Greetings once again from the island!
Which reminds me, I need to finish watching Lost. NOBODY TELL ME WHAT HAPPENS OR SO HELP ME CHEESES, I WILL SNAP INTO A SLIM JIM.
Despite some turmoil unfolding in Kingston over the past 3-4 weeks, things have remained quite normal on the opposite side of the island here in Montego Bay. Though my knowledge of the situation is limited to what little I hear/can understand on the news and from the staff , I understand that of the outcome of the situation here could have a substantial impact on the political and social climate in Jamaica. The potential extradition of a known criminal along with the exposure of corrupt politicians dirty laundry will hopefully help usher in an era of a more stable country. But I'm not holding my breath. If you want to read more about the situation, do a Google search on “Dudus Jamaica”, “Dudus Extradition”, “Jamaica violence” or anything close to these will probably pull up stories on the situation.
In more important news, I killed a wasp the other day. It was awesome. So I’m sitting on a chair in the carport next to Warren’s apartment, when this wasp starts flying all up in my face. Recognizing that he had his orange and yellow stinger drawn and ready to pierce my tender skin, I admitted that he had the upper hand, and retreated accordingly, running to the other side of the carport. After he had established his dominance over me, he flew out of the carport to go and brag to his friends that he just scarred off a black guy. After going back to the chair, the same wasp comes flying all up in my business again and I, once again, retreat to safety. Once again the wasp flies away, mocking me again as he floats effortlessly back outside. Round three would end differently. Upon his third approach, I screamed, “The pact is void!” I took off my size 11 replica Croc sandal and swiftly sent Mr. Cockywasp to that big Coke can in the underworld (That’s right. All wasps go to Hades).
After taking a few minutes to talk trash over his dead, twitching body, I kicked him up against the wall, so that no unsuspecting bare-footed pedestrian could fall victim to his still-potent butt-weapon. What happened next was one of the coolest things I have ever seen in my life. Hordes of ants had been shuttling back and forth from the floor of the carport right next to my chair, up the wall to their home about nine feet up the wall and around the outside of the carport. Upon noticing the dead wasp in their path, a few of the ants started to eat the wasp. I was like, “Oooo, this should be fun to watch,” especially considering my pure and unfiltered hatred for wasps and wasp-kind. As more and more ants start to congregate around the wasp and I start to get more and more excited, I realize that the ants weren’t eating the wasp, but were attempting to drag the wasp up the wall to their home. Do you believe in miracles?
I watched in absolute astonishment as more and more ants piled on to help out. At first I thought they would never move something that was 40-times their body weight nine feet straight up a smooth painted concrete wall, but those strong little buggers proved me wrong. I ran up to my apartment to find my camera, but unfortunately couldn’t find it. So I am so very sorry I didn’t get any pictures of this life-changing event. Warren, however, did get video of the spectacle, which I will include in my next update as it was unavailable at press time.
Speaking of fantastic sights of nature, check out this picture I got of the sunset from the school a few weeks back.
Also look at this mega-frog I found hiding in a cinder block while I was weed-whipping. I think it’s the frog from Jurassic Park. He played the triceratops.
I chased this frog until it bravely jumped into the 10-foot deep septic pit nearby. I felt bad; I thought it was only bluffing when it told me it was gonna jump if I took one more step. Days later, when the new team went down in the pit, it startled them. "Oh my Gawd, there's a huge frog down here!" I smirked and chuckled to myself.
The team here this last week was from the Atlanta area. ATL holla. The team was originally supposed to go to the Kingston campus, but got diverted to us because of the crazy happenings in Kingston. Though it was a bummer for them that they did not get to spend the week where they had originally planned, it was nice to have them in MoBay and I enjoyed working with and getting to know them. Blake, a missionary from the Kingston campus, was also around for the week to help out. As Warren was very sick for the majority of the week from drinking contaminated city water here (a bullet that I somehow luckily dodged), much of the team leadership and responsibility fell to me and Blake. And since Blake is a terrible team leader, much of the team leadership and responsibility to me. The only thing worse than Blake’s ability to lead a team, is his sense of humor. Just pitiful. But we found a way to have some fun anyways and Blake did not hit me with his handbag for making fun of him in my blog, for which I was most grateful.
Due to the reasons largely unknown to me, the water has been shut-off intermittently over the last few weeks. This has lead to me taking a few “bucket” showers, which to my surprise, I haven’t hated as much as I thought I would. It’s a bit chilly and not as refreshing, but the end result is the same; me lying on my bed immediately after drying off, clean, in my boxers, with my box fan blasting on me, dreading the walk to dinner, which will inevitably lead to me becoming sweaty and dirty again until the next day after work. It’s a never-ending cycle. Though I would need to take around 100 more bucket showers to catch up to the amount that Blake or Erin have taken this year, who both are more often than not without water at their respective campuses, taking two or three hasn’t been all that horrible. I also needed a surprisingly little amount of water. I use one gallon jug of water to rinse off dirt, soap up, and then use another gallon to rinse off the soap. This experience, contrasted with the fact that I routinely took 20-minute hot showers in high school, (I commonly fell asleep in the shower. We had seats in our shower. But sometimes I also slept on the floor.) helped me to grasp an amenity I could possibly live without, but probably never will.
But I’m no Mother Theresa.
What I can’t live without is a dryer. We are blessed to have a washing machine here, but after the clothes are washed, it’s time to haul them to the clotheslines and partake in my least-favorite ritual during my three and a half months here. At first I was just awful at hanging up laundry. Like Bambi on ice, I was an embarrassing rookie. I used two pins on each garment, neglected to rush out and get my clothes whenever it started raining, didn’t fold garments over the line to acquire the necessary wind-resistant pin tension, tried to hang sheets with the bottom touching the grass, and it would take me for-ev-er. Now, though I still dread the activity, I’m practically a professional, averaging 1.032 pins per garment, pinning at a rate of 4.3 garments per second, and establishing a dry-time by humidity over temperature ratio of 96.2%. Please take a minute to carefully put your eyeballs back in their respective sockets. Now read this: I don’t even pin socks anymore, I just fling them over the line. Jealous you didn’t think of that first? Don’t worry, you’re not alone. I’ve also made this discovery of this stuff called detergent (pronounced: DEE-ter-gwent, I believe). Apparently, you just put it in the washer with your clothes, and it makes them wash better. I can’t believe everybody doesn’t use this stuff. Not everybody is as intelligent as I am, though, and I sometimes forget this. It gets lonely at the top.
I visited a new church here in MoBay this last Sunday, called the Meeting Place, which was very interesting. The church was right near the water, had air conditioning, and a white woman as their pastor. After the service, I found out that she was Jamaican, which certainly surprised me. I knew there were a number of white Jamaicans, whose families have lived here for many generations, but had only met one other. The other white Jamaican I have met is one of the big wigs of CCCD here in Jamaica, but his skin is darker complected, whereas the white pastor appeared that she was straight outta Wisconsin. Her ability to roll seamlessly from English to Patwa, however, helped me to believe that she was, in fact, a Jamaican. It was awesome and surreal, however, to watch a white lady snap off a monologue in beautifully unfettered Patwa after only ever hearing it come from black Jamaicans.
Though I enjoyed the service, I couldn’t help but to be proud of myself for staying awake the entire time. As the service pushed over the 3-hour marker and soon closed thereafter, I noted my newly-developed ability to avoid freaking out from sitting and standing in church for so long. Through I feel that it is completely reasonable to expect a 23-year old adult to sit still for 3 or 4 hours, I also know that I belong to a very antsy generation. It’s not that I think the service (or any 3.5-hour church service) was that boring, but my mind cannot realistically focus on something for that long, unless of course, it is Star Wars or Lord of the Rings, which are completely different, and I watch religiously.
Now, part of the reason I didn’t fall asleep or run out screaming was because the plastic lawn chair I was sitting in (everybody had the same chairs, it wasn’t just me.) could only handle about 6 pounds of pressure leaning into the back rest, before it would begin to buckle. This conundrum not only kept me from getting into a comfortable sleeping position, but also gave my mind the task of trying to find the most comfortable position without completely destroying the chair. I eventually found that if I put my feet way out in front me and leaned back and intentionally crushed the back rest down 6 or 7 inches, it would eventually stop buckling and support my body weight for a good 2 or 3 minutes before I started to fall over to one side or the other. You can buy one of my patented pre-buckled plastic lawn chairs from my agent for 1 easy payment of 1 sturdy, comfortable, wooden chair.
Though it would be extremely difficult for me to adjust to a church with services as long as the ones here in Jamaica, there are aspects of the churches here that I think American churches could learn a lot from.
For instance, at Rosemount Missionary Church, the church most teams go to, the greeting time is wonderful! Instead of 3 or 4 awkward handshakes, as I am accustomed to in America, the congregation at Rosemount spend about 15 minutes milling around shaking hands, hugging, and sincerely greeting everybody in the building. Obviously, given the larger size of most American churches, this would be impossible on a much large scale, but I think a 15 minute period of handshakes and hugs every Sunday with the section you are sitting in could definitely help to cultivate the community that I think many American churches struggle with.
At the Meeting Place, all of the church members had name tags that they would pick up before every service. As a person who chronically forgets names, this idea struck me as brilliant. How much easier would it be to get to know people at your church if you actually knew their names? Maybe not everybody struggles with this, but I have an easier time asking people about their life when I don’t actually want to ask, “Sorry, I know I see you every week, but what’s your name again?”
Altogether, I guess I feel that the churches I have experienced here have been much more focused on cultivating community than on the 1-hour Sunday production (3-hour in Jamaica) that becomes “Church” in America. I realize that my opinion on this matter greatly reflects my own experience in America and the fact that I haven’t up until recently made any effort to become part of a formal church community, but I do believe my observations are relevant to many churches in America. That is all.
Kolt’s got a girlfriend! But I wouldn’t be immature enough to include that in my blog. I am a 23-year adult, after all.
Take it easy everybody! Much Love.
