If There Was A Honeymoon, It's Over

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“Backrub………Ganja?”

The sign at the entrance looks so enticing, so inviting. WELCOME TO HELLSHIRE BEACH it says, in colorful, bold letters are make you think you’re arriving at one of the happiest places on earth. And I think it’s safe to say that one of mine and Nancy’s favorite spots on the island is, indeed, Hellshire. A beautiful stretch of beach where you can stare out across miles of uninterrupted ocean and nestle your feet in the warm, white sand. That is, of course, if you can manage to get the time to do so. See, the problem with Hellshire is that you are constantly plagued by hustler and vendors that want to sell their wares, sometimes in no subtle form. You can purchase anything from bootleg dvds, burned copies of CDs (I recommend the roots reggae mix…it’s a good one!), and giant bamboo piggy-banks to pounds of raw or fried fish, Jamaican keychains, and horseback rides along the waterfront. Oh, and of course, the ganja is in no short supply. You can stop and buy items from the Hellshire Craft Shop, or a short walk up the beach and you can receive a full-body massage from the infamous Tommy. Actually, if you’re white, chances are that Tommy will find you before you find him. He’ll even give you a “free sample” if he likes you well enough. Yes, Hellshire really is a gorgeous beach, you just have to be careful not to get in the way of the men scaling fish down by the shore and the goats who are under the impression that they are in charge of the roadways. So tell me why anyone would want to go to a place like Montego Bay or Negril to relax, undisturbed, in the sand, when they can enjoy the true authenticity of a place like Hellshire?!

The Times They Are A-Changin’

A new page was written in the Jamaican history books a couple weeks ago when Portia Simpson-Miller was voted into office as the first female president of the People’s National Party. Now, I don’t follow politics much but from what I’ve garnered, there are two major political parties in Jamaica: the People’s National Party (PNP) and the Jamaica Labour Party (JLP). Each party has a president and one of those presidents holds the office of Prime Minster while the other is dubbed the “Leader of the Opposition.” As far as political differences between the two parties, the only thing of which I am positive is that almost all of the people we know side with Team Portia and the PNP, because they supposedly represent the poor and marginalized in society. Portia herself is said to have risen through the ranks of poverty to get to her current position, and thus she symbolizes, in a way, the Jamaican Dream - the ability for poor Jamaicans to find a better life. Anyway, this victory has placed her on the threshold of even greater historic achievement as she will assume the position as Jamaica's first female Prime Minister when the current Prime Minister, P.J. Patterson, retires at the end of March after 14 years on the job.

So really, the whole activity is kind of like watching democrats versus republicans. The different parties are associated with different political colors - PNP is orange or yellow, JLP is green. The only difference is that depending on which neighborhood you walk through, you can be shot for wearing the wrong colors. It sounds strange, but apparently all of the local gangs are associated with one of the two political parties…something about extortion and drug-dealing and gang money being used to support the campaigns. I don’t know for sure. But anyway, it’s interesting to drive through the ghettoes and see political campaigns scrawled like graffiti on the walls.

So from the talk I’ve heard, there’s a lot of expectations being placed on Portia right now. Mainly, the expectation that she’ll have some magic solution for the crime in Jamaica. For the five years that Patterson was in charge of security, there were more than 4,000 homicides in Jamaica - a startling number considering the island is the same size as the state of Connecticut. She’ll surely win the hearts of both supporters and opposition alike if she can reduce the amount of violence plaguing this country.

And Speaking of Violence…

It have nearly reached the point where nothing in Jamaica surprises me anymore. Naked man streaking across a field and running into a fish pond? Four men hanging onto the outer doors of a bus that’s driving 60 mph down the road? The 7:00 am taxi ride with the driver drinking Guinness and smoking a giant spiff? An entire perimeter fence lined with children’s underwear? A pile of giant chicken feet, just recently de-clawed, being chopped up into curry for dinner? Well, okay, that one surprised me. And disgusted me, a bit. But apparently the kids love it! Anyway, my point is that I’d nearly been desensitized to the oddities of Jamaica until last week when an incident in a taxi left me not just surprised and speechless, but also scared silly.

I was riding in the backseat of a taxi on my way home from work, and I had struck up a conversation with a charming man sitting to my left. We chatted about New York City (apparently he’d lived there for a while) and about how I missed the cold weather at home. The taxi ride is only about 15 minutes from Three Mile to Half Way Tree, where I get another taxi that goes from Half Way Tree to Havendale, where we live. We had almost reached Half Way Tree when the charming man on my left started nudging me with his elbow and lightly kicking me with his foot. Now, this is nothing irregular in Jamaica - I figured he was being a standard flirtatious Jamaican guy, so I just smiled and ignored him, thinking he’d take my inaction as a sign of denial. But when he was still nudging me a minute later, I glanced over at him trying to look annoyed, but noticed instead that he was trying to get my attention so I would look at the guy to my right who happened to have his hand in the lower pocket of my backpack. So I grabbed my bag and, in not so polite terms, asked him what the %!@(MISSING)!# he thought he was doing. He took his hand out of my bag and stared at me with one of those “What you talking ‘bout Willis?” expressions. So I asked him again with, admittedly, a few more expletives than the first time around, what he thought he was doing. Then I unzipped the pocket and noticed that the purse I use to carry my taxi money was missing, so I yelled at him to give me my money back and his reply was “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” At this point, I’m clearly pissed off, because not only did he take my money, but he had the audacity to lie about it, so I reached for his bag to try to get my money back. At that point, the taxi had reached its final stopping point, so as I was trying to take the guy’s bag, he was opening the taxi door and, at the same time, was pulling a knife out of his bag and grumbling something along the lines of “Let it go or I’ll cut your throat.” Thinking death was not an acceptable substitute for some lousy taxi money, I let go of his bag and watched him walk away into the crowd of evening commuters.

I couldn’t help but notice the inaction of the other 3 people who were in the taxi at the time. The man on my left who had tried to warn me, but didn’t actually say anything outloud to try to stop the thief. The woman in the front seat who sat facing forward the entire time. The taxi driver who watched the episode unfold through the rearview mirror but didn’t offer a word of consolation or even the slightest hint of an intention to help. That inability, or rather, unwillingness to help, was probably the least surprising part of the ordeal. In retrospect, I wasn’t nearly as fearful as I probably should have been while I was yelling at my thief, but I’m stubborn - anyone who knows me can certainly attest to that - and I wasn’t about to let this guy go without at least putting up a fight, however ineffective.

This event in and of itself was frightening, but equally frightening is the fact that is an entirely common practice. So common in fact, that in the same week that I was robbed, so, too, were two other people that I know. I got the following email three days ago from my friend Joanna, who is studying in Kingston this semester:

Hey! I heard that you were mugged. I hope you are ok. It was my plan to call you today, but ironically I was also mugged, so my phone is gone along with everything in my wallet and bag. I lost all my money (I had just changed 90 US for the week and because I owed people money), credit cards, license. Luckily my passport is somewhere because my visa is being extended. but that leaves me with no ID at all to cash travelers checks, and my ATM card is gone. Good stuff. No knife for me though. Two guys just pulled up on a motorcycle and the one in back jumped off and grabbed me. I didn't fight him because right before I left I read about the lady who was killed because she didn't want to give up her handbag. I just struggled a little to get my bag off of my arm fast enough, and they drove on their way. I was really close to the office of my professor I was going to, so I just walked right there and we called the police, who obviously never showed up or anything. I hope you are recovering and everything. I am leaving to live with a rural family for 10 days tomorrow afternoon, so I will try to get in contact with you when I get back. Joanna

Adding to the ridiculousness of this entire situation is the fact that the lady Joanna refers to, the one who refused to give up her handbag, happened to be one of the ladies from Stella Maris Church who headed the prison ministry group that Nancy and I were a part of last year. She had just come from praying at the church when a guy stopped her in the parking lot and tried to take her bag, then stabbed her in the throat when she refused to let it go.

Sound familiar?

It’s one thing to hear about the violence in Jamaica second hand, through stories on the evening news and articles in the papers, but when it’s first-hand experience, when it’s your own life on the line, it really reinforces the need to curb the brutality that has overrun this country. Someone asked me why I didn’t call the police after I was robbed, but as Joanna said, she did call the police and they didn’t bother to show up. There’s just a general mistrust of the Constabulary force in Jamaica. When a little girl in the White Wing neighborhood was raped by several gang members, her mother went to see a priest instead of the police, because she didn’t trust the corrupted police force at all. And who could blame her in a country where any complaint can disappear for the right amount of money?

How do you change a country so settled in its violent ways?

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Photos

Team Portia
And here she comes to save the day, Might Portia is on her way. In yellow. Bright, bright yellow. You really can't beat that.

PNP Zone
Sorry, moving bus caused me to miss the M, but this is means Moscow (one of the neighborhood's near Three Mile) or at least the gang in Moscow is affiliated with the People's National Party.

We Need OT! No OT!
I'm not sure what OT is, but it's usually scrawled on the walls alongside the PNP promotions, so I figure it's something political. My friend Angela likes it because she thinks it's an advertisement for occupational therapy.....yeah....

and the panties have the lead
Really, one of the most odd and hilarious sights I've ever had the pleasure to behold. At least at 8:00am. Just pair after pair after pair of little underwear hanging along the perimeter of the fence.

curry chicken foot
Mmmmmmmmm......feet.
For dinner.