A couple days ago, a young man, in a red Nike tank-top and two chains the color of a new magnet (one with a marijuana shaped pendent) approached me and began to ask me about where I’m from, what I’m doing here, and how I like Jamaica. He looked to be in his early to mid-twenties. Usually I would be suspect about someone who I don’t know approaching me and asking questions, but Jamaica has taught me to embrace the friendly nature of the locals. The majority of men who’ve approached me have just wanted to interact and tell me about Jamaica and about themselves. Even if they originally approached me with an attempt to sell me something, or even hit on me, they soon change their demeanor if I begin to ask them similar questions. Giving them just a minute of my day shows them that I recognize that they are humans and that this is their home.
In my original draft of this post I had written: I understand the fear of being a woman in a foreign country. But that is simplifying the plight against women, and against myself as a female, as occurring only in foreign countries. It sounds almost like a dismissal of the fear I feel at home in the United States. Of course, the fear of traveling as a woman, especially if you are alone is different. It is a new environment and you may not know the language or the country’s customs. But the fear I have here in Jamaica of being harassed, groped, yelled at, is the same fear I have at home— I understand the fear of being a woman.
Approaching the conversations with these men with an open mindset has automatically opened me up to their lives and what they want to share with me. As for the man in the red tank who approached me, he walked alongside me and talked about Jamaica as I took photos of boats that had been beached earlier that day. It was the sun’s golden hour, which is shortly before the sun sets. The lighting was light and airy. It felt like stepping into an air-conditioned room after standing in Jamaican humidity. Clean. Refreshing. I felt safe among the discarded wooden planks that littered the ground and the occasional forgotten plastic lawn chair, unusable because of a snapped plastic seat.
“Do you fish?” I asked.
“Yes. And paint.” He said, nodding towards a little greyed shack with the outer walls smeared with colorful murals. One image was of Usain Bolt, in his trademarked stance, arms raised and positioned as if he was preparing to shoot an arrow. It made me think about how a couple days earlier when my class and I drove a couple hours to Kingston where we had lunch at Usain Bolt’s restaurant, Track and Records, before going to the Bob Marley Museum where we learned that Bob Marley’s daughter became a fashion designer and designed the Jamaican national team’s jerseys the year Usain Bolt won his record title.
I asked about the kind of fish he catches. He showed me the traps which he catches lobsters and crabs in and then talked about the snappers, salt fish, and his favorite, ‘sea-cats.’ I hadn’t thought catfish lived in the ocean. I was actually positive they didn’t.
“Catfish?” I inquired.
He squinted his eyes and pursed his lips. “What is it you call it? The word… Octopus!”
I did one of those chuckles where you’re not really laughing but your chest heaves a bit as you simultaneously shrug your shoulders. Apparently, ‘sea-cats’ taste delicious when they’re fried.
I pointed to some beat-up surfboards that were lying on the spotty grass and on top of a table with peeling white paint.
“Are those surf boards?” I asked.
“Well yes,” he paused. “But fishing surf boards.”
He pointed out the black bins that had been strapped to the front of the surfboards. He said that they are good for when the water is shallow and calm. We talked about how rocky the water had been recently before it was getting a bit too dark to take photos and we led ourselves back to the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant where my friends were waiting for their fried chicken and fries, or “chips,” as the Jamaicans call them (we can blame the Brits for that one).
Douggie, a man who I’d met briefly a couple days earlier, came and sat by me and told me more about his rapping career that he’d already said a great deal about. But I asked him who his favorite rappers were, and we began to chat more as the other young man listened in. As soon as the food came out in shiny Styrofoam containers, the friends I’d come with jumped up and began to walk back up the dirt road that led to the beach without saying goodbye to the men sitting with us. I understood why. They were uncomfortable and felt bothered, or maybe at the least they were just a bit annoyed. I let them walk away as I wrapped up my conversation with Douggie. I gave him the quick “see you around” handshake.
“You’re a good one. Respect mon.”
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