Paved with Gold

by Heather-Anne Paul (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Jamaica

‘The Streets Are Paved With Gold’ ... That’s what mama said whilst in the midst of regaling exotic tales of childhood memories growing up in the hills of St Andrews, Jamaica, arguably the most beautiful of the 14 parishes. We children would enquire with an element of confusion as to why they were in such haste to leave this island beauty behind. ‘They told us that in England, the Queen’s England, life will be so much better than this primitive existence. Why even the streets are paved with Gold’. Mama and her siblings and countless other eager children had believed this story and could scarcely wait to board the boats and planes blazing trails across the Atlantic Sea. Admittedly it took some time for them thick fog of the late 1950’s England to clear enough for them to realise that the streets were in fact a dull and dank shade of grey. It seemed the sun had decided to remain island bound. As I boarded the plane to visit Jamaica, the land of my forefathers for the first time, I didn’t know what to expect. So many details from those childhood recounts were swirling through my mind. The fruit trees bursting with ripe mangoes and green and pale oranges that bore little resemblance to the bright dazzling oranges that England displayed which were surprisingly much less sweet. The blue houses dotted in the countryside with white painted verandas. The smell of fresh callaloo in the mornings and the twinkling peeny waly insects that glowed in the night that they would capture in jars and use as torches as they played in the grounds after sundown. ‘Even the heat is different’ mama said. In Jamaica the sun felt like a warm nurturing blanket that flooded the senses whereas across the seas the very same sun became harsh and searing. Indeed as I landed in Kingston at night, gliding over the coast line as though the sea were the runway, the door opened and a hush of delicious silky warmth enveloped me. It was as though walking into an indescribable ambience. Just as mama said, the airport was surrounded by glistening lights in the distance. It was an undoubtedly a strange sensation walking on the very same ground as generations of family members that I had never met. Albeit with a totally different perspective as it would seem that they had sought to escape this primitive island with it’s rich rustic unapologetic beauty, with none of the magical curiosity that sought to be constant companion. The country roads were as distinctive as mama had said. Dry and winding bumpy roads spiralling upwards to the top of cavernous hillsides. Duns river falls and the Helshire baths attracted a continuous hoard of travellers and tourists, eager to take in the fairytale island with it’s lofty boasts of endless beaches and coffee seasoned mountains. The food certainly resembled the English replicas that I had been introduced to since childhood, but the taste bore little resemblance at all as sin nurtured herbs and spices infused home grown produce and in the hands of devoted home voices and Michelin chefs alike made for an outstanding combination as I sampled variations of the island’s national dishes. The Jamaican pace of life arrested any semblance of western world urgency and the stresses of life dissipated long before I sampled the cool refreshing Guinness punch and world renowned Jamaican white rum. The Caribbean heat did not desert the island at night but rather soothed the night air, inspiring nocturnal creatures to sing their symphonic harmonies as the sun nurtured the rich earth and lulled the ambient paradise to sleep. As I prepared to tear myself away from the land of my ancestors, the home of my parents, the soil of my bloodline, I couldn’t help but wonder why it seemed that that which we so often seek can be right where we are. They told mama that foreign streets were paved with gold and I think she had been searching ever since. I could only hope that one day I would get to take mama back to the gold brick dusty roads of home.