You should have seen me getting off the 11-hour plane ride. One eye was clenched open, the other throbbing with a dehydration headache. I needed to brush my teeth, put my hair back and find my sandals. I wasn’t feeling good in my body, but in my soul, I felt at home.
I was so happy. Everything I’ve been wanting I had with me. My partner, remote work, strangers around me…endless things to feel, meet and see. I couldn’t wait to get out of the airport, past the concrete commercialism and see the “real” sights in town. The border guards asked with thick Patois accents where I was headed. After repeating themselves a few times, they finally let us go.
Outside, I was greeted by a cacophony of sounds. Taxi drivers approached, begging to cheat me out of the rightful fare. I couldn’t fight, I didn’t care. One named a price and went searching for his car. I waited under the freshly-rained sky. Drivers blared their horns, trying to leave the airport faster and bring their tourists to the resorts sooner. Roots-inspired music was playing on a speaker somewhere. It wouldn’t stop following us until we leave the island.
The stifling air was assaulting. I learned how to inhale it deeper with every day. Each breath was constantly engorged with droplets of sweat. I was prepared yet the sun still caught me by surprise. Her rays seeped beyond the shades and stone walls, my loose-fitting shirts and shorts that barely fit my bum. I slathered sunscreen and her burn insisted on creeping in. Everything I felt, I felt under the influence of the sun.
I saw a man at the beach. He had a tattered backpack, hawking some beautiful mangoes. I bought one; it didn't look ready. The flesh was tight, like a barely ripe avocado. I cut it open to reveal a jam-like, tropical heaven. I've never had anything like it. I went back for more and he wasn’t there. Back in town, fruit stands littered the streets like Starbucks in Seattle. Hopping from bus to bus, I chewed on fibrous sugar cane just barely sweet enough to pass for candy. But it was the pineapple that surprised me most. On the island, it tastes like sunshine on a rainy day.
One of my first nights, I stayed in a cottage with a tin or metal roof. I got the key and the island rain began. There’s a noisemaker we use on a holiday in Judaism, and that was the sound the rain made. I was in my childhood toy, thinking there’s no way I’m going to leave. The rain brought mosquitoes and I didn’t care. I counted 17 bites on my ankles and toes. They barely scratched, and I kept wanting to stay.
I tried to visit Bob Marley’s home. It was a long way to get to Nine Mile; we had to pass through Kingston to get there. In between the impending rain and scrambling to transfer, someone shared there were 2 places called Nine Mile. The one I wanted I couldn’t get to till morning. I found a hotel, and then I felt something. I don’t know how to explain it, but I knew it without thinking it. Someone had taken my phone.
The heat became too hot. I was hungry and there was nothing around. My clothes were tight. I was feeling worse than my 11-hour plane ride because my card was stolen too. Someone took something of mine and I hadn’t noticed. I canceled my card while laying on the bumpy hotel bed. The fan was too shaky to bring wind. It took a while to be okay with the heat. When I went to sleep, it was raining again. I wanted to go home.
I packed my bags the next day and went searching for sunshine. It’s impossible to be a tourist in Jamaica and not feel the warmth of the welcome here. Everyone’s smiling. Everyone’s selling you something. Everyone’s trying to get to know you more. I headed to the taxi stand, holding my purse a bit. I turned the flap towards me, and my partner’s phone buzzed. Someone had reached out to me on Facebook. They wrote they had my phone and wanted to return it. I could barely believe it.
When I hopped on the call to arrange a meeting, it was a pastor who spoke. I searched for him on Facebook. He seemed to have 3 kids and a religious organization. I asked how he found my stuff and he said he didn’t. “I’m a mentor to at-risk kids here in Jamaica. One of them had a change of heart this morning and wanted me to get you back your phone”.
I didn’t have much time to live here. I’ll be gone in 2 more days. When I get back on that plane, the music will fade and I’ll forget some parts of Jamaica. The first days are already blurring. I might catch snapshots of its landscape in other places, and maybe I’ll even come back. But when the plane takes off, I’ll probably be thinking one thing. I’ll be thinking of all those moments I felt at home.
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Wow, just wow. You nailed the story telling in this piece Yehudis, I felt as though I was experiencing it with you. It moved so quickly and I felt so many things. Great essay!
This reads like a first-person montage and highlight reel of first impressions captured with your unique and vivid language. What a beautiful vignette and I'm very happy that your possessions were returned to you. I also find travel has this wonderful power to enhance our presence due to the heightened novelty and discovery of each moment. Enjoy the rest of your travels.