When I wake, I'm still miserable, my hands still somewhat puffy and tight from last night, but determined to enjoy Jamaica if it fucking kills me. I charge out of bed--a little less buoyantly than the day before--and pull on another bikini.
Then I realize it’s 7:30.
Oh.
Back to bed, bitches!
T wakes me with her knocking to tell me that Mr. Lowe (Chinese-Jamaican--apparently the Chinese in Jamaica date as far back as the 1800s), the owner of the house, wants to see my hands, and that breakfast is also up.
We tell him that I ate lobster and "bu-su" yesterday, and Mr. Lo pronounces it a food allergy, and I insist that I’m not allergic to anything--allergies are for those of weak moral character.
But then Angela chimes in that she’s allergic to bu-su, too. What happens to you when you eat it, Angela?
“My hands and face get swollen.”
Oh.
Well, now you know. And knowing is half the battle.
Breakfast:
A fruit platter of mango, papaya with lime, and watermelon. 
Another bowl of jo’ney cakes,
a dish of calalloo, 
a plate of saltfish,
and a sugar drink of mango carrot punch...
A jewelry vendor motors by in a fishing boat, and T makes her way down to the dock to check out his wares, then calls me down as well. She explains to me that hematite, a grayish, polished stone, has cleansing and healing properties, and after my encounter with bu-su and an electrical current, I’m rendered defenseless and make my first souvenir purchase as an adult, a hematite bracelet studded with red, yellow, green, and black, colors of the Ethiopian flag (the Rastafari movement hearkens back to Ethiopia, with Haile Selassi I as a messianic figure). I have an old student whose been asking me to bring her something back, so I get her one as well.
It’s 500J for one bracelet, and it occurs to me that I might be able to haggle for two, but I figure that it’s no skin off my back to just pay. Most of the time, I feel as though the fact that I make probably 15 times your annual salary indicates that I should just pay you the asking price. I know the arguments, that this increases costs for other tourists, that I'm getting ripped off, that this is patronizing/patriarchal, but fuck all that.
I express a little of my dismay about purchasing stereotypical tourist trinkets, but T makes the pronouncement that everything happens for a reason, and perhaps having some hematite will be good for me.
Next we’re off to S’s parents’ house, where we’re greeted by two adorable kids, Dane and Seneeka, and gazed at fearfully by a third, equally adorable, but less gregarious baby. I'm made to understand that grandparents frequently take on child-rearing duties while parents work.
S asks his pops whether there's any ripe jackfruit, but no, so I get my rocks off by taking a photograph of an unripe one:
Then, T drags me out back to observe her aunt (S’s mom) boiling and plucking chickens in the back:
After introductions, I wander around the yard--there are goats grazing, banana trees, chickens strutting around their less fortunate brethren, and a breadfruit tree across the way.
It occurs to me, and maybe this is naive, that with a little resourcefulness, it's possible to keep oneself fed with very little money in Portland Parish, what with the abundance of fruiting trees, specifically ackee and breadfruit. Although, I guess it depends on seasonality, and I suppose eating mangoes all day doesn't exactly make for a balanced diet...
We’ll also have the pleasure of Dane and Senika’s company, as they’ll be adventuring with us...
Then, onwards to T and t’s childhood stomping grounds, parking at the bottom of a small but steep hill that the Ts used to climb every day, walking back from school. And then, we're in a jungle wonderland.
The view from a part of the yard:
The Ts and S and reminiscing like mad, posing in front of (and climbing on top of) this tree and that, talking about how they used to use banana leaves as sleds...
The Ts' dad cobbled together this edifice out of what looks like discarded corrugated roofing. Doesn't look like it'd last long in a hurricane, does it? It's a large part of why they're making this trip--to make sure he has something a little more sturdy to live in:
On the other end of the spectrum, their grandmother, the family matriarch on the Ts' dad’s side, helped found the church on the property:
I'm not really one for exploring family history and such an act's associated "feelings," rootless and disconnected as I am from my own fam, but this is definitely a trip highlight. I have a somewhat torturous relationship with what it means to experience a place "authentically," whatever that means, and today falls closer on the spectrum to "authenticity," than say, Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville.
After, we roll back into town to meet the Ts' dad in person, then head into the market, where a younger generation Rasta, selling vegetables, is persuaded by S to share a joint with me--and by share a joint, I mean, hold his friend’s joint while taking a picture with him. I woulda taken a toke but for two things: 1) his friend’s joint was soft with saliva and 2) the two kids were present and watching (I know, how Puritanical of me).
We wander the market looking for a rasta hat large enough for T's papa's voluminous locks and his discerning tastes--no brim, needs to have a reinforced edge. The search is punctuated by a downpour of rain--it's smack dab in the second month of hurricane season--and, standing in one of the market doorways, we get to watch locals scurry out of the torrent, then venture back out as soon as the rain stops; it's like someone (Jesus, maybe?) pulled the stopper, then plugged it back in.
Leaving T to continue shopping, Y, S, and I go back the other end of the market, the alley where we'd purchased ackee two nights ago, and Y paws through a display of earrings, you know, the coconut shell ones, the colored thread--yellow and green and black--strung on metal wire; the kinds of earrings you find on every tourist destination ranging from Venice Beach to Phuket.
S stops next "door"--it's a ramshackle box of a stall with a man leaning out the plywood, cut-out window--to purchase bootleg cds, while Y and I get yelled at by an older Rasta mon because Y took a photo of a group of men watching the World Cup.
(I don't think it's that photography is contrary to their belief system; later, S tells us that many Rastas don’t trust tourists, black or white, because of racist depictions that have shown up on the internet.)
Meanwhile, another dude tries to catch my attention by calling, "China" and "sexy Ms. Chin" (more on this in posts to follow) and starts to take pics using his camera phone.
I sorta sidle away from the angry Rasta and the dude with yellow fever--S has a bit of a temper, and I don't want him incited to fight on our behalf; fortunately, "Skeletor" (his name is totally apt), a dancer, and one of S's friends strikes up a conversation with me. We discuss the much-anticipated jerk festival tomorrow, located just "beyond the follies," and he tells me, emphatically, that breadfruit must be "yellow yellow" for it to be good. And while I'm trying desperately to keep up with his patois, that's basically all I can make out, and I just try to focus on his eyes and nod a lot and presumably gave the impression that I am very agreeable, as opposed to simply...stupid.
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