Backpacking While Black

Jamaica, May 2006: Day 4, May 21, 2006, Kingston (Hellshire Beach, the Lights of Kingston)

We slept in on a glorious Sunday morning – our last day in paradise. I groggly welcomed family as most of my mother’s cousins stopped by the hotel to have some breakfast before we went off to Hellshire Beach, west of Kingston. Hellshire is about 14 miles away from Kingston on the Nelson Mandela Highway. Signs clearly mark the road so we had no trouble finding our destination. That and we had a four car caravan. Hellshire is a Jamaican’s beach, not a tourist’s beach. People from Kingston and the surrounding areas come to Hellshire to unwind after a hard week. Families gather at different shacks feasting on escovitch fish - freshly caught fish fried and covered in a pepper sauce. My family chose this one shack in particular that looked vaguely familiar to me. It wasn’t the same shack that my father used to take me and my brother when we visited Hellshire with him, but a lot had changed in this place. Years ago, it wasn’t as crowded and overbearing. Today, you can’t go a foot without someone asking you about buying food, drinks, ganja/marijuana and/or other “services” offered. Comparisons aside, Hellshire was the most “authentic” part of Jamaica I saw on this trip. The water was warm, the food was intoxicating, the people albeit pushy were still hospitable and the familial atmosphere almost had me in tears. When we gathered for an impromptu family photo I realized that I needed this experience more than I ever knew. I needed to connect with this family. I needed to see where I came from. I needed to see Jamaica through my own eyes instead of through my mother’s or father’s eyes.

Later on that night, we visited the house that my father was building for my family before he died. After his passing, we sold the plans, land and unfinished house seeing that his dream wasn’t exactly ours. Though seeing that house completed was a childhood dream come true. It was stately and had one of the best views of Kingston. When I turned around, I saw the twinkling lights of Kingston and the surrounding areas. That was my favorite part of visiting Jamaica – seeing Kingston at night from the hills. It was breathtaking. I remember visiting the building site years ago at dusk and staying until night fall. I saw every single light come on – from the adjacent hills of Portmore,the gleaming towers of New Kingston and the rotating control tower light of Norman Manley Kingston Airport in the distance. This site reminded me that Jamaica was more than just beaches, reggae and ganja, but it was a place full of light, spirit and ambition. No one would have guessed that this small island would’ve produced such talent, industry, beauty and infamy. I was honored to know that this was my ancestral home and that it would remain so for every generation that would proceed me.

I finally went to a few clubs with Candice and her cousin Sean. He was a “tuner” – someone who remodels old import cars and turns them into racers, so he didn’t mind flinging us around the streets of New Kingston to two clubs – Peppers (31 Upper Waterloo Road) and the now defunct Escape. But everything after seeing the lights of Kingston from the hills didn’t impress me. I was fulfilled at this point of the trip and anxious to get home to report all that I’ve seen. After a few hours of light drinking, observing new dancehall moves and avoiding staring at scantily clad Jamaican woman, I retired to the Terra Nova to prepare for our departure later on that day.

posted by Dre' @ 5/21/2006 11:07:00 PM