The Other Side of the Brochure in Jamaica

« Return to Jamaica

History has always interested me, but delving into the appalling world of the slave trade, however important, would fall beyond the scope of traditionally more upbeat travel pages. Slicing away the truth of piracy with the cutlass of my pen intrigued me in Port Royal, but after earthquakes and ruin, there is not much to see or experience there that can’t be gleamed from history books or websites. Since tourism dominated the country’s economy, and most tourism centres around cruise ships and all-inclusive resorts, my angle would lie with the people of Jamaica itself.

My opening paragraph begins in the Blue Mountains, a range that overlooks the capital of Kingston, and home of the world famous coffee of the same name. Travelling the narrow, braided, washed out road towards Newcastle, along cliffs as steep and nerve-wracking as the best of them, my destination is the Temple Mount Zion Hill, an informal Rastafarian settlement.

Although Rastafarians and Jamaica appear synonymous, only around 1% of the population subscribe to the religion, the majority being Protestant and its various sub-denominations. Yet the mark of Rastas can be seen here, there, and the world over - every time you see someone with dreadlocks, listening to reggae, or smoking pot. Not to say that everyone who does so is a Rastafarian, just that various aspects of the religion have being inhaled by popular culture. Its roots lie with 19th century Jamaican and black Nationalist leader Marcus Garvey, who spoke proudly of North American black communities reorganizing and recognizing their heritage, their rights of status in an unjust world. Garvey, who died in relative obscurity but whose words inspired black leaders throughout the globe, wrote of the crowning of an African empire, a King of Kings, signifying the coming of the Messiah. “Look to Africa, where a black king shall arise. This will be the day of your deliverance.”

When Tafari Makonnen, traditionally named Ras Tafari, was crowned Haile Selassie, King of Ethiopia in 1932, Garvey’s followers recognized the event as the fulfilment of Garvey’s prophecy. Analysing passages of the bible that can be interpreted to suggest Jesus Christ was black, that marijuana is a sacred herb given to man by God, and that the offspring of King Solomon and Queen Sheba have led to the descendents of the real chosen people, Rastafarians recognized in a somewhat bewildered Selassie that he was in fact the Messiah, chosen to save mankind from the evils of western technocracy, called Babylon, with a squadron of saucer-shaped flaming chariots. Before making any assumptions about the validity of such religious ideals, think of how an alien being might react to stories of virgin births, talking bushes on fire, an elephant-headed god, or women covered head to toe in black robes. Rasta colours of red (signifying blood to be shed on redemption), gold (signifying the wealth of Africa) and green (the lands of the motherland) are known world over as a symbol of reggae, the rasta-inspired music popularized by its most famous son, Bob Marley.

It’s a slog up the slopes, and the thunderstorms of hurricane season are threatening. Mount Zion could technically be called a squatter camp, paying no taxes, having been set up without permission. From its ramshackle wooden shacks, you can see a famous resort, the sprawl of Kingston, and a nearby military base. A sign indicates I am on the right track to the Emperor Haile Selassie School of Vision, Bible Study, Prophecies and Sabbath Worship. Hundreds of people, including foreigners, have been baptized here, welcomed into the brethren of the Rastafari. I am greeted by Dermot Fagan, the dreadlocked priest and leader of the village. When he worked as a repairman in Miami, he tells me how clients used to expect a white Irish guy, not a black Rasta. A real Buffalo Soldier, Dermot finished up at the army, and found himself having a conversation with a Rasta in New York City. With the intensity and facial appearance of Samuel L Jackson, he pulls out a King James Bible, and directs me to the passages that converted him into the religion. The messiah is black, as it reads in Song of Solomon, 1:5-6 “I am black, and comely, oh ye daughters of Jerusalem.” In Jeremiah 8:21, God’s colour is revealed, “For the hurt of my people I am hurt, I am black…” and in Revelation 1:14 “the hair of his head like pure wool…” - feel my hair, says Dermot, his dreads, indeed, as thick as wool. It is a cornerstone of our brilliance as reasoning beings, and our desire to interpret proof for our convictions, that the Bible can say just about anything to anybody. If a group of people feel it justifies constant marijuana smoking and the belief in an Ethiopian messiah, then all the power to them. Certainly an afternoon of conversation with Dermot is an afternoon of thoughtful and enthusiastic debate. This particular village, he tells me, has been set up specifically as a mission to prepare for the coming of the Beast. In a dream, the Emperor, King of Kings appeared to Dermot and gave him the task of setting up a refuge off the grid, away from our impending doom - a doom with a remarkably technological twist.

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