My Commute

7:05 AM: I leave my home, Stony Hill Hotel, with the taste of Blue Mountain coffee still fresh in my mouth. I’ve got a few picture books, some homemade handouts, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a water bottle in my backpack. It’s a Tuesday, so I’m off to St. Teresa’s All-Age Catholic School.


7:15 AM: No matter that the sun has only been up for an hour; my neck and back are already drenched in sweat. I’ve climbed the first hill on my journey, but I’ve got several more to go. When you live in St. Andrew, Jamaica, there are as many hills as there are mosquitoes. I nod hello and say good morning to the people I pass. I’m off to work and so are they; the people I encounter are coming from the villages north of Kingston to work as servants in the homes of the wealthy of Stony Hill.


7:22 AM: I’ve reached the bottom of Gibson Road and am facing Junction Road, the main thoroughfare that runs from Kingston to the North Coast. I cross onto the left side of Junction and start walking. I hear the occasional “whitey!” shouted from a passing car, but after four months in Jamaica, I’m more apt to hear “brownie” than “whitey.” Luckily, before I can be harassed much more, a coaster bus pulls up. “Tavern!” yells the conductor, but I ignore him and climb on. I’m headed to Golden Spring, and every bus headed north will pass this town. Today is a good day; I manage to score a seat on the crowded bus.

7:34 AM: “Bus Stop!” I shout as I struggle to the front of the bus. “Lettoff, driva, lettoff,” the conductor calls to the driver, and the bus slows enough for me to hand over a few coins and hop off. This conductor, a young man not much older than myself, calls after me, “Baby, can I come with you?” I shake my head and cross the street. At this time of the morning, Golden Spring, a small town at the base of the Mount Friendship hills, is crowded with people fighting for taxis and busses.

7:40 AM: I weave through the people and cars in Golden Spring. Taxi drivers try to catch my attention, but I see Raymond standing by a shop. Over the past few months, Raymond The Taxi Driver has become a sort of guardian angel: he has explained dancehall music, physically carried me over landslides, and defended me against the constant harassment I face. The only thing I can offer him in return is my loyalty; he is always my first choice for my morning ride into the mountains.


7:52 AM: After a few minutes of twists and turns on the narrow country road, we reach the steep footpath that leads up to Mount Friendship. To take a taxi all the way up into the village would double my taxi fare. I hand Raymond fifty dollars and thank him, and he promises to look for me in the afternoon. I get out of the car and scramble up the path. I have eight minutes to make it to school.
7:54 AM: I reach the top of the path and arrive at the dirt road that is Mount Friendship’s main street. It is lined with a shop that sells biscuits and juice, the coffee houses where the coffee beans are weighed, and several goats that graze peacefully. Ahead of me are several children that are also making their way to school. “Kids, wait for me!” I cry, and they turn around to call back to me: “Miss!” I catch up to them and take their hands. “Did everyone do their homework?” I ask. “Yes, miss,” they answer, but I can tell from their mischievous grins that no homework was done the evening before.

7:58 AM: I wave to a few of the people gathered at the shop. “Blessings, blessings,” they respond, and the children and I head up the final hill to school. We arrive just in time; the teachers are assembling the children for devotion. They pray and then sing the national anthem, their tiny voices rising into the surrounding mountains: “Jamaica! Jamaica! Jamaica, land we love!”

8:15 AM: The gathered children walk in an orderly line to their classrooms; the latecomers scramble to slip by their teachers unnoticed. And so, as my morning commute ends, my workday begins.