Two days ago, I was working on a project at my desk in the office of The Caribbean Coastal Area Management Foundation (C-CAM) when a group of four shots rang out. Close. I got up and walked away from the window. Four more. A pause, someone on the street screamed. One more shot. What struck me first, when looking down at the street, the crowd of people selling vegetables, playing checkers with bottle caps, or just talking outside their cars, after ducking for a moment when the shots fired, all immediately rushed towards the scene of the shooting, some with children in tow. I asked my co-worker why they did this and just said "Curious. Typical Jamaicans." The crowd flowed from bar to storefront until they found where the shots came from (and the victim), in a small alley, across from our office. What struck me second was an obvious, dull thing: Our office is directly next to the police station.
I've been here for a little over three weeks now, in Lionel Town, Clarendon, Jamaica, an area groomed in cane and left slowly to spiral into disconsolate stagnation when the crop was replaced by cheaper sources of sugar. The first thing I noticed was the number of bars, there must be one for every 10 residents, colored in bright pastel stuccos. The one across my office (and next to the location of the shooting) has a small painting, in between the bands of pink and seafoam green, of Minnie and Mickey Mouse embracing. Above Mickey is a pregnant thought bubble holding a bottle of Red Stripe, and the scrawled phrase "A Long Time Me A Wait."
I hadn't been scared here before. Not when people shouted "White Man" when I walked (I haven't seen another white person here), not when the person I hiked with insisted on carrying a knife, even when we were less than a mile from a gathering with a large police presence, not when my host family insisted in me not walking around town alone. I still don't know if I am. Immediately after the shooting, when the man was taken to the hospital and I heard four of the nine shots hit, I felt a weighty chill in my stomach. A cold stone.
That night, my host mother told me what happened: A group of boys from Lionel Town went over to nearby Hayes; killed a girl. Now, her family is trying to get back at them. Last week, they tried to burn down the killer's brother's house. Brother ran out when he smelled smoke. Sunday, they found the bar he was drinking in and shot it up. He died, as did one man biking past (the bartender was shot in the shoulder but survived). My host sister told me the next day: "Don't worry, they knew who they were shooting for."
He's in the hospital now. "On his deathbed," my coworker told me. Might have a better chance if he could get shipped to a hospital further away, but he doesn't have the money. Here you pay upfront. The police still don't know who did it, and are looking for the blue car that sped away after the last shot was heard. I don't know what they'll do if they find.
Less than half an hour after the shooting, the street was back to normal. Men played checkers again, people ate patties half hanging out of their cars, blasting Reggae and Soca. The first time I walked by, I assumed the steady crowd of people was some type of gathering or line. Nope. They just sit and talk and play games and laugh with their children. A long time they a waiting.
I've been here for a little over three weeks now, in Lionel Town, Clarendon, Jamaica, an area groomed in cane and left slowly to spiral into disconsolate stagnation when the crop was replaced by cheaper sources of sugar. The first thing I noticed was the number of bars, there must be one for every 10 residents, colored in bright pastel stuccos. The one across my office (and next to the location of the shooting) has a small painting, in between the bands of pink and seafoam green, of Minnie and Mickey Mouse embracing. Above Mickey is a pregnant thought bubble holding a bottle of Red Stripe, and the scrawled phrase "A Long Time Me A Wait."
I hadn't been scared here before. Not when people shouted "White Man" when I walked (I haven't seen another white person here), not when the person I hiked with insisted on carrying a knife, even when we were less than a mile from a gathering with a large police presence, not when my host family insisted in me not walking around town alone. I still don't know if I am. Immediately after the shooting, when the man was taken to the hospital and I heard four of the nine shots hit, I felt a weighty chill in my stomach. A cold stone.
That night, my host mother told me what happened: A group of boys from Lionel Town went over to nearby Hayes; killed a girl. Now, her family is trying to get back at them. Last week, they tried to burn down the killer's brother's house. Brother ran out when he smelled smoke. Sunday, they found the bar he was drinking in and shot it up. He died, as did one man biking past (the bartender was shot in the shoulder but survived). My host sister told me the next day: "Don't worry, they knew who they were shooting for."
He's in the hospital now. "On his deathbed," my coworker told me. Might have a better chance if he could get shipped to a hospital further away, but he doesn't have the money. Here you pay upfront. The police still don't know who did it, and are looking for the blue car that sped away after the last shot was heard. I don't know what they'll do if they find.
Less than half an hour after the shooting, the street was back to normal. Men played checkers again, people ate patties half hanging out of their cars, blasting Reggae and Soca. The first time I walked by, I assumed the steady crowd of people was some type of gathering or line. Nope. They just sit and talk and play games and laugh with their children. A long time they a waiting.