Traveler, Not a Tourist

            Prioritizing yourself as a ‘traveler’ and not a ‘tourist’ is vital when creating an authentic experience in another country. This concept of being a traveler and not a tourist is presented in Jamaica Kincaid’s non-fiction piece, “A Small Place.” This piece details the effects of colonization on Kincaid’s home country of Antigua and how the present-day tourism industry is an extension of this colonization. She describes the parallels of tourism and colonization through examples, including, how the tourists who often come to Antigua are white and the workers who serve them at resorts are not. She describes how the richest people of Antigua, are white people who never left after colonization. They are the remnants of colonial rulers, of colonization. They are free to come and go as they please from their large, spacious, and well-kempt houses while Antigua’s library remains destroyed from an earthquake that occurred almost a decade ago, with “closed for repairs” is scribbled on the padlocked door.

            Having fully immersed myself in this idea of being a ‘traveler’ as opposed to a ‘tourist’ has completely changed the way I interact with the Jamaican community. It’s an odd feeling, not wanting to go to a resort in another country, because the issue with resorts is that they do not allow you to truly experience the culture of the country you’re visiting. If you act as a tourist in foreign country, it is possible that the people you interact will unintentionally become pawns in your own experience. They are no longer people themselves but are stepping-stones to one’s own pleasure and goals. Approaching Jamaica as a traveler has allowed me to prioritize my interactions with the people I’ve met in Jamaica over my own selfish pleasures.

            One of the interactions I’ve had that was particularly special was a visit to the farm of a couple Rastafarians. Simply put, Rastafarianism is an Abrahamic religion (sometimes viewed as a social movement) that developed in Jamaica during the 1930s.[1] When my study abroad class and I arrived, we were greeted by the with a plate of watermelon slices, Jamaican apple (which tastes sort-of like a pear), and pineapple. An unlit joint, browned at the edges dangled at the corner of the Rasta’s mouths (marijuana is a sacrament to Rastafarians). I indulged in some pomegranate that Taxa, our class’ driver and friend, had cut into four sections and given to us. The pomegranate skin wasn’t the rich red we are so used to back in the states but it was a faded greenish-pink, with the seeds being almost entirely clear, with a yellowed tint. We listened to the head Rastafarian give a prayer from a torn book with yellowed pages and jagged edges about Haile Selassie, the former Emperor of Ethiopia who is seen as a messianic figure according to Rastafarianism. The emperor’s face was familiar, we had briefly learned about him on our trip to Kingston because he is painted one of the tapestries that hung in Bob Marley’s house.

            We began on the tour of the farm where I was able to pet the Rasta’s dog whose eyes smiled as she whined excitedly. She pushed her way through my legs to just wrap herself around them once again. My legs absorbed the slight film of dirt that covered her fur. I didn’t mind. They’d built her a little shelter, simple but sufficient like theirs: wooden planks supporting a piece of tin over her head. The Rasta leading us through the tour accentuated the importance of growing organic food with no pesticides while pointing out the large amount of various vegetable and fruit trees growing, they had large plantain and banana trees, beans, and spicy peppers. The Rasta giving us the tour had dreadlocks that were over 25 years old. They hung down low on his back, reaching his belt line. Most of the other Rastas had their dreadlocks spun into a sort of bun tucked into a knit hat or balanced atop their head. A good amount of the hats that Rastas wore were the traditional Rastafarian colors (green, yellow, and red) that have become associated with all of Jamaica.

            We saw one of the Rastafarians again when we traveled to Duncan’s Elementary School to construct a garden. He hopped in the van with my eleven fellow classmates and two professors with a blackened joint squished between his index finger and thumb. This Rasta was nicknamed Kirby but mainly responded to the endearing “Hey Rasta!” which the kids called him whenever he had a gardening tool that they were interested in. The two of us shoveled piles of dirt into a wheelbarrow that Taxa would then wheel to and dump on the garden-bed. Kirby looked at me and slowly gave me a smile, that was radiating despite the missing teeth. We chatted about veganism and his farm that I’d seen earlier that week. It was then that I realized that sometimes the people we think we’re most different from are actually the people who we share the most similarities with.

            I wasn’t expecting to go to Jamaica and realize that I identified quite closely with an aged Rastafarian man— even more than with some of my classmates. But these realizations are what make being a ‘traveler’ so important. These experiences are often inaccessible to ‘tourists’ because ‘tourists’ are unlikely to encounter the sort of excursions and relationships that I have been able to do through my study abroad experience. Next time that you travel, I ask that we all strive to be ‘travelers’— people who take an interest in the country we’re visiting, as opposed to being confined to an all-inclusive resort.

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[1]   History.com Editors. “Rastafarianism.” History.com, A&E Television Networks, 31 May 2017, www.history.com/topics/religion/history-of-rastafarianism.