Backpacking While Black

Jamaica, May 2006: Day 3, May 20, 2006, Kingston (Four Dumplings and a Funeral)

The next morning was a rush to get out the door to get to the funeral on time, but that didn’t stop us from enjoying the complimentary full Jamaican breakfast offered in the hotel’s patio dining room. It was some of the best ackee, saltfish, dumplings/johnny cakes and coffee I’ve ever had. Surprisingly, I only had one helping as I didn’t want to fall asleep during the service. Dressed for the funeral, we met up with two of my mother’s cousins who were also staying at the hotel. As black is the traditional color for funerals in the States, I observed that Jamaica funeral colors were black, white, purple or a variant there of. Foregoing a suit because of the 90 degree weather, I wore a black shirt with gray slacks, but my mother, the ever non-traditionalist, wore an all white dress. Ever since my father passed, she’s never worn black to a funeral. She thinks of funerals now as a celebration of life, not as mourning of their death.

The funeral was held at a small church on the outskirts of Kingston. I expected crying from most of the attendees, but I saw more laughter than anything else. Cousins greeted cousins who they haven’t seen a while. Brothers and sisters caught up with one another. I met second cousins who swore they met me once before or mistook me for my older brother. I was smiling through most of the funeral until my cousin, Candice, who was also the granddaughter to the deceased, gripped my arm and started crying on my shoulder. Grief has a weird way of sneaking up on people. As people spoke at the podium the mood swayed from somber to reflective, jovial to congratulatory towards Aunt Myrtle’s children. One can run the full gambit of emotions at a funeral no matter your relation or feelings towards the deceased. Overall, my observation of a Jamaican funeral was that even in death a person still commands the respect they earned in life. Aunt Myrtle was respected by her family, friends, church and the community at large. She raised three adopted boys, fostered most of my mother’s cousins and was a voice of reason amongst her brothers and sisters, including my grandfather. Her daughter, Joyce, was the last to speak. Some expected her to begin crying uncontrollably, but her resolve on the podium was outstanding. She was the same one who was talking with my mother on the flight down about Aunt Myrtle’s legacy. She reminded the congregation of how that legacy should be remembered – respected, honored and loved.

The funeral was followed by more laughter and greetings, and a long drive to a large cemetery outside Kingston in Portmore, called Dovecott. The cemetery is one of Kingston’s most prominent burial places, but doesn’t have the look of prominence. There are no elaborate mausoleums or headstones. There are just rows of orderly plaques. It resembled a military cemetery with the exception of the incredibly red dirt. We couldn’t keep up with the motorcade because of traffic and a few pit stops so we arrived as the coffin was going into the ground. I also noticed that there wasn’t a tent and chairs set up for the family to observe the casket lowering. Mourners were grouped together in loose circle around the gravesite with no escape from the shade. Instead of standing silent observing the casket lowering, everyone sang hymnals. We swayed to the communal beat and sang in our own keys. Also, we stayed to watch the cemetery workers fill in the gravesite with concrete and dirt. I’ve never heard of people staying to watch this part of a funeral. It was a little discomforting. It seemed that even though they were celebrating, people were holding on to their last memories of Aunt Myrtle. We didn’t leave until the workers were finished. I walked away with my mother and I talked to her about my observations. She told me staying to watch the full burial brings closure for a Jamaican family. As Americans, we walk away as soon as the casket starts to lower into the ground still carrying the hurt effectively robbing ourselves of the opportunity to “see” closure.

I was still uncomfortable watching the workers fill in the grave, but the vendor selling ice cream cakes on the cemetery road lifted my spirits even though I thought it was a blatant disrespect to the dead to do business around graves. I chalked it up to good business sense. When it’s 90+ degrees and people are mourning in dark and heavy clothes they need something to cool them off. It’s morbid, but I was happy to give him $400JA for two ice cream cakes and a juice.

After departing from Dovecott we went to the post-funeral gathering at Aunt Myrtle’s old home. People were obviously tired so we cut our carousing short in order to eat and then go to our respective places to rest. Before leaving I made arrangements to meet up with Candice to go clubbing later that night, but those plans changed later on.

Back at the Terra Nova I caught some rest in order to prepare myself for whatever fun I would have that night. I took a good two-hour nap only to wake up to a heavily snoring mother. I tried to go the pool to burn off some energy, but the pool crew hadn’t cleaned the debris from the previous day’s storm. Frustrated, I went back to my room and forced myself back to sleep for another two hours only to wake up to the phone ringing and my mother still snoring. One of my mother’s cousins staying at the Terra Nova wanted to know what was planned for that evening. I didn’t know what the “older” crowd was doing, but I was looking forward to partying with attractive young Jamaican women or so I thought. Ironically, my mother’s cousin didn’t find humor in that statement.

I called and left a message for Candice to call me when she was ready. It was already getting late, so I freshened up to prepare for the evening. My mother was still snoring. I called my mother’s other cousin staying at the Terra Nova, the Dr. (professor), and asked if she wanted to get a drink at the hotel bar. I met Dr. Rose for the first time at my college graduation in 2002 and found her very interesting. She loved information, and was extremely opinionated. Looking dapper, I strolled to the bar and ordered my favorite drink, Bailey’s on the rocks. Dr. Rose met up with me and we enjoyed a long conversation about everything from politics to family. Our bartender added his comments whenever he felt necessary. I was having a genuinely good time, but it got better when Dr. Rose suggest we grab some dinner at the hotel’s extravagant restaurant. She raved about the seafood Caesar salad and the lobster salad. I soon realized that her rantings were true. We ordered at the bar and were promptly seated in the main dining room. The dining room of the Terra Nova befits the building’s heritage as an island mansion. Ornate high-back chairs encircled mahogany tables with crisp white lines, elaborate china plates and exquisite crystal glasses. I felt a touch of old Southern American charm, but remembered that this island had a charm all of its own.

I took Dr. Rose’s advice and ordered the seafood Caesar salad and she had the lobster salad. We continued the conversation as the service began with spring water, another round of drinks, toasted Italian bread and finally our salads. The salads were appetizers on the menu, but the portion was definitely entrée sized. After a squeeze of lemon and a drizzle of the Caesar dressing I tasted this talked up salad and soon found myself in full agreement with Dr. Rose. The seafood was probably caught that morning because it was the freshest I’ve tasted in a while. Dr. Rose and I were all smiles as we talked, ate seafood salads and drank to our hearts’ content. We followed the salads with bread pudding for dessert. I’ve grown up with my mother’s style of bread pudding – a firm cake-like pudding filled with raisins, cinnamon, nutmeg and a hint of rum. This bread pudding put hers to shame. When it arrived the pudding was cylinder shaped resting in a pool of heated condensed milk and rum. It was spongier than my mother’s, but it was warm and inviting. I didn’t resume talking until I had finished it. I sat back and breathed a relaxing sigh. I had just enjoyed a fabulous meal, great conversation and in the atmosphere of aristocratic Jamaica. In my book, my night was officially concluded, but when you’re traveling with three Jamaican women, it’s not your book. My mother and her cousin soon found us in the restaurant. They were ready to get there evening started while I just wanted to have another drink and go to bed. Also, Candice had failed to return my call about clubbing this night, so I decided to tag along with the ladies to an oldies outdoor concert at Countryside Club (19-21 Eastwood Park Road, Kingston).

Inner city driving in Kingston is an adventure, but at night it turns into a scavenger hunt. Some streets don’t have street signs, plus your daytime landmarks look completely different at night. After circling one block about four times we finally found Countryside Club. After paying a $500JA entry fee, we stepped into a nicely crafted outdoor venue with a stage in the foreground and make believe “shacks” lining the outside selling snacks and drinks. The crowd was having a grand time swaying to oldies artist that I’ve never heard of, but there music sounded familiar. I soon found myself singing along as the sub-consciously memorized songs of my father’s deejay days surfaced in my memory. Even though the crowd was significantly older, I still had a good time with the exception of my clothes. Unfortunately, I was dressed for an indoor club and felt a little uptight as everyone else was in comfort clothes. It was also a humid night, so wearing a long-sleeve polo shirt probably wasn’t the best idea. After an hour or so of revelry the ladies were tired. I was more than happy to get to bed. Although the funeral had made this day solemn we ended it on an upbeat note celebrating life, family and fun.

posted by Dre' @ 5/20/2006 10:26:00 PM