THE PHILOSOPHY OF A JAMAICAN GAMIN
In the day-time it is good to sit on one of the jutting piers which
fringe the bay of Kingston, and, lolling under the deep shade of a heavy
roof, give the sea breeze free play with your hair. It is a touch of
health, a vision of sweet coolness, a sensation of rare joy. You are in
the atmosphere of Southern Europe. Round you spread the tropics.
Shorewards the palm bends languidly as it feels the breath of the sea’s
vigour; the sun, seen through an ocean breeze, is dulled into purple
haze; the moving boats and rocking masts give life and motion to a dead
world. At midday the West Indies present the picture of death. There is
no movement, no life current. It is as though the island of Jamaica were
scorched dead. The birds float like ragged strips of paper on the edge
of the breeze which dies on its journey inland. Here, by the sea, the
senses are lulled to sweet indifference to all things save the noise and
coolness of the breeze. Jamaicans call this breeze the doctor; it is the
doctor that makes Jamaica a place fit for the homes of the white men.
Without it, the place would be a fever-ridden land of pestilence. With
it, and not even the sun is more regular, the land is called a health
resort.
As I sit here musing, the strip of land on which are planted the forts
and military cantonments of Port Royal, swings seaward, a thin line of
deep green, a false horizon for a sea of richest blue. Parts of the
place are blotted out by sailing ships with canvas spread, or steamers,
painted white, and little fishing craft. Above Port Royal a single strip
of cloud rises from behind the land in a dull haze of grey; where the
cloud-chain touches the light blue of the sky it bellies out white to
the sun. The broad domes of this cloud-range are whiter than the snowy
caps of the ocean rollers.
As I sit, breathing in the sweet coolness of the breeze, a flash of warm
brown shoots from the blue of the sea, and a diving boy shimmers in the
laughing sun. He will dive for pennies he says. Better sit here and cool
I suggest, and in this manner I first get to know something of the inner
life of Timothy Dorias, gamin and diving boy, as good a young rogue as
you will find anywhere. Vicious and happy as the sun, joyous as the
sparkling wavelet, he is thirteen, and, apparently, already deeply
experienced in the vice of the world. Yes he goes to school--that is to
say, he has been to school; really on second thoughts he intended to
convey the fact that he is going to school--next month.
He is thirteen and has a wife--not really a wife, you know--there is no
suggestion of wedlock--but a wife nevertheless.
[Illustration: DIVING BOYS, OFF BARBADOES]
No he does not go to church--there are no boots. His father is a
fisherman, and he is of a family of eight. His two sisters stay at home
and help their mother, who sees to the children and the grandchildren;
the grandchildren are offsprings of the two sisters. “No, sah, they be
not married yet--some day perhaps.” He wishes to show us strange places
in the town of Kingston--a merry enough guide, but one lacking in
restraint. His accent is mellow and he is not black. A rich, dark brown
colour he is, with curly hair, white teeth, and deep black eyes. His
stories of Jamaica are of intrigue, dancing eyes, and sunlight;
green-shuttered windows and soft glances. He is a born Romeo, a West
Indian Don Juan.
The history of Jamaica he knows not, he says, neither can he tell us why
some people are black and some white. Best of all is to be brown, “like
me,” he says; then one is black to the black people, and white to the
white. Really it is a wise thirteen-year-old, witness the postscript. “I
should pass as white in England, but not here. Too many nearly white
here, sah.” He likes the black people best because they are “plenty more
happier,” but the money is in the hands of the whites. When he is old he
will catch fish and live alone in a house with his wife and children. If
ever he should tire of fishing, Jamaica is “plenty full of fruit.” A
little work would be necessary, perhaps, but he does not mind work.
Witness the time he spends in practising diving in the Kingston bay, he
says. Women will do his housework and attend to his fruit patch; his
wife will see to the clothes of his children. Yes, perhaps it would be
good to go out to the sea in big ships, and find adventure in lands
beyond the colour line of the setting sun. But in the big ships there is
little fruit, and women are not at hand to wait on men. No, it is better
to remain where people are safe. Sometimes the big ships go away and
never return. The reason is that some one on board has sinned in the
eyes of God. Yes, everyone sins plenty often, but God is kind and shuts
His eye, otherwise every living man and woman would be blasted dead.
Women are not so important as men. We tell them they are, because it
pleases them, and so they do more work. But really it is better to be a
man. Women are weak and little in their minds, they are too much afraid,
and too little given to thinking of big things. You must be kind, but
not too kind, to a woman. If you are too kind, she will think you weak
and foolish, and she will do no work for you. Yes, he loved his mother
and his sisters, but he loved his father most of all, because he was big
and strong, and fished in the bay even when the weather was very rough.
His father only laughed and cuffed him when he stole the bananas from
the cart in the market-place, but his mother talked of it for days, and
told all the neighbours that he was a thief and a bad boy; and she told
the parson man, who at any moment might tell God. Then he would be sent
to hell, all for one or two bananas. His father was angry with his
mother for telling the people, and his mother cuffed him still, because
his father had beaten her for telling people his son was a thief.
His own people were better than the blacks, because they were whiter,
and God himself is white. He was not certain whether black people would
go to heaven, but he was certain that white and brown folk could go
there and live in the skies in the same great house. When he went there
he should want to dive plenty much, and fish in the river with a rod
with a wheel on it. No, he was not afraid to die, except that if he died
now he would find none of his friends in heaven. He never thought of
sharks when he dived in the bay, but his friend had only one leg left,
because a shark took the other one off when he was diving for pennies
flung from an American fruit-boat. He guessed he made too much noise
himself to please the sharks; anyway he could dive under one if it tried
to bite him.
He was telling us of his passion for the English and of his love of
truth and justice, when suddenly he flung himself from our jetty and
splashed into the bay to reappear well out of reach of land. A policeman
appeared at my elbow and grinned quietly; he assured us that he would
have given much had the boy not caught sight of him as he crept towards
us. The rascal was a thief and a blackguard, and he would be arrested,
sure as eggs sah, and then birched or sent to gaol. This he assured us
was true and unvarnished fact, on his word as a constable of justice. So
much for Jamaican youth.
[Illustration: GOING TO CHURCH]
THE DEVOTION OF THE JAMAICAN NEGRO