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So it seemed like people liked to see the unbeaten path so to speak, so I thought I would put up a post about a subject most people who visit Jamaica never see.
This is sort of related to Miss Sonia, so I when i was looking through some of the picture essays I have sort of unwittingly collected over the years, it seemed like this would be an unlikely segue between them, but it just seems to be the only way that fits them together story wise.
So without further ado, what I am about to tell you was imparted to me by a real Rasta, by his own standards anyways. He has no dreads, but he has knowledge you just don't see too much of, unless you cruise in certain circles. Fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be, I am in some of those circles, and because of my own path we get along. We certainly make an interesting pair when we drink together in the Jungle and people watch.
This has to do with a subject that many people who visit Jamaica will never come up against, and some might. This has to do with the rampant violence that is usually just seething under the surface and from time to time breaks out, and sometimes it breaks in horrifying ways- like the girlfriend of an aquaintance of mine who got kidnapped, and then tied into her car, and set on fire. The person who told me this info has been a killer, hired as security and otherwise. The info he passed on to me was from an old skool warrior.
So my advice to most people who fall for Jamaica is don't allow yourselves to just see paradise, surely if ever there was a land on earth that could be called paradise, Jamaica is it, but it also possesses the potential to become very, very, very dangerous. Just in Negril alone within the last year several tourist properties have been compromised in such a degree as to result in murders, a few weeks ago a friend of mine was involved in a serious bloodbath at Mi Yard, I myself have had to get the f out of dodge a few timed while hanging out up there and well...you get the point. If not, what I am trying to say is that Jamaica can be a lot like New York City. You have to be aware, you have to be careful, and you can't be stupid. Most places are absolutely fine. But just as in New York, you could turn off just one block and be in a whole world of trouble. Many people will never see war in the streets in Jamaica. I hope the violence settles soon, but let's face it, wherever you have groups of people who are severely afflicted with poverty and disenfranchisement, you are going to have that violent potential. And during election times...
I've seen a lot of stupid people who were very lucky, and a lot of people who were not. Some people just get robbed, others think they are in love and then a hard *** dose of reality sets in when they realize they are in a totally different culture where women just are not treated that well amongst significant segments of the population. A man slapping the crap out of his woman can be a sobering wake up call.
So one day my friend and I are eating some patty at Miss Sonia's. At this time, she was on the beach, and her son Elton was working at Wavs- we met him eating at Niah's Patty actually. After a time we came to know that Miss Sonia was his mom...and she taught Niah and a whole slew of other people, how to make patty.
So we had ordered quite a few patty, we were expecting to be joined by another group of people, and had ordered ahead of time. At this time, since she was on the beach and renting, she had to get drinks for her patrons from the owner of the land, whose name I will keep to myself. He was an old salty Rasta, and he was doing a bit of "yard" work. He was lopping off tree limbs as thick as my forearm, with a broad bladed machette, the shape of which I had never seen before. I was very impressed with the blade and it's quick handiwork of these thick branches.
So Miss Sonia takes our order, and she is perplexed at why we are ordering so many patty, she says we can't finish them. Now the Rastaman is listening, waiting to hear the drink order, but instead of ordering drinks, I explained to Miss Sonia that we were waiting for others to join us, and if they didn't come, not to worry, "because we will just take the extra and give it to a hungry rasta."
Boy, he hit the freakin' ROOF. He just glared at us. When Sonia took the drink order to him, he wouldn't look at her- just stared at me, and then, WHACK! Off went a tree limb. He let loose a barrage of *thick* patois of which I caught about every 5th word- the gist of which was that a Rastaman was a creator, he could not be hungry, that was impossible...if he was hungry he was not a real Rasta...WHACK!! As far as I am concerned, there are a few levels of patois- there is the typical conversational level which many people think they can even speak, then there is a deeper level which you can usually catch the gist of, and then there is the level that you could never figure out without being born to it. Sort of like the way the Sicilians slaughtered the French when they couldn't say certain words...unless you're born to it, you can't pick it up.
This went on for quite a few whacks, and tree limbs were quickly piling up around his feet. Arguments in Jamaica can last for days even over little slights. This was obviously a big one. He went on at great length bemoaning the renta-dreds on the beach, the "rasta" who smoked ganja outside of the ceremony, who ate what they should not eat, who said they were hungry and begged from tourist (here he gestured with the machette at me, then WHACK!)
My friend was like, "Yo...what did you say to this guy...?"
At this point, I really had no idea...
We laughed at first, until we realized the situation was quickly deteriorating.
Miss Sonia was growing very upset, as the guy was scaring the crap out of the other people eating, and lord knows he was scaring the crap out of me. Especially when he explained how he would run down the fake rasta, and no bone could stop his bill machette.
I believed him.
He began to ask me questions, and since I couldn't quite follow what the hell he was saying, I didn't know what to answer...I finally caught that he was asking me what color my blood was...and gesturing with the machette- in situations like that I have always found honesty to be the best policy so I answered "Red." He replied, "All right...so is mine...so why insult your brother..."
Eventually the gist of what he was saying sunk in and we got into a deep philosophical conversation about how it might be possible for a rasta to be hungry in order to help another prove their own worth...
I would say that our situation resolved itself and now when I am down he often seeks me out, and we speak...but it was pretty touch and go there for a bit. I asked him about the machette, and he told me it was called a "bill." I asked if he could get me one, but left before I could meet up with him.
I told the story to my other friend on my next trip down, and he said he would get me one that had "a soul in it."
Amongst friends, you often barter. I had a few items that were wanted, and so the trade was made for a bill.
This is what it looks like:
It is used primarily for chopping cane, but some blades are worked to be used for war. Those blades are usually easy to see, and the maxim, "no bone can stop it," is a known one. A bill can have the street weight of say, a desert eagle, lol...when they get flashed people generally run. The bottle of honey is for size.
You will notice that this bill has had some heavy duty use, some of which was explained to me. Work bills have a hook on the false edge, on this one it was ground off. If the bill has lost it's soul, it will not ring when slapped, or if the steel is cheap. The bill should ring when slapped.
As you can see, there are some severe notches in the blade. Somehow I do not think those are from cutting cane. After hanging out in more than a few yards, I've seen bill machetes used for tons of different things, even as a cooking surface.
This is the handle. There are six marks. It wasn't blatantly explained to me what they stood for, but considering what the bill was tuned for, it sort of creeps me out a little to look at them. I was going to replace the handle, because it is broken and repaired with stripped copper wire, but I thought better of it.
Although in this case an instrument of death, the blade possesses that weird sort of dignity that such instruments accrue- I don't really know any other way to describe it. You have to respect it, maybe even fear it, if for no other reason than to realize how precious living is and how some people are stupid to die for silly reasons, and how some others are willing to kill for equally stupid reasons, but that in some cases, things are worth dying and fighting for. When those times come, life becomes very worth living indeed.
Here is a comparison shot of a new bill, that has not yet had any soul put into it. You can see the difference between the blade shapes. As it stands now, this is a working bill. To tune a bill for war, or put your soul in it, several things happen.
First of all, the shape of the blade is decided on. The hook can be ground off, but then other changes are made in order to push the weight of the blade forward, to increase the power in the chop. Towards the handle, along the spine, that can be ground down, to take away weight- the theories are all based on achieving the economy of the chop. The grinding is usually done by a file, and some people are known to have very good skill at this technique.
You can also see the difference in the handle shapes.
Each bill gets it's soul from it's owner, so each must be tuned to the user's hand. That makes each bill unique to it's user, and if you take one over, you have to work it a little. A bill's handle is shaped in the following manner- a bottle is smashed, and a sharp fragment of glass is selected. It is said that the glass will not hurt you unless you fear it. If you fear the glass, it will cut you.
After you have a good piece selected, then you use the sharp edge to scrape away wood, until the wood fits your hand well, and also to push the weight of the blade forward- the handle is sometimes scraped right down to the rivets, then you can hammer down the rivets and scrape down further. By scraping and testing, you soon get the bill to fit your hand, and once it fits your hand, you slap it to make sure it rings, and so long as there is the ring of steel, the bill has soul. IF there is no ring, the bill can be treacherous to use. If you allow the bill to get heated in a fire, which trust me can be a pretty scary thing to see a glowing bill waving at you, you have to cool it the right way, or the soul leaves it...
There are quite a few other things I was taught about bills, but just like Miss Sonia's patty, some things are meant to be kept and not told.
This is sort of related to Miss Sonia, so I when i was looking through some of the picture essays I have sort of unwittingly collected over the years, it seemed like this would be an unlikely segue between them, but it just seems to be the only way that fits them together story wise.
So without further ado, what I am about to tell you was imparted to me by a real Rasta, by his own standards anyways. He has no dreads, but he has knowledge you just don't see too much of, unless you cruise in certain circles. Fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be, I am in some of those circles, and because of my own path we get along. We certainly make an interesting pair when we drink together in the Jungle and people watch.
This has to do with a subject that many people who visit Jamaica will never come up against, and some might. This has to do with the rampant violence that is usually just seething under the surface and from time to time breaks out, and sometimes it breaks in horrifying ways- like the girlfriend of an aquaintance of mine who got kidnapped, and then tied into her car, and set on fire. The person who told me this info has been a killer, hired as security and otherwise. The info he passed on to me was from an old skool warrior.
So my advice to most people who fall for Jamaica is don't allow yourselves to just see paradise, surely if ever there was a land on earth that could be called paradise, Jamaica is it, but it also possesses the potential to become very, very, very dangerous. Just in Negril alone within the last year several tourist properties have been compromised in such a degree as to result in murders, a few weeks ago a friend of mine was involved in a serious bloodbath at Mi Yard, I myself have had to get the f out of dodge a few timed while hanging out up there and well...you get the point. If not, what I am trying to say is that Jamaica can be a lot like New York City. You have to be aware, you have to be careful, and you can't be stupid. Most places are absolutely fine. But just as in New York, you could turn off just one block and be in a whole world of trouble. Many people will never see war in the streets in Jamaica. I hope the violence settles soon, but let's face it, wherever you have groups of people who are severely afflicted with poverty and disenfranchisement, you are going to have that violent potential. And during election times...
I've seen a lot of stupid people who were very lucky, and a lot of people who were not. Some people just get robbed, others think they are in love and then a hard *** dose of reality sets in when they realize they are in a totally different culture where women just are not treated that well amongst significant segments of the population. A man slapping the crap out of his woman can be a sobering wake up call.
So one day my friend and I are eating some patty at Miss Sonia's. At this time, she was on the beach, and her son Elton was working at Wavs- we met him eating at Niah's Patty actually. After a time we came to know that Miss Sonia was his mom...and she taught Niah and a whole slew of other people, how to make patty.
So we had ordered quite a few patty, we were expecting to be joined by another group of people, and had ordered ahead of time. At this time, since she was on the beach and renting, she had to get drinks for her patrons from the owner of the land, whose name I will keep to myself. He was an old salty Rasta, and he was doing a bit of "yard" work. He was lopping off tree limbs as thick as my forearm, with a broad bladed machette, the shape of which I had never seen before. I was very impressed with the blade and it's quick handiwork of these thick branches.
So Miss Sonia takes our order, and she is perplexed at why we are ordering so many patty, she says we can't finish them. Now the Rastaman is listening, waiting to hear the drink order, but instead of ordering drinks, I explained to Miss Sonia that we were waiting for others to join us, and if they didn't come, not to worry, "because we will just take the extra and give it to a hungry rasta."
Boy, he hit the freakin' ROOF. He just glared at us. When Sonia took the drink order to him, he wouldn't look at her- just stared at me, and then, WHACK! Off went a tree limb. He let loose a barrage of *thick* patois of which I caught about every 5th word- the gist of which was that a Rastaman was a creator, he could not be hungry, that was impossible...if he was hungry he was not a real Rasta...WHACK!! As far as I am concerned, there are a few levels of patois- there is the typical conversational level which many people think they can even speak, then there is a deeper level which you can usually catch the gist of, and then there is the level that you could never figure out without being born to it. Sort of like the way the Sicilians slaughtered the French when they couldn't say certain words...unless you're born to it, you can't pick it up.
This went on for quite a few whacks, and tree limbs were quickly piling up around his feet. Arguments in Jamaica can last for days even over little slights. This was obviously a big one. He went on at great length bemoaning the renta-dreds on the beach, the "rasta" who smoked ganja outside of the ceremony, who ate what they should not eat, who said they were hungry and begged from tourist (here he gestured with the machette at me, then WHACK!)
My friend was like, "Yo...what did you say to this guy...?"
At this point, I really had no idea...
We laughed at first, until we realized the situation was quickly deteriorating.
Miss Sonia was growing very upset, as the guy was scaring the crap out of the other people eating, and lord knows he was scaring the crap out of me. Especially when he explained how he would run down the fake rasta, and no bone could stop his bill machette.
I believed him.
He began to ask me questions, and since I couldn't quite follow what the hell he was saying, I didn't know what to answer...I finally caught that he was asking me what color my blood was...and gesturing with the machette- in situations like that I have always found honesty to be the best policy so I answered "Red." He replied, "All right...so is mine...so why insult your brother..."
Eventually the gist of what he was saying sunk in and we got into a deep philosophical conversation about how it might be possible for a rasta to be hungry in order to help another prove their own worth...
I would say that our situation resolved itself and now when I am down he often seeks me out, and we speak...but it was pretty touch and go there for a bit. I asked him about the machette, and he told me it was called a "bill." I asked if he could get me one, but left before I could meet up with him.
I told the story to my other friend on my next trip down, and he said he would get me one that had "a soul in it."
Amongst friends, you often barter. I had a few items that were wanted, and so the trade was made for a bill.
This is what it looks like:
It is used primarily for chopping cane, but some blades are worked to be used for war. Those blades are usually easy to see, and the maxim, "no bone can stop it," is a known one. A bill can have the street weight of say, a desert eagle, lol...when they get flashed people generally run. The bottle of honey is for size.
You will notice that this bill has had some heavy duty use, some of which was explained to me. Work bills have a hook on the false edge, on this one it was ground off. If the bill has lost it's soul, it will not ring when slapped, or if the steel is cheap. The bill should ring when slapped.
As you can see, there are some severe notches in the blade. Somehow I do not think those are from cutting cane. After hanging out in more than a few yards, I've seen bill machetes used for tons of different things, even as a cooking surface.
This is the handle. There are six marks. It wasn't blatantly explained to me what they stood for, but considering what the bill was tuned for, it sort of creeps me out a little to look at them. I was going to replace the handle, because it is broken and repaired with stripped copper wire, but I thought better of it.
Although in this case an instrument of death, the blade possesses that weird sort of dignity that such instruments accrue- I don't really know any other way to describe it. You have to respect it, maybe even fear it, if for no other reason than to realize how precious living is and how some people are stupid to die for silly reasons, and how some others are willing to kill for equally stupid reasons, but that in some cases, things are worth dying and fighting for. When those times come, life becomes very worth living indeed.
Here is a comparison shot of a new bill, that has not yet had any soul put into it. You can see the difference between the blade shapes. As it stands now, this is a working bill. To tune a bill for war, or put your soul in it, several things happen.
First of all, the shape of the blade is decided on. The hook can be ground off, but then other changes are made in order to push the weight of the blade forward, to increase the power in the chop. Towards the handle, along the spine, that can be ground down, to take away weight- the theories are all based on achieving the economy of the chop. The grinding is usually done by a file, and some people are known to have very good skill at this technique.
You can also see the difference in the handle shapes.
Each bill gets it's soul from it's owner, so each must be tuned to the user's hand. That makes each bill unique to it's user, and if you take one over, you have to work it a little. A bill's handle is shaped in the following manner- a bottle is smashed, and a sharp fragment of glass is selected. It is said that the glass will not hurt you unless you fear it. If you fear the glass, it will cut you.
After you have a good piece selected, then you use the sharp edge to scrape away wood, until the wood fits your hand well, and also to push the weight of the blade forward- the handle is sometimes scraped right down to the rivets, then you can hammer down the rivets and scrape down further. By scraping and testing, you soon get the bill to fit your hand, and once it fits your hand, you slap it to make sure it rings, and so long as there is the ring of steel, the bill has soul. IF there is no ring, the bill can be treacherous to use. If you allow the bill to get heated in a fire, which trust me can be a pretty scary thing to see a glowing bill waving at you, you have to cool it the right way, or the soul leaves it...
There are quite a few other things I was taught about bills, but just like Miss Sonia's patty, some things are meant to be kept and not told.
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