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INTRO First Magazine was started in Kingston, Jamaica in December 2004 by a group of partners from various areas of expertise who were interested in creating a new Jamaican publication that was of a high standard. Thanks to the the vision and assistance of Lithographic Printers in Kingston, First published four issues and 40,000 copies of the 7x7 inch magazine. The magazine was critically acclaimed and impossible to duplicate since it was structure-less; dependent on the unique and unpredictable nature of daily life as opposed to themes or subjects aimed at target groups. After publishing the fourth issue in late 2005, First went on hiatus and the partners returned to their respective careers, until late 2007 when it was decided that First should make a return. With a shift towards a web-driven model accompanied by an annual print issue, the new First remains true to its original intent while providing a powerful new platform for new contributors drawn from around the world – but all leading back to the foundation in Kingston. As before, the magazine will reflect upon modern life in Jamaica, and like Jamaicans themselves, it will continually look outward – observing, absorbing and reinventing the world surrounding it. Welcome. Peter Dean Rickards, Editor
The QR codes on this page allow you to connect quickly and easily to reggae and dancehall mixes that were exclusively recorded for selected articles. Those mixes relate to the content and the atmosphere of the articles and there by offer an additional layer of emotions and infotainment. All you need to make use of the QR codes is a mobile phone with a camera, QR reading software and access to the internet. I case you haven’t installed that kind of software already, you can download a free application here: For I phone user: Get the “Barcode” software at the Appstore. Others: http://reader.kaywa.com/ Once it is installed, you simply take a picture of one of the codes below and your phone will directly connect to the mix and stream it..
The Fights dancehall mix 25 minutes
Kingston Logic ghetto tech mix 17 minutes
Our Darkest Hours dubstep mix 28 minutes
School of Vision reggae mix 30 minutes
The Bill dancehall mix 27 minutes
CONTENT INTRO 003 CONTENT 004–005 THE FIGHTS 006–027 Thursday Nights at the Fights. Street brawling in its most organised form.
DEATH IN TIVOLI GARDENS 028–033 A TIME BEFORE REGGAE 034–041 An interview with Wilburn Theodore Cole.
RAYMOND 042–045 EVERYBODY IS A STAR 046–063 NIGHT OF THE SLURRING MAMPIES 064–069 OUR DARKEST HOURS 070–095 KINGSTON LOGIC 096–099 A text-a-text with Terry Lynn.
THE BILL 100–109 Jamaica‘s dark side in numbers.
A BEAUTIFUL NERD 110–119 SEE JAMAICA AWAY FROM THE CROWDS 120–129 SCHOOL OF VISION 130–147 A visit at the School of Vision, home of a Rastafarian community in the Jamaican mountains.
IMPRINT/THANKS 148–149
011 On a Thursday Night in the middle of the concrete jungle, the Lions come out to play. Already notorious for its garrison politics, this particular downtown community cements its reputation by adding brute sport to its list of attributes. Unyielding to outside authority, its proud residents are often misunderstood by outsiders who fear what they don’t understand. As a population detached and growing larger each week the anticipation is thick in the air as we witness an incredibly entertaining release. The crowd that surrounds is jovial, boisterous and dense and since we’re late it takes great effort to penetrate this barrier. It’s a privilege to stand close; everybody wants to see what’s going on. It’s “Thursday Night at theFights” – street brawling in its most organized form; a makeshift ring constructed of two ropes held in place by feeble pieces of wood, lodged not too securely in the ground and a couple of nearby lampposts. There’s no pretense here. No one bothers about things as trivial as mouthguards or doctors or even a bell. Many are dressed in rags and bear a slight resemblance to guttersnipes. To others, these are the dregs of society. Anyone brave enough (or drunk enough) to step inside
must be prepared to take a beating; the crowd doesn’t react well to boring fights. So when two boys, calling themselves “Tall Man” and “Tupac”, (neither looking a day over twelve) knock fists to start their fight, little Tupac stares up at the other one with a lust for blood in his eyes. Their style of fighting is a mixture of traditional boxing and raw streetfighting. Fists are flung without mercy, covered with nothing more than thin bag-training gloves, each blow conecting with a reverberating thud as the commentator echoes “Boop-Bap-Boop!” provoking the crowd to roars of laughter. But this only whets their appetite, they want blood. Though the tall one has the advantage of height he is reluctant to use it, and the smaller is angrier with each blow he receives, eyes bloodshot and filled with tears he lunges at the other. Dizzy from the impact and only about five minutes into the fight Tall Man asks for water. It’s all he can ask for, all he can get. If he falls there’s no doctor by the ringside or any cars that could transport him to one. Many taxis are not caught here when it’s close to midnight. More cackles from the pack as they tease the boy for his weakness and during these water breaks, the DJ plays some tunes to keep the crowd bubbly. True enough to the crowd’s judgment, the boy punks out after about two more rounds, retreating, in shame to the crowd amidst shouts of disappointment, he will have to answer to whomever forced him in there. The mob grows restless, they’re hungry for another. In jumps a heavy-set female. She is missing a tooth or two. Apparently she has been here before; it’s a weekly tradition here, and people will gladly take a punch or two, as long as they can prove themselves the more merciless by the end of the fight. The man on the mic sips his beer and calls for a contender. She is viciously intimidating, this beast of a woman, and although the crowd wants blood, none seem too willing to spill their own, until a pretty adolescent with nothing but skin on her bones steps into the ring.Though she is reputed to be quite an agitator the crowd objects with shouts of “murder!” She is already wearing her gloves, her face is fixed with a stare that means that she is serious, and it is with a
013 persuasion that she eventually yields to the wishes of the crowd. It is they who rule this arena. Easily, the girl would have shattered under the weight of the whale’s blow. Out steps another, equally as intimidating as the one who awaits her; her arms covered in scars and her face bleached to its second layer of skin, there is a sinister grin across her face and the crowd screams in excitement, as she dares her opponent to cross her. This promises to be a fun fight. They strike each other with intense force and speed, while the pack has to move with them, ducking out of the way because of their proximity to the ring, and if one person shifts, another slides into the space if it means having a better view, and if the crowd shifts again, one squeezes in friends. But in this crowd we are all one and we lean on each other for support, it is one big rollercoaster ride we all enjoy. The contender smiles though the blows to her face have turned it purple and she is blinded by the hair extensions that keep falling over her face, as a consequence she is beeing beaten. We are distracted for a moment as a fight breaks out in the middle of the crowd. Someone falls to the ground collapsing under the force of a punch, but no one really cares. If they wanted an audience they would step into the ring. There is not much respect for those who are not brave enough to display their skill in front of the crowd. Such distractions only last for only a moment. A little boy has managed to sneak to the front while we are distracted and he is blocking the others from where he is standing. “Go roun’!” shouts an older youth whom he must obey. In this community everyone is everyone’s parent. Without further delay it is time for the real rumble. Leo, the reigning King of the ring looks to be about 6 feet tall and 300 pounds heavy. It is he we have come to see. The Dancehall music blares from the speakers as he teases the crowd by pretending to charge at people he could easily knock unconscious and we’re anxious to see him fight someone ominously known only as “Strength.”
After maybe fifteen minutes of the charade the crowd grows restless, the music cannot fool us any longer, we want to see him fight and we are realizing that a worthy contender has yet to challenge him, Leo disappears with promises to return, but the music can hold us no longer. The crowd disperses like ants escaping rain, the streets are empty. It’s as though noone was ever here; and seven days seems much too long to wait for another “Thursday Night at the Fights”.
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ÂťThey strike each other with intense force and speed, and the pack must move with them.ÂŤ
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ÂťA makeshift ring constructed of two ropes held in place by feeble pieces of wood, lodged not too securely in the ground, and a couple of nearby lampposts.ÂŤ
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»There’s no pretense here. No one bothers about things as trivial as mouthguards or doctors or even a bell.«
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No picture would say enough. You could see the blood on them, splattered on the walls, the holes through the windows and marrow on the floor, they would be gruesome, but they still wouldn’t be enough. It’s the smell that lingers, that strucks us most upon entering that house, that smell, like meat left for weeks in an unplugged freezer, these were human remains, it is the unmistakable stench of death. It is oddly quiet in the community, despite the bustling traffic on its exterior, unsupervised children play games on the concrete and I wonder for a moment if this is the right place, then we draw closer. There are easily more than one hundred tiny bullet holes in the tin win-
dow on the top floor, but from a distance, on the outside the house looks like any other on its scheme, a two-storey wedged in between other two-stories. Inside it is a slaughterhouse, like something out of a movie I had never wanted to see, and I feel the temperature fall as I step inside out of the stifling Tivoli heat. Complete and total disarray, like a storm had blown through. Sunday dinner remains seasoned and uncooked on the kitchen sink, and the flies watch as their larvae wriggle to life. There are photos strewn all over the upstairs floor not far from the front page of The Outlook; even the dresser, the closet, a Styrofoam box has bullet holes, life has been interrupted here. The bloody, bullet-holed pillow
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030 sitting on top of what I assume had once been used as a dining table screams that this was no small effort – had they stripped him here, the one whose blooded, tattered jeans remain? To the people sipping wine from the assumed safety of their balconies, Sunday, January 13, 2008 would have been another day in Tivoli Gardens – the community is known after all for being Jamaica’s biggest garrison and five people dying there would be neither a surprise nor a concern to one who believes the place to be seething with decadence and crime, but things were quiet here before they came. Mere meters away from the scene, separated only by a fence is the Edward Seaga Sports Complex and a batch of young boys have gathered in a circle on what looks to me like a basketball court while an older man stands giving instruction. They and others like them
in Jamaica’s inner cities must have the strength of lions to be able to remain productive in an environment that does not foster such things as productivity, in a country that believes them to be a failure before giving the chance to succeed. In Jamaica, we generally have what I call “crowd conversations”; everyone speaks at the same time, yet everyone is heard, and for a grassroots community such as this, the crowd is a single entity, a common identity is shared here and most often the mystery be comes clear when you turn a listening ear. But I can only tell you what I saw two days after the shooting. The bullet holes nearly blanket the walls of the house; there is a trail of blood leading from a splash on the wall through to the back of the house, where they say the bodies were dragged out and transported to the morgue, smudges behind the fridge that look like they had come from a gripping hand and the stove they had moved to clear the way for the transport is cov-
ered in the same. No matter how we spin this it looks like a massacre; one like too many others in Jamaica’s recent history. Then the crowd speaks, we are all human and subject to biases, but this is what was heard. There is a woman, sitting out in front of the gate leading to the house, a baby bouncing about in her lap. She tells me she doesn’t like to relive it, then of how he cried that day, and how she begged for both their lives, holding him naked in her arms, crying “He has asthma” and how they had tried to push her in with the rest, in the room upstairs. They did not care the child was there.
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„They and others like them in Jamaica’s inner cities must have the strength of lions to be able to remain productive.“
The old woman, in the house next door, her sheets are burnt from where the teargas canister fell. Others say the rain fell heavier as the bullets sprayed from the helicopter above. There was one lucky enough to hear her brother die, on the phone. He told her he was cold. They beat her with a piece of board for defending his life and then handcuffed her and took her to the hospital for treatment. They told me they celebrated, took pictures posing with the bodies, proud of their feat. Many have lost their allegiance to their government, they feel deeper disenfranchised, and I am not the only one worried about retaliation. Words by Jarmilla Jackson Illustrations by Gabriel Holzner
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Wilburn a.k.a. “Stranger” Cole was born in 1945 in Kingston, Jamaica. He grew up in Trenchtown, in a time that had “less cars and less cell phones” and in a family that was very much into music. Wilburn’s father and his uncle were both talented guitar players. The later, Gilbert Cole, used to regularly play with the legendary Ernest Ranglin. Wilburn himself went on to become one of the most outstanding artists of the Ska era – the era that marked the advent of modern Jamaican popular music. We had the chance to speak to him just two days after the funeral service for Alton Ellis and the passing away of Byron Lee. Despite having lost one of his best friends and “another great Jamaican artist” just a few days ago, Stranger patiently told us about a time before Reggae, his way in to the music business, and the changes his home country as well as its music have gone through ever since then.
Which music did you grow up with and how did you get in the touch with that music? As far as I can think back, music has always been a public good in Jamaica. And even in my early days, it was the sound systems that got me into music. Especially as radio wasn’t really as common as it is nowadays. The music the sounds were playing back then, however, wasn’t Jamaican. It was American music – mainly Rhythm and Blues and Rock’n’Roll. I remember listening to songs like “See You Later Alligator”, people like Shirley and Lee, Fats Domino, Rosco Gordon and those kind of people really were big in Jamaica when I grew up and they had a big big influence on me. Which sound systems were the ones which were big back then? Well, Duke Reid and Coxsone were the leading sounds, of course. I used to listen to Bells The President, King Edward the Giant, Tom The Great Sebastian, Count Boysie, Lord Koos of the Universe, Sir Nick the Champ, King Tubby’s, and V Rocket – etc etc. There were so many sounds I listened to – I can’t really recall all of their names.
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»All the riddims were Ska. Because Ska was the thing.« You had your first big hit together with Duke Reid in 1962. Please tell me a little about how you came to work with Duke Reid and how your very first tunes made it on his sound system. Well, actually the very first song I made which went number one was called “In and Out the Window”. That was sung by Monty Morris. Regarding Reid: The fact that my brother used to work as a selector for Duke Reid’s sound system back then, made it a little easier for me to get the chance to record in his Treasure Isle studio. So I went on to have two more number one hits. One was called “Ruff and Tuff ” and the other one was called “When I Call Your Name”. So you coulda say I had three number one hits in a row in 1962 – the year Jamaica became independent.
Were people already calling the type of music you were making Ska back then? Yea yea yea yea yea. There was a lot of people before me in this music business, you know. You have people like Derrick Morgan and Patsy, Laurel Aiken, Owen Gray, and Scully & Bunny, and Alton Ellis, and Higgs & Wilson, and I can go on. You have a lot of people long before I. And the music was already called Ska then. All the riddims were Ska. Because Ska was the thing. Like the Rocksteady and the Reggae and the Dancehall later on. And I was lucky enough to be an artist in the atmosphere of Ska. So ever since Ska, all types of original Jamaican music have basically been the music of the people. In consequence, the music also always reflected the people who were doing it. Looking at Jamaican music back then when you got started and listening to nowadays` stuff, people must have changed quite a lot then, don’t? Oh, yes. Definitely. People have changed a lot. The music has changed and the people have changed, too. And these changes have a good side and a bad side. For one thing, the good changes is that the music has reached an international status. I mean in the time of Ska you had people like Desmond Dekker and all these people and Millie Small who had big hit records in those days. And then when it come to the Rocksteady thing, you have people like Ken Boothe and Alton Ellis, and quite a few more guys, you know, who come and changed around that style of music. And then in the Reggae thing now – the Bob Marley thing and all a that things you know. So there were a lot of changes from the Ska back then until today.
the
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»I used to listen to Bells the President, King Edward
Giant , Tom The Great Sebastian , Count
Lord Koos
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Nick the Champ, King Tubby’s V Rocket.« and
ÂťIn the beginning of the music, we were also given a fight with the music.ÂŤ
041 People becoming “different”. Was that one reason for you to move to Canada in the 70s? Well, I went to UK on a tour and then when I came back I decided to go to Canada. But it was not really because people becoming different. I went for a relative who wanted to have me up there and all a that. It was a family thing.
Would you agree that people were less angry back then compared to nowadays? I woulda say yes, and I woulda say no. Because, you know, in the beginning of the music, we were also given a fight with the music. The older people didn’t think it was something good for us as a youngsters. So we were criticized. But from the Ska thing on, it was all good basically. But I’m talking music here. I mean for the people in Jamaica, too, things were maybe not as hard as they’re today. Things were cheaper and you could live of a more smaller money. But this is not just Jamaica. This is a just world wide thing. The money that you would pay for a beer in 1962, that money is chipper now. And with everything becoming more expensive and harder to afford, people become a little different, you know?
Speaking of family – your son just released a new album, right? Yes, thing called „Babylon Days“ and his name is Squidly Cole. You might already know that he has worked with people like Lauryn Hill, Sizzla, the Marley sons, and many more before recording his own music. Do you still make records yourself ? Well, I don’t do records for the people anymore unless I do something for a friend or somebody really wants me to do a special recording. Most of the recording, I do with my son and for myself. But I will always make records. I have about three CDs which have not been released yet to be released sometime next year. Fore more information about Stranger Cole, visit www.100studio.com. Interview by Tobias Huber Photography by Gabriel Holzner
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RAY MOND Words by Peter Dean Rickards, Illustration by Gabriel Holzner
Even today, I believe Raymond’s intentions had been good. It wasn’t that he was a bad person or a bona fide con artist; he was just trying to get by in a place where “getting by” often meant juggling jobs and inventing schemes to supplement one’s income. Like many unwary Jamaicans who took one of those five flights a day to places like Miami and Toronto in the mid-1970s, Raymond earned extra money selling things like Tupperware, vacuum cleaners and even underwear. He was pretty good at it too and always seemed to have a better car and more expendable income than my overworked parents. For years, my parents resisted Raymond’s get-rich schemes. As far as they were concerned, Raymond sold junk that people didn’t need, an unacceptable notion for a person like my father who still hadn’t fully adjusted to a peculiar North American culture where excess and junk
had an established place and purpose. To my father, there was no logic in converting our rented split-level into a “flippin’ flea market”. So what if Raymond sold sufficient Tupperware to send his rotten kids to Disneyworld every summer, it still wasn’t worth the trouble. Besides, my father had schemes of his own. One of these schemes came to him after a series of “home invasions” were reported in the local newspapers. According to the Hamilton Spectator, a youth gang was roaming the mean streets of Burlington, Ontario and preying up-on old people by knocking on their doors and pretending to be Jehovah Witnesses. When the unwitting old person opened his door, he was greeted by masked Canadian youths who threatened them with Rambo knives and hockey sticks while other members of the gang rummaged through the victims house, making off with liquor and cartons of cigarettes, and in
044 one case, a valuable cat. Amid all the heightened chatter about “Canada getting bad”, my father struck upon a grand plan: “Give the people what they need!” The next day my father came home with a bag of brass peepholes that he had bought from the local Kmart. He must have had fifty of them. In his hand he held a brown envelope stuffed with photocopies of the Spectator article with the bits about “opening the door to unknown persons” and getting beaten with hockey sticks highlighted in yellow marker. At thebottom of each page he wrote the words: “Crime is on the rise. Protect your Loved Ones. Install a Peephole.” Now, even though I had become somewhat wary of my father’s snap ideas, like the time he
insisted on making my little sister’s Halloween costume out of a cardboard box (she was supposed to be “dice”), I had to admit this seemed foolproof. Clearly, here was a man who was thinking ahead, and yet, the plan backfired. After all, even if peepholes were cheap, sensible and based on good old fashioned fear, we had overlooked the deal-breaking reality that our salesman was still a 6-foot tall black man with a strange accent, bad shoes and a dodgy-looking drill. A few weeks later, Raymond showed up again with another scheme. Still dejected from the peephole flop my father showed rare interest in Raymond’s suggestion that he purchase a coffee machine. “Everyone was doing it,” promised Raymond and since he was the local agent for the company that manufactured BOTH the machines and the stuff that went in it, my father would be privy to a bargain. At first my mother was suspicious arguing Raymond’s “deal” was actually a second-hand Mr. Coffee that didn’t even accept the new dollar coins. She also wasn’t very trustful of Raymond or hiswife Cherry who wore bright red lipstick – a certain sign the woman was losing her mind. “See the
»Even today, I believe Raymond’s intentions had been good. It wasn’t that he was a bad person or a bona fide con artist; he was just trying to get by.«
lipstick?” she whispered to my father as Cherry started arranging Mr. Coffee brochures on our dining table, “she’s crazy Pete, she’s crazy!” But Raymond had done his homework, and even though the deposit to get our new second hand Mr. Coffee machine meant having to endure a few more cutbacks – such as no lights before 10 pm and sending the dog away and so on – my parents bought the machine. As for me, I was optimistic until I took one of the Mr. Coffee brochures to school. As my contribution to show-and-tell I proudly produced the brochure and reading word-for-word from it explained how Mr. Coffee was going to make my family filthy rich. But then, James Ciccolini put up his hand and said the machines didn’t accept the new dollar coins, which is why his dad was selling half a warehouse of them to “stupid West Indian immigrants and Pakis”.
Sure enough, I started to notice worry on the faces of my parents each time they’d return from checking the machine at the Chrysler plant’s cafeteria. The primitive machine was hopelessly defective and made coffee that the Chrysler workers said tasted like “a mouthful of dirty pennies”. And so it was kicked, beaten and spat on until it was finally pushed in a corner of the cafeteria where it died of neglect. And yet Raymond had guaranteed the machine would pay for itself within three weeks. My parents phoned him repeatedly, but no Raymond. He was long gone, and when my little sister joked he would probably “buy a bunch of Playboys with mum and dad’s money”, my father threatened to send us to the Children’s Aid Society where nuns would try to molest us. Like many Jamaican immigrants of the time, there was nothing to do but learn from the mistakes and work harder to make up for the losses. Indeed, it wasn’t long before Jamaicans in Toronto became famous for their ability to juggle multiple jobs while somehow raising a young familiy and as in the case of my father, expanding their qualifications. And yet for every Jamaican who made it, there was another who didn’t. Such was the case of poor Raymond who as we learned a few years later, had died in a fire, alone and penniless after falling asleep with a cigarette in his hand. Far from Jamaica and the politics and the crime… just trying to get by.
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066 I don’t know what it was that made me look up from my dozing sleep that windy morning. I remember being half in and out of consciousness. Somewhat aware of my surroundings and still lost in a dream I was having about trying to sell the State Department a miniature person I had found in my bathtub and captured in a jar. “I won’t take less than 1 million”, I told them, “and I ain’t talking about no rasscloth midgets either star! This is a real three inch human I got here!” Suddenly, as I was about to close the deal for a very reasonable $750,000 US (plus stock options), my nose detected a high rancid stench that was far too powerful to be my imagination. My eyes fluttered and I opened them slowly, trying to adjust to the light. And then I saw them.
As they limbered closer, that smell intensified. Was that “Babe”? No! It was “Charlie.” I raised my hand to my face and rose from my plastic chair, hoping to ease past them casually without being detected. No such luck. In a second, they were upon us, blocking off the only exit and eyeing us all in a way that made me want to clutch my head and scream! And then, after what seemed like an eternity, the one in the purple blouse spoke up:
We all shuddered but did what she asked.
Jamaica is a tough place, but Mampies, well, you just don’t want to mess around with Mampies. Especially at two in the morning and especially when they’re armed with U.S. dollars! We fetched them drinks and gave them a big pile of ganja. Then they plunked themselves down at a table and proceeded to mash up some cigarettes into the pile of weed and began rolling it altogether into about a dozen pin sized spliffs that they slobbered on and stuck behind their ears. The natives were perplexed but nobody challenged them. We had all seen the powers of the Mampy before and nobody wanted to get them upset and provoke them to start hugging us. So, we dug quickly through the emergency Mampy crate and retrieved that damn One Love Marley single and some other crappy stuff that previous Mampies had left behind: Rod Stewart...Alanis Morrisette, and...(God have mercy on our souls) that Mambo Number 5 thing. For a while, it seemed to work. The Mampies sat quietly in one corner, talking about cowboy boots and summers “up north at the cottage”, when we made the mistake of playing INXS. That’s when things turned really ugly. It was dreadful and we all scattered to one side as the smaller children started to cry and ask if they were going to go to heaven. There was no doubt about it now, the Mampies had let loose.
They started to whip out U.S. dollars and before we knew it, one of the natives had fallen under their spell. We tried to pull him back but his eyes had glazed over at the sight of the greenbacks and he was now moving hypnotically into their clutches. “Bloodcloth. Whatcha star? Dem gyal probably never get a slam in all ten years.” As the Mampies clutched the pole and shook the roof, I managed to hide some of the little ones in a cupboard. “Don’t make a sound”, I told them as I hurriedly locked them inside, “this is just a game and the winner will get his very own deportee Corolla to run taxi wit.” Meanwhile, back on the dancefloor, things had taken a turn for the worse:
Poor Winston. They had him exactly where they wanted him and it was scary. Especially when one of the Mampies kept lifting up her giant blouse and flashing her her big rolls of pale fat. It was full of varicose veins and flopped over her zipper. In the panic, I glanced over at Winston, still caught in their lair without any chance of escape! “Oh Bloodcloth Star! Mi frighten now! Run weh star! Run weh!” But it was too late.
Everyone just tried to keep as still as possible. This was too much. Too much for the senses. The little children in the cupboard could no longer stand it and suddenly they broke free and tore out of the bar as if their clothes were on fire! “God help us!”, they cried as they fled into the Jamaican night! And then, just when it seemed as if things could get no darker, it did. The one in the purple started to tell jokes.
As they sat there, laughing, we took the opportunity to try to drag away Winston who was still relatively unscathed. But just as we got close enough, the Mampy tricked Winston into thinking she was falling backwards and as he came closer, she forced herself on him!
068 Not to be outdone, the biggest fattest Mampy lumbered forward and after blowing some beer out of the blowhole in the back of her neck, seized Winston who was completely paralyzed with fear and totally helpless! Suddenly I felt my legs start to move underneath me. On their own; as if the impulse to run was no longer the sole reserve of my brain which was baked in a petrified funk! And then...she looked at me. Right at me. And, for the first time in my life, I found myself looking directly into a burning ring of FIRE! Â
That was all it took. I scrambled onto the top of the bar and dove, using the top of her head as a stepping stone before grabbing the rafters and vaulting myself out the exit. I ran as fast as I could with the sound of Rod Stewart following behind me in the chilled air and visions of my life flashing fast before my eyes. That night I hid in a Burger King dumpster as the sounds of other Mampies scuffling around outside made my blood run cold. They were everywhere: stalking, eating, dancing , cursing , spitting and sitting on everyone’s face in every hotel across the island. As the sun rose over the horizon, I opened the lid of the dumpster and looked around me. The Mampies were gone. Asleep in their various corners...on top of their victims or in pools of their own alcohol-induced vomit. I dusted a half eaten Whopper off my shirt and made my way back. Wondering... What the hell did they do with poor Winston? Words by Peter Dean Rickards Illustration by Gabriel Holzner
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»the bill«
JAMAICA’S DARK SIDE IN NUMBERS
Photography by Peter Dean Rickards Statistics compiled by Tobias Huber
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30 percent year-on-year growth in murder against women in 2007.
827 reported cases of sexcrimes since january 2008.
676 reportet cases of rape against women since january 2008.
4 homicides every day in 2007.
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3600 Jamaican Defense Force strength. 8300 Jamaican Constabulary Force strength. 142 arrests made during operations in 2006. 15413 assorted rounds of ammunition seized. 74 firearms recovered in 2006.
15 percent police killings of all registered murders in 2007. 191 police officers charged between 1999 and 2007. 111 police officers aquitted in that time. 19 number of warrants outstanding in that time. 1 number of police officers convicted in that period.
A BEAUTIFUL
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111 Words and Photography by Peter Dean Rickards
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emember that girl in grade 6 whose head you used to pound with chalkbrush erasers? The one with the funny name whose lunch smelled. The geek who would sit alone in the corner of the cafeteria, eating fried bologna and chocolate milk; stopping every now and then to peer nervously over her thick Coca-Cola bottle eyeglasses as if on constant alert for any incoming spitballs?
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emember her?
117 You flung mud at her once and poisoned her goldfish that she brought in for “Pet Day”– then laughed when she tried to revive it with mouth-to-mouth. That’s how she got the name Fishlips.
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h, that nerdy girl‌even if you don’t remember her, she remembers you.
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Portland
Original but sleeping tourism resort
The parish of Portland started off as the original destination in the Caribbean with a wealthier kind of tourist like Errol Flynn making it famous (his widow still lives there; still dressing like the silverscreen era). The North-West coast with all of its mega-resorts has since left Portland long behind, which is why we like it so much. Reaching there is a three-hour drive from Kingston. You can go one of two ways but we advice you to ignore the other and take the spectacular drive through Junction and the Rio Grande valley. Portland is famously the home of jerk and our favourite is on the way. Blueberry Hill is a really unassuming place on the left-hand side outside Buff Bay. It’s cheap – eat it with the harddough bread and whatever your usual preference is. Trust us and take the pork over the chicken. Just as we would advise you not to eat jerk in Kingston, except when you’re out at night, we’re kind of cool on Boston, the birthplace of jerk. You have a real choice of restaurants there but the place is full of hustlers who will twang at you – all the tourists must be from America, right? – and overcharge you. But buy the sauce still. Take a visit to the parish’s capital of Port Antonio. There is some kind of tourism-related redevelopment going on with the new marina and the town – it’s no bigger than
one – is good for shopping and not just Bob Marley t-shirts. For accommodation try the once-hip, now commendably cheap Frenchman’s Cove resort. All the information is there on the website but those photographs don’t do this place justice. Make sure to get one of the villas on the cliff edge and we’re not giving away more that, albeit to add that the sunrise over the Caribbean sea is stunning. The beach, despite its beauty and fame, has usually few people on it plus it has a fishable freshwater river flowing into it. There’s further beauty a few miles down the road at the Blue Lagoon, which is undergoing some kind of renovation. From here you can take overpriced raft rides or trespass a little bit and leap off the helipad into the Lagoon itself – a better idea. Oh, and it always rains in Portland. But given the incredible lush greenery of the place, you wouldn’t want it any other way.
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Treasure Beach Easiest Community in Jamaica
Do NOT do as we once did and drive cross-country from Portland – that led to a puncture, several arguments and a car-hire place that likely won’t deal with us anymore. Instead amble to the south coast via Kingston. Here there’s probably an argument to have taken the other route (through St Thomas, Machioneal and Boston) to reach Portland in the first place and then save the drive through Junction for the way back. Either way, it’s your choice. The St. Elizabeth scenery is unlike anywhere else on the island – all parched earth and craggy cliffs.
However the place has real charm and once in the fishing community of Treasure Beach you’ll find some of the nicest people you ever met. Again, we’re not all murderers. Make sure that you check out Treasurebeach.net, which is an amazing resource. Jake’s, the little boho resort run by the Henzell family is a must. It’s best known for hosting the annual Calabash Literature Festival and a few other cultural events besides being featured in every up-market travel publication. The seafood at their Jack Sprat’s restaurant is great value – she will also love the star-covered beach at night - and has the best pizza in Jamaica. Yes, we eat farin’ food also. Even if it means streaching your budget a bit you should go ahead and book a room there for at least one night. It’s something else, waking up in the morning with the shutters wide open, a view of the sea beyond the edge of your bed and the waves lapping against the rocks. We usually stay at Irie Rest, that – like Jake’s – has friendly staff, but eases your budget and is just a short walk away from the beach – where you need to spend at least one night huddled over a fire. Turn left and there’s a little bar a few hundred yards down the beach. Ask around for a guy called Aman Parchment. A community first-aider, fisherman and just about everything else, Aman also runs boat trips to places like the Pelican Bar. Next…you’ll have to drive back to the airport, sorry. Words by Jarmilla Jackson Illustrations by Gabriel Holzner
WHOare the WISEandWHO are theFOOLS ? A visit at the “School of Vision”, Home of a Rastafarian community in the Jamaican mountains.
»Being a Rastafari, everyone is going to fight you. But we still have to make a step towards our God even though it’s not their God.«
133 The only time visitors of the capital Kingston will normally get to see Papine, is when going to the Northern part of Jamaica via Old Hope Road, passing Liguanea and Mona Heights on their way to the rangy core of the island. For students of the University of the West Indies however, the roundabout in the centre of Papine often is the daily start and finish point for bus and route taxi rides to and from the city centre. After dark though – that’s something most of my fellow students agree upon – one should rather get in or disembark right on campus. Reading about the killings of two students next to the gates of U.W.I. in the Gleaner paper December 2007, their warnings come back to my mind: “Papine – a badman place”. Almost exactly one year before: it’s a hell of a hot Saturday afternoon. The air is shimmering between the business buildings of New Kingston. Gabriel, a German friend, and I are waiting in the shade for Chung Lee on the parking lot of Edna Manley – a college for visual and performing arts that Gabriel is attending. Chung Lee is a tutor at Edna and has invited us to the traditional Sabbath of the “School of Vision” which is regularly held in Papine. Afterwards, he wants to take us to the little village
of the Rastafarian community which has been existing in the mountains next to town since 1996. During the ride to the venue in his mini bus, Chung Lee explains how he got in touch with the religious group. He was searching for a balance to the stressful city life and found it in the School’s doctrines. He then decided to build his own cottage in the village. It is his long term goal to move there. While Chung Lee is still talking about his future plans, we arrive at Papine bus station. On the platform in the middle of the busy roundabout, a large group of members of the School has already gathered. About a hundred people, mostly dressed in traditional brightcolored clothes which have an African appeal and contrast nicely to the dusty grey surroundings. Many of the clothes have been customized by what look like hand-made star and lion patches. What I consider especially interesting is the fact that the obviously less hardcore members of the group combine parts of those traditional looking clothes with style elements normally known from American east coast rappers: Timberland boots, fake Gucci shades and blinging jewelry. But those modern forms of Rastafarianism don´t seem to
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And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Revelation 19 : 16
bother anyone of the people around. Neither do the starting heartbeat sounds of the Nyambinghi drums annoy me despite not being the biggest fan of Bongo players in Europe. In the following, people celebrate the Lord’s Day alternately singing, drumming, preaching, flag swinging, and trying to evangelize visitors and by-passers. We too, get first insights into the doctrines of the School of Vision and the differences to other Rastafarian tribes after Chung Lee has introduced us to some members: “Well, you got the Bobo Shanti for example – their doctrine is the Trinity. We know that the only Trinity the Bible teaches is the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. But they’ve taken it to another level – their trinity is Charles Edwards, Marcus Garvey – a black liberation leader – and King Selassie. The priest, the prophet and the king. But we say they can be wrong because they’re putting Marcus Garvey and Charles Edwards on the same level as the Almighty, that can’t hold”, explains Donavon Michael Brown – who turns out to be a brother of reggae legend Freddie McGregor later on – who has been a Rasta since 1983 and joined the School back in 2000. He goes on: “For me, I have to say that King Selassie is the
only and the almighty God – the creator of the earth, sky, sea, the universe and everything in it. In any way you look at it.” When the open air service comes to an end in the early evening and the glistening sun starts to set, we return to Chung Lee’s bus together with Donavon and eight other members of the group to leave for the mountains. Looking out the black tinted windows, one can only guess where we are and what’s outside. After approximately ten minutes we should have passed the virtual border at which Kingston’s or rather St.Andrew’s Google map turns from a quite detailed road-map to a green smudge crossed by a yellow zig-zag line. The smutch, that’s the rich green hills and valleys on the foot of the Blue Mountains, the yellow line the bumpy road we are driving on. About another half an hour later, the car stops. The moon shines on the parking platform. There’s an old VW hulk on the one side and you can see steps leading up the mountain on the other end. Many steps. Loaded with various bags of staple food, mainly flour, we begin our climb. After only 15 minutes – at about half way – I certainly think I’m going to die of an heart attack. The others grin and patiently wait for me. Together we finally make it to the top. We cross a red, green, and gold archway as we enter the School of Vision area. Having stored the goods we brought with us, we drink fresh spring water before Chung Lee shows us our lodging. He serves us pottage with dumplings simply made from flour and water for dinner. The vegetables are, like much of the
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For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called wonderful, counselor, the mighty God, the everlasting father, the prince of peace. Isaiah 9 : 6- 7
»It’s the right place, especially from a spiritual point of view. You‘re up in the clouds here, the air is clean, You got spring water – it’s all natural.«
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»I didn’t want to go back in the army because I had just found the truth that I always wanted.«
ÂťSing unto God, sing praises to his name. Extol him that rideth upon the heavens by his name Jah, and rejoice before him.ÂŤ Psalm 68 : 4
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144 Rastas´ nutrition, grown in the village. “Up here we do a lot of food farming and farming. We raise chickens. We also do bananas and manufacture organic roots whine.” Agricultural products don’t only serve for self-supply, however, explained Donavon Brown on the way up to the village: “Selling agricultural products is also the major income stream for the school.” After food we expect a nightly prayer or a ceremony similar to the one we attended in the afternoon. Instead, a friend of Chung Lee passes by and we watch “Ali” on TV. Conservative Rasta groups are said to be quite anti modern technology. That’s different in the School of Vision, says Brown: “Technology is good. I’ve been to Europe and got used to computers and stuff. And even King Selassie said: advance to advance and knowledge will increase. So the computer and the internet of course got their good points too. They’re bringing the world together – the whole world has become a village. It has made life for mankind much easier and in much ways it has opened up knowedge.” Nevertheless, he warns of a dependence on technology and the dangers which come along with technology being abused to permanently observe people. The next day we have some tea for breakfast. Afterwards we walk around the school enjoying the fresh and clean air one hardly gets to breath in downtown. We pass simple private cottages made from wood and clay, partly built into the mountain and a little bit more comfortable community buildings. Kids carrying heavy water containers cross our way before we reach ample vegetable gardens and orchards. On a platform from which one enjoys an impressive view of the hills and valleys of the Blue Mountains, we take a break. On the platform, we meet Robert Williams who’s new name after having been baptized in the School, is Joseph. His story is quite typical for those of the other residents: Having grown up in a Christian family in downtown Kingston, he joined the Jamaican army in 1996. Despite having had a six year contract, he managed to leave the defense force only two years later, starting to work as a security guard for a Catholic priest. Shortly before, a befriended soldier had told him about Rastafari and their believes. The more Joseph learned about the religion, the more he felt attracted by it. His employer though, was everything but amused to learn about his new religious orientation. Joseph remembers every single word from the conversation which led to him being fired by the priest: “He raged and said: ‘You
»Not having material things doesn’t make me unhappy. Who wouldn’t be happy who knows the almighty God and knows that he’s protecting him and showing him everything that he needs to know.«
147 cannot be a Rasta and work in this place for me as I’m a Catholic priest. Rastas put fire on the Pope – you are probably going to burn me‘. I returned: ‘I’m not going to burn you or the Pope – all I want is my religious liberty and I can still be loyal and do my work with integrity.‘ But he said no and fired me. He said: ‘Well, I can get you back in the army‘. But I didn’t want to go back in the army because I had just found the truth that I always wanted.” From that day on, Joseph has been a Rastafari living in the School of Vision. A radical cut which many of his former colleagues, friends and even his family could not comprehend. For himself he says, it wasn’t too hard to get used to the new life and all the rules and rituals that come along with it: „I was brought up from a very tender age to follow instructions as a soldier – I was a scout, a cadet until I went into the Defense Force. So basically changing my life was like marching on as the soldier.“ With the difference, that he quitted following plans and
generals, and started to live by the The Commandments: „The Bible is your compass. But even when you study the Bible you will get to know that you’re going to lots of tribulations and stuff because you’re in this world but you are not of this world. In this world you don’t do the things that people in this world do. Of course, this means not having material things but that doesn’t make me unhappy. Who wouldn’t be happy who knows the almighty God and knows that he’s protecting him and showing him everything that he needs to know.“ Unlike when my preacher in elementary school used to teach similar sapiencies, I kind of buy his words and remember a question I read passing the School’s gate last night: “Who are the wise and who are the fools?” Words by Tobias Huber, Photography by Gabriel Holzner
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IMPRINT EDITOR Peter Dean Rickards
ART DIRECTOR Gabriel Holzner
CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS Gabriel Holzner Peter Dean Rickards
CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Jarmilla Jackson Peter Dean Rickards Tobias Huber
CONTRIBUTING ILLUSTRATOR Gabriel Holzner
CONTRIBUTING DJs Toni Naderer Julian Holzner
KONTAKT Gabriel Holzner mobile: +49 (0)157 715 68712 email: gabe@seen-site.com
PRINT Peschke Druck
LINKS www.first-magazine.net www.afflictedyard.com www.seen-site.com
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THANKS FOR YOUR HELP IN A 1000 DIFFERENT WAYS Mom and Dad, Julian and Sebastian, Grandma, Tobias Huber, Toni Naderer, Camilla Facey, Peter Dean Rickards, Ross, Biggy Biggz, Melinda Brown and Sand, Marvin Bartley, Eve Mann, Chung Knight, Joseph and his Family, Dylan Powe and Natalie Storm, Terry Lynn and Russ Hergert, Jarmilla Jackson, Melstar and Kim, Kemar Lloyd, Wilburn Cole, Dj Barge, Barbara Hartmann, Claus Steininger, Marko Petz, Prof. Rose and Prof. Woyte