Jamaica, sweet Jamaica – part III, Living and Lovin wit da Rastamon!
“But a Rasta never Marry, Cause a Rasta Never Sorry”
The tune still sticks in my head – it was part of a walking song our Jamaican friends called out as they trekked over the hills and ravines leading us to their bush outposts.
As you may remember from Part II, we had been identified as kindred spirits by Ken, the Rastas connection to the regular (straight, babylon) world and therefore taken into the woods to meet the clan. This particular group of Rastamen were mostly younger dudes, but they had a special uncle they wanted us to meet. Their uncle, named Maurice, turned out to be a well known character both around Negril and also in parts of the States, as he was a connection for the “herb” for many. Now, don’t get me wrong – Maurice was not a drug dealer, but rather a very poor man who lived deep in the bush and tried to be as self sufficient as possible. The herb (marijuana) is a part of life for most males in Jamaica, and I’m sure Maurice made some of his food money from hooking up some of the Americans with the sacred herb.
And so we started our trek back to meet Maurice, with one stop on the way. Our new friends took us to a small hut in which a young American woman lived. It turned out she was from our neck of the woods (Philadelphia) and had broken her legs while in the back country there. The Rastas were helping nurse her back to health so she would be able to travel back to the states.
maurice making dinner for all of us
Further and further into the hills we climbed – the volcanic rock made for slow going, and shoes were easily torn. Finally we got to the top of a rock outcropping a couple miles inland from the ocean. On the top of this outcropping was a small lean-to with open sides and a steel bed frame – and there sat our soon to be good friend, Maurice! Lest you think Maurice is a fictional character, let me counter that with a picture and description of the great man himself.
OK, so you see, Maurice was very real as was his little lean-to as well as his bed which consisted of a metal frame with cardboard on the top.
We quickly became good friends with Maurice as well as with the rest of the younger Rasta gang, many of whom turned out to be related to each other! Upon further examination of the various relationships, I came to the conclusion that many of these Rastas were the Jamaican equivalent of US “Hippies”. They were tired of living the “straight” life of hard work and servitude on the farms and scraping out an existence. Their parents were very religious and hard working Christians, which seemed in the case of these people NOT to be an empowering religion, but one where one accepts their place in life – in this case a HARD place! So the teenagers, like teens everywhere, rebelled. However, instead of running away to San Francisco or NYC, they simply walked 1/4 mile behind their homes and set up camp under an overhanging rock or in a small cardboard sided shack. Instead of going to work each day, they simply enjoyed life – which is possible without too much work in a climate where fruit hangs from many trees and no heat or AC is needed. Rastas are vegetarian, and they prefer to eat quite low on the food chain, so meals are not expensive for them.
We soon developed a mutual aid deal. Martha and I would walk into town each day and pick up a few staples – maybe some sugar and some flour, etc. – along with the large white bakery bags which Rastas use to roll their spliffs. We would bring these goodies up to Maurices shack and then spend a couple hours making these great dinners – all the while chatting about the state of the world. Sunset would mark the end of our visits, and we would walk back to our rented room, which was in the house of their Christian parents up by the road.
To be continued in a 4th and final part!