Going Postal- Please Give Me Patience

The other night I was sitting in a classroom in Shirley Castle, Portland.  I was sitting there with three Jamaicans who live in that community waiting for more to show up.  I had schedules a community meeting, with the help of the farmer’s group leader, for 5pm.  At this point I read 6:15 on my cell phone.  The two older gentlemen were chatting me up about where I was from and about the project that I was going to be speaking about at the meeting.  I was asking them about coffee farming, bee keeping, and the community as a whole.  They then asked me the ever popular question, how do you like Jamaica?  I told them that I am enjoying my time here and we laughed about how the farmers hadn’t shown yet.  I told them that one of the biggest things that I have gained in my almost 4 months on island is PATIENCE!  They laughed at that and told me that yes, especially in the rural areas you never know what comes up in the fields and you might be waiting on someone for hours.  After a few more phone calls we did get enough farmers for the meeting.  It finally started around 7pm.  I didn’t get home until 9:30, its amazing how tired one can get by simply waiting and stressing.

The stress of the day started much earlier than simply waiting on farmers.  It started in the city of course.  I live in a “city” and have to live with the every day stresses that come along with that.  There are many advantages to living in the city, I can walk to a decent grocery store and to a produce market in 15 minutes from my home.  I have the option to eat at a cook shop or even a café (most volunteers would do most anything to visit a café and have a sandwich and a cup of coffee).  These “temptations” do have their drawbacks.  I make the equivalent to about $9 US a day to spend on food, transportation, and anything I may need to live my life.  If I were to go to the café every day I would be broke.  There are also street folks, “me beg ya fifti dolla?”, no sorry mi a have no money, “mi beg ya ten dolla?”, No I am sorry I tell you every day mi a broke pocket, just like ya, mi a volunteer!  They then usually leave me alone until the next time they see a white person walking down the road.  Somedays I have no one beg me for money, somedays I have so many I want to pull my hair out!

The stress from the other day was not really the street people, although all of the glares from Jamaican women were starting to get to me.  We were taught to be overly polite on the street, so smile and say good morning to everyone.  I find that more often than not the men are more likely to be polite back.  The older women are also usually nice once you say goodmorning, afternoon, or goodnight to them.  The frustrating part is that most middle aged and younger women have this permanent chip on their shoulder toward me, or towards white women, or towards the world in general?

Anyways, going postal, I was there.  I had a package that I had to send to my father, a power cord, in a small brown box, weighed a pound.  I made three trips to the post office and burned up about three hours of my life trying to send it.  My frustration with the postal office didn’t start that day, it started months ago when I made two trips (unsuccessful) to send my mom her birthday gift.  They were so unhelpful and I finally gave up, the envelope (with postage on it) sits in my room and makes me angry still every time I look at it.  So when I started getting the run around again, I was instantly emotional and ANGRY! I didn’t cuss at them as I did the last time I was there, because this package I had to get mailed, and that day.  So I jumped through their hoops and spent three hours talking to rude women, buying materials so I could wrap a brown box in brown paper, and then finally got it sent.  I now know why they have glass up between customers and the employees.