I’ve always been a bit of an adventurer at heart thanks to Gorillas in the Mist and Out of Africa. When I was in my early twenties, I decided that sitting on a trading desk wasn’t for me; I needed to be out in the world engaging with people. My boyfriend at the time was also ready to be adventurous so we both applied to the Peace Corps. I had a desperate hope that we would be placed in the same part of the world, but it didn’t happen.
My two options were Zimbabwe or Jamaica due to my asthma. My father put his foot down about Zimbabwe. “No way” were his exact words. It turns out Jamaica was the better option as the Zimbabwe office closed shortly after due to political unrest.
I flew off to Jamaica in 1999 and started off the experience in Kingston for an orientation. I was given the role of an Environmental Business Volunteer. I was assigned the job based on my “business” experience which at this point in my life was a really far stretch. The large group then split off into smaller groups based on their job roles. My group headed off to the central part of the island.
During training, I lived with a Rastafarian family; I was the first volunteer to have the experience. It was hard to communicate with the family as they had very thick patois, and I’m not sure the adults really wanted me there, but the children found me entertaining. As trainees we spent our weekend time learning to wash our clothes in the river, hiking to a secret waterfall, and roasting breadfruit on an open fire. We took quick trips to the beach. I remember sitting in the back of a pick-up truck on our way to the beach singing to Bob Marley. I quickly became comfortable with latrine life and even started to understand a little patois.
After eleven weeks we went back to the headquarters in Kingston, took the oath and officially became Volunteers. I was assigned to work in an old plantation home in Sligoville, the first free village in the West Indies. It was a community-based project and was started by a wealthy landowner in the Sligoville community. The plantation home, or my office, housed the only phone in the village; I met many of the villagers very quickly.
Before joining the Peace Corps, I didn’t fully understand privilege. I took things for granted that we had in the States. Grocery stores have anything you want; indoor plumbing is the norm; everyone has reliable electricity; phones are in every home; movie theaters are in every town with dozens of candy options. I lived with a family during my two years in Jamaica. We had no phone, electricity was spotty, and there was no indoor plumbing.
My first very humbling experience involved the bathroom in the house. There was a bathroom with a toilet, but no running water. I remember staring at the toilet. How do I flush you? I sheepishly asked my house mother, and she quickly referred me to a bucket of water. Pour the water with force. Ahh, yes, physics! Humbled.
I also used the buckets for my baths. I would fill the bucket with the water from the catchment; the water was ice-cold as we lived in the mountains. On special occasions, I would boil water, but most days, I would splash water on my body, lather up from head to toe, and then dump the bucket(s) of water over my head. My lips were always blue. It wasn’t until the final year of my post that some former volunteers joined me, and I discovered the water bladder bag that you could put in the sun to heat your water for a shower — total game-changer.
Travel was something. There were multiple times I thought I would die going off the cliff in a racing Peugeot (a very old, red Peugeot). Then there were the buses with crazy horns and blasting Dancehall music. I was often the only white person on the bus. That was humbling too.
I loved Red Stripe, Mickey’s Jerk chicken, and living on a farm surrounded by cows, pigs, and goats. I loved my host family, who was my rock over the two years. I loved hearing the sound of dominoes slapping down on a table. I loved the music from churchgoers passionately singing their hymns. I loved hiking the Blue Mountains and going to the coffee plantations. I loved the sound of the patois and loved being able to understand what they were saying. I loved my fellow volunteers. I loved helping people.
Being on an island away from family and friends quickly creates close friendships. My closest friend, Chris, lived just on the other side of the mountain; we created such trust that I allowed him to cut my hair. Although we were close in proximity, it was hard to travel to each other because of the roads. It would take hours to get to each other’s town. We would often meet in Spanish Town, which was equidistant, and then travel to different locations.
One time Chris and I decided to visit a fellow volunteer in Ocho Rios. Ocho Rios is home to the waterfalls that all tourists are encouraged to hike. You literally hike up the waterfall in the rushing water. It’s slippery, people fall, and it’s comical. We never did it. Ocho Rios sits on the north shore of the island while Spanish Town was on the south. To get to Ocho Rios, we had to drive over a mountain. Chris and I decided to take a bus; it was a Saturday which meant people were packed into the bus coming from the market (envision lots of bags and chickens).
A farmer had bought PVC pipes, which he laid down the length of the aisle. We were the last to get on the bus. At that point, it was standing room only. We positioned ourselves on top of the pipe and held on. All of the windows were closed because of the rain outside. It was so hot steam accumulated on the roof of the bus and started to drip. The rolling back and forth on the pipes coupled with the twists and turns of the road through the mountain was the perfect recipe for nausea. The woman sitting underneath my swaying arms and green face said, “Look here. Place this ginger in your mouth between the back of your teeth. Jus a
Chris and I also watched the coverage of the 2000 election together. We were up all night watching Al Gore and George W. Bush battle over Florida. The following day would be the first of two times I woke to discover the outcome of an election in tears. Chris is a pretty incredible guy and if it weren’t for him, I probably would have returned to the States earlier.
Jamaica was a problematic place. Put aside the fact that I didn’t have any of the amenities that we have as Americans. Put aside the fact that it was dangerous to travel because of the crazy driving. As a petite, pretty, young white woman, they recognized my privilege; they harassed. I didn’t want to leave my village, where everyone got to know me; I felt safe. Visiting Spanish town and riding in the taxi meant you never knew what would happen — always on edge. The constant barrage of whistles and mouth noises was too much to handle. And then there was the day while I was walking to the market a man grabbed me and pulled me down an alley. My Mount Holyoke self-defense training came in handy; I twisted my arm and pulled down with great fierceness. I ran free. I was surprised to see, as I was exiting the alley, there were several men with machetes running after my assailant. While not everyone knew my name, I suppose I was known in Spanish Town and protected by the community; it offered some peace of mind and reminded me of the balance of kindness to violence. The years of harassment still haunt me to this day; it affects my comfort with looking sexy or beautiful for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention.
And while I was stationed in Jamaica my mother died. I had a series of dreams right before. In the dream, I was holding someone in my arms but I couldn’t see the person’s face. They were very intense dreams and each time I had the dream I woke in tears. I remember calling Chris and telling him about the dream. We decided that it was likely homesickness. And then, the next day at two AM, I was awakened to a heavy knock on my door by my host father telling me that the Peace Corps Director was outside. Of course, I said, “Byron. I’m sleeping; it’s not a funny joke.” He told me he was telling the truth. And then a nurse came into my room, sat me on the bed, and before she could say anything I said: “my mother died.” She was shocked that I knew, but somehow I guess I knew deep down who was in that dream. My mother died instantly earlier that day from a heart attack. She had been sitting with friends, having lunch, enjoying a delicious tomato when, as our friend put it, “all the light left her eyes.”
I came back to Jamaica after a few weeks. It was much harder then. I felt very alone and seeing planes fly overhead, tears would fill my eyes and I would say, “why am I here?”. But then Chris would show up, we would laugh, and he would remind me. And the children in the village would get excited about the upcoming Summer Camp I hosted, and the town was proud of the museum we built and the library we were creating with the $25k grant I attained from USAID. And of course, I’m stubborn and don’t like to give in. So, I stayed.
When you leave the Peace Corps, you are given a chunk of money to help you readjust to the “real world”. Coming back from a place like Jamaica, I felt very humbled and thankful, but I also felt that I needed to be responsible. Taking that money felt a bit strange and honestly adjusting back to our land of commercialism and competitiveness was much harder than I expected. There’s that privilege I faced every day in Jamaica. But then, it happened, as it does for some; you get swept into normalcy and into the patterns that our society creates.
I will never regret those two years. Volunteering and living abroad changed the core of who I am, even though it was tremendously hard, and I had experiences I never thought I would have to endure. Recently, the 24 yr old me has tapped the 44 yr old me on the shoulder to say, “What are you afraid of? Look what you did and endured already in this life? You can do anything.”
Thanks for listening. xo
