[edited for formatting - TBNet]
My grand daughter Sydney has written about her experience in Treasure Beach
She is 14 years old. Enjoy!
Athlyn Robinson

“Irie”


At first glance, the sleepy fisherman’s village of Treasure Beach comes off as a sterile, dusty town along Jamaica’s arid southern coast. However, upon further inspection, the hamlet proves itself to be the agricultural center of the island; vivacious, both in terms of its inhabitants and the land itself. The region is famous for its red dirt and red people, a result of an Irish shipwreck off the coast, as legend says. The town is populated by simple folk, quiet farmers and fishermen whose families have resided in Treasure Beach since the emancipation of the slaves in the nineteenth century. An endearing location, it is there that the fondest moments of my childhood were spent. For a town that so placidly conducts its affairs, there’s much in congruency between the laid-back vibe that is so prominent and my sharp memories, which, like a photo album, are bound together by vivid images and experiences. Every time I encounter a tropical smell, sight, or sound, nostalgia floods my mind with sunny recollections.

Every other summer, a hoard of American girls ventures down into the Jamaican countryside to visit their grandmother, and perhaps on an even deeper note, to connect with their heritage. That flock consists of my two younger sisters, my two older cousins, and myself. Submerged in the American culture all of our lives, every visit allows us the opportunity to look outside the fishbowl that so often and effortlessly becomes our world. As if by tradition, the five of us, accompanied by my uncle, arrive about two weeks earlier than my parents and any other relatives that may jump on the vacation bandwagon. On average, about ten more people join us once the two weeks have elapsed.

The contrast between necessity and commodity is apparent the second we step off the plane. Upon arrival, warm, sticky air greets you. Air conditioning is a rare luxury in Jamaica, utilized only by very few independent property owners (my grandmother, one of them) and high-end resorts.

Outside of the airport, an urban orchestra awaits: a medley of car horns, rapid-fire patois, and rumbling reggae music. This has always been one of my favorite parts of the journey, the arrival: the immersion of the senses, along with the anticipation and expectation of something great.

The two and a half hour drive through the mountains to my grandmother’s house is definitely one of the most nauseating, yet scenic routes I have ever mustered the stomach to travel on. Roads wind through seemingly endless bends in the mountains, cars so close it’s a miracle more than one vehicle can fit without being sent tumbling down into a leafy trench. Greenery and flowers burst from the mountainside, fuchsias and yellows making a stark contrast against the emerald and jade canvas of the forest. Sylvan, a local tour guide and close family friend, is more than competent as he skillfully maneuvers the van throughout the treacherous territory. The rickety van endures, in the chugging style of a little train, through the canopies of the island’s interior, stopping for the occasional goat or stray dog crossing the road to bolt into the underbrush.

At the last bend, where green vegetation and brown soil juxtapose with bright, red earth, everyone looks out the windows and down the hillside we are perched on. Etched into the land are houses, so many of them, in numerous to the passing eye. The views from the hills consist of few shanties, contrasting starkly against the beautifully designed white houses with their shingled roofs and self-proclaimed bravado. In both types of houses live people with lessons and stories to share, but also many laughs to be had.

Once in the countryside, explorative intuition kicks in. The television is no longer the primary form of entertainment, and family and the outdoors beckon to us all. The first task of every day is to walk out onto the veranda and eat an orange, mango, pineapple, or combination of all three, while listening to a local radio station, which plays a mixture of Motown oldies and quiet reggae. The wind blows gently, the sounds of bleating goats and rustling leaves lilting through the air. My uncle skims the newspaper while my grandmother peels an endless amount of the homegrown fruits, passing them out to eager hands.

After breakfast, the American gang, joined by some of our Jamaican friends, jogs down to the pastures, which resemble the savannas of Africa, to feed the goats and rams the rinds and peels of our meal. The landscape is dotted with grazing animals, scrubs, and the occasional zinc shed.

Perhaps the most sensory of my experiences in the country is running through the vast expanse of family land, rolling yellow plains decorated with statuesque lignum vitae trees, calloused feet pounding red earth. My cousins, sisters and I spend many a day playing out in the fields, wasting our days away with only goats and each other for company, constructing tree houses and feeding the animals. It is an inexplicable feeling--- the reality of dirt and grass and thicket leading to the impression of purity and beauty and revitalization. Normally, we inadvertently end up staying out in the fields until an adult comes looking for us, or until it’s time for the “evening dip,” whichever comes first.

Over the years, our irregular beach trips have morphed into what we refer to as “evening dip,” a nightly affair in which all of the cousins and friends, all eight of us, pile into the back of the pickup truck, with our uncle navigating across the unpaved land in the driver’s seat. There is hardly anything as exhilarating as whizzing down the hilly terrain in the back of a rickety pickup truck, careening down to one of many nearby beaches, chanting, singing songs, and enjoying the simplicity of life.

By far, our favorite beach is the wildly unpredictable Frenchman’s Beach, with its notorious riptides and monstrous waves, capable of overturning the fishing boats docked just fractions of a mile away, at the tranquil Calabash Bay, hidden away in an alcove. By the age of six, each and every one of us had learned to master the perilous waters of Frenchman’s. We spend each evening body surfing, dodging waves, and battling the currents and each other in splashing wars. As each wave approaches, we all let ourselves be pulled out onto its crest, then float back down, calmly and controlled. The swim itself isn’t the ritual; the tradition is spending time together and in the place we all love so much, letting it pull us in just as far as we can possibly be lured while still being able to get out.

On the ride back to the house, many pedestrians and storeowners mill about, returning to their homes for the end of another quiet day. In the back of the truck, we entertain ourselves by playing a game called “Sweet and Sour,” coined by us too many years ago to remember. The rules of the game are simple, we smile at passerby, and their reaction either warrants them the title of sweet or sour. An unbelievable amount of people are determined to be sweet.

The grit and unshakeable happiness of the people of Treasure Beach never ceases to amaze me. Those in the ramshackle houses help those in the cobbled ones, and those in the cobbled houses look after the ones who couldn’t afford them. Even those who are ostensibly poor manage to surprise you with some measure of wealth, whether it be a beloved family recipe or the best fishing boat. The dispositions of the residents are unbelievably positive, and everyone has something of value, material or intangible.

The magic of my home-away-from-home has always eluded me, and all of my relatives that have come to love St. Elizabeth. It utterly amazes me that if my cousins, sisters and I walk to the local store, people will call out and wave to Miss Blair’s granddaughters. It is the sense of belonging that I love, the sense of family without blood and life without limits.

When I’m there, everything feels alright, and everything will be alright; irie, a Jamaican word meaning just that describes it all. I am at peace with myself and the world while I’m hidden away in my little safe haven, the peaceful and lovely little town of Treasure Beach. And so, every time I have to leave, I mentally trudge away from freedom and return to the real world, if only for a little while longer.

Bravo. I'm not from Treasure Beach but have been there on a few occasions (although it was in the early nineties). I recall the friendliness of the people, the sites and smells like it was last week. Your story has made me long for Treasure Beach.

Athlyn,what a thoughtful girl you are,and your piece is beautifully written.Your Grandmother must be very proud of you.You capture and describe so well the feelings that many of us have for Treasure Beach.I wish I had first come there when I was your age.Perhaps one of your visits will coincide with Calabash Festival which I know you would love.Well done and keep writing!

Congratulations to Sydney whose entry "Irie", in the District Literary Fair has earned her an award. We are very proud of you!

Its great to hear this wonderful piece of writing won an award.

Can I ask a question: What is the name of the writer? Sydney or Athlyn?

The writer's name is Sydney. Her grandmother is Athlyn.

Thanks for clarifying.

Congratulations, Sydney, on a wonderful piece of writing.
And Congratulations to Athlyn on a wonderful granddaughter!