My heart dropped to my feet as the building manager of my new apartment in Montego Bay told me that the plant had been ravaged by the storm. There was, in his words, “lots of damage,” and most of the glass patio doors facing out to the sea had blown off.
“Oh, hold on a minute,” he said. “I have some of the maintenance guys going up to your place and I’ll call you back in about five minutes.” Several minutes later I was emailed photos of a cracked patio door, which had allowed some rain to blow leaving a puddle on the floor. “You’re good,” was the manager’s cryptic response.
Yes, I am good, I consoled myself as my body continued to shake. In this island nation an estimated 19 people (and counting) have lost their lives. St. Elizabeth, the parish referred to as the nation’s breadbasket, has been wiped out, with dire implications for agriculture going forward. Two hospitals in two different parishes lost their roofs. Tens of thousands of Jamaicans have watched in terror as their own roofs blew off; others witnessed their homes sliding away in mudslides. Families from overseas and across the island dial frantically, trying to locate loved ones whose cell service is kaput.
I, too, phoned the United States to find out if my family friend, a woman whom I adopted when I was a child and call Sister, was safe in St. Elizabeth. I had been unable to reach her by WhatsApp. Sister’s niece had heard from her neighbor, who managed to get word to the States that she is fine. Sister’s niece and I chuckled, imagining her already preparing meals on her gas stove for whoever in her community needs it, just like she did during the last storm.
One of my regular car service drivers said that he had to drive onto a highway to find a hotspot. We had a brief but choppy conversation. Bottom line he and his family are fine.
Individuals are taping proof-of-life videos that they hope will eventually be seen by or reported on to family members, a sad parallel to the holiday greetings that are taped and sent to the island by relatives from abroad. As I write this more than 70 percent of the island remains in darkness.
On our drive around on Wednesday my cousins and I met a friendly, high-ranking police officer and his sergeant who said that their Kingston station was fine, but several others outside the city had been badly damaged. Giving thanks is the rule of the day, regardless of rank, station or economic strata.
A cheerful fruit vendor, who was artistically peeling a pineapple when we drove up gave us good prices on a bunch of bananas, and brawta (a bonus, which included two very sweet, firm fruit) that seemed to satisfy even my sweet tooth.
In the meanwhile, the view from the Kingston business district, which did not take too many hits, is deceptively sunny. Yesterday my cousins and I took trip to the Coconut Board to buy coconut candies, standing in line with other mostly Jamericans and Jambrits who smiled broadly as they skipped down memory lane, peering at bus me jaws, coconut maroons and other goodies in the display case.
In my hotel, we the guests, trade stories about trying to reach relatives, about carving out a life on the island of our origin, about how much we appreciate the Jamaican breakfast at our hotel: stew fish or chicken, Johnny cakes, boiled dumplings, corn meal porridge, hominy, and that great Blue Mountain coffee.
We are all eating too much, the mealtimes breaking up the monotony of sometimes futile family searches, repeating the stories of our very privileged survival to panicked friends and relatives overseas, and obsessive news watching.
But I am anxious to be in my own place. Sister’s niece asked me if this strongest recorded hurricane in Jamaican history has me regretting my decision to live on the island. It has actually only made me more committed. I long for my home in Montego Bay by the sea. Soon come. Soon come.
