The End

I am sitting in the Peace Corps office right now, waiting to do my exit interview. Tomorrow I will leave Jamaica. While I know I'll come back, it will never be the same.

This past weekend, the people in Accompong threw a couple going away parties for me. Saturday night, Colonel Peddie and his sidekick, Currie, threw a party for me. It was an actual ceremony. They set up a bunch of chairs in the community center and had me sit at a table in front of everyone, along with a few other dignitaries. There was a procession of speakers who all praised me. Really, it was an exercise in hyperbole. A couple of my fellow volunteers were in the audience and I could see them laughing as the Maroons described a person that sounded poised to become the Prime Minister of Jamaica - or, at least, Colonel of Accompong.

The ceremony was great. I have never had so many people make such a big deal about me; it was humbling, really. They presented me with a gift, but in true Maroon fashion the gift hadn't arrived yet so they only told me a gift was on the way (I still haven't received it). A few people serenaded me (all men), they asked me to give an impromptu speech, and then they served dinner - mannish watta, curried goat and fried chicken. I shook about a hundred hands while I was eating - I felt like a politician.

After dinner, the selector fired up the music and a dance party ensued. But a fight broke out down the road (it involved my roommate Charlie who had taken his machete and slapped up some guy who had reportedly thrown a rock at his head the previos weekend...what can I say - that's life in Accompong) and the dance floor emptied so everyone could go witness the violence. Once everything settled down I encouraged everyone to go back into the party. I was mostly successful and we had a good time.

The following night, the people of hill top (a district of Accompong) threw me a party at Winsome's house (where I first lived when I came to the community). They felt compelled to throw me a party (1) because they don't get along with the Colonel and didn't want to have anything to do with his party, and (2) I helped them get running water and they are very thankful. The Sunday night party wasn't as official. But we had mannish watta, curried goat and lots of liquor. There was another procession of speakers but this time it was mainly my friends saying a few words. I was blown away - I kept wishing I could capture the way I felt at the moment and remember it. Again, we played music and danced until after midnight when it became my birthday, June 4th.

The next morning I was exhausted. I had been partying for four straight nights (Saturday and Sunday night in Accompong and Thursday and Friday night in Treasure Beach). I spent most of the day cleaning up my room and preparing to leave. When I did finally go out on the road, I couldn't take it. I went down to Marlene's house but I couldn't stay. My eyes kept getting all watery. Then I went up to Winsome's house. She gave me a present and her daugher gave me a letter. I couldn't even open them. I just went home, played some music and sat on my front porch alone until my birthday expired. I know that I've hated life up here at times. I know that I complained. Up until just a few days ago, I was dying of boredom. But I am going to miss this place something fierce. Sometimes I even wonder if I'm making a mistake in leaving Jamaica. I am very curious how my feeligns will change as time goes by; that will be the real test of my affections for this place.

If Accompong means as much to me as I think it does, then I will be back some day. The Maroons have promised me a piece of land on which to build my house and I plan on taking them up on that offer - once I stop being poor.

So that's it. I'm a little disappointed in this final story but I don't really know what to say. I'm not even sure what I think. I will be going back to Accompong in a couple hours. In the morning I will pack up and leave Jamaica.

If you're wondering what will become of Jim: I will live with my parents in Houston this summer and try to save up a little cash (apparently joining the Peace Corps is not a sound financial decision), then I will move to Chicago in September. I don't really like telling people what I'll be doing because I think it sounds boring and even unfitting but I will be going to the University of Chicago to pursue a joint MBA/JD degree (over the next four years).

The End.

Tony-isms

Tony, originally uploaded by schleicher.

Over the past couple years, I haven't written much about my friend Tony. Mainly because I know that he reads these stories sometimes and I'm a bit uncomfortable writing about other people when they will read it (a probelm that doesn't really apply to the Maroons). But, don't be misled, Tony has been a major figure (along with Briggy, Marlene, Marvin and "the Colonel") in my life here in Jamaica. His absence in these stories is a good illustration of how unrepresentative they are of my real life here. There's lots of stuff that doesn't get mentioned - because I don't think it's interesting, I don't think it's anyone's business or I just don't want to write about it.

But I owe Tony a tribute. He has been my biggest financial sponsor - besides my parents - since I've been a volunteer in Accompong. He's bought me countless beers and he's always willing to sponsor a bottle of rum or a few pounds of chicken when I have a work project underway. He's also allowed me rent-free use of his "condo shack" in Negril (the name is quite appropriate - the door is hanging off its hinges and there's a rat's skeleton hanging on the wall as decor). And he's driven me all over this bloody island - a priceless gift to someone without a car or the money to do the exploring he wants. Plus, he's a great friend.

Tony is an American expatriate of proud Midwestern origins (Chicago, Wisconsin, Iowa). He's a man of eclectic tastes: from fine food and dining to race car driving and late 60's acid rock (i.e. Frank Zappa or Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band). And, conveniently, he's building a guest house in Accompong named Baboo's Garden - that's how we became friends.

He is a real character. I like to think of life in terms of a great novel, and every great novel needs great characters. Well, Tony would make a classic. I frequently picture him in a play like Tennessee Williams' "The Night of the Iguana" as he tears through the mild Caribbean nights in his black truck, bouncing along the road with a cold Guiness in one hand and a sampling of the finest local high grade clutched in the other. He's a caricature of the traveler/adventurer that we all want to be. I have introduced him to a number of my friends, family and fellow volunteers - he has left an impression with all of them. I've told him before that the biggest attraction at Baboo's Garden isn't going to be Accompong, the Cockpit Country or its cool thatch-roof bungalows; it's going to be its owner Tony Kuhn, a man who appreciates funky for the sake of funkiness.

Tony is a man of expressions. When he tells a story, he uses his whole body. Several people have told me how much they enjoy his facial expressions as he goes into a story that he's passionate about. It's true; the energy and enthusiasm he puts into a story could entertain a deaf man. But he's not just a man of physical expressions; he has a way with words that is a constant source of amusement. I want to end today with a few classic Tony-isms that I will never forget:

Skinny Puppy Corner - when you're leaving Tony's place via the Cedar Spring road, you travel down a narrow road that winds along the side of the mountain. At one point last year, a dog living in one of the bends had puppies. I never saw the mother (my guess is that she died), but you couldn't miss the puppies. Every time we came around the bend, a crowd of the most diseased and starving puppies I've ever seen scurried off the road. It was sad. Actualy, it was gruesome. And every time I'd forget they were coming and then I'd hear Tony, "Oh no, it's skinny puppy corner!" I'd look up to see a few bony runts disappearing into the bushes. It sounds sadistic, but I always laughed when I heard the name Skinny Puppy Corner.

The House that Poon-Poon Built - one of the finest homes in Accompong. It's rumored that the house was built with proceeds from the world's oldest profession. Whether or not it's true is irrelevant; it's a great story. Shortly after Tony heard the rumor, he dubbed the place "The House that Poon-Poon Built" (I don't think I need to define the patois word poon-poon for anyone), which I think is ridiculously funny.

To top it off, when my parents came to visit me, I arranged for them to stay in that house - it's simply the most comfortable option in town. But I didn't tell them about the reputation of its owner until after they'd left. It was great. We were sitting around in the morning drinking tea with the owner and having a great time. Then, as we drove off, my mother told me how much she liked her hostess. "Well," I said, "I have a story about her for you..." She was surprised to say the least.

Baby Factory - someone was doing a census in Accompong recently (unfortunately, they never finished). I was looking over the list of households that they had so far, and one house caught my eye when I saw the number of people living in it: 21. I mean, I knew that there were a lot of people there but I had no idea it was so many. The man and woman of the house have a lot of children (and only one son). All of their daughters are of "breeding age" and they aren't wasting their time. Two more have buns in the oven as we speak. It's a well-known joke all over town, but Tony gave it the classic name "Baby Factory." Sometimes, when I'm telling him a story, I'll say, "I was down at the bottom of the hill." "Which hill," he might ask. "The one with all of the pickny." "Oh," he'll say matter-of-factly, "you mean baby factory."

There are more (Euro-Rasta, mind-brain, etc.) but I won't steal Tony's thunder; you'll have to make a trip to Baboo's Garden and discover the legend for yourself.

Trabajadores Sociales

red light, originally uploaded by schleicher.

My bathroom in Accompong has developed a reputation amongst my visitors. Several people have even taken pictures of it - as if it's some sort of place worth remembering. If that's so, I don't think the memories are good. For my part, I don't know what makes it so special - other than the fact that it's an indoor bathroom without running water so you have to fetch water to bathe and flush the toilet. I wouldn't say that it's particularly dirty, although I am living in what has been called a Jamaican frat house, so maybe my standards are slipping. I do know that one of the bathroom's most memorable qualities is its red light bulb. One of my friends calls it "the red light district," which is appropriate literally and metaphorically (the paint-stripped walls and lack of decor does create a somewhat seedy atmosphere). I don't know why I bought that red bulb - just an impulse, I suppose - but I've frequently thought about replacing it so I wouldn't have to hear so many comments about my bathroom.

Then, a few weeks ago, the Cubans came into town. You see, Fidel Castro bought a whole lot of those new energy-saving fluorescent light bulbs from someone in South Korea (I think) and he's distributing them all over Caribbean, for free. I'd heard about this on the radio earlier in the year, but I assumed that the Cubans had gone home - having never made it way up to Accompong. I was wrong. One day, there they were sitting in front of the main bar in town with a big rucksack full of light bulbs. There were two of them. They were both wearing tight jeans, baseball caps, and matching blue t-shirts that read "Trabajadores Sociales" on the front.

People brought their old incandescent bulbs and exchanged them for new fluorescent ones. No used incandescent, no new fluorescent. That's how it worked.

I sat down and talked to these guys for a while. Between their broken English and my broken Spanish, we were able to have a semblance of a conversation. We talked about Bush, of course. And I asked them if it's true that the cars in Cuba are really old and lots of people ride bicycles (they confirmed what I'd heard). It was an interesting cross-cultural exchange, in a place that was foreign to both parties.

That night, you could see a real difference in Accompong. The nighttime glow had changed from yellow to white as the yellow incandescent bulbs had been replaced by the white fluorescent ones. As I sat at a place appropriately called Hill Top, I looked out over the town. It really looked different, just because of a slight change in hue. Then I noticed a faint speck of red light in the direction of my house. I immediately called Briggy on the phone, "Hey, did you exchange our lights with the Cubans today?" "Yeah," he replied. "What about the bathroom light?" "I left it." "Why?" "I like it." (It had never occurred to me that my unilateral impulse to buy a red bulb had pleased Briggy, and I found it hilarious.) "Oh. Okay. Later."

And the red light district lives on.

The Great Accompong Water Project

Gypsum, originally uploaded by schleicher.

My official job title is Community Environmental Health Advisor with a focus on Water and Sanitation. But in two years, I have done nothing that has anything to do with water, sanitation or health. Until now.

A couple months ago, some people in the community approached me to ask for help. They wanted to get PVC pipes so that they could run a main water line up the road to their section of the community. You see, after years without running water, the National Water Commission recently started sending water to Accompong. The problem is that less than half the community has access to the pipe infrastructure (the main line ends about two hundred yards before my house). Nobody really cared that they didn't have access to the pipes because there was no water in the pipes. But since January we've had water and the people at "Hill Top" and "Gypsum" (the two areas that aren't getting water) decided that they needed to take action.

So they asked Jim. And, I'll admit, at first I wasn't too motivated to help them. I didn't have much time left in Jamaica and I was currently frustrated with the lack of support the community had showed in finishing the basketball court. Plus, people ask me for help almost every day and most of the time they just expect me to do everything for them. I'm tired of that routine.

But this time was different. This group of motivated Maroons had already raised J$30,000 on their own - 30 households had donated J$1,000 each. There are 60 houses along the road and probably almost 400 people living there. Only half of the households had contributed, but we had a good start. Unfortunately, we would need roughly J$230,000 to purchase all of the pipes. Not to mention other expenses.

I contacted a friend of mine (a former Peace Corps volunteer) who works for Food for the Poor. I had heard that the organization recently started an initiative to fund water projects like ours. And it turned out that my friend was in charge of that new initiative. Nice.

We scheduled a meeting in Accompong between Food for the Poor and the "Special Council of Maroons" working on the "Accompong Water Project." Really, we weren't that organized. We had two main leaders (Jenn & Ernel) who had collected the money so far and approached me for help. Other than that, we just had an amorphous bunch of people that wanted water. But when Food for the Poor came to Accompong, a large group turned out for the meeting and we looked serious.

Food for the Poor was impressed. They asked us for several things to get the project started: pro forma invoices for the pipes, a project timeline, permission from the National Water Commission and a commitment from me to stick around until the project is completed. We got them those things and our project was approved. Just like that.

Several weeks later I had a check from Food for the Poor (the first of three installments - they won't give you all of the money at one time) to purchase 2 inch PVC pipes. We were in business. But I was getting nervous. I have worked on a few community projects since I've been in Accompong and none of them have gone (1) well, or (2) according to the plan. I was sure that once we started working, something bad would happen. And I was committed to staying in Jamaica until the job was finished, which put an extra degree of urgency on avoiding any problems. But I did have one powerful force on my side: incentive. Everyone had a good reason to come out and help install the pipes - they would get water at their yards. Every morning I watch people walk past my house with buckets full of water on their heads. Sometimes they make four trips - walking up to 2/3 of a mile each way. That could all end for just a few days of donated labor. It seems like a good deal to me.

So last weekend we started work. I printed fliers to let everyone know when we'd be working and we held a meeting a Hill Top several days before to plan the weekend of work, but when I showed up Saturday morning at 8 a.m. (as planned) I was alone. I felt nauseous. No, this is not happening again. We were committed. We'd spent Food for the Poor's money. We'd bought the pipes. There was no turning back.

Then I looked up and saw Ernel and Ninja coming my way. Ernel and Ninja are two of the skilled tradesmen in Accompong; they do everything from carpentry to masonry to plumbing. They are both hardworking, reliable men (more on them later). I had asked them to really take charge of this project, and they didn't let me down. We stood around and surveyed the scene for a few minutes, deciding on our best plan of action. Then we started hacking away with our pick axes. It seemed so tedious - just the three of us working, slowly digging a 12 inch deep trench for 2/3 of a mile. But within 30 minutes there were at least 30 people out there helping us. It was amazing.

People brought their own tools. They brought music. We were working together and moving fast. Later in the day, some guys went up to the shop and bought a couple cases of beer to donate to the cause. Another guy donated a half pound of ganja. Somebody walked over and slapped a cold Red Stripe in my hand. "Are you giving this to me?" I asked. What a difference. In the past, I've had to buy other people beer to motivate them to keep working. Now people were buying me beer.

I couldn't believe how much we got done. By the end of the weekend, we'd laid 1/3 of a mile of pipe - everything that we had. And it wasn't easy digging. The Cockpit Country is full of limestone and we were digging our trench is pure rock in most places, just chipping away piece-by-piece with a pick axe. Unfortunately, I miscalculated how many couplings we would need (as I said, I knew something would go wrong), so we had to leave the pipes in the trench until I could buy more couplings to join them together. Everyone assured me that they'd come out after work on Monday to help finish the work. I had my doubts.

The following day (Monday) I went down to Santa Cruz and found bought a bunch of 2 inch couplings. When I got back to Accompong it was raining hard. I was sure that no one would want to leave his or her house after the rain (as is Jamaican custom) especially to work. But I was wrong again. As soon as the rain stopped, we had a crowd of people out on the road. Most of them were just watching but we had enough help to do the job. Ninja, Ernel and I were fitting the couplings and then a group of young men came behind us and buried the pipes.

We ran into a problem at the intersection of Hill Top and Gypsum (pictured above). If you look at the picture, you can see the pipes in the trench along the side of the road. You can also see where we dug a trench across the road at the very bottom of the picture -the pipe has already been covered up though. Because the road is bending here and the intersection of the pipes is not at a right angle, it was a tricky junction. We decided that we needed to dig our trench wider so that the PVC pipe had more room to bend. I took up the pick axe and started hacking away at the side of the trench. After a few minutes, Ninja said, "boi, Jim, this looks weird. One white man working and so many black people watching." I looked up. It was true; there were about 20 Jamaicans watching me work. Then someone else chimed in, "yeah, this looks good. We've turned the table on the white man today." The whole group of people just exploded with laughter, myself included. It was funny, but it was more than that. I don't think there's any better way to get respect in rural Jamaica than to get down and dirty doing some hard work. Ninja was joking with me - "It's a good thing we have our CIA (that's what he calls me)," he said.

And I love working with Ninja. Honestly, putting in these pipes has been one of the most fun things I've done in Jamaica. It's challenging, physically and, at times, mentally. And it's what I thought I'd be doing when I agreed to do volunteer work in Jamaica for two years - helping poor people enhance their quality of life. But I was also working with people that I like. Ninja, especially, is a character. When we started working last weekend, Ninja said to me, "CIA, you know that I already have running water at my house, but I'm still going to help you with these pipes." I thanked him, but then I said, "Ninja, how do you have running water at your house, because you live next to me and I don't have running water, and the people on the other side of you don't have running water." He looked at me with a big grin and said, "Jim, I am Ninja." That was it.

Back to the project: Food for the Poor and the National Water Commission have reviewed our progress and approved the work we've done so far. So we've ordered our second shipment of PVC pipes. I had planned to go visit my old friends in St. Thomas, Jamaica this weekend (friends I made while I was in training) because I knew that we wouldn't have the pipes yet so I didn't think we'd be working this weekend. But the Maroons are anxious to get back to work, pipes or no pipes. So I'm in Accompong this weekend and we'll be back to work in the morning, digging trenches. And when the pipes come in next week we'll just drop them in place, connect them and bury them.

Everything is going so smoothly. It's a really nice way to end my time in Jamaica. I hope I didn't just jinx it.

Bad Man Culture

Depending on how familiar you are with Jamaica, you may or may not know that it's one of the most violent countries in the world. The last time I checked, Jamaica had the third highest per capita murder rate in the world (behind Colombia and South Africa). And, while I don't feel endangered up here in Accompong, I am not completely sheltered from the culture of violence. I see it on the news, read about it in the paper and hear about it on the radio every day. Every once in a while, it hits a little closer to home. Remember Conroy from the story titled "Conroy's Girlfriend" back in March 2006? Well, he was shot and killed by the police last week. He was in Spanish Town, I think.

I've thought a lot about this culture of violence. For example, where does it come from? Some people blame crooked politicians like Edward Seaga who, I've heard, pumped guns into the garrisons of Kingston during the 1980's to gain political favor with the "dons." Others blame the drug trade between Jamaica, Colombia and Haiti - often the medium of exchange is guns for drugs. I'm no expert regarding the original cause of the problem, but I do have some observations about the current situation.

I've said before that Jamaica reminds me of the wild west - particularly the lawlessness. And many Jamaicans seem to take pride in the toughness of their motherland. I don't know how many times I've heard an angry Jamaican (either because I refused to give him money or buy something from him) say, "Hey white man, you think farrin' yuh deh? Mind I bomba clat shoot yuh!" Translation: Do you think you're in America? Watch out or I will shoot you. At first, that sounds like a serious threat. But, in Jamaica, you hear people talk like that all the time. It's a symptom of what I've starting thinking of as the Bad Man Culture.

For many Jamaicans, it's cool to be a bad man. Or, in other words, a gangster, a shotta, a thug, etc. Everybody wants to be somebody that nobody wants to mess with. Does that make sense? If you listen to dance hall music, you hear it all the time. I hear it from little kids (when I let my students draw during class, every single little boy - without exception - draws a gun). I hear it from my neighbors and friends: just this morning, I was walking down the street to buy some sugar. My good friend, Ninja, was standing in his yard with his 3-month-old son. He said to the baby, "you see that white man there? I want you to shoot him." Of course, he was just joking around, but to me that seems like a weird joke.

If you take this violent language at face value, it's disturbing. But it's rarely serious. Every day, the teenage boys in Accompong will joke around with me, "hey Jim, I'm gonna shoot you." Maybe because we were just playing around and I put one of them in a full nelson or maybe for no reason at all. The point is that mentality - guns, violence, gangsterism - is everywhere. But, what's more important to me, is that people think it's cool. And I think that is a very bad thing.

Let me stop here to say something. The Jamaica that I know is very different from Jamaica as Jamaicans know it. The other day I was in a hardware store in Santa Cruz. I started talking to a Jamaican guy who lives in America. He was telling me that he's building a house in Jamaica and he can't wait to move back permanently. He told me that he didn't like America (and I agreed that there were lots of reasons to prefer Jamaica to America - honestly, I agreed with him). Then he told me that America is more violent than Jamaica and more racist than Jamaica. I didn't want to argue with him, but my first reaction was total disagreement (though I kept it to myself) - I mean, the crime statistics don't like, right? I didn't take issue with the problem of racism in America, but this guy told me that there was absolutely no racism in Jamaica. Come on. I can't leave Accompong without being harassed about the color of my skin, and I've been exposed to some wealthy, light-skinned New Kingstonians that openly use racial slurs for their dark-skinned countrymen. But then I realized how my American (or maybe just non-Jamaican) perspective could taint my view of his country. And how his Jamaican (or maybe non-American) perspective could taint his view of my country. I thought, "maybe the violence wouldn't seem like such a problem to me if I was Jamaican and maybe the calls of 'hey white man' would seem harmless." Unfortunately, there's no way to know.

It may seem like I've been bad-mouthing Jamaica, but I love this country. I wish I could've seen Jamaica right after independence in the late 1960's and early 1970's. I bet it was incredible. It still is in many ways, but I think it's lost some of its luster - and it's losing more every year. I want Jamaica to get better, not worse. The problems are big and messy and inter-related. And I wouldn't want to get stuck with the job of fixing them, but I do know one thing for a fact: the Bad Man Culture has got to go.

Going East

Going East, originally uploaded by schleicher.

Tony and I have been talking about "going east" for months now. By east, we mean Portland. For those of you that don't know, Portland is without a doubt the greatest parish in Jamaica. It's on the eastern shore and it gets a slow trickle of tourism because, in my opinion, there isn't a single decent road to get there. Other possibilities are: (a) its rough waves (due to its exposure to the eastern winds) and/or (b) it takes the brunt of any hurricane, which may discourage the construction of big, expensive hotels. Regardless, Portland is awesome. I've heard people say that it's what Negril used to be like when Negril was still cool. I don't know.

Portland has (1) beautiful beaches - Long Bay, Frenchman's Cove, etc. - (2) great food - Boston has unequivocally the best jerk pork and chicken on the island - and (3) a rainforest backing right up to the beach. So you can go play in the waves and then go swim in Reach Falls (pictured above) to wash off the saltwater before you go eat a fantastic dinner at the Boston Jerk Center. Truly amazing.

As much as I love Portland, I've only gotten to visit twice because it's so far away from me. The second time I went there, it took me twelve hours to get to Long Bay, Portland from Accompong (using public transportation). So Tony and I have been pining to "go east" for some time. But it's not an easy trip to make happen - time-wise and money-wise.

Tony has gone twice this year (escorting tourists), but both times I had obligations in Accompong that prevented me from going along. However, last Friday Tony and his friend Zippy (aka John) were going to Portland and I could not miss it. I figured it was my last chance before I left Jamaica.

We stopped Friday night in the Blue Mountains, where they grow that great Jamaican coffee, and stayed at a funky little place called Mount Edge. It's just a collection of little cabins and a big communal living room/kitchen perched on the side of the mountain. Very cool. We hung out on the back porch all evening, drinking rum, talking and trying not to kill this annoying French Rasta who seemed to be suffering some sort of an identity crisis. You see this all the time in Jamaica: young European Rastafarians. But this guy took it too far. He seemed to really believe that he was Jamaican - and we, of course, were not. He also kept dancing, laughing, and spinning around the living room whenever a Buju Banton song came on the radio. All in all, he was entertaining but a little over the top.

In the morning, we headed for Portland. It was a beautiful sunny day and we just bounced along the dusty Jamaican roads in Tony's rickety Mitsubishi diesel truck. We were listening to Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band as we wound our way through sugar cane valleys, up banana tree gullies and along rocky coastlines, stopping every twenty minutes for another cold beer. It was one of those days when I was able to completely appreciate how truly special it was - and I just basked in it.

When we got to Portalnd, we went straight for the beach. I probably walked down the coast for an hour and not one person hassled me (something that would never happen in Negril, MoBay or Ochi). We had our Boston jerk pork that night and took a swim at Reach Falls the next morning before heading home.

Having gone east, there aren't too many things left on my "Things To Do Before I Leave Jamaica" checklist...

The Basketball Court: Last Act

bball court #2, originally uploaded by schleicher.

It has been a real drama. I've been working on finishing the basketball court for several months now (the project was destroyed during Accompong's 6th of January celebration). I thought it was hopeless when I went to my boss in Kingston and told him what had happened - expecting to be chastised for my failure. Instead, he simply said, "well, we have to finish it. Write another proposal and we'll get you more money."

I went home and drew up a new plan. This time, I wouldn't rely on community members to volunteer the labor. I contracted the work out to a mason in town. He quoted me a price of US$650 and said that he would need 35 bags of cement and two truckloads of finely crushed limestone to finish the job. I wrote a budget and submitted it to my organization's "Small Project Assistance Committee" (of which I am a member) and it was approved. I couldn't believe it. I was actually going to finish the court.

But I dared not tell anyone. I didn't want to jinx it.

The check came in last week and I rushed down to Santa Cruz to order the materials so they would arrive before Easter. Then I could have the mason do the work over the Easter holiday (in Jamaica, spring break is centered around Easter). The crew started working on Monday, while I was out of town at a festival (doing some advertising for The Original Trails of the Maroons). Tuesday morning, I went to check on their progress. I was scared to do so - I just knew that something more was going to happen to prevent the completion of the project. Everything had been running so smoothly, too smoothly.

Sure enough, I arrived on the site and the mason told me that he had underpriced the job - he would need an additional J$10,000 to finish it. I just looked at him. I didn't have any more money to give him - the budget had been written and our funds had been dispersed. It was too late to make an adjustment. He also told me that he'd need more cement. "It's a lot bigger than I thought," he said. I just looked at him. I wasn't angry. I know this guy and he's an honest, hardworking person. He genuinely wanted to help me finish the court - he had seen me toiling away, alone, on the court many times as he came back from work in the afternoon. I know that he wanted to help me, but he's a working man and he's got mouths to feed.

I understood his situation. Everyone has underestimated the size of this court, including me. I just didn't have the means to pay him more or buy more cement, but, at the same time, we had to finish the court. I thought that if I avoided the conversation, he would finish the court and I would've successfully deferred the argument over money.

That didn't work. He had a crew of ten men and if we didn't give him the extra money then he wouldn't have any money left for himself. You see, the court was taking longer than expected, partially due to bad weather, and his labor costs were growing with each additional day. I told him to finish the court and I guaranteed him that I would get his money. "What about the cement?" he said. "Borrow it from someone," I told him. "I'll replace it. Just finish the court."

The next day (yesterday), I was up there working alongside his crew. I also roped another unwitting volunteer into spending his day doing hard manual labor with me and the Maroons, and I had the laptop bandit up there working off his debt. We were racing against time - and the weather - and our dwindling pile of cement (when it was all said and done I had to borrow an additional 21 bags of cement to finish the job). We worked well into the night. I even had to buy cigarettes and a case of Guinness to keep these guys working (they did over 12 hours of back-breaking labor for J$1,000...pretty amazing). And I had to give another Maroon 10 bucks to drive his car onto the field and give us some light. At times, I just stood and stared. There were so many variables to consider and, ultimately, I had little control over what would happen. The wheels were set in motion and the uncontrollables (i.e. the weather) were just that. Still, I couldn't help but stop and stare and think if there was anything more I could do to make sure we wouldn't fail again.

After 8 p.m., we finally finished. I still can't believe it. This court has been both my greatest accomplishment and my biggest failure in Jamaica. And it's almost over.

Why almost? Because although the court itself has been completed, there are still some debts to settle. Between the borrowed cement and the money I owe to the mason, I need US$375 to put this basketball court to rest.

The Diaper Pit

seabald, originally uploaded by schleicher.

Way back in November, the Original Trails of the Maroons was in the middle of training. We had First Aid/CPR certification from the Red Cross. We had a professor of Geology come and lecture on the importance and uniqueness of the Cockpit Country. We did a 5-day training workshop on working as a Tour Guide in the tourism industry in Jamaica. And we did a 3-day workshop of speleo techniques and safety, with the Jamaican Caves Organization.

The speleo workshop was by far our favorite. The instructors were fun and my guides were doing stuff in their own backyard that they'd never done before. They were all nervous about going into the caves - especially because most of the caves have water in them and none of my guides know how to swim (although the water is rarely deep enough to drown in). But the greatest thrill was on the last day, when three of the guys worked on their vertical techniques by descending into a nearby sinkhole that the Maroons call Seabald (one of our guides, Kenneel, is descending into Seabald in the picture above).

The pit is supposed to be around 350 feet deep (I think) but at 100 feet the repellers hit what they thought was the bottom. But, when they shined their light on the floor, they found that they were standing on a mound of dirty diapers. It apears that the pit has been clogged with trash - mainly diapers - that the Maroons have thrown in over the years. They all think of Seabald as a bottomless pit so they don't give much thought to throwing undesirable matter in there - I know that more than one dead dog found his or her final resting place in Seabald - and I don't blame them, except for the fact that sinkholes, like Seabald, feed the undergound water supply that filters down into the Black River and most of the South Coast's water supply. Gross, I know.