WOMEN’S RIGHTS IN JAMAICA—A BREAKDOWN OF THE RAILWAY—PORT ANTONIO—CHESTER
VALE
Returning to Kingston I took up my quarters for a short time at Myrtle
Bank Hotel. A delicious sea-breeze cooled the air during the daytime,
whilst at night one could sleep better than at many hotels where I have
stayed. One I know of is intensely noisy. Just when you are falling off
to sleep some person in the next room violently thrusts open his door
and shies his boots down the corridor, instead of quietly putting them
outside, then shuts it with a bang, without a moment’s consideration
of the fact that other persons may be disturbed by the might of his
biceps; this, with the incessant crowing of cocks and barkings of dogs
occasionally makes night hideous to contemplate.
Whilst here, I took the opportunity of attending one or two of the
meetings of the Anglican Synod.
The disestablishment of the Church of England in Jamaica took place
some thirty years ago; but as I intend to give a slight sketch of the
ecclesiastical history of the island in my next chapter, I will content
myself with saying that the subject to be discussed was, whether the
women who, as registered members, subscribe their weekly pence to the
maintenance of the church much better than do the male portion, were to
be allowed the privilege of voting for the officials of their separate
churches.
One venerable archdeacon, whose trite speech and characteristic
physiognomy is well known in this town, waxed most eloquent upon the
virtues of the “enfranchised she.” Another worthy, with an equal love
of justice, declared that “but for the women, the churches could not
exist in Jamaica,” and said it was simply justice to give them a voice
in their church representation. The result of the meeting was, however,
to postpone the measure for a more convenient occasion; it was thought
inadvisable to rush it upon the native ladies; in the meanwhile they
could gradually be educated up to a more extended view of their interests
and privileges. Thus, even the weaker sex in this far-off island of the
Caribbean Sea has been touched with a ripple from the wave which bears on
its crest the emancipation of women from the fetters and gyves man, from
the beginning of the world, encumbered the object of his adoration.
To-day, in enlightened England, might instead of right is still to the
fore directly the question is one of giving woman her undoubted rights.
Man is the same inconsequent reasoner. When he finds a woman cannot
assimilate, or apply what she has learnt so quickly as he can himself,
he ofttimes forgets the shallow education he thought good enough for
her, though probably the sons were sent to the university, and he
irritably reproaches her with the fact of her sex, for which she is not
responsible, and her frivolity, for which latter, not having chosen to
spend money over her education, he is distinctly to blame.
If she educates herself, and has a mind of her own, and finds words to
express her views which do not always coincide with his own, he sneers at
her for being a blue-stocking, and declares no man wants an opinionated
wife.
The most curious anomalies exist. Women doctors, lecturers, teachers,
clerks, telegraphists, business women, and those who administer their own
estates, are denied by our enlightened and liberal-minded legislators the
privilege of voting for parliamentary representation, thereby placing
them on the same level as the pauper and the lunatic, who, I believe,
are the only classes of unenfranchised male adults. Surely women who pay
taxes might be considered capable of voting for the legislators of their
country.
I had heard and read a good deal of Port Antonio, and intended visiting
the place. Hearing some friends were going, I agreed to go with them.
We left Kingston at two in the afternoon, and should have reached Port
Antonio at six in the evening, in good time for dinner, intending to take
either a moonlight stroll or drive afterwards.
The first part of the journey occurred without mishap. We were just
half-way, and it was after four o’clock, when, apparently, we were making
an extra long stay at a station. Several passengers grumbled, peered
out, then discovered something had gone wrong with the works. This is of
such everyday occurrence that nobody seemed alarmed. In a few moments we
learnt, quite casually, that a luggage train was derailed in a tunnel
200 yards ahead, and as it was a single line to Port Antonio, we should
probably wait some time before we could proceed.
We must have waited at that God-forsaken spot nearly two hours. There was
no inn or habitation where we could get as much as a cup of tea! We were
then told to re-enter the train, which would take us to the entrance of
the tunnel. We would have then to walk through to the other end, where a
train was now waiting to take us to our destination. It was growing dark;
the train crawled cautiously down a fairly steep incline, until both
engines faced each other, only about 20 or 30 yards being left between
them. The luggage was transferred, and we commenced our subterranean walk.
As we passed the derailed engine, which presented a slightly drunken
aspect, the heat of the tunnel, combined with that from the roaring and
steaming locomotive, was thoroughly appalling; at the same time the
shouting of the officiate and the chattering of the blacks, who, laden
with baggage, pushed past, made one think one had “struck” the direct
road to the infernal regions. Only a narrow, stony footway between the
rails and the wall of the tunnel made progress a matter of difficulty.
We were nearly exhausted when we once more emerged into the twilight. The
train lingered at every stopping-place; it was dark, so we could not see
the north coast. Instead of six, it was eleven at night when at last we
lumbered into Port Antonio.
We had had neither bite nor sup since one o’clock, and were fairly
famished. To add to our misfortunes, it was raining in torrents at Port
Antonio; no conveyance was at the station. A messenger was promptly
despatched to the hotel for a “bus.” In about twenty minutes a couple of
buggies drove up in the darkness, and whirled us up a steep hill to the
only establishment the town possesses, where we arrived nearly dead-beat
with fatigue. We instantly clamoured for brandy, or whisky and soda, but
found, to our dismay, that it was a temperance hotel! I fear we reviled
the upholders of that noble cause, but there was nothing to be done but
swallow cold, weak tea, and stay our hunger on the uninviting scraps
of meat they brought us with much grumbling. Giving us any food at all
was evidently a work of supererogation on their part. We represented
that ours was an exceptional case, but it is well to learn that the
American who intends to make dollars, and plenty of them, has no time
for politeness, nor is there room in his policy for the milk of human
kindness.
This was my introduction to the much-lauded American establishment known
as the Tichfield Hotel, which I had heard spoken of as the best hotel in
the island. It certainly is beautifully situated on a hill overlooking
the harbour, and the fruit, which is lavishly set before the visitor
at every meal, is quite a feature. The building is commodious, and
cleanliness and comfort are decidedly not lacking.
The sea-bathing here is good and safe, being protected from the sea by
a coral reef, over which the waves dash majestically—a lovely sight as
seen from the verdure-clad hills. The temperature of the water is about
80°. The Americans who patronise it come direct here in the United
Fruit Company’s steamers from Philadelphia and New York. In fact, the
hotel is run by that Company, and at the time of writing these lines
(March 1903) there is not sufficient accommodation in the town for the
numbers arriving from the States. This is distinctly satisfactory;
the fruit-growing in the neighbourhood—for many old sugar estates are
now owned by Americans—has changed the condition of the country from
depression into prosperity, which one fervently hopes may be still more
increased.
That our cousins on the other side of the Atlantic appreciate the island
scenery is evident; those I have met in various parts have rapturously
extolled its beauties, whilst they have taken sorely to heart the low
state of Jamaican finance. An American magazine has an article in which
the writer remarks upon the island inhabitants most favourably; he
alludes in warm terms to their native courtesy and good-nature, their
smiling civility and gentleness. Comparing the behaviour of Jamaican
youths with that of his youthful countrymen, he writes: “We occasionally
invite eminent foreign educationalists over here to teach us how to
teach. If a hundred young Jamaicans could be invited to teach pupils of
public schools how to study and how to behave, we could expect striking
results.”
[Illustration: PORT ANTONIO.
_To face p. 206._]
He is conscious of the reputation of his compatriots for lack of breeding
and good manners, for he deprecates that feeling amongst the American
colonists of this town and its environs, which made them manifest
unwillingness to show civility to the Governor of Jamaica when visiting
Port Antonio. It is amusing to read that the fact remains that no
ill-bred person, no matter what his nationality, is bound to be civil to
anybody; and surely if an ordinary, not to say common, American citizen
at home may with impunity run down the President of the United States
and then be studiedly impertinent to him, a travelling American may be
allowed to rise in wrath at the thought of being polite to a British
Governor!
However _blasé_ the globe-trotter may be, it is impossible for him not to
be moved by the tropical beauty and restfulness of this spot as a winter
resort; the exquisite colouring of the sea, the white surf nearer to
you, the green verdure of the hills around, and the towering of majestic
waving palms unite to form this a charming retreat for jaded nerves.
Many persons in returning to Kingston leave the train at Annotto Bay,
having beforehand ordered a carriage to be in readiness, and drive to
Castleton Gardens, a distance of 12 miles. These are botanical grounds,
and well worth the visit; part of them are situated on a river, where the
cool shade of bamboo arbours forms a pleasant resting-place for lunch.
Then a further distance of 14 miles or so brings you across the island to
Constant Spring Hotel.
I was now desirous of making my last excursion into the mountains. Many
a time I had gazed longingly at the Blue Mountain Peak and Catherine
Peak, and I now arranged to stay some days at the coffee plantation of Mr
Sidgwick, Chester Vale, situated nearer the latter mountain.
I was told at the Myrtle Bank Hotel that the ride up was fairly steep
and would occupy three hours; but any qualms as to one’s powers of
endurance were stifled at birth, when I learnt that an aged lady, of
probably seventy, contemplated taking the journey with me. I had met her
in various parts of the island, invariably grumbling at the non-existence
of electric light and other trifles. She should have remained at home,
many of us thought. For people of that age to attempt to travel in an
island so remote, and as yet so barely furnished with good hotels, is
preposterous; they are a terror to those who can get along very well
without their company, which, at best, is an onerous responsibility.
In this case, I wondered what I should do if the old lady fell off her
horse in a fit of apoplexy, for it was excessively hot, and the places we
climbed up were enough to try an experienced rider.
We took the electric tram, first of all, from the hotel to Papine,
some 6 miles in an eastward direction. Here, by the bye, there is a
black Lourdes. I did not see the dirty pool where a crazed enthusiast,
a black man, named Bedward, holds forth as to the miraculous nature
of the water, and where faith-healing is carried on _à merveille_.
Negroes having cancers, tumours, and other ailments go there and wash.
The accompanying rites I do not know, for the proceedings take place
at night, and therefore it is not easy to be present. But undoubtedly
cures have taken place, so greatly does fear, or faith, operate upon the
nervous centres of blacks as well as whites. The natives take bottles
containing this miraculous water which everybody, no matter what the
disease, bathes in, and when a member of their family is sick or ill,
he or she is dosed with it. From Papine carriages were in readiness to
convey travellers to Gordon Town, some 3 miles of lovely winding road
away amongst the hills.
Here we took horses; our luggage was strapped on to a mule’s back, and,
with a boy in attendance, we commenced our three hours’ ride. The way led
over bridges through a defile, then leaving the main road we ascended a
good bridal path which zigzagged up the face of a very steep mountain
affording, as we got up some 3000 feet, magnificent views of the country
and harbour of Kingston beneath us. At length we gained the summit of
the pass, and then our way led round circuitous mountains with a deep
valley between us and another range. All the sturdy mountaineers we
passed on the narrow path seemed pleased to see us. Wattled huts, and
occasionally a Chinaman’s drink shop, were passed; each new view seemed
to be more beautiful than the last. At length we gradually descended the
hill, crossed a bridge, and immediately ascended the other side of the
narrow ravine. Very soon after, entering a gate, we found ourselves in
Mr Sidgwick’s coffee plantation, which occupied the slope of a very steep
hill. Another gate led into the garden of our host, which could boast
of a tennis-lawn and terraces. At the back were enormous barbecues and
buildings connected with the curing of coffee.
The house itself is two hundred years old, and is situated in a basin
amongst the hills. It is built in the mode so prevalent in the older
houses of Jamaica, namely, the large central dining-room with rooms and
kitchen opening into it, and on the storey above, the drawing-room,
with bedrooms leading into it. Going through the house one crossed the
roadway, where a billiard-room and a wing containing ten bedrooms were
in course of erection, for, in the summer months, there is an exodus to
the hills from Kingston, by those who can afford the change. We had fires
every night, and a most genial and happy house-party we were, when the
grumblesome old dame had departed, playing whist and bridge, and enjoying
the treat of a really good piano. The food in these remote regions is
excellent, notwithstanding that most of it has to be carried up from
Kingston.
I cannot describe the charm of the walks and rides to be taken in
this mountainous region. The ascent to Catherine’s Peak is by no
means arduous, but the path up to the summit is to be found with some
difficulty owing to the luxuriant growth of the wild ginger, ferns and
other plants. The ever-changing lights on the verdure-clad sides of the
Blue Mountains is a wonderful sight for an artistic eye, whilst torrents
and streams, hidden by the great masses of trees, ferns, and plants of
all description, fall into the narrow valleys. It is only the pedestrian
who can fully grasp the great wealth of greenery everywhere. The tree
ferns grow to great height amongst the mountains where the sunlight does
not penetrate. Wild heliotrope, orchids, wild oleander, begonias, one can
pick as one wanders along.