Another Lesson

We spent Sunday at Font Hill Beach, 45 miles south of Negril, with a group of senior citizens from our community. It was our first trip to the southwest coast. The beaches were lovely, clean and quiet, except for the ever-ubiquitous reggae music. The water was warm and clear; the clouds as usual were gorgeous.

But,…….. the trip didn’t start out that well. It began as a lesson in cultures and communications between Americans and Jamaicans. We were to leave the house with our host mother via taxi at 7 AM to meet the group in a town forty five minutes north of Chapelton for the 8 AM departure; but our Jamaican taxi driver was an hour late. We started calling him at 7:10 but only got a message that his mailbox was full. He had over slept on his only day off, Sunday. Once finally on the road we called the organizer, Ionie, to let her know our status. Now Ionie is not your typical Jamaican. She spent 25 years in England and is quite western. She’s highly organized and expects everyone else to be so; her impatience with Jamaican ways is obvious. She said to me, “we are loading right now”. I asked if we should have our driver take us to a junction where we could meet the bus taking everyone; she said no. I then said we’ll try to catch the bus and asked what color it was. She said yellow and green.

Now, at that time we had understood we were headed two hours north to Ocho Rios and the junction we were headed to was right on the way; it didn’t seem very Jamaican not to be willing to wait for us but Ionie is western so we accepted it. We drove like lightning over the very worst roads in Jamaica and got to the meeting point in 35 minutes at 8:35. No one was in sight; so to no avail, we asked a few people if they had seen the green and yellow bus. All were adamant that no bus had gone by. We figured they hadn’t been paying that close attention and hadn’t noticed. We called Ionie’s phone at least eight times, to no avail. We figured the noise was too loud in the bus for her to hear the ring. After realizing we didn’t know where in Ochi they were headed, that now we couldn’t catch the bus, and the poor taxi driver realized he’d really messed up, our host mother decided she was up for an adventure and she was going to get one. At 8:45 we headed west into the hills for Moco and Smithville where she was reared. The roads weren’t bad but very narrow and winding.

At 9:30 we receive a call from Ionie asking where the heck we were and that they were waiting for us. We said we were in Thompson town, 45 minutes west of the bus, she asked how we got there!!!???; we said we were headed to Smithville. Now she was befuddled and asked to speak to the driver. She figured we just didn’t realize where we were. He confirmed the location and she confirmed they were waiting for us [its truly Jamaican not to leave anyone out]. We did a 180 degree turn and headed back, like lightning, over those ‘wonderful’ roads. It was clear the young driver was eager to do this because the thought of spending his day-off with three senior citizens in the bush really didn’t appeal to him.

When we finally arrived at the bus, it was white with a bit of blue and yellow trim and the riders had only been waiting about 45 minutes rather than the 1 ½ hours we thought. It turned out that the Jamaicans, even Ionie, are Jamaican all the way. When we originally reached the meeting spot we were actually the first ones there [so American!], even if it was an hour late. When we initially spoke to Ionie who said they were just loading up we didn’t understand that she was just getting into her own taxi at her home [unconcerned that she was an hour late] and she was guessing at the bus colors. As Jamaicans they would never leave us and said not to worry when it was obvious how terribly we felt about inconveniencing them so much.

Our story doesn’t end there. Once on the bus we realized we were headed west rather than northeast to Ochi. At first we figured there must be a short cut but then it became obvious, after an hour that the normal two hour trip to Ochi was going to be lengthy if we continued west. Finally, we asked where we were headed, and no one seemed to quite know but nonetheless happy for the company and adventure. After three hours [for us five hours] we landed at Font Hill. Only then did we understand the unspoken original message of Ionie’s refusal to meet us at a junction point to Ochi. It was truly a ‘Jamerican’ lesson in communication and unspoken meaning. From now on we’ll let Mrs. Rumble make the planning phone calls.

On a new front, my sister, Aimee, is working with a group of Southern California home school parents to collect workout shoes [sturdy, gently worn sneakers for men, women and children] for Jamaicans to use while exercising. Brian Goldenberg, a former BU student of mine is doing the same on the east coast under teh auspices of the Health Sciences Club. The rural Jamaican footwear situation is deplorable, primarily rubber flip flops or bare feet. Many are eager to walk or run with me but I can’t allow them to exercise on crumbling concrete and asphalt without adequate footwear because they will get injured. At the same time they can’t afford shoes that provide adequate support and shock absorption, even if they were available. So far I’ve seen one sports store in Kingston that looked as if it might have functional/effective training gear. If you’d like to help there are two ways: send washed/bleached slightly worn shoes with new laces; or a donation to help cover shipping costs [if the latter, make checks payable to either Aimee or Brian].

Contact information: Aimee Ibarra, 8739 Elizabeth Lake Rd., Leona Valley, CA 93551 or aimeeibarra@hotmail.com; or Brian Goldenberg: hsclub@bu.edu. If you can do anything at all it will help a Jamaican improve his/her health, fitness and resistance to the growing epidemic of chronic diseases.

Tanks an taik cyar, Margaret