Jamaica is divided into fourteen parishes — due to the size of the population my hometown, Portmore, may soon be named the fifteenth. For now, we have fourteen and of the fourteen, two are referred to as “town” and everything else is “country.” Everyone in town has “a country.” I don’t believe I’ve met a single Jamaican who prior to residing in town didn’t have a different parish of origin. Country is a special place; the temps are cooler (what Jamaicans regard as frigid), fresh seasonal produce is widely available, you get to visit the elders and take in the great outdoors. Growing up it was less than glamorous, I remember looking forward to the journey, but by nightfall, I longed for town.
There is no special time to go to the country. Now that the road conditions provide better access today — many might object to this claim, but it was far worse before — it is not as far reaching as it once appeared. As children it was a summer reprieve for our parents; send the kids to their grandparents. My older sisters were sent more than I was, I think I only did two or three summer tours. I was not cut out for it. The journey seemed endless, it would commence before dawn and we’d arrive right around lunch time. As a child, Jamaica was my whole world and getting around sure felt like it, but much to my adult surprise, Jamaica is roughly 146 miles East to West and 51 miles from North to South. From Portmore to Manchester, my maternal country, is 54.2 miles. Why, oh why did it take so long?! Windy, tiny roads up along steep mountain tops, that’s why. It was long, but I enjoyed it because it meant getting treats along the way. We’d stop to get beef patties, fresh produce and sometimes sweets, the pink jelly donut.
In the country, time has a unique presence. Time seemed limitless, yet measurable. There is no clock other than the daily radio programmes, the route bus schedules and daily chores. Between sunrise and sunset, you’re just living. I appreciate its simplicity more today, but as a child, not quite as much. It was fun being under one roof with my cousins and at times out in the field, but not having street lights scared me, the donkeys were not cuddly (more so because who wants to be a mule) and having to resort to well water was unpleasant. I thought monsters would catch my pail and jump out at me. A high anxiety induced time for a town child. I didn’t like the fields either, I wasn’t the best with farm animals and not only were pesky bugs all around, even the bush pinched on my legs.
What I did like about the country was the idea of being from somewhere and belonging to a place of generational history. As an adult I now have the opportunity to explore other “countries”, which most Jamaicans don’t do outside of a need and purpose. We don’t even visit our friends’ “country,” unless it is a courtship for marriage. The parishes are territorial and competitive amongst themselves. I can’t place blame, the journey home is not without unwavering grit.
Today you’ll find more and more Jamaicans moving throughout the parishes on a ride-out. There is beautiful scenery along the country roads. My paternal “country,” St Ann, is where I find myself these days. Nothing beats greenery and the crystal blue Caribbean sea. Find me a villa in the hills and you’ll never get me out of the country!