing vehicles, inevitably getting wet.

All of our weekend beach days so far have been cut short. Still enjoyable, but Meg is getting concerned about my lack of a tan. She’s embarrassed to send me home this way, even though I tell her not to worry, I have 10 more months for that.

End of November? Two weeks from now? No one’s really sure when rainy season will be over, but most people are ready for it. They say Jamaicans hate the rain – to the point that they won’t go out in it, to work, school, wherever. Events will be canceled, even indoor ones , due to rain. I use to wonder, now I understand.

Thursday, however, I didn’t mind the rain so much. I woke feeling groggy, lazy, stuffed up, under the weather so to speak. I hadn’t slept well and was battling with a second bout of some unpleasant indigestion. Actually, more like was at the mercy of.

Thursdays I go to a highschool close by, see 2 students, and then teach a swimming lesson in an outdoor pool, weather permitting. I was hoping it wouldn’t.

When I was suppose to head out the door, it started to downpour like mad. I thought I’d just wait it out and then (begrudgingly) make a dash for it at a calmer moment. However, I soon realized that the rain had little intention of letting up, even for a second. I consulted Meg. No taxis on the road anyway, by the time you get there, you’ll be soaked, get more sick, late, have to come home, teachers and students probably aren’t even there, swimming is obviously canceled, no point going.

Glee!! My first rain day! A legitimate day off in Jamaica. Just as good as getting snowed in on an exam day! well at the moment it felt so. I spent the rest of the day enjoying the rain from the dry indoors/porch, drinking tea, playing guitar, reading the paper and doing the crossword with Meg and April. Periodically darting to the bathroom. And feeling only minorly guilty for not going to work, which I quickly dismissed as a difference in cultural work ethic mentality.

CUMI

Alright alright.  I told you soon come (like 2 weeks ago).  Here it is.  We might be getting internet at home though, by the way. woot!

Committee for Upliftment of the Mentally Ill is the organization I’m working with.  They have a small day center downtown for people with mental illnesses.  Most of the clients are outpatients referred to CUMI by hospitals.  Some have been homeless or in prison for much of their life.  CUMI’s goal is to “facilitate physical emotional and psychological rehabilitation for mentally ill clients within the environment of a therapeutic daycenter. ”

A Typical Day at CUMI

When the clients arrive in the morning (they are free to come and go when they please), they first shower out back, wash their clothes and change.  At 8:30 we have devotions (about a 1/2 hour of singing and making a lot of noise with musical instruments) and breakfast at 9:00.  The clients then each have chores to do, either cleaning, gardening, deliveries, etc.  Lunch is at 12:00 and home time at 3:00.  Other than that, it’s April’s job to plan activities for the clients, which can be harder than it sounds.  Motivating the clients to want to do anything besides sit on the porch is a challenge in itself, and resources are scarce.  However, one game that nobody seems to ever get bored of is dominoes.

Oh man. Let me tell you.  I have never played this game more in my life, or met so many people that were so good at this game… or knew that it involved any kind of strategy whatsoever.  Ludy (Lukey, Looney..?? it has many names that I’m not sure how to spell) is another favourite.  Its very similar to SORRY, and can get intense. 

CUMI also has a children’s program that aids “children in families, or foster homes identified by CUMI, who are experiencing social, mental and learning disabilities.” Many of the children had parents with mental illnesses, have been abandonned or neglected at a young age and have been adopted by foster parents.  CUMI has been with many of the kids from a young age as well, and provided them and their families with professional counselling, education in the top schools, and all kinds of support.  I get the exiting job of travelling around to the different schools the kids are at (sometimes I take 5 taxis a day – which is an art in itself) and take them out of class for an hour of tutoring, and help them in whatever struggles they are facing.  The kids range from 8 years to 16 years of age so I get quite the variety.  I’m surprised by how quickly I’ve become attached to and protective of them.   For some of them it means being a disciplinarian (haaaaaaaaa jokes… I’m getting good at being dead serious) and working on their behaviour.  I’ve met with some of the kids behaviour therapist and got some tips/strategies.  This week I went to see some of them in action in their karate lesson which was impressive-  a couple of them have their black belts. So needless to say I’m really enjoying my work here!

MOBAY

Hey! So I’m currently in an internet cafe about a block away from my work and it is full of screaming school kids. I’ve only managed to get here about once a week for about an hour, so I apologize for my lack of blogging, its proving to be not so easy but I’m going to try and keep it going.

Montego is a thrill! I’ve officially moved in and unpacked… finally. Another SALTer (April) and I are living with an older Jamaican woman, Meg. Although old is the wrong word to describe her. She’s the youngest almost 80 year old I’ve ever met. And hilarious and I love her. We live a few miles out of downtown Mobay, but if you try to drive at the wrong time of day it can take almost 2 hours to get home… no kidding, bumper to bumper traffic and crazy driving. I’ve feared for my life many times. (don’t worry mom and pops, I’m exagerating… slightly).

Meg currently has 3 dogs and 2 pups (and I just learned she is getting 2 more puppies today!), a parrot, about 10 ‘cuckoo’ doves, a couple of mango trees, some pear (avacodo) trees, coconut trees, several ackee trees, a guava tree, some lime bushes/trees, banana plants, orange trees, a lemon tree, breadfruit tree, plum tree, palm trees and about every kind of flower bush that you never knew existed. Oh yeah and she lives right across the street from the ocean! Not to brag or anything, but….

Ok, I’ve ran out of time already. And I haven’t even told you what I’m doing here, which I’m also super excited about! Soon come, soon come. That’s Jamaican for it might get done… eventually.

Lots of love!

sue