Cry me a river

You’d think that living in Vancouver for more than 16 years would’ve prepared me for the rain. Not so much. Hurricane season officially started on June 1^st (thanks to the Canadian High Commission for the reminder), and although we’re not experiencing gale force winds (yet), the rain is another story. Torrential downpours are one thing, but it’s the inability of the city to deal with the downpours that’s wreaking havoc. I’ve mentioned potholes in previous posts. Well they’ve grown, and are serving as excellent receptacles for the rain. Add to that a complete absence of any sort of drainage, and it doesn’t take much of a rain dump to convert streets to rivers, potholes to lakes, and passing cars to wave-makers.

Up until now, most of the downpours have happened in the late afternoon, and I’ve managed to get home without too much fuss. Well, that all changed today. The morning dawned dull and grey, and if the roads were any indication, the rain had been coming down for a few hours. But, being a conscientious Canadian worker, and a Vancouverite to boot, a bit of the wet stuff was not going to stop me from getting to the office. After all, I had my gortex runners and a nifty rain jacket that folds into its own pocket – how bad could it be? Based on very solid reasoning (rain = hurricane = wind = umbrella useless)  I did not bring a brollie with me to Jamaica. But that’s OK, I thought, I’ll grab a route taxi to Half Way Tree (I usually walk the 10 minute journey), then I’ll hop on my usual Coaster, and then get another route taxi from Cross Roads to the office – really, how bad could it be? Mistake #1 – thinking I could get a route taxi. There weren’t that many to be found (maybe taxi drivers stay home when it rains?), and those that did float by were full. So, I waded down Hope Road, leaping (quite elegantly I think) across small lakes and hugging the wall to avoid the breakers. Mistake #2 – no umbrella. A rain jacket that reaches mid-thigh, only keeps one dry to mid-thigh, and gortex-shmortex when you’re walking in a foot of water. Halfway to Halfway Tree (would that make it Quarter-way Tree?), I contemplated going back home. Once again I relied on my solid reasoning – I’m already wet, I may as well continue – how much worse could it be? Reaching the vendors at Halfway Tree I made the best decision of the day (so far) and bought a $5 umbrella. Now bear in mind, these vendors have been selling the brollies all week, but I’ve been too cheap and stubborn to buy one – I guess that’s Mistake #3. So, I’ve made it to Halfway Tree, I have an umbrella – this is not bad at all - ya think? On any given day there are 5 or 6 coasters lined up, and the “ducters” (conductors) yell and gesticulate for passengers to enter their chariots. Well, not in the rain. One lonesome Coaster, a huddled mass under the bus shelter, and a drenched whitee. Fortunately the ducter took pity on me and literally hauled me onto the bus and wedged me between a couple of school boys, who’d managed to stay dry until I arrived. Mistake #4 – thinking a Coaster is a good mode of transport during a rainstorm. The windows were closed, (of course they were, I mean, we wouldn’t want to get wet), it’s 35 degrees, and I’m wearing a plastic jacket – let the sweating begin. Coaster journeys are exhilarating on sunny days, imagine the added excitement of whooshing through rivers and gliding into dams to let the passengers swim on and off. Pulling up at Cross Roads was a team effort. The ducter, passengers, and random people on the sidewalk yelling directions at the driver so he could manoeuvre the bus as close to the curb as possible. While these efforts were greatly appreciated, it really didn’t make much difference, as walking through the pools was unavoidable. But, at least I’d arrived at Cross Roads, and feeling quite proud of myself, I waded my way to the route taxi area. Mistake #5, same as #1. Not only was the area that usually houses at least 30 route taxis completely flooded, but there was not a single taxi in sight. So, there I was, standing on the sidewalk contemplating my next move (at least I had my umbrella), when a rogue taxi pulled up and yelled “Camp Road.” I jumped in so fast, I almost beheaded the driver with my coveted brollie. 

DRF Parking Lot

Phew, made it to the Peace Centre, although not everyone was as lucky, as the roads were littered with cars stuck in 4 feet of water. Hard to believe, I was only half an hour late, which is actually early in Jamaican time. The office was almost abandoned, with only 5 other people making it there (out of a staff of 25). Four of them had driven in, so they were dry, but George (another Canadian volunteer) had also braved the public transport journey, was drenched, and had already called a taxi to take him home. There was no way I could work in clothes that were soaking wet from the waist down, so I got in on the taxi ride, and was home by 10:00 am – just a short 2 hours after the journey began.

So, here’s what I’ve learned:

1. Don’t rely on sound reasoning
2. Take an umbrella to a country that has a rainy season, and if you don’t, buy one on the first day it rains
3. Jamaican public transport does not work in the rain
4. Next time, stay home!

hey whitee!

Before embarking on this outrageous adventure I read all sorts of briefing documents and information packages about Jamaica, and what to expect from the people and the place, from a cultural differences perspective. A common refrain was the warning about catcalls from people on the street, particularly aimed at white women. The streets of Kingston have lived up to the hype. I am constantly amused, sometimes angered, but rarely disappointed, by the boldness, arrogance and audacity of Jamaican men. Whether it’s a homeless beggar, a dreadlocked Rasta, a scruffy taxi driver, or a well dressed businessman, the desire to catch my attention with an array of creative jeers is constant. 

“Pssssst, hey whiteee!” is the common starting point, “wa gwan beautiful lady?” takes it to the next stage, and “baby, wanna be my wife?” is the ultimate goal. I have to say, I am impressed by their confidence, persistence, and, let’s be honest, their blind ambition. I mean, it’s not as if their advances have ever worked, that they have ever received a response “yes, please, I would love to be your wife, mister homeless man.” And yet they never stop trying. I learned early on that the best response is a very cheery and loud “have a nice day.” Perhaps they’re not expecting such an affirmative, positive response, but for some reason, it seems to stop them in their tracks, and I can continue on my way, until the next one.

I know it’s a “cultural thing” and that there are all plenty of sociological, psychological, and historical explanations for this behaviour. But at face value, it’s a source of amusement and entertainment to my life in this crazy, complex place, and adds another dimension to my Jamaican experience.

Buddy of the year

My volunteer role at the Dispute Resolution (DRF) started on April 4^th. France (my “buddy” and the volunteer that has been in the HR Advisor role since last October) and I embarked on a 2 week orientation tour of the Island. Early Monday morning Mr. Mason, in his trusty blue van, picked us up and we headed for Ocho Rios (coastal town on the north side of the island). This was my first experience of Jamaican roads and drivers– oy vey. Being tossed around the back of the van did not sit well with my breakfast bagel, but France and I had a game plan to prepare, so the car sickness had to wait. Our instructions were extremely vague – “it’s Helen’s orientation” and a schedule of the DRF service points to visit was all we had to go on.

Flankers Peace & Justice Centre

Needless to say, the visits were more than an eye opener. From the mediation centre in Ocho Rios, where they don’t have the funds to pay their rent and the courts don’t send enough cases for them to mediate; to the Peace and Justice Centre in Flankers, where the Administrator is a modern day Mother Theresa, bridging the gap between troubled youths and the police. From a half day in court, where the majority of cases were young men caught with a ganja spliff and sentenced to 10 days in jail or $JAM10,000 (approx. $100); to the Eastern Peace and Justice Centre, where the community is funding a recording studio so that the talented youth can express themselves through song instead of gang violence. Where do HR systems and processes fit in? How can my role have an impact on the lives of these, committed, dedicated people, who come to work whether they are paid or not?

Beach in Negril

In amongst all the work, France and I were able to squeeze in just a smidgen of fun. I learnt my first French swear word – tabernac – we played cards, drank rum cream, ate jerk chicken with rice and beans (maybe a bit too often), and were even mistaken for Missionaries on more than one occasion (which could have something to do with my long skirt and notebook). We also managed to worked on our tans (France blending in with the locals as each day progressed). Holy cow are the beaches here ever glorious. The sand is soft and white and the crystal clear water is the most exquisite shades of blue and green. I have seen a beach or two in my time – Thailand, Greece, Spain, Portugal, Mexico, Hawaii, South Africa, Vancouver – but none come close to the beaches of Jamaica and the Caribbean coastline. Tabernac, c’est magnifique!

France and Helen

It is rare to meet someone, be thrown together for 10 days, spend every moment together, including sharing a hotel room, and come out of it with a true, lifelong friend. But that’s what happened with me and France. I cannot imagine my first five weeks in Jamaica going any better than they did, and it’s because France took the notion of being my buddy to the extreme. On our return to Kingston she was my personal guide and coach. She helped me navigate the chaos of riding Coasters (small buses that undoubtedly got their name from the amusement park ride), how to flag down a route taxi (cars that take a specific route and you can get on and off anywhere along that route), and where to buy my groceries. With my challenged sense of direction, she took me (at times literally by the hand) from my home to the DRF office, testing me along the way to make sure I’d remember the route, and then introduced me as her sister to the staff at Camp Road (DRF’s Head Office in Kingston where I am located). For five weeks we were joined at the hip. We shared the small dungeon-like office space, lovingly referred to as “the ghetto,” we attended the 5^th Caribbean Conference on Dispute Resolution, handing out invitations to the honourable people, we swam, played cards, drank, and laughed. But, the apron strings were finally cut, and France headed back to Quebec on May 2^nd, leaving me to fly solo in this scary Jamaican world. How will I fare without her?

Easter Weekend

Planning a 4-day weekend with 7 strong personalities is no mean feat. But we did it.

Participants – 7 CUSO-VSO volunteers: Helen, Kimberley, France, Delphine, Rafael, Onyka, and Dominic (our token bwoy).

Destination – Duncans, small coastal town midway between Ocho Rios (Ochie) and Montego Bay (MoBay).

Accommodation – 3-bedroom / 3-bathroom villa, 30 yards from the beach.

Transport – supposed to be a rental van, but, in the words of Jerry Seinfeld “they know how to take the reservation, they just don’t know how to keep the reservation,” so we settled for 2 cars.

The 3 hour drive from Kingston was a harrowing experience – winding roads through mountains and valleys, potholes large enough to swim in, crazy drivers overtaking on blind curves, and people walking on roads with no sidewalks, all decked out in their Easter best. But arrival at our “villa” (vacation rental term for a house) with the Caribbean sea a stone’s throw away, and the treacherous journey was all but forgotten. It’s the windy season (Easter Kite festival in St. Anne’s Bay), so the waves were sizeable, and body surfing was mandatory, as was lying in one of the hammocks back at the villa.

Despite varying eating habits, our meals were a joint effort – vegetarian fare complimented with Hebrew National hotdogs. A visit from Varun (another DRF volunteer) and his girlfriend Jay-Jay resulted in a long, and at times insufferable, card game, but at least the rules (a twist on rummy) had finally sunken in for those new to the game.

A late start on Saturday, and 6 of us (France stayed behind to do some extreme beaching) headed for Rose Hall and a walking tour of Falmouth, a quaint, well preserved town, and quite different from some of the other Jamaican towns I’ve visited. I even managed to fit in some retail therapy with the purchase of a sundress (some things never change). The evening’s card game came to an abrupt halt when the salsa music began, and the living room turned into a disco. We danced until 2:00 am, and Dom and I are ready to embark on a world tour showcasing our perfectly synchronised dance to “Hungry Like the Wolf” – watch out Duran Duran, we’re coming to get you. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy dancing, and it’s the best workout I’ve had in a while.

Sunday was a continuation of extreme beaching for France, and my long-awaited start, as we headed to Time ’n Place in Falmouth. Huts on the beach, a bar and jerk pit, hammocks floating above the Caribbean Sea. A perfect setting for a movie – How Stella Got Her Groove Back. An added bonus to the magnificent setting was a litter of puppies. Tiny little mutts, nibbling at our toes, but infested with fleas – oh Delphine, why did you hold them in your lap – now we’re all scratching and itching. A quieter night of mellow music and cards, Rafael reigning supreme as the card shark of the evening.

And the weekend is over too soon. The return journey through the treacherous terrain, didn’t seem so bad – maybe we’re already used to Jamaican roads and driving habits? But will we ever get used to Jamaican “customer service?” We returned the cars as instructed, only to discover the rental place (Avis) was closed for the Easter holiday. Not thinking much of it, we drove the cars home, and first thing Tuesday morning showed up at Avis to return the cars, only to be told we would be charged for an additional day. No amount of ranting and raving could change the fellow’s mind, and his insistence that we should’ve known to return the cars to the airport only infuriated me more. Needless to say, Kimberley’s sweet talking powers of persuasion once again saved the day, and the additional fee was waived – a happy ending to a glorious weekend.

As soon as I figure out how to upload photos, I will do so – stay tuned...

Week One

Wa gwan - Jamaican Patois meaning "what's going on?"

I have been here more than 4 weeks, and am only now getting to my blog – I have obviously embraced “Jamaican Time” (being late for everything) extremely well.

Needless to say, my time here so far has been a whirlwind. Here’s what’s happened...

The flights from Vancouver to Kingston (via Toronto) were uneventful (the way all flights should be). In Toronto, after a couple of hours sleep, I met up with Alex and Kimberley (CUSO-VSO volunteers that I met at the training) for the Jamaican leg of the journey. The flight was a short 4 hours, which made me realize what an ideal destination Jamaica is for those on the east coast.

Arrival in Kingston, oh the heat. We were met at the airport by the CUSO-VSO driver, Mr. Neville Mason, along with 2 other smiling faces, whom I assumed worked for CUSO-VSO. Our luggage (and there was a substantial amount, not only from me) was packed into Mr. Mason’s blue van and we were off. After about 20 minutes of questioning about Kingston to Jacob and Onyka (the 2 smiling faces) with lots of “I don’t know” responses, it finally dawned on me that perhaps they did not work for CUSO-VSO after all. They are in fact also volunteers, having arrived just a few days before us, and were there to welcome us as fellow newbies. Jacob is from Ghana and Onyka is from Trinidad. Now we are 5. Driving from the airport through the suburbs of Kingston I had a strong feeling of déjà vu – it looks and feels a lot like South Africa, or at least how I remember SA, not having been there for almost 15 years. Ramshackle houses, vendors, loud music, people yelling. The language is different, the people don’t really look the same, but there’s a resemblance. Entering a more “upscale” neighbourhood – New Kingston – we picked up Keith, a volunteer, and his wife Stephanie, the unofficial welcoming committee, and were taken to get cell phones. There are 2 cellular providers in Jamaica, and CUSO-VSO volunteers are “encouraged” to go with Digicel (it’s cheaper to call other Digicel customers) – fine with me. The process to get 3 cell phones was lengthy and by the time we were done it was after 1:00 pm, and we were starving. No problem, Mr. Mason whisked us off to a restaurant for our first taste of Jamaican food – chicken, rice and beans and a small side portion of salad (no dressing to be found).

Our home for the next week or so was the L’iguana Club in New Kingston (pronounced “liginny,” and not like the lizard, as I was soon to discover, when a taxi driver looked at me like I was mad when I said I was going to the “Le Igwana” club). We had a few hours to relax (Kimberley and I used the time for a swim) and then Mr. Mason was back to take us to Keith and Stephanie for dinner. My first experience of how volunteers in Jamaica live was an apartment in Abbey Court – perhaps an unfair view, as the apartment complex is swanky – four, 6-storey buildings overlooking a central courtyard with a swimming pool. Not too shabby, I could see myself living here, I thought. I heard talk of a suite available in the building and mentioned it to Kimberley. We had discussed the possibility of sharing when we met in Ottawa, but my work location was not yet finalized, and so I wasn’t sure if it would be possible.

Apartment hunting in Kingston takes place on a Sunday (that’s the day everyone advertises in the local papers). Jacob and Onyka were being taken the next day to look for apartments, and we were given the option to come along, or wait until the following week. Not wanting to waste any time, we decided to get busy, and so we met at Keith and Steph’s place bright and early Sunday morning. For safety reasons, CUSO-VSO is very strict about the areas volunteers are allowed to live in, and any apartment has to be approved by them before a leases can be signed. Steph had already reviewed the paper and there were a few 2-bedroom places available for me and Kimberley. Steph also put in a call to Abbey Court’s realtor to enquire about the available suite – being Sunday, she, along with most other Jamaicans, was in church, so many messages were left, and a few viewing appointments made. At the end of long and tiring day, the only person to have a confirmed place was Onyka, and she was taking over the apartment of volunteer scheduled to leave the next week, so not much progress was made. But, I did get to meet my “buddy” France (CUSO-VSO Jamaica is piloting a “buddy system,” pairing new volunteers with current ones in order to ease the transition). We’d arranged to walk down to Emancipation Park for dinner, but then Steph called to say we could see the Abbey Court apartment, if we got there by 6:00 pm. Kimberley and I grabbed a taxi and raced up to Abbey Court, just making the 6:00 pm deadline, only to wait 25 minutes for the owner to arrive. It was just as well that we waited though, because the security guard mentioned the availability of another suite in the building for which he had the key. We saw both suites, and the second one was a winner – 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, 2 balconies, washer-dryer, tiled living areas, well equipped kitchen... the only downside was that it faces a busy intersection (Hope and Trafalgar Roads), but it’s on the 5^th floor, and so the views are spectacular, despite the hornets-nest-infested balcony. We phoned the owner of the apartment, who just happens to be Harold Brady, the infamous Jamaican lawyer involved in the Dudus/Manatt enquiry. Kimberley’s superb powers of persuasion got him to agree to lower the rent so we could get the apartment at the CUSO-VSO rate. To quote Kimberley “sweeeeeet”. Still had no final word on my work location, but I decided to run with it and hope for the best – which turned out to be an excellent strategy. We finally met up with Alex, Onyka and Jacob (only 2 hours late) and they watched us eat our first jerk chicken – hot and spicy, but delicious. Phew, it was a long day, but some late hour progress was made – fingers crossed that the apartment deal would go through.

Monday morning, after a not so brief stop at the Digicel store to clear up an error with Kimberley and Alex’s phones, we walked to the CUSO-VSO office to meet the office staff – Tarik, Kerry and Warren – and finally put faces to the e-mails. We also met the 2 volunteers that had recently arrived to work in the CUSO-VSO office – Myrna and Rafael – now we are 7. Running late as usual, Kimberley and I raced to meet Mr. Brady and his assistant Michelle to discuss our lease. Power walking with blistered feet in the heat of the day is not fun, but the North American habit of needing to be on time is hard to break. Mr. Brady was extremely charming and admitted we “twisted his arm and won him over.” Michelle definitely runs the show, and so he left it to her capable hands to coordinate the logistics, and another meeting was scheduled for the next day.

Four days of in-country training started on Tuesday. We met Bernice, the final new volunteer, and now we are 8. Monday and Tuesday were spent within the confines of a small training room with AC blasting in our faces and drying up my contacts. The content was interesting, but they were long days, starting and ending late and making us miss our Tuesday meeting with Michelle. Thought of the apartment slipping through our fingers made the long days more frustrating, but we met her late Wednesday afternoon and everything seemed to be on track for a Friday move. Thursday we finally escaped the training room and spent the afternoon in Trenchtown. We toured the neighbourhood, including a music studio built by local reggae artists.

To be continued...