War in Kingston

This morning I was planning on taking my first water samples at the Blue Flag properties on Beach Road in Negril. However, the plans were detained because the Ministry of Health (where the samples are usually tested) is closed due to the recent turmoil in Kingston. It has made international news. (There was a good segment on NPR this morning.)

Disclaimer: What follows are not my personal views or the views of Peace Corps, only what I have heard and read from local sources.

It started last week when Prime Minister Golding announced that Justice Minister Dorothy Lightbourne would sign the authorization for the extradition of Christopher Dudas Coke to the United States. The U.S. government requested the extradition of Dudas last August for drug and gun running charges. Dudas is based out of Tivoli Gardens in west Kingston. Last Friday, newspaper pictures showed that the neighborhood had been barricaded and was being patroled, presumably by local gang members. On Saturday what most Jamaicans have been referring to as "the war" began. Three police stations were attacked, one set on fire, and two fired at. The Prime Minister declared a state of emergency for the Kingston and St. Andrew parishes on Sunday which can be used as a rationale for suspending civil liberties and will last for a month unless police deem it safe to cease or parliment deems it necessary to continue. Unfortunately, many civilians did not leave before the violence started and are caught in the crossfire.
Both the police and the military are working hard to restore order to the region and to capture Coke. I was only able to talk very briefly with my host mom from Hellshire who works with the police in Kingston to assure that she was alright. Most of the violence has been concentrated in Kingston, but some has occured in the parish of St. Catherine as well. In fact, on Monday the flat bridge in Bog Walk, very close and en route to Ewarton (my old home) was barricaded. Fortunately, my host mom in Ewarton returned from her conference late enough in the afternoon that the blockade had been dismantled.

Everyone I have spoken with are very troubled that this is happening in the capital. Some see it as a potential "blessing in disguise." People are hopeful that this is a turning point for Jamaica to rid itself of the mafia system for good and provide for people's needs by other means.

Everyone has their own theories about where Dudas is, and wild rumors are flying. In any case, myself and other Peace Corps Volunteers are safe and being well looked after.

It's Official!

I'm finally a real Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV)! I'm serving with NEPT (Negril area Environmental Protection Trust) in Negril which is all the way on the westernmost tip of the island. When I applied to Peace Corps I never expectedI would be nominated to Jamaica. When I was invited to Jamaica I never I would be assigned to a site in a beautiful resort area like Negril. Now that I'm assigned to work in Negril I've decided that I should give up my expectations! I spent three days in Negril two weeks ago, and then returned to Kingston last week for the remainder of training which mostly consisted of playing in the pool and saying goodbye to other Peace Corps Trainees (PCT).

Yesterday Peace Corps Group 81 graduated from training and became real volunteers! The ceremony took place at the U.S. embassy and was overseen by the chargé d'affaires because an ambassador is not currently assigned to Jamaica. We were featured in an article in today's Observer (the main newspaper in Jamaica). After two months of training and looking forward to finally being a PCV instead of a PCT, the actual swear in ceremony was a little anticlimactic. I returned to my site last night and I'm ready to get started!

The English House

Warning: Don't read this entry if you're squeamish.

This past Wednesday several Peace Corps trainees went to Patrick's host family's (the English's) farm to learn about raising chickens: specifically how to slaughter them. I was really excited to have this opportunity because I think that if you're going to eat meat you should be comfortable with killing the animals yourself. Three little girls (Patrick's host sisters) ran out to meet us followed cooly by Patrick who led us behind the house.


We stopped on the way to see the English family's dog and her litter of five puppies. They still had their eyes closed and their little limbs were only barely able to help them balance as they wriggled around on their tummies.

We continued back to where Ricky had brought out the first three chickens, handing one of them to me to hold. The English family gets around 30 new chicks every 4 weeks. After eight weeks they're ready to eat. The first chicken was totally unsuspecting as Ricky adeptly folded its wings behind it into the bag, bent its neck over the edge and sliced the head off. I jumped a little as the bird's body started flapping around, turning the bag crimson. That's all there is to it. Patrick was next, followed by Sammi. 3, 4, 5 chicken heads lay on the ground blinking at their spastic bodies. The chicken I was holding seemed to cluck more frantically with each new head. I'll wait for the next round to try.
After the chickens were killed we dipped the bodies in boiling water t make it easier to remove the feathers. Once the feathers are plucked and the skin on the feet removed, the chicken is washed and ready to be cleaned. Grandma showed me how to cut the bottom of the chicken, which organs to save (the liver, the heart, and the gizzard), and which parts of the feet are good for chicken foot soup. Now all I had to do is kill one and then I would know the process from start to finish.

Sammi and I followed Ricky to the side of the house where we each grabbed a chicken by the wings. Sammi brought her chicken to the bag after Ricky. I turned my chicken the other way, telling her she didn't have to watch. I could feel the chicken's pulse speeding up and my pulse speeding up to match it. The largest thing I had killed before this was a butterfly, and that was an accident. I don't know if the chicken had stolen a glance at its sisters or if it was picking up on my nervousness but this chicken was squawking worse than the last one. Ricky helped me tuck her into the bag and her eyes closed as if in resignation. I felt pressure on the knife, and then a wave of emotion washed over me. I started to cry. I couldn't really say what the emotion was. I think it deserves its own name, but it was probably closest to gratitude and a deep appreciation for life. It suddenly made sense to me why some Native Americans thanked the animal's spirit after killing it. The juxtaposition of the newborn puppies in the front of the house and the chickens in the back probably contributed as well. As I walked home I thought about how much better it was that these chickens could be killed and prepared with care rather than the metallic clutches of a machine. It is so valuable to realize that the food which sustains your life was at one point alive itself.