Welcome to the Peak

For my 22nd birthday, my roommates and I climbed Blue Mountain Peak. Standing tall at 2256 meters, it the highest point in Jamaica—I’ve got a thing for hiking and climbing, so this was a giant I had been eager to face. It was seven miles up, and upon reaching the summit, we found a sign that had been posted years before: “Welcome to the Peak!”

We had left in the early hours of the morning in hopes of catching the sunrise, but since our guide had not said a word from the moment we left the base camp, since it was pouring rain, since we had walked the majority of the way in darkness, and since our feet were covered in blisters, we turned around and headed back down the trail as quickly as possible.

I stand now at the peak. January 18th marks the six month anniversary of my time in Jamaica: I am halfway through, I have climbed the mountain. The next six months will be my journey back down the trail. The journey of the past months is not unlike my hike up the mountain, for my first steps were taken in darkness. I was blind to the culture, to the language, to the struggles of poverty, and to the everyday challenges of the developing world. But the activities of each day have enlightened and continue to enlighten me. Every person I meet, every experience I have opens my eyes a bit more. Every step I take in Jamaica is more sensitive, more aware, and more confident than the last.

I will always face rainy days, and the trail still gets rocky at times. But my guides in this journey are open and vocal and supportive: I have the teachers at Mount Friendship School. I have community pillars like Miss Doris and Mr. Brooks. I have my bosses, Father Lucian and Amy. I have the support of my community, Lauren, Michela, and Amber. I have family and friends that love me and the work I do here.

The darkness has lifted; I have gained a foothold on the trail of Jamaica. I have learned to stomp out roaches without screaming. I have learned how to cook ackee and saltfish. I have learned to effectively balance myself on busses careening around mountain roads. I have learned to navigate the Registrar General’s Department and the National Health Fund. I have learned to coach a child through Hop On Pop. I am learning to listen. I am learning to be easier on myself. I am learning to ask for help. I am learning to take it one day at a time and to cherish the small victories.

The day of the climb, we hurried back down the mountain, wishing for warmth, for dry clothes and for the pain in our feet to subside. The return journey was shorter—going downhill is always easier. But I have no intention of racing through the next six months. Everyone says that the second half of mission work tends to fly by, but I want to treasure each moment. I am growing closer to the adults and the children in Mount Friendship; I love them and I love the work that I have been granted the opportunity to do. Every day that slips past reminds me that my time here is limited, and that the laughs I share and the hugs I receive will come to an end all too soon.

As the morning of December 23rd wore on, the mists lifted, the sun came out, and our chilled skin warmed. We realized that our trek had not been in vain, for although we had left the peak, we were still able to enjoy the views of the Blue Mountains. I could look out over miles and miles of untouched and uninhabited mountains and hills. It was breathtakingly beautiful.
And from what I can see from where I stand right now, as Miss Betsy of Mount Friendship, the view is breathtaking.

A Christmas Miracle

I had been dreading my first Christmas away from home. Because I am far from the people I love the most, the weather is 85 degrees year round, and I see poverty and violence everywhere, it was hard to muster holiday cheer. But in the days leading up to December 25th, the spirit of Christmas reached me via airmail.

On the 22nd of December, my roommates and I were headed up into the mountains for a stay at a Bobo Rastafarian guesthouse and a hiking excursion to Blue Mountain Peak. We stopped at the post office on our way east, and I found a paper in our post office box. After a runaround typical of 3rd-world bureaucracy, I finally reached a counter where my slip would get me somewhere. A grim-faced man made me sign a ledger book and silently handed me a bag filled with books.

For months now, I have been working to start a library program in Mount Friendship’s Catholic school. The few books that they already have are weather-damaged from years of hurricanes and to get to this “library,” you have to walk through another “classroom.” Many times have I left work defeated, thinking that there was no way that this project was ever going to succeed.

But on the 22nd, feeling a bit like Santa and with a sloppy, stupid grin on my face, I carried this sack of books to the car. The tag was in my college roommate Mandee’s perfect, angular handwriting. I was unable to reach Mandee, so I called Andy, and was told that all of my college roommates had worked together to get these books to me.

During my senior year at Providence College, I lived with 10 other people in a huge tenement house at 106/108 Pinehurst Avenue—a house that we dubbed “Sparta” one night early in the year. My ten housemates, Andy, Steve, Pete, Dave, Nicole, Sarah, Mandee, Kathryn, Mike, and Claire, are all spectacular humans. They are all motivated, hardworking, problem-solving, moral, and compassionate people. Our bond went far deeper than a convenient living arrangement—as we’ve said more than once, we all just “get” each other. I could—and did—go to any of these people in times of laughter and tears.

Regardless, I was floored, and the other volunteers and I dug into the bag on the way up to the peak. Chicka-chicka boom boom! Hop on Pop! The books are in perfect condition and are colorful and beautiful.

We climbed the peak, and stopped by the post office again on the 23rd. This time, I had a package of birthday and Christmas cards from Sparta. There was also a letter from Mandee, explaining the books by saying, “This offering is the result of many people’s efforts! To name a few, we’ll start with out darling roommates!” Her letter also led me to believe that there was more than one bag coming to me.

On the 24th, I went back to the post office yet again, this time skipping my P.O. Box and going directly to the Bulk Mail room. The workers recognized me immediately and they all smiled broadly at me. “Go get your car!” They called as I approached, “More came in today, and you won’t be able to carry it all!”

Mystified, I ran back to the car and drove it around. The workers, including the grim-faced man who hadn’t said a word to me the day before, brought out bag after bag of books and loaded them into our station wagon. “Merry Christmas!” they said. I had to sign again, but this time, I got a handshake and another chorus of Merry Christmases. “Who sent these to you?” They asked me. “My friends,” I answered, fighting back tears.

Mandee’s letter explained it all, as did a phone call I placed to her later that day. Andy and Claire have been working with the Passionists for months to find the most efficient way to get the books to me. Mandee ran a book drive at the junior high where she is a Spanish and French teacher. Churches sent in donations, as did my friends from Sparta.

I am still in shock and disbelief about the project. This is the best gift that I have ever received…my friends have provided the gift of literacy to the children of Mount Friendship, and they have renewed my energy and will to complete the project. A card from Claire read, “I’ve enjoyed raising money for your library gift both because it brought us all together on a project again and because I’m imagining the look on your face when you get it.”

This gift helps me recognize the impact that Jamaica is having on my life and on the lives of others. Mandee’s letter also said, “Your decision to go to Jamaica was a good one—you’re bringing communities together in America without even knowing it.” All I can do in returns is to offer my thanks and a promise that these books will be read and reread for years to come.

So thanks, guys. Thank you for my Christmas miracle.

Family

Jamaica’s Catholic community has prayers for everything: for stewardship, for encouragement, for education, for holidays.

They also have a prayer for families, a prayer that Miss Doris, the church boss, makes me read aloud every Sunday at mass in Mount Friendship:

“Heavenly father, raise up in Jamaica good and holy families, loving husbands and wives and devoted parents and children…Send your Spirit to guide and strengthen us that we may serve your people, following the example of your Son, Jesus Christ, in whose name I offer this prayer, Amen.”

I have family. I have a great family. I’ve got two wonderful parents, ten aunts and uncles, and, in patois, a ‘ole ‘eap a cousins. I love them and miss them dearly, especially during this, the most wonderful time of the year. But they’re not here. Thank goodness that I’ve found a surrogate family here in Jamaica.

Mrs. Plummer grasped me in a firm hug when she met me in church and told me that I was coming to Sunday dinner that day, and whenever else I wanted. I could come on Christmas, on New Year’s, and on Easter, too, if I wanted. Oh yes, and they were slaughtering a pig soon, and I should come to that as well. And then, she began to mother me. She sits in on my Sunday school classes if she thinks any of the children are going to cause trouble. She pushes my hair back when it gets in my face. She stands with me on the road and tells me which taxi drivers are suitable to take me back to Stony Hill.

Mr. Plummer grinned widely the first time Mrs. Plummer brought me home. He fixed me a glass of juice and gave me a tour of his modest property. I saw his banana tree and met his pigs. “Enjoy yourself, mon,” he said as he directed me back inside his home and put me into a chair. “Don’t trouble yourself, mon, rest yourself.”

Georgiana, their daughter, also lives with them. She taught me how to make rice and peas using brown rice, not white rice. She let me hold her baby, and later, let me help to bathe 1-year-old Ianna. Chevelle and Daniel, the resident grandchildren, invited me to watch cartoons on the one station that the Plummers get on their television.

And always, they feed me. Times are tough for everyone in Jamaica, but the Plummers share with me, despite any protests I make. “Eat, mon,” they say as they pile rice on my plate, “Plenty food here, and you far from home. You far, mon.”

They have made me a part of their family. Mr. and Mrs. Plummer, married for 34 years this January, are intrinsic parents, and their children and grandchildren have accepted me as a sibling. The Plummers love, cherish, parent everyone…what is one more?

A concrete, nuclear family unit can be hard to come by in Jamaica. Marriage is uncommon and siblings are often scattered. But that doesn’t seem to matter…the people with whom I work understand the concept of family. A daughter is someone you welcome home, a sister is someone with whom you watch cartoons, and a granddaughter is someone who you feed.
The Plummers can’t replace Mary and Richard and the O’Grady/Rouleau network I’ve got going back in the States. They can, however, make me feel loved and cherished and remind me what it feels like to be part of a family.

“How many children do you have?” I once asked Mrs. Plummer. I stood in her simple kitchen, watching her fry fish while Mr. Plummer stood in the doorway, holding his baby granddaughter. I was confused by the mass amounts of pictures of children on the walls, tucked into mirrors, and in her handbag.

“Five,” she answered casually over the hissing of the frying pan, “but we raise up plenty more.” Including me.

Father, raise up in Jamaica good and holy families, loving husbands, wives, parents and children. Father, send your spirit to guide and strengthen me so that I may serve Your people.

Folsom Prison Blues

The first time that I encountered Carl, he was singing. He was singing about how near and how real his Jesus is to him. He had a strong beautiful voice, and he sang the Jamaican chorus loudly and unfailingly.

“Hello,” I said, extending a hand once his song had finished. “I’m Betsy.”

Carl was one of many inmates at Tamarind Farms Correctional Institute, a prison in Spanish Town, a noisy, busy, and intimidating area just off of the Mandela Highway in St. Catherine, Jamaica. On Friday mornings, I leave the gullies and hills of St. Andrew to engage in a prison ministry program run by a church in Stony Hill. There are a number of prisons in Jamaica that house drug offenders, murderers, and petty criminals. These prisons are hard places to be; there is no visitation with one’s children and there is no time off for good behavior.

Kingston is the murder capital of the world, and Jamaica is known for its violence, its drugs, and its overall hardness. However, the men with whom I work at Tamarind Farms are not the hardened criminals that I imagined when I first began work at this ministry.

The men in these prisons have had hard lives; they have suffered. Many of them have done bad things, but many of them are victims of circumstance. Many of them gave in to the desperate situations that they faced on a daily basis. For some, their only crime is poverty.

However, I find myself forgetting all that when I visit the prison; I see men who want to shake the volunteers’ hands so that they may remember the feel of human touch. I see men who yearn for a one-to-one conversation so that they can tell you about their children, about their friends, about getting out. I see men who scramble to sing and to pray aloud at the worship sessions. I see men who ask probing questions about the bible study that is presented. They are angry and hurting, they are kind and teasing. They are the devout and they are atheists. They are philosophers and they are artists.

Although the wardens and barbed wire make it hard to forget where I am, I have ceased to view these inmates as criminals. They are people at the heart of it and they are people that need hope, love, and encouragement as much as, if not more than, the rest of the population.

When I look at the inmates, I see the little boys who run barefoot in the streets, kicking a bottle filled with grass and rocks as their soccer ball. I see the third-graders shoving each other in the schoolyard of Mount Friendship All-Age School. I see the teenaged boys in their khaki uniforms chasing the bus to get to their high schools. I see men who have struggled and suffered greatly in their lives—are they to blame for their current situation? Or, are \years of oppression and unjust institutions that punish the poor really at fault?

Carl, in his holey white shirt and khaki pants, reminds me that Christ loves us all and no human being is better than another one. Carl was released from Tamarind Farms a few weeks ago, after serving several long years. The life to which he returns is as hard as life in a prison; to be poor in Jamaica is no joke.

Prisoners have given me many things over the past few months; they have given me tiny bouquets of wildflowers, plants potted in cardboard boxes, a painting; the list goes on and on. But most importantly, they have all given me something to think about.

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.

The Clinic is the Cure

Paul Farmer, an American transplant to Haiti and renegade doctor, once said, “It is through journeys to the sick that we identify needs and problems.”

In the course of my time with the rural poor in Jamaica, I have realized the truth behind Farmer’s musing. Health care in Jamaica is a tricky business. Private doctors are out of the question for most of the population and the public clinics and hospitals are daunting. I personally have spent entire days waiting with families to see a doctor—only to be turned away as the day wanes to evening.

One of the best solutions to the health care crisis has been the phenomenon of the free clinic. Charitable organizations, such the American program “Medicine in Action” come to a community and set up shop for a day in a church, a school, or an orphanage. A team of doctors and nurses provide free examinations and more importantly, free drugs.

As the “American volunteers” in the area, we are often called in to help with these travelling clinics. This past week, my housemates and I worked two separate clinics. ‘Tis the season, I suppose.

This past Wednesday, there was a clinic at our church in Stony Hill, Immaculate Conception, scheduled to begin at 10 AM. We volunteers wandered in at 9, unsure of our role. I was shocked to see the hordes of people already gathered at the rectory doors. We grouped some chairs, made up a hasty registration list, and, since we knew most of the patients, mingled.

“What time did you get here,” I asked 85-year-old Mr. Brooks as I bent to kiss his wife’s wrinkled cheek.

“8,” he answered, grinning widely. “Miss Edith a come see doctor!” He had a 4 hour wait still in store for him, but he was exuberant. This elderly couple had a chance to get some “pain tablets” for their crippling arthritis.

The excitement at ICC was palpable. A clinic is always a major event—it is a chance to get one’s eyes screened and one’s blood pressure and blood sugar tested. However, this clinic had promised a full team of American doctors—complete with paediatricians and gynaecologists.

The doctors arrived, with their suitcases of antibiotics and blood pressure pills. We—the PVI’s—were handed stacks of intake papers and my day suddenly passed in a flurry of activity.

I took down countless names and recorded home addresses the best that I could (“up in the hills” was an oft-quoted description) and then asked the trickiest question of all: “And why are you seeing the doctor today, sir?”

Sometimes it was simple—“my knee pains me.” Sometimes it was a chance to get “the sugar” tested, sometimes it was to get blood pressure medication they know they need but cannot afford. But sometimes it was a litany of ailments that have gone unchecked for years. Pressure, sugar, arthritis, the wound that won’t heal, mysterious bleeding, head fungus, cataracts, rashes, skin spots, ringing in the ears, aches, pains, stiffness; the lists went on.

It broke my heart to write down the ailments, but my spirits lifted when I was able to guide the person to a kind doctor who could answer questions and provide hope. This particular clinic was a long one—some waited 5 or 6 hours. In total, 105 people—an unprecedented amount—were seen at ICC.

These clinics show me what a blessing modern medicine is—a kind doctor or nurse can assuage a mother’s fear about the well-being of her child and a Ziploc bag full of Tylenol can ease the suffering of a gentleman with arthritis.

Tensions flared at times, but the patients were overwhelmingly…well…patient. They were kind to each other and polite to us as we took down their information. I made new friends, I held lots of babies, and most importantly, learned a lot about the people I serve. I now know who has “the high pressure,” and who has “the sugar.” I can be a more effective advocate and I can better empathize with their struggles.

Sometimes my experiences with poverty leave me sick, but my very minor role in the clinics seems to be the cure.

The Cat in the Hat Goes to Jamaica

Dr. Seuss is a close, personal friend of mine—I learned how to read on Hop on Pop. And, to this day, I can recite long stanzas of the Cat In The Hat (my father must be recognized at this time for his patience in reading it to me countless times). I give Seuss books as gifts, The Lorax made me switch to reusable grocery bags, and Seussical the Musical is on my iPod.

The dude has gotten me into trouble, though. In July, I was standing at the American Airlines baggage counter on my way to Jamaica when I was told that my bag was 8 pounds over the limit. The woman called me honey and dear and told me to take my time rearranging everything.

She was a very kind woman, but I was not amused. There I was, at six in the morning, nervous about the next year of my life and stressed after a tearful goodbye with my beloved parents, and I had to repack my bags? Feeling like a fool, I ripped open my massive suitcase in the middle of Logan Airport and found the 8-pound offender: A Baker’s Dozen of Seuss. I had to laugh at my own stupidity—I had thrown the book in during the final frenzy of packing. However, I found myself strangely relieved by the sight of the volume, and quickly transferred it to my carry-on. It was comforting to know that Dr. Seuss would be accompanying me on this journey.

Three months have passed since that overwhelming encounter with my old friend Seuss, and I am no less happy today than I was on July 18th when the Cat in the Hat smiled up from the book’s jacket. As an international Passionist volunteer, my tasks are varied, but a fixture in my routine has been tutoring struggling readers in the village school.

Illiteracy is in alarming abundance in Jamaica, and many of the schoolchildren I work with are far below American expectations of reading levels. At Mount Friendship School, I take small groups of struggling readers out of class and we work on different words. I never envisioned myself a resource teacher—in the States, I often felt inept when working with struggling readers. Here, though, we are encouraged to meet needs as they arise, so that’s what I’m doing. Thank goodness I’ve got an expert to help me—Dr. Seuss hasn’t let me down.

During the hour or so that I have a group of children, we will practice letters and sounds. We work on the most basic words, and they are slowly making progress. I use everything from worksheets I make out by hand to flashcards. But always, I conclude the session with a story from my Baker's Dozen of Seuss. The kids can certainly understand being stuck inside during a rainy day...I'm sure they wished the Cat in the Hat would visit them. They delight in the musical rhythm of the stories and they like to pick out the words they know. "Miss," one of my kids cried when he saw Thing One and Thing Two race accross the page, "Dem tings a mashup dem house!"

And that's exactly right.

My Baker’s Dozen of Seuss might have caused some anxiety at the ticket counter on that fateful day in July, but I am still relieved that I brought it along for the ride.