03-24-2023, 12:10 PM
The NY Times has another story about Jamaica, tittled Seeking the Spirited, Mystical Jamaica Tourists Don’t See. One snip-it (and a 2nd one below)
It’s often claimed that Jamaica has the most churches per square mile of any country in the world. On any given Sunday, you can expect to see people going to church dressed in their best clothes: women in bright print dresses, men in somber dark suits that seem hot amid the tropical sun, children’s shoes polished to a shine. Mothers warn: “Mek sure nuh mess up oonuh self, yuh hear?” I grew up Christian. Everyone I knew was Christian. In school, we bowed our heads and prayed to the Virgin Mary. Some of my most vivid memories of childhood involve me stuffing my belly with HTB Easter bun and cheese, grateful that Jesus Christ died not for my sins but for the ability to eat the spicy-sweet bun all day without getting in trouble.
https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2023/03/23/magazine/jamaica-travel-christianity.html?campaign_id=14&emc=edit_aust_20230324&instance_id=88523&nl=australia-letter®i_id=125892025&segment_id=128612&te=1
Lot of photos, not all "artsy". One of Famous Vicent's boat.
More of a photo essay as with this caption:
My great-grandmother was a healer who knew every bush and their properties. She was a country woman, the only one in our family with knowledge of our ancestral worship practices. By the time I was born, she, like many Jamaicans getting up in age, had given her life to Jesus. She moved in with us in Kingston, forgoing the familiar rural landscape for city living. But she still boiled her bush teas and grew her herbs and plants in our backyard and soaked leaves in white rum that she used to anoint our heads and bellies whenever we were sick.
It’s often claimed that Jamaica has the most churches per square mile of any country in the world. On any given Sunday, you can expect to see people going to church dressed in their best clothes: women in bright print dresses, men in somber dark suits that seem hot amid the tropical sun, children’s shoes polished to a shine. Mothers warn: “Mek sure nuh mess up oonuh self, yuh hear?” I grew up Christian. Everyone I knew was Christian. In school, we bowed our heads and prayed to the Virgin Mary. Some of my most vivid memories of childhood involve me stuffing my belly with HTB Easter bun and cheese, grateful that Jesus Christ died not for my sins but for the ability to eat the spicy-sweet bun all day without getting in trouble.
https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2023/03/23/magazine/jamaica-travel-christianity.html?campaign_id=14&emc=edit_aust_20230324&instance_id=88523&nl=australia-letter®i_id=125892025&segment_id=128612&te=1
Lot of photos, not all "artsy". One of Famous Vicent's boat.
More of a photo essay as with this caption:
My great-grandmother was a healer who knew every bush and their properties. She was a country woman, the only one in our family with knowledge of our ancestral worship practices. By the time I was born, she, like many Jamaicans getting up in age, had given her life to Jesus. She moved in with us in Kingston, forgoing the familiar rural landscape for city living. But she still boiled her bush teas and grew her herbs and plants in our backyard and soaked leaves in white rum that she used to anoint our heads and bellies whenever we were sick.