retreat

this weekend becca and i decided to take a retreat. i definitely felt a need to retreat from kingston's aggressive atmosphere, and becca was more than ready to get away herself. so we headed to a small seaside village on the south coast called--believe it or not--retreat. we made our decision on friday afternoon, soon after i returned from a studio session with dami and wasp, and we made it to retreat in time for dinner.

retreat is about an hour and a half drive from kingston, just past lyssons, a little ways outside of morant bay (one of the larger south coast towns). a single road runs through the place, connecting a number of small farms, fishing communities, and unassuming guest houses. you can take a route taxi (a shared ride with a fixed rate) for JA$30 anywhere along this road, from morant bay through retreat. (JA$30 comes out to US$0.50 these days, and the jamaican dollar continues to slide.) we found a delightful, modest place to stay for a couple nights: mr. brown's guest house. sitting on a decently sized piece of well-tended land (perhaps four acres), mr.brown's boasts a large lawn, several shady spots under coconut and mango trees, a small but productive banana grove, and a private beach with an expansive view of the sea. the beach is not much to speak of. it doesn't really have any sand on which to spread a towel, but it does grant one access to warm, blue waters. by day, the yard is filled with activity: mr. brown appears to employ a number of people to maintain his grounds and his house for him. by night, the place is quiet as the crickets and the sea let it be. the house is composed of perhaps 6-8 small rooms, clustered around a central area which contains a living room and a kitchen (which people are encouraged to use). the rooms are humble: sturdy beds and fresh sheets, perfectly tasteful wooden furniture (with a touch of grandma--e.g., lace doilies), and a/c and cable tv optional. (we opted.) mr. brown himself is a friendly, easy-going man. although we called on him after dark, he welcomed us, gave us a brief tour, showed us our room and turned on the a/c, and gave us helpful tips on restaurants and getting around by taxi. for the rest of our stay, he stayed out of our way, asking how we were faring if we happened to bump into him. his price was a very reasonable JA$1500/night (about US$25-30), and he trusted we would pay him when we were done with our stay--no deposit necessary, no credit card numbers, no awkward interactions. it was all very informal, very civil, very nice.

we took route taxis frequently during our retreat. soon as we were settled in our room at mr. brown's, we got back on the road, looking for a cab to take us a little ways further down the coast to a restuarant we had read about called the shipwreck, which sounded like a great place to get some fresh fish. mr.brown told us simply to tell the taximan we were going to the "fish place" and he would know what we meant. we quickly found a cab willing to carry us up the road. the fish place (actually called "fish cove") turned out to be excellent. they offered fresh fish (your pick from a cooler full of 'em)--fried, steamed, or with brown stew. becca and i both picked fried, which is our favorite these days. we spent the next forty minutes or so relaxing at a table, enjoying the seaside breeze, and sipping on cold beers (actually, becca had an "apple j"--a carbonated apple drink). when the fish finally came out, it was cooked to perfection. the sauce--vinegar with pickled onions and scotch bonnets--brought out the flavor and added some spice to the dish. the bammy was a little on the dry side (cut too thin perhaps), but provided a nice side.

after a satisfying meal of fried fish and refreshments, we caught a cab home. we cranked up the a/c and had a good night's sleep. we slept late, finally emerging sometime after nine. we were ready to hit the beach (which we hadn't had a chance to see the night before), so we donned our bathing suits, grabbed our towels, and strode out through the coconut trees. when we reached the beach, we were a bit disappointed by the lack of actual beach. we decided that mr. brown's property--with its gorgeous vista and shady nooks--might make a better spot for some afternoon chilling, so we packed a bag, caught another route taxi, and headed to a public beach in retreat that we had read about. prospect beach was only a little ways down the road and turned out to be about as underwhelming as mr.brown's beach. we were up for adventure, though, so instead of hiking back out to the road we decided to make our way back along the coastline. it was an easy hike for a while. at one point in time there must have been a small road running along the coast here. although its asphalt traces were overgrown, eroded, and sometimes quite absent, it provided a fine path for a while. soon, however, we were stepping over logs and ducking under branches, hopping from rock to rock and dodging the waves threatening to soak us. we stumbled onto a couple private beaches, though these too had fallen into disuse, their neglect symbolized by old, rusted-out truck axles and scattered, sea-smooth goodyears. one yard had a sign claiming that any goats and pigs found trespassing would be shot. no similar threats were made for people, so becca and i made out way (quickly) across that stretch of property. in perfect dramatic form, just before we finally reached mr. brown's again, we faced the greatest obstacle of our quest, a large seawall. by this point, the beach and the land it meets had grown apart: there was no way to climb up and over the wall or to walk through the property adjacent to mr. brown's. we had to take off our footwear and climb along slippery rocks and rusty-tire-rims, helpless against the occasional, big, wet wave. we stood our ground, though, and soon found ourselves climbing to a lower tier of the wall, perhaps three feet above water level, and tip-toeing across about 30 yards of concrete. a phalanx of small crabs scurried ahead of us, apparently doing their best to traverse the wall themselves, disappearing into the rock as quickly as they darted out from it. (the crabs, i confess, freaked me out a bit, but i realized they were the least of our worries. i only shrieked on a single occasion when i thought one had gone for my foot.) we finally made it the length of the wall and touched down on soft sand once again--ready for a swim in mr. brown's little slice of sea.

after some swimming and some sunning off, we took a cool shower and headed into morant bay to get lunch and find some food for the next day's breakfast. a couple of mormons (they're all over the place) led us to a nice lunch spot called cheril's where we had some tasty fried chicken, covered in a sweet sauce, with rice and peas and boiled (green) banana on the side. we washed the food down with several bottles of coconut water. the sun was hot, so we didn't spend too much time walking around morant bay. we checked out the market and got ourselves some apple-bananas (sweet, little, roundish bananas which are less starchy than the regular ones) and a couple paw-paw. nothing like fresh fruit for breakfast, especially when one eats fried food for lunch and dinner. (we ended up back at fish cove for more the next night.)

we spent the afternoon under a mango tree, chatting, enjoying the view, daydreaming, looking for ripe mangoes above, reading (i some essays by ralph ellison, becca a west indian novel called ruler in hiroona), napping, and generally chilling out--retreating, one might say. after several hours a man on the next property (the one with the sea wall) called out, "nice day," through the fence. i returned the observation. he asked where we were from. i told him we were living in town, but came from boston, and that we were enjoying some peace and quiet in the country. he seemed to approve, adding that town was too "strong," too filled with "war," too much of a hustle. he preferred the simpler life he had out here. he offered us a couple mangoes. we gladly accepted, having discovered, disappointingly, that none of mr. brown's were ripe yet. the mangoes he gave us were small and sweet and had the wonderful quality of not getting too stuck in one's teeth. he wasn't sure exactly which type they were. (generally, jamaicans know their mango varieties quite well, and have their favorites. we are only beginning to discern east indians from bombays, number 11s from blackeys.) he asked us if we wanted some salad. i was not sure what he meant exactly, but, yeah, we were definitely interested in salad, no matter how he might define it. he came back with a handful of tomatoes, which are a favorite of becca's and which i too can eat like apples and, if of the "cherry" variety, by the dozens. we gobbled them up, so he brought us a bag of them and, when i asked him what he wanted for them, told us to pay whatever we deemed appropriate. we made sure to give him more than the fruit would fetch at market. it was another pleasant transaction--such a contrast to our common mode of exchange in kingston. we told him we would visit him again before we left to get some mangoes and salad to take home. the man wasn't done being generous yet, though: he returned with a few shafts of sugarcane for us to enjoy. when i told him i had no knife with which to cut the cane, he came back with a machete and said i could leave it on the other side of the fence when i was finished. we ineptly but enthusiastically cut into the cane. in the end, i went at it more with my teeth than the knife, tearing out chunks of sweet fiber to munch on.

we went in to freshen up and came back out in time to catch the sunset. at first, it seemed disappointing, the sun disappearing with little fanfare, leaving the sky bluish-green. shortly after the sun disappeared on the horizon, however, the sky changed hues, morphing into a pink and then an orange. it was the clouds, however, which proved to be the most engaging sight. perhaps it was because of their relationship to the sea and the coast, perhaps it was just my imagination and relaxed state of mind, or perhaps it was the weed, but i haven't appreciated clouds in this way since i was a child (ok, maybe once at a phish concert). they all seemed of a piece, fractal-like in the way that they appeared to be variations on the same theme, some in miniature, some growing huge and falling apart, and many in between. we watched one cloud intently as it took on lincoln-esque features. as time passed though, the wisps grew and the beard became bushier. it began to evoke more of an old rasta's visage. the wind blew the cloud further toward shore, and it seemed to turn to face us before spreading out into a less suggestive mass. we talked about clouds and children and getting along in kingston. we sought the romance that too often eludes us in our urban environs. (what happened to the magic majesty of the mountains behind our apartment? i fear they have lost some luster--a reaction that, during our first couple months in jamaica, seemed impossible to us, even if commonplace among kingstonians.)

that night, we filled ourselves with fried fish again and fell asleep watching the godfather, part II. after a relaxing morning of bananas, paw-paw, and more reading under the mango tree, we packed up, thanked and paid mr. brown, and visited nigel next door for more tomatoes and mangoes. we caught another route taxi and asked him to drop us at the bus terminus where we could find someone to take us back to town. there was a minibus still waiting to fill up with people. fortunately, it still had room for us to sit together, and even relatively comfortably. though somewhat tortuous, the ride along the coast was not as harrowing as that across the mountains from ochi, and the bus was not as crowded. we got out at parade, the area downtown where all the buses end up--a burned-out, urine-soaked city square that glimmers with faint suggestions of former glory, emanating still from a large public park, big buildings, and broad boulevards. we caught a cab and quickly made our way through kingston's quiet sunday streets.

the retreat did us both some well, i think. i feel refreshed and ready to take on the world again, though perhaps still a bit on the cynical side. it will take a while, and perhaps a change in location, for me to fully recharge. to be honest, i don't think i will really ever be the same cheerful optimist after my stay in jamaica. but i will not bow to the pressure, either. trevor rhone says dealing with fuckery is part of my "hero's journey" which seems a bit too romantic a spin on such mundane experiences. but i think there may yet be value in telling the story this way. it would certainly be redemptive if, in the end, i can view my struggles in jamaica as a test of sorts--a serious challenge to my will to make the world a better place by being a better person in it. to come out on the other side of this trip with my convictions strengthened and my skin a bit tougher could be a blessing, and a boon. somehow i need to incorporate the great problem of fuckery into my understanding of the world. i need to add it to my list of things to expose, critically, to people. one of my goals as a musician and artist, a scholar and writer, an educator and a social being, is to understand why people do the things they do in order to imagine and suggest other ways to do it. fuckery cannot be the way. but, then again, neither can retreat.