The road from Kingston to Montego Bay was laced with fallen power lines. Many of the poles that once held them were twisted at strange angles—as if they couldn’t decide whether to lie down or just tilt over for rest; Some were broken altogether.
My trusty driver, who I’ll call S.B., drove us in a silver Honda gas-electric hybrid—the first I’ve ever been in. “These are called Mommy cars,” S.B. said without a hint of irony. “They’re compact and women like to drive them.” This would be the first of many S.B. witticisms in the upcoming hours.
That Saturday after the hurricane I was the only passenger to Montego Bay on City to City Express. After he dropped me home S.B. would collect tourists from Montego Bay and take them to Kingston, where the airport was already open. Montego Bay’s airport had sustained roof damage and was closed to most commercial flights until the following day.
The Jamaican government has suspended tolls, so 80 miles an hour or so was standard speed, until we hit traffic—citizens on their way to hard-hit areas to retrieve family members and surveil ancestral homes. S.B.’s family had dispatched a relative to pick up his grandmother, who had lost her home in the hurricane. Like elders the world over, she had fought to stay in her own home on her own terms; only Hurricane Melissa, in all her fury, could change the matriarch’s plans.
The hurricane flattened small eateries, and tore tiles, and in some cases whole roofs, from homes both modest and opulent along the way. Palm trees in mid fall had already started to turn brown, their leaves violently plucked as if they were suffering from a plant version of trichotillomania.
Traffic slowed down at least three times en route when drivers parked on the highway’s shoulder to use connectivity hotspots to call their loved ones. I’m alright. I blow for life. I lost everything but I’m still here. I’ll rebuild, start over.
S.B. and I spent the four hours we were together chatting amicably. We are both wannabe politicians, who traded tips on how we would handle the crisis—MPs without a portfolio. (There’s a lot of that going on.) And we talked mostly about food.
S.B. poo pooed the vendors selling ackee along the highway: “The fruits probably just dropped from the trees during the storm, and they opened the pods with their knives.” Not allowing poisonous gas to naturally escape the fruit is a no-no. Hard pass for us.
Those selling fish strung together on wire like droopy bouquets reminded S.B. of another weather event in his community: Hurricane Ivan in 2004. The rough seas scooped up fish and flung them onto the main road. Neighbors carrying coolers grabbed the lucky catch: red snapper and grouper. S.B. chuckled at this memory and so did I, thinking that it would make a great scene in a Guillermo del Toro movie.
A rotund goat, the rope around his neck trailing behind him, scampered onto the highway dodging vehicles, risking his life to escape his fate on the butcher’s block. Both of us licked our chops at the thought of a nice, curried goat dinner. But not today.
And we talked about S.B.’s dad, a man who loves pork so much he bakes two hams at Christmas: one for the family, and one for himself. Sorry Daddy B. Busted.
As we were nearing my neighborhood in Montego Bay, my already nervous stomach began to spasm and S.B. and I both got serious. I took out my camera and began to video the wreckage. More torn roofs, twisted balconies and gates, near-bald, brown palm trees and patches of green grass in-between—as if to keep hope alive for a better tomorrow.
At the gate, one of the dour-looking Warrior Queens who does security for my complex peered into the vehicle. “My future wife!” S.B. declared. This is a scene I have witnessed often—the security guards’ stony faces breeched by a declaration of love or marriage. Then a wide smile and much blushing. Nuff lyrics!
Mud coated the pathways in my complex. A sign was twisted off, pools that once cheerfully reflected the Caribbean sky were now brown with silt. One of the building managers was clearing guck, way out of her job description. She chatted cheerfully with me and introduced me to her young son, who scampered off to play in the water in one of the fountains.
I took a deep breath outside my apartment. The front door, replaced before my arrival in July, showed signs of being battered by salt and water. The cracked balcony door on the inside of the domicile is livable for now, as the building maintenance tends to serious issues. Some water had seeped in through the patio, and the windows in my bedroom. I cleaned up as best as I could: I had no water, air (the air tower was destroyed by Hurricane Melissa) or cable—creature comforts in this environment. Connectivity comes and goes.
On Sunday I got up at daybreak. From my window I saw a man casting his fishing pole over the water in the property next door. Life goes on.
With my apartment now 10 degrees hotter than I am used to I had become COVID-funky. I saw three stranded tourists walking on the beach. A young woman hung back tentatively as the others inched closer to the water. When I saw the man in the group washing his feet at the outdoor shower, I got an idea. Someone looking like me may or may not have gone down to the beach in her bathing suit and showered there. To paraphrase Shaggy: “It (probably) wasn’t me.”
I am looking for ways to be helpful to a medical team led by Jamerican doctors including one of my cousins for Montego Bay, where doctors and medical supplies are sorely needed in addition to heavy equipment to remove the debris and water—and of course, food. I have also signed up on the government volunteer website below. I am making lists of Jamaican diasporic people and other allies to call or text. I sometimes just write the cryptic message: Help. Others need more TLC and long-ish phone conversations. I am doing that, too.
Montego Bay hotels have closed and will not open until early next year. Staff, many of whom make minimum wage and have minor health issues addressed on their properties, will have to fend for themselves for as long as an entire quarter. On the ground cash is scarce as banks have been damaged, and their workers deal with homelessness or seriously damaged homes. The price of gasoline has increased as has the price of soon-to-be-scarce produce.
Many of the images of Hurricane Melissa: dead bodies and the destruction of whole communities are so graphic they cannot be shared. As I write this the death toll is almost three dozen, with more bodies to be found under the rubble and in the waterways. I am grateful to be safe and dry. And my water was turned back on yesterday; I am good. I have what so many here don’t.
I remain committed to this beautiful island, home of my ancestors, now my home. I am not going anywhere. After all, I may have a wedding to attend….
***
Many thanks to the exquisite staff at Hotel S in Kingston, where I rode out the hurricane. Their professionalism, kindness and warm Jamaican hospitality belied the turmoil going on outside their walls and throughout the country. I don’t know how they took care of us so well when they themselves were dealing with the myriad effects of the hurricane. And their Jamaican breakfasts are to die for….
The scary-cute statue of Bob Marley was a constant source of entertainment for people like me with time on their hands. After leaving behind Donald Trump to encounter Hurricane Melissa dressing up like a demon for Halloween seemed like overkill, so I took this photo with the porcelain Jamaican bard instead.
Thanks to City to City Express, which got me home when my regular service was not fully functional and gave me S.B., an engaging companion.
Kudos to the staff here in my building, many of whom rode out the storm here. They helped secure apartments unit by unit, kept residents abreast with frequent news bulletins, and have been working around the clock. As I write this I hear the sounds of soldering and chopping as they continue to restore the plant. I am glad whenever I see one of the employees at work because I know that unemployment is around the corner.
Last but not least much love to my McCourty-McCourtie clan. We lost Alvin but we have each other. May our re-acquaintanceships strengthen and may we each play our part in bringing this island back, better than ever.
The volunteer site managed by the Jamaican government and the Office of Disaster Preparedness and Emergency (ODPEM) is: https://supportjamaica.gov.jm/volunteers. Registration takes just a few minutes.
And here is another organization that I support, which has teamed with Jamaican restaurants to provide food for the displaced and the hungry: World Central Kitchen (WCK), founded by Chef José Andrés. This is the Jamaica donation page:
This is the WCK home page: https://wck.org/.
