I just spent the past few days basking in the sun. Jamaica opened up her arms and welcomed me once again. I was happy to return with my partner for a second time, this time to take in some wonderful musical talents at the annual Jamaica Jazz and Blues Festival held in Trelawny. It was awesome. I got to see Maroon 5, Regina Belle, SWV (yes, they still got it!), and some great local artists who blew my mind!For the most part my partner and I were able to be open with our relationship. Perhaps being at a resort has something to do with having such liberty; also being in the midst of a Jazz and Blues festival that is known to attract a very progressive crowd (we were informed by hotel staff that the type of crowd the festival attracts are foreigners and wealthy locals from the upper class given the expense. Despite the freedom to flex my liberal muscles, this annoyed me a bit given that I would've loved to be a part of something that ALL Jamaicans are able to afford and appreciate).
Moreover, the only thing that seemed phase the locals in Montego Bay where we stayed was our dreadlocks. I had forgotten that unlike Kingston, Mobay is not as progressive when it comes on to locs. Many of the people we met on the resort were in awe of our hair, often giving childlike stares as we pass by. Therefore, two women wearing dreadlocks are as foreign to them as two women holding hands and kissing on the beach. Believe it or not, this was my first time staying at a resort in Jamaica. Usually when I go home, I stay with family. Last year my partner and I stayed at a hotel in Kingston, but we weren’t isolated from Jamaica like we were on the resort in Mobay. In fact, while observing the peaceful lull of the turquoise ocean, the sea breeze rustling through my hair, I couldn’t help but wish that my all-inclusive hotel wasn’t so exclusive at all.
I missed the musical cadence of patois in the streets, the kiss-teeth of frustrated pedestrians waiting on over packed buses, the children crowding sidewalks in blue and khaki uniforms, the smell of roasting peanuts and exhaust fumes from broken mufflers on robot taxi cars, the vendors beckoning people to buy the fruits that they picked from trees grown in red soil, the artists weaving baskets and handbags and whatever that comes to mind, the feel of the sun opening up like a furnace in the sky inciting glistening sweat on black skin miraculously preserved through time, the water coconut and freshly cut sugarcane served under shades of tamborine trees, the smell of cooked food simmering under someone’s zinc shed, the sound of a radio program belting the sound of reggae music or the voice of a local disc-jockey who reads the news, the boisterous laughter of young women with slicked back hair tied in buns, powdered necks, long uniform skirts, and languid movements analogous to snails, the watchful gaze of old people with knowing looks on serious faces that once transformed into wide grins at the announcement of Jamaica’s independence on that hot August day in 1962. 
It’s probably obvious by now how much I yearned to be in the heart of Jamaica as opposed to being on the outskirts designed by foreigners to attract more foreigners. On the coasts of Jamaica, tourists are only given the watered down version of the country. It’s like giving diluted black coffee with sugar substitutes to a non-diabetic who loves strong sweetened coffee with milk. As I interact with staff on the resort a part of me wanted to ask them what they like to do for fun in Mobay. They usually delight in telling tourists where to go, but I wanted to know where locals go and go along with them. Where do they go to unwind after smiling like 100 watt bulbs at petulant tourists? How is it that they are able to live a dual existence with one foot placed in a fantasy and the other rooted in the reality of our country? My heart sank when their eyes would scan my face as if trying to discern whether or not I am one of them. Living abroad for so many years has made me somewhat ambiguous to them, foreign even. If I confirm their suspicion that I’m Jamaican, they quickly avert their eyes as if ashamed to be caught in the act of selling a country to tourists, that if given the opportunity, they would flee in a second.
On a good note, my partner who is American immediately adopted Jamaica as her country too. In fact, there were times when she disappeared, only to be found conversing with one of the staff people on the resort. She made more friends with staff than I did. Somehow she was able to get me and the seemingly aloof staff to break the ice and converse as Jamaicans, quickly shedding our masks of pretense.
I was immediately stripped of my ambiguity once I opened up to them. Their serious faces transformed immediately into bright smiles, sparking amusement in their eyes. “Your accent is gone,” they’d muse with widened gazes. Of course, I flinched at the sting of their innocent observation. “No it’s not,” I retorted. “My accent is still as strong as yours.” But to my chagrin, they shook their head at me as if I were a three feet tall infant who just announced that I was six feet tall, their smiles apologetic, and their eyes sympathetic. I’ve been gone for too long. “I’ll get it back then,” I informed them, straightening my shoulders. That’s when they gave me two thumbs up before transforming back into their roles of servitude, this time with a friendly, familiar twinkle in their eyes: “Can I help you with anything else?” It was now my turn to shake my head. "Nah man, mi good."All in all, we really enjoyed our stay. My partner is already planning our next vacation. And this time we’ll plan to thoroughly experience the best of both worlds...no matter where we go.
Nicole © 2011
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