Fishermen and food, poverty, culture and kindness, traveling snafus, more food, and other island stuff :)

After hours of research choosing my first trip abroad last year, I heard more than my share of warnings about my leading choice, Jamaica.

"Stay away from the cities."

"It's dangerous there!"

"We never left Montego Bay."

and my personal favorite:

"Which resort are you looking into?!"

The more I heard from people who had never experienced the island beyond its chic perimeter, the more I became determined to listen to the few who had really been there.

Right on cue, I stumbled upon my old poems and diary entries of tropical dreams I had long forgotten, and of course I cried like a baby knowing what I needed to do. I trusted my gut that Jamaica was the place for me, leaning away from the hearsay that would only reward some cruise line owner with more paper to play with.

My mind was made up, I needed to put those rumors to rest and feel the heart of the island beyond the resort wall.

As I embarked on my journey, I planned for a certain degree of culture shock, but I never expected to be my own walking stereotype within minutes.

Our hosts picked us up from the airport and swung by a bar on a tucked-back fisherman's beach nearby. By the time I ordered my first Red Stripe on the Caribbean shores, I already knew I was way overdressed. The bartender, patrons, and fishermen were all much more casual in trusty jeans and worn t-shirts.

Back home, I spent time planning the outfit I would change into at the airport, finally choosing a bright red summer dress covered in tiny white seagulls with a collar and buttons, paired with matching jewelry and flip-flops...

...but I suddenly would have given anything to throw my cute dress to the sea and relax in something more comfortable.

My face grew warm from the attention until I was sure my cheeks were the hue of the dress itself. This was a perfect example of why many "Americans" appear pretentious and materialistic, flaunting eye-catching, delicate fabrics and accessories, making me stand out like a big red sore thumb on the island.

I faced a few endearing chuckles for being so obviously new, but to my relief not a single person showed a hint of judgment. In fact, from the moment we stepped off the plane in Montego Bay, it was beyond important to the locals that we feel welcome and experience the "real" Jamaica.

At home in Cleveland, like most others I know, my gut reaction to unexpected social encounters is to escape the clearly crazy person trying to talk to a stranger. Among these social folk though, it was far easier to connect and give people an opportunity to make a mark on my life.

Once you are willing to spend a few minutes opening your heart to someone, remarkable warm-fuzzy things start to happen.

Because I was willing to be scared and put myself out there, I experienced hundreds of years of history, infinite measures of music, and vibrant stories built on passionate dreams that I won't ever forget. When you let a stranger open up to you, you get to witness an entire complex universe, all bursting from just one tiny human being in one tiny country.

Fishermen preached about the changing times, and saving up to find better opportunities elsewhere. Street and beach vendors shared endless laughter and love, persuading you to take a piece of their spirit home in the form of a polished shell or beaded jewelry. Even our Rasta host took the time to open up about his spirituality, why it's so deeply ingrained in the island's lifestyle, and the raw emotions that can be born from a religion with such an oppressive history.

In the town where I stayed outside of Ocho Rios, the people eat a heavenly amount of ackee fruit, fish, jerk chicken, rice, and other fresh, local produce. They work hard, fixing rather than replacing their aging possessions, caring for and living off the land, and nurturing their souls with singing and dancing.

The girls wear navy blue dresses and the boys wear khaki uniforms to school, and all the children have impeccable manners.

But like anywhere else, it wasn't all beautiful music and tropical mountains. The beaches of our village were colorful and popular, but they were also at times filled with trash from the rains and the resorts. Children are taught to beg tourists ("whities," spoken lovingly) for money, or to buy their trinkets in exchange for a haggled price. Stray dogs and even goats live off the water and garbage in the streets.

Some natives live in homes without common luxuries that people like you and I have never questioned living without.

But despite being warned about the level of poverty and the behaviors it could bring, seeing the country so first-hand urges me to ask...

"What IS poverty really?"

Where I stayed on the island, there was no hot water, selective backup water, no construction fixing the horrifically steep roads, homes that were unfinished or made out of leftover scraps of material, and many of the families lived by selling food or goods on the side of the road.

But this is just what it looks like there. After just one night, I knew they had so much more wealth to speak of than most "Americans" will ever feel in their lifetime.

Their dedication to family, culture, spirituality, and the planet itself far exceeds most back home. They not only take advantage of a simple, freeing way of life, but they appreciate the awareness and rewards it brings.

Between the friendly hostel hosts, bar patrons, street vendors, tour guides, and the countless other characters we met throughout the week, every soul on the island was bursting with the love and history of the country.

{I know this is blurry, but that's a bar beyond the river, in the middle of the jungle! Stoked!}

I learned much more about Jamaica than I could have imagined, but it still doesn't compare to how much I learned about people. We all want the same things: to be heard, to be loved, and to love in return.

Jamaica holds a rare and special place in my heart, and I already long to be back there so much that every plane ticket is a toss-up between the island and everywhere else. I know I will go back someday to experience more of the country, but for now I am ready to see many more corners of the earth, maybe even to expose the beauty behind the same resorts with the same Mai Tais everywhere.

It's time to see the real world, and I have the heart and soul of Jamaica to thank for giving me a push toward my true adventurous path.

Happy wanderlusting and happy loving,
Niki

Aaaaaand Jamaican food porn! :)

{Jamaican coffee, followed by an "American" breakfast from our French-Canadian co-host}

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Did you miss last week's Jamaica post, Part 1? Check it out HERE!

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