Where poetry meets chaos
At two in the afternoon one day this spring, I stood on a crowded, noisy street corner in a “no-go” area of Kingston, Jamaica, where I was serenaded by a dreadlocked street vendor who, having given up trying to sell me a cheap Chinesemade belt, decided to demonstrate his talents as a rapper. Prefacing his performance with “I love Canadian people, man!” he sang as if he were a contestant on Idol and I somehow had the power to lift him out of grinding poverty and this chaotic place.
There are those who would say that I, a woman alone, should not have been on that street corner in the first place, and maybe not in Kingston at all. Many advised me against visiting here: I would be robbed, they said, or shot or, the worst vacation fate of all, bored. Kingston does have that reputation. Or no reputation at all. It is simply off the radar when it comes to the typical Jamaican holiday of sun, rum and a Sandals resort. I like that sort of thing, too, but Kingston — edgy, artsy and unmanageable — exerted a pull on me.