I
stepped off the plane and came to a painful realization - it was winter.
My thin Jamaican dress and flip-flops weren't going to cut it in the
arctic weather of Pittsburgh; they would doubtfully keep me warm even
here in Atlanta, where we had to spend three hours before our next plane
took off. The summery world that I had just come from seemed light years
away, dream-like. Some part of this must be a dream. I was numb. Frozen
solid.
Clink,
clink. Three tight braids on the side of my head jingled together,
reminding me of the warm country from which I had just come. I had been
in Harmons, Jamaica on a mission trip, and I had worked my butt off.
I felt the most alive that I have ever been. No, if anything had been
a dream, it wasn't this.
When we had first arrived in Jamaica,
I couldn't believe it was summer. Our skin hadn't seen sun in several
months. Making up the majority of the white people in the airport, our
pasty skin seemed to reflect the light it was now being exposed to.
The humid tropical air enveloped and welcomed us as we made our way
outside to the curb where our vans would pick us up.
We
flew into Montego Bay, one of the biggest tourist cities in Jamaica.
If we didn't see many white people here, we weren't going to see any
at all. On one side of the airport was ocean, and on the other, green
mountains. Palm trees sprinkled the landscape like jimmies on a cookie.
This was paradise.
Our
destination was a small town in the mountains on the southern half of
the island. After exchanging our sweaty layers for shorts and t-shirts,
all 33 of us climbed into two rusty vans and loaded our luggage onto
the back of an old cattle truck. The trip, totaling probably about four
hours, took us deep into the hills of Jamaica, over potholed roads,
farther and farther from the city. After we passed the resorts and tourist
conveniences of Montego Bay, the big houses were replaced by smaller
ones, the smaller ones replaced by shacks. Several times we had to stop
to let other cars go by, since two couldn't possibly fit on the road
at once.
Drifting
in and out of sleep, the ride seemed to take forever. The afternoon
turned to evening, the evening to night. We were still on the van. Slap!
A grapefruit tree on the side of the road poked its head in the open
window. Finally, the van slowed down and pulled to the side of the road.
"Here
we are," said Henri, our leader and van driver. Here we are? We
are where? The dim light of one streetlamp revealed an iron gate in
front of an adobe house. Jamaicans were milling about the street, straining
to see the occupants of the vans.
I
was beginning to get scared. I had signed up for this trip almost nine
months previous with the idea that I could help build a house. That
was pretty much the only idea I had. But now? I don't think I'm prepared
for this, I thought, put me back on the plane. I barely knew the people
I was there with, let alone the people in the street that we were expected
to mingle with. If anything, I am not a mingler. I read somewhere that
risk is indispensable to the life of the human spirit. Especially in
recovering a relationship with God. Was that why I was there? To recover
my relationship with God? Well, God knows I was taking risks. He also
knew why I was there. I just hoped he would let me know about it.
That
night, the girls slept in one bedroom and the guys in another. Each
room was filled with rows of bunk beds, enough for everyone to have
their own bed. Personal space is another story; we gave up all privacy
for the eight days of our trip. After awkward "goodnights,"
I went to sleep feeling uneasy.
The next day was Sunday, the day
of rest at the mission house. Instead of starting our manual labor right
away, we attended a church in the nearby town, and drove to visit a
poor house in the afternoon. I expected the worst. A poor house didn't
even sound inviting. The least they could do would be to make up a better
name for it, like the "assisted living complex," or the "community
shelter." Anything but "poor house." It sounded so bleak;
no wonder they needed visitors.
The
poor house sat high on a hill behind a barbed wire fence. I wondered
if that was so the neighborhood couldn't get in, or so the poorhouse
occupants couldn't get out.
It
wasn't really a house at all, but a series of rooms with outdoor walkways,
sort of like an American nursing home, only outside. Once we all piled
out of the vans and began to introduce ourselves, the residents stared
at us in curiosity. Many of the tenants were missing arms or legs. Even
more of them couldn't talk.
As
I walked past the rooms, I saw some with twenty or so beds, some with
only two or three. I wondered what distinction got you a private room.
I said hello to those tenants that caught my eye but kept on walking.
One girl was sprawled out on the ground motionless, resting in stale
urine. Another crouched in the corner, tied to the wall with pieces
of cloth. I kept walking.
I
found an older woman seated calmly on the edge of a drainage ditch.
Judging from the cleanliness (or lack thereof) of the house, there was
no telling what this ditch was used to drain. Wastewater? Human excrement?
The woman wore a t-shirt and covered her lower half with a stained sheet.
"What's your name?" I
asked. She pointed to her ears and mouthed to me that she was deaf.
That's ok, I decided. Who better to practice my conversation skills
on than someone who couldn't hear what I was saying?
Even
though it took much longer than usual to communicate, I eventually understood
that she was the only one left of her family, even her children had
died. I guess that would explain why she was in the poorhouse, with
no one left to take care of her. Putting her hands in the air, she looked
up at the sky and mouthed, "Praise God."
"Praise
God?" I thought. That would be the last thing I would be doing
in her situation. Her whole family was dead, and she was left in some
poorhouse to wither away for the rest of her life, and she couldn't
even hear or speak well. Praise God? I would be cursing God.
"Praise
God." She said. Praise God she was still alive, praise God she
was going to heaven when she died, praise God that she still had some
teeth left (though not many). I laughed with her. What a funny lady.
What the heck. I put my hands in the air. "Praise God," I
said.
The mission house, also known as
the Harmony House, had a courtyard where the neighborhood children would
come and play with the Americans. That night, my attitude was still
the same as the night before. Sure, the poorhouse occupants needed love,
they didn't have anyone else. The kids in the courtyard were different.
They had friends to talk to. They had siblings. They didn't need me
to talk to them.
That's
what I told myself, anyway. I was terrified of approaching the children.
For the majority of the evening, I hung back in the shadows and watch
the other kids play and dance. I felt like a kid that no one wanted
to play with at recess. Instead of joining in, I focused on taking pictures
of the other kids having fun. Finally, I got tired of carrying the camera.
I put it back in the bedroom.
Outside,
the kids had started a game of keep away with a football, so I joined
in. I am rarely one to turn down a sport. The Jamaican children immediately
multiplied; they seemed to come out of the woodwork and wanted to play.
I reached up to catch the ball,
and oof, a little boy tackled me right in the stomach and tried
to reach for the ball. I was way too tall for him and quickly passed
the ball to someone else.
"What's
your name?" I shouted above the music.
"Joseph,"
he said. My first friend.
The
rest of the night was a blur of tackles, tickling, and football. These
kids were no different than kids from home. They wanted friends to play
with.
When
I sat down to take a rest in between games, a little boy climbed into
my lap. He didn't say a word, and sat there for about twenty-five minutes,
completely satisfied by playing with the indiglo button on my watch.
After
a while, my legs started to get numb and I had to hand him off to someone
else. As hard as their lives seemed down there, they were still children
that needed love. I was determined to give it to them.
The main focus of our trip was to
help the Harmony House move to their new location. Their new house,
built by American high school and college students as well as Jamaicans
hired to help out, was about two miles away, deeper into the poorer
area of Harmons. During the days we did manual labor, carrying rocks
and dirt and water to lay concrete for a new courtyard. I don't think
I have ever worked so hard.
At
lunchtime we would eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and pick tangerines,
grapefruits, and oranges off the trees. Then at night, we would walk
back to the old house and entertain the neighborhood children.
When
the new house was finished, we were finally able to move. With the aid
of our vans and cattle truck, we hauled everything from the old house
over to the new one. By the time we had finished, it was nightfall,
and we were all too tired for anything else. We slept in the new house
that night.
By the middle of the week, the water
supply at the Harmony House had run out. This meant we were forced to
bathe elsewhere. So, on the afternoon of our fourth day, we all piled
into the vans once more for a trip to the beach.
The
south coast of Jamaica is made up of black sand beaches, one of which
has a freshwater lagoon pouring right into the sea. All afternoon we
went swimming, all the while trying to avoid the sand fleas that infested
the ground. When we had successfully cooled off, it was then time to
use soap.
The
freshwater lagoon was a fifteen-foot hole in the ground surrounded by
rocky cliffs and palm trees, like something out of a National Geographic
magazine. And we had it all to ourselves.
"Cannonball!"
One of the guys leaped off of the rocks into the water with his knees
tucked into his chest. Water splashed everywhere. From then on, everyone
had to take a turn.
After
a while of jumping off the cliffs, we all gathered up our soap and shampoo
and washed up while in our bathing suits. It was like we were in a razor
commercial; all of us girls perched up on the rocks underneath the palm
trees shaving our legs. I was surprised there weren't any tourists here.
Then again, we were hundreds of miles away from anywhere tourists would
be found.
On
the way home, a terrible stench woke us all up from our naps. A cow,
dead in the middle of the road, was stinking up the air for miles around.
The smell was the inevitable end of all living things, death. We all
held our noses and squirmed in our seats. This was the real Jamaica.
The parts that you don't see at the travel agent or on the spring break
brochures. There was no resort maintenance crew to come take care of
the deceased cow. There would be no one to cart away the dead body.
No one to rectify the situation. No one to make life better for the
Jamaicans on this side of the island.
Our last full day in Harmons was
spent cleaning up the new house. In the afternoon, we did what was known
as a walk-around. We literally walked around away from the road and
handed out kits of toiletries to each household that we came across.
This idea seemed pretty idealistic to me. Here we were, coming down
off of our high American horse, giving these people soap and toothbrushes?
I didn't like the sound of it. I wondered how these people would accept
us. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have accepted us if I was in their position.
I would have gone into my house and closed the door, ignored the petty
handouts and gone to do something else with my day. Who did we think
we were, anyway? Did they really need our help?
A
woman was home at the first house we came to. The Jamaican man that
came along with us explained to the woman who we were and why we were
there. Immediately the woman's eyes lit up. She took the gift gratefully
and wished us well on our way.
Well,
that didn't go so bad, I thought. But what about the next house? That
was only one woman.
The
next house occupied a woman with many children. One child was crouched
behind a piece of sheet metal alongside of the house in what looked
to be like a makeshift garden. We tried to talk to her but got no response.
Finally, my friend Beth asked her for a hug. The little girl stood up,
extended her arms, and wrapped herself around Beth. She said her name
was Kim, and she didn't let go for quite sometime. The girl's mother
accepted the gifts and we continued on our way. Kim stayed with Beth
for the rest of the afternoon.
While
walking through the woods, a half-dressed toddler came sprinting down
the hill. "Whiteys! Whiteys!" he yelled, pointing at us in
excitement. He hid from us when he got close, however, apparently not
prepared for his first encounter with foreigners.
We
came across many school children along our way, and invited them to
join us that night for a farewell party at the new mission house. They
were overjoyed at our invitation, taken aback when we wanted to know
their names.
Stopping
at a lake to take a group picture, we met many more Jamaican men that
lived nearby. They were all modestly but respectively dressed, and we
received much praise and encouragement. More humble and grateful than
anyone I knew, these people struck me as being the most inspiring people
I had ever met.
My
tears started flowing and they didn't stop. My heart was broken. Not
for them; for me and the rest of the American people. How could these
Jamaicans have so little and yet be so grateful, so joyful, so fulfilled?
And we, who had so much, really had so little?
A
friend gave a weak attempt at consoling me, but he wasn't sure why I
was crying. He soon gave up. To be honest, I wasn't entirely sure of
why I was crying, either. I just couldn't understand how people could
live so differently on the same planet. These people were brought up
working hard, respecting their elders, the earth, and God. This side
of the island was the real Jamaican paradise.
One
man asked me to describe what life was like in the United States. I
found myself telling him about how neighbors don't know each other.
How people leave their community to go to work, and come home at night
and stay indoors.
"It's
nothing like Harmons," I told him. "In Harmons, everyone knows
everyone; you look after each other's children like your own."
So what if they didn't have running water or electricity. Was that really
the point? Do we really need those things to survive?
What
we really need are relationships. Healthy, joyful, dedicated relationships.
There were plenty of those in Harmons. They thought we were helping
them by coming down there, but little did they know that we needed their
love just as much as they needed ours.
That night we had a farewell party
at our new mission house, and all the children that we had gotten to
know came, along with many other children that we met that afternoon.
Several missionaries warned me that some Jamaicans might ask me for
my shoes or anything else I could give. So far, I hadn't been bothered
at all.
The
kids must have realized we were leaving and panicked, thinking that
we might leave without giving them anything. One little boy repeatedly
asked me for my shoes. "Shoes! Shoes!" he kept saying. "These
shoes are for girls," I said. "They won't fit you anyway."
That didn't bother him. "Shoes! Shoes!" Finally I caved and
promised him my shoes. That satisfied him for now.
A
little later, he and his brother tossed letters to me and ran away.
Each one had written about their great need for shoes, clothes, school
supplies, and many other things. The smaller boy asked me to be his
sponsor and made me promise to write to him.
I
couldn't handle this. One week with these boys was not enough. I wanted
to give them so much more. I wanted to give them opportunities that
so many American boys had.
At
the end of the night, I ended up giving away my flashlight, my anklet,
and I almost lost my shorts to a little girl, but luckily they were
too big for her, and she withdrew her request. I almost forgot to give
the boy my shoes, but he was right there to remind me.
When
he was leaving with my shoes in hand, one of the American guys thought
he had stolen them. "Where did you get those?" he demanded.
The boy swore they were a gift. "Put them back. Those are someone
else's." When my name was mentioned, I was immediately summoned
to rectify the misunderstanding. I reassured my friend that I had indeed
given him my shoes. Sorely regretful for hurting the boy's feelings,
my friend apologized profusely.
The
last day in Jamaica was spent in Ocho Rios, a tourist city on the north
coast of the island, light years away from Harmons. The streets had
painted lines, hotels and gift shops lining the roads. There was no
dead, dying, or even living livestock within sight.
In
the morning, we paid a visit to one of the biggest tourist attractions
called Dunn's River Falls. The waterfall extends all the way up the
side of the a hill sloping down to the ocean. A canopy of palm trees
shaded the whole river, but the weather was comfortably warm and we
didn't get cold. We each bought a ticket, wore our bathing suits, and
climbed the length of the falls.
Sometimes,
we would round a bend and the sun would break through the trees, casting
stunning rays of light over the water and through the trees. We were
in a dream. A perfect illusion. If I had my camera it would have surely
gotten wet and I would have lost it. I didn't worry too much, though.
If I really wanted to see Dunn's River Falls again, I could go to any
travel agency in the States and ask to see a picture. This was the paradise
that Americans come to enjoy.
The
rest of the day, we walked around town and checked out how the other
half of Jamaica lived. I bartered for and bought a painting for six
dollars in the market place, a painting so beautiful and so unlike the
rest of the paintings because it reminded me of Harmons. Most of the
paintings were of beach scenes, of sunsets on the water or palm trees
on the beach. Each of them was beautiful in their own right, but not
quite what I was looking for.
The
painting I bought was of a man carrying a bucket of water on his head
to a small hut next to a palm tree. The sky was bright red and orange;
it looked like it was on fire. That was paradise.
On
the way back to the hotel, I realized how frightened I felt in this
big town. Two larger guys accompanied me, but still I didn't feel at
ease. As we walked, I took note of the homeless, the drug dealers, and
the dirty. One man approached us and asked us for some money for food.
He obviously hadn't bathed in quite sometime and he chewed food while
he talked to us. We didn't have any money to give.
"I
have a granola bar, if you want it," said my friend.
"No,
no," he said, "silver! Silver!" He couldn't have been
too hungry if he preferred money to food. He reluctantly took the gift
and walked away, unsatisfied. A truly hungry person would be grateful
for a granola bar. Someone who was going to buy drugs with it wouldn't.
My friend explained to me that when he took a trip to Washington D.C.
in middle school, one of his teachers told him never to give money to
homeless people, give them food instead. That way you are feeding the
person and not their habits.
That
night was our last night in Jamaica, and we spent it with each other.
Henri bought us all pizza and we had dinner and live music on the pier
behind our hotel. All dressed up in the Jamaican garb we had bought
from a seamstress in Harmons, none of us wanted the night to end. Going
to bed meant the end of our voyage.
Five
Jamaican men played American songs for us on their instruments, and
we spent the night dancing, laughing, and sharing our experiences and
future plans.
"Ok,
now, give everyone a hug," said Henri. I followed the instructions.
The tears came back, but with much more force. Everyone who told me
to stop crying made it worse. Henri told me that the ministries motto
was "Changing
lives by changing lives." Go figure. Sharing my week in Jamaica
with these people made them feel like family to me, and I didn't want
to say goodbye. Sure, I would see them again at school. But it wouldn't
be the same. We would be at school, and now my life was here. I had
fallen in love with Harmons, Jamaica.
As
we walked around the Atlanta airport searching for an adequate place
for dinner, I realized it would be months again before I would see summer.
Months before I could wear my Jamaican dress again. I had to take advantage
of this opportunity.
I
went to the bathroom to change my clothes back into my t-shirt and jeans,
and caught a glimpse of the girl in the mirror. I didn't recognize her.
She wasn't wearing makeup, and she had taken out her ten earrings. She
had a sparkle in her eye.
"Shoot."
I had packed my clothes next to my wet bathing suit. Everything in my
bag was damp. I looked back in the mirror to see what she would do next.
She put her clothes back in the bag, straightened her dress and smiled.
Cold weather or not, this dress was going to Pittsburgh.