Somewhere between Ocho Rios and Port Antonio… (a creative peace of Jamaica.)
By J. Wright on May 5, 2010
The afternoon is perfect. Air is fresh, clouds gone. The calm sea mirrors the blue sky. A narrow cobble stone pathway leads me beneath lush greenery. Birds are singing overhead – a thousand melodies, praising their Creator for the freedom granted them at no charge. On my left, seven-hundred feet below, a semi-circular white sand beach shaded by rugged vegetation – a cozy nest where six red roof cottages hide. There’s no one home. My whispering voice is the only sound here. Nature is at rest after a stormy morning. The rain is gone and bright sun from endless indigo sky lights the mountains and brightens a colourfully quilted garden on my right. Flowers are spread across the hillside, meandering along a stream that transforms into a frisky waterfall into the valley to greet the calm sea. Soft wind ruffles thick carpet of orchids, dalais and mauve forget-me-nots. I smile and reflect… (De place pretty, but mi left de damn kamera inna di kar again. Same ting happen a Bluefields yes-today. It looks like the writin’ part of mi brain no want mi fi tek any pictures.)
Indeed these lush majestic mountains elegantly rising from vast turquoise waters, heaping high into the sky were not always at peace. In 1658 during Spain’s second attempt to retake the island from Britain, the bewildered sea, red with blood of warring men lashed and soaked the land as cannons boomed from ships. Musket balls pierced flesh and ripped limbs one from another. Bodies torn to pieces like old rags. Arms and legs washed ashore to their everlasting rest at the base of these mountains, where their tormented souls lingered in doubt, under dark clouds hanging over paradise. Their souls found no rest in the grey monument of steel and brick erected to glorify and soothe their restless spirits. So on the second century’s anniversary of that blood gushing onslaught, the Island’s government hammered a stake through the heart of a venerated conflict, and created a peace park upon parched bones of savage combatants. (So much ugly gravestones. Caan imagine the amount a duppies ‘round here when night com. Night not katching me ‘round here.)
The park is a noble victory that cleansed foul memories from picturesque landscape and set free tortured spirits of long ago dead warriors into gentle trade-winds to find serenity. Harmonious blends of lush and flowering beauty in full bloom replaces shrines of grey, cold brick of testament to the dead. A bright yellow eternal flame shoots at the sky – a peaceful flaming icon reaching out to the firmament. Farther along on my right is a coconut orchard, their stout trunks painted white for decoration. Their greenery curves around the land and then slopes gently to forever kiss the calm water – a forever seamless kiss melting land and sea into a union that cancels goodbye. (You mean the lan a kiss the sea since creation? Mi no know how you si all a dat just by lookin’ at a simple landscape. Mi a com ‘round here fi years and neva hear anything like wah you a diskribe. Mi tell u say a mad weed Jah Mokie give you last night and u was not to smoke it. Did you smoke it? Aright den, how much Red Stripe u drink since mornin’?)
The trees, plants and flowers were born on the same day – their height is the same. Equality is quality’s grand chest-thumping achievement. Branches are hugging one another, uniting to create a dense fuzzy canopé. A shelter for poets and writers to protect their mind’s faint but insightful candles from unhealthy diets of faddish fib – gale force, unleashed to wash away pensive discourse. (Yu know, I have to stop watching CNN and start reading books again when I get back to Canada. Dat TV station a mek mi lazy… feedin’ mi di same junk-food news over and over…)
A warm gentle breeze grows out of the silent waters; climbs the hillside. The wind tickles my face and invites me to mingle, but I prefer to watch the spirited wind-choreographed leaves and branches in delicate tango, in celebration of a truce between sea and land. However, like a symphony of our lives, nature’s rhythm and tempo are unpredictable. (Would be nice fi have a girl wid me fi tango wid inna dis bush right now, fallin’ down dis hillside into the sea to kool off.)
In 1988 a vengeful hurricane stormed out of the raging waters – weapons drawn. Razor blade sharp wind-soldiers sliced deep and with fury; slashing and uprooting all that was good and honourable, replacing all around with mayhem. It took many years to mend, but all evidence is gone now – tranquility lives once more. A soft light glows from forgivers of life’s rage – the world’s annoyance trampled under their feet. Once in a while though, the earth belches fire and ash upon itself to reform by sliding left and right, shifting up, down and sideways. Sometimes the land swells into mountains or steeped into valleys. Once in a while the land heaves its indigestion into the sea and boils it, but it’s the land that often forgives the sea’s stormy outbursts with ease and without grudge. (You live a Kanada; tell mi ‘bout forgiveness when hurricane Gilbert wash weh your house and all a your fowl dem. And kill your one pinckney and everything else you own. I have no forgiveness fi dat damn evil hurricane Gilbert.)
Green painted benches are scattered on neatly trimmed grass under swaying palm trees, but I sit on grass – deep in placid splendor. Wait a minute; I have lost count of how many bottles of Red Stripe beer I had emptied since morning. The one in my hand is down to half. There’s only nine left in the car. I am running low… (The red stripe beer inna di kar hot like tea. The la-ast one mi drink down a White River almost burn off piece a mi top lip. I have to buy a koola and some ice when mi reech Port Maria later dis evenin’.)
I gaze at the bluish-green mountain’s craggy skyline towering above infinite blue waters. Benevolent rivers flow from mountains to feed the sea, but here, the mountains sip from the edge of the sea to stay fresh. Same as once towering parents, one day, will drink from their caring children – fling quickly your bread upon waters for it to be there in a time of need. (I never understand this ting fully, because when I drop piece a bread in a my tea, it soaked, gets saggy and sinks to the bottom of the cup.)
A bright-yellow male Jamaican Oriole above my head sings a loud reggae-style bragging chirp to its mate. She answers quickly with a soft agreeable tune and fly to him. To tend to his need. “What a dutiful and obedient bird?,” I thought. The two birds acted as if they knew more than the bees – for a short while. Then they fluffed up their bodies, shook their tail feathers and began to sing cheerfully together. I listen to the bird’s harmonious blend – for awhile. My cell phone blurts out, “I don’t wanna wait in vain…” A Bob Marley tune. My heart drums – fast. “Hello,” I answered. “It’s the Oracle.” Yvonne confirms, “the kar’s flying through Runaway Bay. Be there in twenty minutes.” I am waiting for her and have many questions and much to tell before zipping off to Port Antonio. Will be nightfall before I get there… (If she no show up in twenty minutes, as she promised, mi ago leave. Almost one hour since mi reech here and she a com and caan reech yet. When she get here mi gwoin’ ask har, how com’s she live inna Jamaica and don’t know dat when the Jamaican male Oriole call, the female drop everything and fly to him.)
- Comment. February 2, 2011 at 2:43 pm. Your article was so vividly written, it was as if I were there. God Bless your mind and your hands for writing to inspire…J
Jeffery Wright is a graduate of Humber School for Writers. He lives in Toronto, Canada.
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