Green Day In the Hills

by Brittanie Whyte (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Jamaica

There was nothing special about the day when I woke that morning. My sleep was disturbed by the daily booming sound of power drills echoing from the construction site nearby. The stagnant heat of the summer air had made its home in my room, and the stiffness of my old mattress had borne a pain into my lower back. I stretched my arms to the ceiling, moving painfully slowly as I peeled myself from my cotton sheets. I was ready to go about my regular sunny Saturday ritual when my door, almost as if on cue, opened to reveal my mother’s head. “I’ve decided we’re going to visit the orphanage today. ” As quickly as she arrived, she left— leaving me no room for a rebuttal. The children’s home was overseen by her best friend. The trip was her looking for an excuse for them to spend time together but her reason for taking me along was lost upon me. My perception of orphanages was a distorted gloomy image of weeping children huddled together in a building with gray walls. So one could imagine my anxiety as we loaded into a small white van for a three-hour journey. We ventured into the deep country. Cratered roads wound themselves around groves of thick bamboo stalks and unkempt macka bushes. As we ascended into the hills, the discomfort of popping eardrums was outweighed by the calm I received from the green scenic view of large Blue Mahoes and wild banana trees. Our journey took us into the rocky hills of Kingston, Jamaica, above the busy town of Papine. Though the hustle and bustle of its people was inaudible, I could watch as they went along their days, hopping from bus to bus and conducting business from scattered vending stalls. With my headphones blasting indie-pop music in my ears, I leaned my forehead against the foggy window and allowed the vibrating of the van’s motor to send me into a sweet slumber. The slowing of the vehicle woke me. We arrived at a grand entrance of two large white gates erected by grand stone pillars. Through the gates and down a gravel path sat a cul de sac of colorful houses. In the very center of the plot sat a modern white structure resembling a school. It’s turquoise blue finishes contrasted beautifully against its maroon roof. Upon the sound of the approaching vehicle, a crowd of children of varying ages flooded into the car lot to surround the van. Grinning faces and sticky fingers covered every inch of white metal. There was a warmth about their energy, the genuine joy laced in their greetings filled me with love. I stepped from the parked van, to be engulfed by the frail arms of small children. Without much time to part ways with my luggage, I was ushered into the white house. Across the wooden threshold, the smell of freshly polished church shoes grew potent. I entered a brown kitchen and a small girl, much tinier than the rest, handed me a cracked container of stale Play-dough before she sat attentively on the mahogany stool next to me. Soon after, a group of older girls huddled by the kitchen, entertaining me with vivid details of their first-year high school experiences. We exchanged stories, happy and sad, until my feet begged to roam the entirety of the compound. It was late in the evening when we went on our final walk. A steep trek up flights of stairs led me to the peak of the land. Below sat a breathtaking view of the expanse of the beginnings of Kingston to the barriers of St. Catherine. The twinkling city lights against the dusk were mesmerizing. The wind smelt cleaner, felt purer. I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes to listen as the melody of nearby wind chimes sang through the air. We sat in silence on a wooden deck, basking in the crisp, cool wind as it grazed our flushed cheeks. With a cup of cocoa tea in hand, I sat watching the sun make its descent into the green hills before us. Coral rays against a purple sky were the perfect way to end a long day.