The Jamaican Man's Insensitive, Incessant Inability to Take No for An Anwswer

The other night, I was approached by a younger man at Alfred's Ocean Palace, the hang out spot for locals and tourists alike; once visited by the Travel Channel's Bridget Marquardt, better known for being Hugh Hefner's girlfriend. It is a well-known bar, offering live reggae music throughout the week and strong rum punch. Because it is a tourist haven, it attracts the strangest kind who have traveled here

desperately seeking to find a break from broken normalcy and pick up a naive foreigner in the process. So it was no surprise to me that I would be approached that night by at least one Jamaican man. However, this guy seemed normal and decently dressed; a musician like so many others, who was here to spread the wealth of his music. I entertained him with mild conversation and quickly left before he got caught up in an illusion of love and lust. Since then, I've seen him a few times at the local bars and strategically left before he had a moment to convince me otherwise. All in all, he has been surprisingly accepting of my denial to be with him. But last night was different and in all reality, as to be expected. He decided to preach his love for me and for Zion; stating that the powerful God had shown and told him things, that it was destined to be. Well how amazing- I had no idea that a stranger could possibly be talking to God about my own future and what was in store for me, completely without my own knowledge and awareness. He tells me that I "just don't know what" I want or what I'm "searching for." After all, I have not yet met a Jamaican like him (as if they are all so different). And while this may be true and I'm in no place to judge a person, I'm certainly entitled to judge my own heart and intention, knowing from the instant I meet a person whether I would like them to be in my life. 

The verbal pressuring doesn't just stop there. Its the constant degration that goes along with it. To say to a grown woman that she doesn't know what she wants and who she is, is the worst form of manipulation and control. It is degrading to tell a person all that they have thought in this world is wrong and must therefore, be dismissed. That the woman is not allowed to have her own thoughts in decisions, but she must instead trust a man, a stranger to tell her how to be. And I started wondering what it is like for the local women here who are predisposed to this behavior at a young age.  The aggressiveness towards women astounds me. I'm not talking physically abusive here, but the aggressive kissing, the tight squeezing, the pulling on her body that a Jamaican man does to a woman who is showing anything but a sign of interest. 

It is a wonderful thing, the way that Jamaican entrepreneurs strive very hard for what they want, not taking no for an answer. It is business savvy and respectable to see such determination and I can honestly say, I've never come across so many people in such a small area who own a business. Pretty impressive. However, we need to send these particular Jamaican men a message; local woman and outsiders alike. Business and personal relationships contrast in the degree of aggressiveness that should be used; and in fact, the latter deserves to be gently handled. The respect for a woman is a powerful thing. She must be appreciated for all that she gives the world. Birth, sensuality, intelligence and strength- the woman is a creature to be reckoned with. Because it is the woman who must practice quiet wisdom with forceful strength, all the while doing so with grace and poise. It is the woman who must not only be a savvy entrepreneur, but also the comforting mother, the disciplinarian, the chef, the therapist, the sex appeal and the mystery. Jamaican women are passionate and are very giving in their love. This must be honored. She must be seen as the goddess that she is. Hopefully one day the young girls will feel their worth in seeing their mothers cherished for the powerful source they are. Hopefully the girls will look to their mothers in the same light and not accept anything less for themselves.

Photo by Garfield Hall

Trip to the Market and relaxation at the Rockhouse

  

Yesterday was a day, in which I was utterly inspired. A day that I have come to appreciate and crave desperately on my not-so-good days when I've been over-exposed to homeless puppies, limping vendors and argumentative locals. It was a day I truly felt like myself. The frustration that was growing inside me simmered down and a laughing, glowing version of myself emerged.

I woke up early, the cool morning air waking me from a deep slumber. I was very tired and even 2 cups of coffee I downed on the way did no good. Traveling down to Savannah-La-Mar is a beautiful site from the touristy Negril. Little traffic, green hills and blue mountains in the background reminded me a lot of the south. Windy, bumpy roads took us by small shacks, the overgrown vegetation attempting to cover them from view. "Sav" itself was busy, even in mid-morning. The freshest vegetables are laid out in the marker. Carrots still covered in dirt, coconuts sandy from their fall down from the palm. At one point, I saw chunks of raw meat laying in a wheel-barrel outside a barn and knew that the meat market must be inside. It was and what a sight! Several tables positioned in rows held pounds of meat. A cow torso lay out on the tables allowing the customer to be picky in their choosing of which part of the cow to consume. Pig leg and other meats hung from the ceiling. Fresh pork chops were being hacked into pieces with a machete and stacked for the customers. Despite the grisly description I'm relaying, it was really quite appealing. To think that this meat, recently slaughtered and ready to eat had been "bawwwwing" or "moooing" just hours before, made me realize what I'd been missing out on all this time. The meat we get from the states, has been frozen for months, pre-packaged with preservatives and slaughtered much before the animal's time. I also noted that our meat smells bad, even in the refrigerated grocery isle, unlike this meat sitting out in the warmth of an old barn.

  

Deciding that the fish market's odor would not be so welcoming, I decided to walk through the winding isles and piles of fresh produce, in a section way in the back of the market where you only venture if you buy specifically from a particular farmer. With honey banana and watermelon to snack on, I felt instantly quenched of my thirst and rejuvenated, ready for another trip.

Back to the West-End of Negril, I came to the Rock House. Now, I can't even describe in words how incredible this resort is, the most lavish I've seen yet. And while I'm sure you pay the price for this kind of luxury, I would hand over the money in a hurry for a nice honeymoon or romantic getaway. Not only is the ambience appealing, but the way in which the resort operates is highly commendable. Staff members are provided with a full health care plan for themselves and their families. Compensation is very good for the area, also offering discounted meals and drinks to the staff. They are well-taken care of here and you can only assume, that if the staff is taken care of, the guests will be too, equally influenced by the friendly vibe. Even though this resort is mainly owned by 2 Australians and an Italian, they are fully aware the money they earn must go back into the country in which they inhabit. The resort has a foundation that gives money to Jamaican children and their schools. A newly remodeled library full with computers and books is now available for Negril locals.

The spa entices the passerby with amazing, and unique scents, smelling of fresh fruit, wild jungle flowers and spices. Each guest is welcomed into their lavish villa, with a foot rub of cocoa powder, honey, sugar and spices. Scented so sweet you'd be tempted to eat it, this rub exfoliates and soothes every inch of your body. The setting looks like a buddhest temple or a palace from the days of the Romans. A large buddha sits at the entrance of a circular room with a pool of water, decorated with green leaves and a window from above that invites the sky's glow from the sun. The small room is divided by a 5 doorways each leading to a private spa room. The stone walkways are surrounded by lush trees and flowers, winding up and around to each villa and ultimately up to the restaurant or down to the pool that overlooks the sea, appearing as though it spills into the ocean water below. 

As the rain poured down and the waves dramatically crashed into the cliffs, a heavenly sight was created and I imagined that goddesses themselves could be walking amongst the trees in white robes decorated with gold. The beauty surrounding this relaxing atmosphere accompanied with a finely made Pina Colada, was the perfect finish to a perfect day.

Living in Jamaica is a unique experience for me. I am from a small town in Colorado, that I refer to as "Pleasantville," even after working with victims of domestic violence for 2 years. While I remain more than aware that violence and hate occurs in this town, my Pleasantville hometown allows young women to wander the streets alone at night and children to roam free in the streets, watched by their all-knowing, loyal neighbors. It is not required that you lock your back door at night or your car when you leave. Unlocked bicycles scatter the town; after all, stealing a bike in this town would be bad "bike karma" and no one would think of jeopardizing their fate. Weekend festivals invite well-to do families who walk from their downtown Victorian homes, recently remodeled with the finest products, all of which are environmentally friendly, of course. There are very few homeless animals that wander the streets because vet students are everywhere and most every local owns at least one dog. Lush gardens take over the green lawns used to replenish the Saturday Market and locally owned Food Coop. Community living is important to the people here and local businesses are supported with extreme loyalty. Coffee shops operate with volunteers and donations to various non-profits. Hiking trails are filled with the adamant out-doorsey locals; walls of rock littered with climbers; gangs of bicyclists on the ambitious climb up steep, windy roads to the mountain reservoir. Beautiful, serene and clean, I live in a responsible, safe and healthy city; the perfect havin for yuppies and Whole Foods markets. 

Does it sound nice to you? It is. This fine city was once named the best place to live in the U.S. Sound too good to be true? It is. That's because although this caucasian majority, upper-middle class society offers amazing comfort in a beautiful setting, it lacks a sense of reality, diversity, culture and color. Its a comfort zone that is all too reassuring to the local kid who has grown up in this Pleasantville, never to call another place home. The "everyday is the same" lack of adventure and excitement bores me to tears. I have never felt that I was learning so little. I've never felt so unfulfilled. Where's the comfort in safety when every moment lacks spontaneous life-altering events that inspire us to grow and learn? Where are the less fortunate people, who ask for our compassion, left with nothing but constant struggle, who nonetheless strive to succeed in spite of their challenges? All the while inspiring those of us with more opportunity to not take advantage of the luck we were given in life. And where are the local farmers who see harvesting and fishing as a way to survive, pouring their hearts and souls into providing for their families? Compared to those who farm for something to do in their spare time, throwing out the vegetables when no one consumes them? Where is the old woman, who has absorbed more wisdom in her years than I could ever imagine having; slaughtering chicken to make herself a meal and with successful luck, selling her fine meal to those who see it as second best to grocery store quality? 

These are the lessons that my soul was striving for, unable to obtain in a town full of luxury, security and pleasant faces. Growing incredibly frustrated, I put a thought out into the universe, concentrating my energy outward-asking the universe to send me an opportunity in which I could grow, learn from others and use my compassion to spread good energy where it was needed. And funny that without directly asking, my father's good friend asked if I wanted an intern position at his resort in Jamaica, a country whose customs and culture was vastly different from my own. 

Now having been here 2 months, I can honestly say that I have a love/hate relationship with Jamaica. After all, it is this place that has completely forced me from my comfort zone, exposing my vulnerabilities despite the many attempts I take at subconsciously avoiding it. And while, at moments I am entirely inspired and spiritually aware, there are also times that I am completely hopeless and let down, feeling as though I've failed at everything.

The blogs I will be posting are my stories, a real account into what I'm feeling as a new found Jamerican, caught between the good and the bad, the reality of the situation and the sugar-coating view of what you want to hear.