I ended up in Jamaica by accident really, as tickets were booked in order for me to do some volunteer work that didn’t transpire, which kinda left me in Jamaica without a plan (as it wasn’t a country I’d included in my original itinerary); I made arrangements to get to Cuba for a fortnight (much much more about that in the next act) which left me with six days in Jamaica, three on either side of Cuba.
Rather than risk my life in Kingston (which has more murders per capita than any other city in the world) and pay big money to stay in the worst hotel in town (accommodation in the Caribbean is Expensive with a capital $E), I chose to base myself at the Jamnesia Surf Camp some 8 miles east of Kingston, which is run by a beautiful Rasta family.
It was a very good move, living there was like living in a butterfly house (hundreds of little yellow butterflies would rise up with the sun each morning) in which cats and dogs alike slept peacefully in the serene surrounds.
And it so happened that the wife of the family (known as Maggie Mystic) worked in a health clinic located in one of the poorer parts of Kingston, that had recently closed down an eye service, because nobody knew how to use the equipment that was sent to replace an instrument that had stopped functioning.
I hoped to be able to identify the new machine and train a staff member or two how to use it; but alas, the ‘new instrument’ was something of an antique that requires a high level of technical training to be usefully manipulated – the new instrument was technologically more primitive than the old instrument.
Scene 1 :: Pre-Cuba: :Inspiration
The surf camp is presided over by the father of the family, Billy Mystic, a local legend who is famous for being a Jamaican professional surfer, an international pop star, and (presently) a lead character in Jamaica’s very own TV soap opera (pictured sitting by my right elbow in the photo below).
I happened to be at the camp at the same time as a great bunch of guests from the States.
It didn’t take me very long to fall in line with the beautiful daily rhythms that orders life in Jamnesia:
A quick cup of coffee (from the blue mountains up above us) before an early morning trip to wherever the waves were.
It was slightly embarrassing to have to explain to everyone that I was a non-surfing Australian staying at a Caribbean surf club. (I’ve actually never lived close enough to waters warm enough to learn in.)
We’d return home for breakfast followed by a musical jam session …
In the afternoon there was time for napping in the hammock and coconuts from the guy with the big knife and bloodshot eyes across the road (who made it very clear that he was not happy having his photograph taken) …
… and little tasty fruits harvested from the trees at the back of the camp site.
We returned to the ocean to swim and surf as the sun set beside us turning daytime into twilight.
This is Mark, America’s next top tattoo artist (if they turn the pilot into a TV show), he deserves special mention because it was he who towed me to shore one afternoon when I couldn’t swim out of the spot the ocean had moved me into, thus confirming his good-guy-saviour status. (He also painted a wicked mural on the side of the house.)
The nights were spent eating delicious food (including fresh snapper caught by one of Billy’s sons), conversing on matters of import, and listening to live music …
… and in the late of night, Billy would become a Rasta preacher – another activity he excels at.
Then, and only then, was it time to close the eyes and end the day.
The camp site is also open to local youths who want to come and learn to surf; As such Billy, and his wife and family, play host to a large number of kids from the neighbourhood who then have something positive to do with their lives each day (that being surfing) and a clan to belong to. (The camp site is governed by rules and breaching them can land you in camp court where – if found guilty – you can put out of the community for a time, after which you are accepted again and given another chance to live positively).
The place also attracts local musicians who are given a stage on which to perform every second Saturday night at one of the Jamnesia Sessions, a free concert open to all.
As such the place has great vibe – live fresh music, young kids learning to live right, good food and conversation – it’s a stimulating and attractive environment to be in, and I was inspired by what I saw during the three days that I should have spent getting myself better prepared for Cuba.
Scene 2 :: Post-Cuba: Rejuvenation
On returning from Cuba I decided to put the plan to head up into The Blue Mountains of Jamaica aside for a couple of reasons: 1) I was little under the weather with a number of niggly ailments; and 2) I was really just wanting to be around the Surf Club again, as the place and its inhabitants had become an unexpected experience of family and connectedness for me - I didn’t want to leave a place that felt so much like home.
Choopsy is one of the three peeps that I spent most of my time hangin' with while back at the camp. (No one is known by their real name if they've been around Jamnesia for a while, instead they have pet nick names that speak of intimacy and the affection they have for one another).
Flee – who is ‘a drummer, not a fighter’ – was also fine company.
Lei Lei, Billy’s only daughter, is probably the most impressive high school graduate I’ve ever met (and I met a whole lot while I was responsible for the university students associated with my last church); she is perceptive, creative, sporty, organised and like all Jamaicans, she oozes cool. (For all these reasons she was the one I trusted the most with my recovering ears.)
The weirdest encounter I had in Jamaica was reading a booklet of Lei Lei’s poetry which she had printed out in my own handwriting (yep, I have my own font, called ‘arkascrawl’); reading someone else’s carefully expressed thoughts in your own handwriting is quite arresting.
So I really can’t say that I’ve seen Jamaica, but I can claim to have soaked up plenty of Jamaican culture; Turns out I wasn't at the surf club for the good waves - I was there for the good vibes.
I felt the love and I won't soon forget what I saw and experienced; I hope that my own life is directed in such a way that I also get to live with a family in an environment where lives young and old are being lovingly and respectfully renewed on a daily basis as people simply go about their business.
(I’m not sure that I’ve yet accepted that I may never get back there, I guess you never accept that thought when applied to a home.)
wow man. I always wondered whether Jamaica really existed. And now I have your word and pictures for it...
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