While my mom heads off on a tour, Dan, his mom, and I am off to see the “real” Jamaica: Sam Sharpe Square. It turns out that this is a holiday in Jamaica: National Heroes Day. Sam Sharpe, a preacher and a brave fighter against slavery, is one of the heroes we are celebrating today, along with five other men and a woman who fought against slavery, and all people on the island who have performed acts of heroism large and small. It is a happy holiday. Everywhere, people are smiling and friendly. Several military and marching bands parade across the square amid fine music. We listen respectfully to passionate speeches. The three of us are the only white faces in the square, and I feel privileged to witness, and in a small way to take part in, this fine Jamaican event.
Later, Dan sits with his mom in a local café while I check out the Harbour Street Crafts Market. Here, the people are hoping for tourist-visitors, and they practice the art of roping in passers-by. Please come into my shop! Feel free just to look! No need to buy! This way, my lady, this way! “No thank you,” I say again and again, smiling, still happy on this fine holiday. “Thank you, but no.” I do not want souvenir shirts, baskets, hats, jewelry, carvings, shells, or any souvenirs other than these fine memories.
Or… wait… maybe a picture or two. Three ladies sit together near the doors of their shops. Beautiful ladies, brightly painted shops, rich textures of wares. I ask if I might take their picture and offer to pay. A deal is struck that holds all over the crafts market. People would be happy to let me photograph them for free, but they do not turn down the money. They are not rich people, and I have received something of value in fair exchange.
“Hello, I am Roy,” says the painter of wooden carvings, “so you will know whose picture you have taken.” “I am Ginger,” I say. We shake hands and wish each other well.
“Where are you from?” asks another. “Boston,” I say. “I lived in Boston for a number of years,” he says. “Roxbury. Matapan.” “Which do you like better,” I ask, “Boston or Jamaica?” “Oh, Jamaica!” he says with a big grin. “Everyone is friendly here.”
And it’s true. Here are some of the friendly people at the crafts market.
I bargain hard for a taxi fare back to the cruise terminal. We argue. I almost walk away twice. But at last we come to an agreement, and any hard feelings vanish. The driver comes by to pick up Dan and his mother as soon as he sees that Dan’s mom can’t walk easily. We chat amiably all the way to the terminal. When we arrive, he introduces himself—Desmond—and we follow suit, shaking hands all around, wishing each other a good vacation and a happy holiday.
Oh, Jamaica, I’m glad to know you!
