I first visited Jamaica in the early 1970s. In those far-away days, many Americans associated the island with films like Dr. No, in which James Bond, Ian Fleming's macho, womanizing hero, performed impossible exploits in a colorful, exotic and unfailingly elegant atmosphere.
My own introduction to the island was somewhat more sober. At that time, I was a Jesuit; and the island, to my puzzlement and delight, was (and still is) part of the New England province of the Society of Jesus. My hosts worked in simple surroundings on tasks that had nothing to do with the world of James Bond; but I still felt myself to be in one of the most enchanting places on earth.
Last week, some 35 years later, I returned, along with my family, to visit old friends who live in Kingston, the capital of Jamaica. We were there, not for sea and surf, but rather for renewing the pleasures of a decades-long friendship. Among the gifts of life, the hospitality of valued friends must be accounted one of the best.
Our week was full of talk and laughter-with our friends most of all, but also with their extended family and their friends, and with total strangers. There may be laconic Jamaicans, but I have yet to meet one.
The voices I heard seemed more musical to me than our nasal Yankee twang, and the vocabulary more inventive. Conversation is a pleasure, and the slower pace of life allows people time to enjoy it.
I have been told that Jamaicans relish a good speech. We had the opportunity to hear one on television last week, as Portia Simpson Miller became the first woman to take over as Prime Minister since Jamaica became an independent nation in 1962. Her inaugural address was forceful and eloquent, full of hope and of a kind of religious intensity that is rare in American politics.
Many of the people we encountered during our visit showed themselves enthusiastic about this charming new PM who promises a new attack on the country's problems.
But they feel that she faces a daunting task. If she succeeds, she will deserve more admiration than James Bond everdid. Jamaica's geographical area is less than half the size of Massachusetts, and, with two and a half million people, it has about half the number of inhabitants. The country has a rich history and culture, of which it is justly proud. At the same time, it suffers from inadequate investment and a very high rate of unemployment.
Our hosts and their friends feel especially troubled about the failure of the school system to train children to be productive citizens. The failure rate of students at the end of primary school exceeds 75 percent. Despite obvious intelligence and ingenuity, many never learn to read and write and remain badly equipped for the jobs that are available. Illegal drug dealing and violent crime offer an alternative that too many seize.
The national government lacks the funds to remedy this sorry situation. While visiting the north coast, we saw huge freighters coming into Discovery Bay and leaving with their cargo of bauxite. It was an impressive spectacle, but Jamaica needs many more sources of work and revenue.
Because of these problems, many people have left Jamaica in the past 30 years or so; but many also choose to stay or to return. One can understand why. In the economically driven culture of American cities, people do not always take the time to be polite. In our contacts with people in various parts of Jamaica, we found them to be uncommonly gracious.
For me, when I visit other countries, the opportunity to establish contact with the local church invariably serves as a heartwarming experience. At the Discovery Bay parish, we found a vibrant community of all races and ages who made us feel welcome as we joined in worship.
When the liturgy called for the kiss of peace, we received more spirited greetings than we usually do at home.
Back in the capital city, we renewed old memories over a leisurely lunch with the archbishop of Kingston, a former colleague from the New England Jesuits. He was one of the first Jamaicans I ever met, more than 50 years ago. Now approaching retirement, Lawrence Burke retains much of the same attractive spirit that I remember him having in his twenties.
When I left Jamaica after my first visit, I remember sitting in an airplane on the tarmac in Kingston. Harry Belafonte's voice was singing “Jamaica Farewell,” a then familiar calypso piece full of rhythm and haunting charm.
On this occasion, by contrast, there was security galore but no music. However, my family and I left filled with our experiences of this beloved island and relishing the company we had enjoyed with our supremely hospitable friends.
Richard Griffin