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Jamaica I never knew: Star columnist Royson James returns to the land of his birth
I left Jamaica for Toronto in 1969 at age 16, a poor little country boy leaving a nation only seven years into independence from Britain.
Home turf is seldom pretty to a child who daily removes thorns from heel and toe; must herd the cows and goats, reap sugar cane, haul water from a spring a mile away in dry seasons, and who doesn't wear his first pair of school shoes until he is almost 11.
Constrained by class and poverty, and restrained by religious strictures that frowned on “worldly pleasures,” my early life revolved around a 15-km radius of home in Orange, 11 km outside Montego Bay.
Kingston was an eternity away, accessed by the catch-all Mayflower bus that rattles and rolls for nearly six hours before depositing the country bumpkins into the teeming cacophony of the capital.
Kingston's reputation precedes her: A murderous city overrun with shantytowns and garrisons controlled by dons and druglords.
But there is so much more to the intellectual, political, cultural and economic heart of Jamaica, a town pregnant with tourism possibilities.
In 1969, Kingston was akin to a foreign country to a kid growing up in rural Jamaica. Beauty contests were held at the Courtleigh Manor Hotel and important events took place at the Pegasus Hotel.
So, that's where I'm staying on this excursion to discover the Jamaica I Never Knew.
We pop into the National Art Gallery and want to stay all day; marvel at the high architecture of the churches, including a mosque and a stupendous synagogue; do a drive-through at the University of the West Indies; then navigate around the frenzy of Parade and Coronation Market.
But my heart is set on Sabina Park, temple of the cricket gods. Sabina Park exists only in my imagination. It's like Maple Leaf Gardens to a kid growing up in Saskatchewan in a time before television; Yankee Stadium to a baseball fan who's experienced baseball only on the radio.
Along South Camp Road on the base of the Blue Mountains, the stadium emerges. A little peek — that's all; one glance at the bowl of memories.
Carey, the guide supplied by the Jamaican Tourist Board, plays a hunch and stops outside the gate. But, the gate is closed. The heart sinks. After the hidden mountain and the eclipsed sunset, strike three looms.
Beyond the iron gate, the verdant green of the pitch beckons. At least I caught a glimpse of where the game's greatest player, Sir Gary Sobers of Barbados, smashed 365 runs against Pakistan as a 21-year-old.
Carey tries the lock. It's not fastened. My heart quickens. Can we just walk in?
We ease through the gate and stroll onto the outfield. The grass is so soft I'm afraid to walk on it. Suddenly, I am Joey Solomon, slinging balls from the boundary directly over the wicket to stylish Jackie Hendricks behind the stumps; Rohan Kanhai, my favourite batsman, is me. I'm living a dream and it's better than I imagined.
The stadium is bigger, newer, more modern (a $100-million U.S. remake for the 2007 World Cup of cricket is responsible) than my mind allowed.
A man walks up and we brace for eviction. He is the groundskeeper, he says. Charles Josephs has worked here for 53 of his 68 years and has seen all the cricketing greats.
He uncovers the secrets of the pitch — where the television microphones are buried, how he cares for the grounds, slows down and speeds up grass-growth, and talks of the advancements in technology since the days when the founding Kingston Cricket Club was all white.
Josephs points to where his favourite player, English fast bowler Fiery Fred Trueman, would trundle in from the north stand, hair flowing in the whipped-up gale of his bowling action, to slice through the defences of hapless batsmen.
And when he motions us to walk out to the wicket, essentially to stand on the mound where the cricket immortals created many magical moments, I phone my Bajan friend and cricketing compatriot, Wayne McClean, in Toronto to confirm I am not dreaming. Wayne listens in as Josephs dissects the heroes of our youth — the Three W's, Clive Lloyd, Lawrence Rowe — and an era when the West Indies cricket team ruled the world.
“I grieve to see what happen to West Indies cricket,” Josephs says. It's the day after England destroyed the West Indies. Again. “It bring tears to mi eyes.”
Jamaica is the largest of the islands of the West Indies. Stretched over 11,424 sq. km., it is a spectacular mix of hills and valleys, divided into 14 parishes. I am still to set foot in St. Thomas, the eastern most of them. But now I know why many consider neighbouring Portland the island's most picturesque corner — and most exclusive.
The colonizing British knew how to make use of a good thing. They lured settlers to Jamaica with an offer of free land. Many of the holdings exist today and the best properties are in foreign hands, accessed only through security gates and fences.
It's here the world's rich and famous come to play, record music, write, chill out and bed down — off the map, sequestered in tropical bliss.
We are at GeeJam Studio and villas in San San Bay, near Port Antonio, birthplace of Jamaican billionaire Michael Lee-Chin.
I'm sitting in the bed where movie star Sharon Stone celebrated her 50th birthday. On the wall, along the stairs leading to the room, the British cult figure and graffiti artist Banksy has left his stenciled calling card.
Alicia Keys, Snoop Dogg and Toronto's Drake recently recorded here. It's the home studios of an aging and revived group called the Jolly Boys — some in their 70s, playing a new sound fused with mento, Jamaica's pure roots music, forerunner to ska, rock steady and reggae. And I'm here, singing Bob Marley's “Three Little Birds,” with engineer Dale “Dizzle” Virgo at the controls.
Outside is a garden of Eden. For $900 a night, you can stay in the one-bedroom deluxe “ska” villa. Or choose “reggae” or “bass and drum” as Drake did. Each villa is exquisitely positioned, folded spaciously into a hillside rainforest.
Lots more here:
http://www.thestar.com/specialsections/j...nd-of-his-birth
I left Jamaica for Toronto in 1969 at age 16, a poor little country boy leaving a nation only seven years into independence from Britain.
Home turf is seldom pretty to a child who daily removes thorns from heel and toe; must herd the cows and goats, reap sugar cane, haul water from a spring a mile away in dry seasons, and who doesn't wear his first pair of school shoes until he is almost 11.
Constrained by class and poverty, and restrained by religious strictures that frowned on “worldly pleasures,” my early life revolved around a 15-km radius of home in Orange, 11 km outside Montego Bay.
Kingston was an eternity away, accessed by the catch-all Mayflower bus that rattles and rolls for nearly six hours before depositing the country bumpkins into the teeming cacophony of the capital.
Kingston's reputation precedes her: A murderous city overrun with shantytowns and garrisons controlled by dons and druglords.
But there is so much more to the intellectual, political, cultural and economic heart of Jamaica, a town pregnant with tourism possibilities.
In 1969, Kingston was akin to a foreign country to a kid growing up in rural Jamaica. Beauty contests were held at the Courtleigh Manor Hotel and important events took place at the Pegasus Hotel.
So, that's where I'm staying on this excursion to discover the Jamaica I Never Knew.
We pop into the National Art Gallery and want to stay all day; marvel at the high architecture of the churches, including a mosque and a stupendous synagogue; do a drive-through at the University of the West Indies; then navigate around the frenzy of Parade and Coronation Market.
But my heart is set on Sabina Park, temple of the cricket gods. Sabina Park exists only in my imagination. It's like Maple Leaf Gardens to a kid growing up in Saskatchewan in a time before television; Yankee Stadium to a baseball fan who's experienced baseball only on the radio.
Along South Camp Road on the base of the Blue Mountains, the stadium emerges. A little peek — that's all; one glance at the bowl of memories.
Carey, the guide supplied by the Jamaican Tourist Board, plays a hunch and stops outside the gate. But, the gate is closed. The heart sinks. After the hidden mountain and the eclipsed sunset, strike three looms.
Beyond the iron gate, the verdant green of the pitch beckons. At least I caught a glimpse of where the game's greatest player, Sir Gary Sobers of Barbados, smashed 365 runs against Pakistan as a 21-year-old.
Carey tries the lock. It's not fastened. My heart quickens. Can we just walk in?
We ease through the gate and stroll onto the outfield. The grass is so soft I'm afraid to walk on it. Suddenly, I am Joey Solomon, slinging balls from the boundary directly over the wicket to stylish Jackie Hendricks behind the stumps; Rohan Kanhai, my favourite batsman, is me. I'm living a dream and it's better than I imagined.
The stadium is bigger, newer, more modern (a $100-million U.S. remake for the 2007 World Cup of cricket is responsible) than my mind allowed.
A man walks up and we brace for eviction. He is the groundskeeper, he says. Charles Josephs has worked here for 53 of his 68 years and has seen all the cricketing greats.
He uncovers the secrets of the pitch — where the television microphones are buried, how he cares for the grounds, slows down and speeds up grass-growth, and talks of the advancements in technology since the days when the founding Kingston Cricket Club was all white.
Josephs points to where his favourite player, English fast bowler Fiery Fred Trueman, would trundle in from the north stand, hair flowing in the whipped-up gale of his bowling action, to slice through the defences of hapless batsmen.
And when he motions us to walk out to the wicket, essentially to stand on the mound where the cricket immortals created many magical moments, I phone my Bajan friend and cricketing compatriot, Wayne McClean, in Toronto to confirm I am not dreaming. Wayne listens in as Josephs dissects the heroes of our youth — the Three W's, Clive Lloyd, Lawrence Rowe — and an era when the West Indies cricket team ruled the world.
“I grieve to see what happen to West Indies cricket,” Josephs says. It's the day after England destroyed the West Indies. Again. “It bring tears to mi eyes.”
Jamaica is the largest of the islands of the West Indies. Stretched over 11,424 sq. km., it is a spectacular mix of hills and valleys, divided into 14 parishes. I am still to set foot in St. Thomas, the eastern most of them. But now I know why many consider neighbouring Portland the island's most picturesque corner — and most exclusive.
The colonizing British knew how to make use of a good thing. They lured settlers to Jamaica with an offer of free land. Many of the holdings exist today and the best properties are in foreign hands, accessed only through security gates and fences.
It's here the world's rich and famous come to play, record music, write, chill out and bed down — off the map, sequestered in tropical bliss.
We are at GeeJam Studio and villas in San San Bay, near Port Antonio, birthplace of Jamaican billionaire Michael Lee-Chin.
I'm sitting in the bed where movie star Sharon Stone celebrated her 50th birthday. On the wall, along the stairs leading to the room, the British cult figure and graffiti artist Banksy has left his stenciled calling card.
Alicia Keys, Snoop Dogg and Toronto's Drake recently recorded here. It's the home studios of an aging and revived group called the Jolly Boys — some in their 70s, playing a new sound fused with mento, Jamaica's pure roots music, forerunner to ska, rock steady and reggae. And I'm here, singing Bob Marley's “Three Little Birds,” with engineer Dale “Dizzle” Virgo at the controls.
Outside is a garden of Eden. For $900 a night, you can stay in the one-bedroom deluxe “ska” villa. Or choose “reggae” or “bass and drum” as Drake did. Each villa is exquisitely positioned, folded spaciously into a hillside rainforest.
Lots more here:
http://www.thestar.com/specialsections/j...nd-of-his-birth
I was having a blonde moment 
and forgot to hit submit....it was still sitting on my laptop.
It comes from years of holding our tongue.
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