No good can come of this

A few weeks ago I received a cryptic missive from HQ describing an American expedition to the mythical Shaare Shalom Synagogue in Kingston. Legend has it that one of the New World’s oldest synagogues was sitting a couple blocks west of Allman Town, just above Parade in the heart of downtown. Apparently, Sephardic Jews have been settled in Jamaica for 350 years, but sadly, their population has dwindled to only about 200 or so living in Kingston. Determined to glimpse this noble race threatened with extinction, myself and two trusty comrades signed up for the trip, since it was embassy-sponsored and something to do on a Sunday morning.

We departed from upscale Constant Spring around nine in the morning with a dozen or so embassy workers and assorted ex-pats and made our way deep into the urban jungle below Half Way Tree. The whiteys fidgeted nervously, wracked with a mix of fear and fascination as the tour bus made its way down Orange Street through the ghettos of Cross Roads and Jones Town. These were not guarded compounds or walled resorts.. this was real urban Jamaica; a vibrant, tempestuous landscape of poverty and truth. This was the other side.

The synagogue looked like every other old building around Parade; noble and proud with its hand-carved facades encased in a century’s worth of whitewashed grime. The spiritual leader wasn’t an actual rabbi, but no one seemed to mind. He was a nice guy with a flair for the dramatic. He proudly showed off their Jewish Community Center and Museum. He described how Sephardic Jews fled Spain and somehow ended up here, first settling in Spanish Town, then Kingston and Port Royal.

We wandered around the grounds and entered the synagogue, its floors covered with sand as a testament to old times when too much noise would bring the Inquisitors to your doorstep.

He then opened the tabernacle behind the altar, where the congregation’s multiple Torahs (some very old), are kept. We went into tourist mode, gawking and taking pictures. We then met Ed Kritzler, a Parrothead from Long Island who came here decades ago and never left. He was about to publish his first book, Jewish Pirates of the Caribbean, detailing the exploits of a few intrepid Semites who took to the waves in alternative business ventures. While the notion of linking God’s chosen people with high-seas piracy does little to combat certain stereotypes, Ed dug up some pretty entertaining tales overlooked by history and painted a fascinating picture of life in those times through his research and storytelling. Joe was obviously mesmerized by his lecture.

Among other things, he hypothesized that the skull and crossbones of pirate fame may have come from the Jewish tradition of using ossuaries, and led us outside to view several Jewish tombstones from the period that seemed to support his theory (although it could have also come from the Spanish imagery to denote cemeteries and death). Still, it piqued my interest, so I’ll definitely look for his book when it comes out in November.

By the end of the tour we were all Jewed out. My quest to see the mysterious Jamaican Tribe of Israel thus complete, I went back to my normal routine, oblivious to the paranormal energies surrounding us at that place. Little did I know my camera had captured evidence of something not of this life..

Orbs!

Behold! Mysterious Jew Orbs from some ethereal realm can clearly be seen bursting forth from the Holy of Holies. I didn’t notice until reviewing the pictures weeks later, but the camera does not lie! My esteemed colleague present at the time says they’re merely dust particles caught in the flash, but I can’t accept so rational an explanation. Instead, I turned to science to unlock the mysteries of these floating balls of unseen ectoplasm. Utilizing cutting edge imagery software, I discovered a complex code hidden within the placement of the orbs which, if linked in proper order, reveal a haunting message that speaks for itself. Warning: This should not be viewed by expectant mothers or the faint of heart.

Oh Noes!

By connecting the orbs I was able to expose this terrifying symbol, obviously a message from beyond the grave, a clear sign from the aforementioned notorious Jewish pirates (note the yarmulke). Though long detached from their mortal forms, you can plainly see how they congregate around the delicious gold of the scrolls, yearning to be near it for all eternity and warning all others to beware with the ubiquitous Jolly Roger. Alas, what a sad fate is theirs, but a fitting end to the wild lives they once led.

I must notify Ed at once of my findings. Maybe I too can get a spot on The History Channel. For the time being, I must get back to the synagogue and attempt to communicate with them. I think the big one in the upper right hand corner is their leader. Perhaps they have unfinished business here. I will bring an offering of rum and an Ouija board see where it goes. Wish me luck.

A beginner’s guide to freakish tropical fruit

For centuries, the British have been engaged in an intricate network of international exchange that spans all corners of our spherical planet. Upon colonizing a new land, they would promptly develop a special trade relationship with its inhabitants in the customary European fashion; giving them smallpox, Christianity, and plenty of rewarding forced labor in exchange for their lives and any resources worth plundering. Since Jamaica was a major British port in the tropics, hundreds of varieties of plants and animals were introduced, often with mixed results.

I’m far too lazy to discuss ALL the wonderful things I’ve seen growing on trees here, so I’m limiting this dissertation to whatever is growing on my land at the moment. My absolute favorite is the otaheiti apple. This is my tree behind my house. Of course, the fruit bears about 30 feet up and the tree sits precariously on a hillside sloping down about 50 feet at an insane angle. To harvest otaheities, I have to utilize ancient Jamaican technology taught to me by a wise elder, in the form of a long-ass stick of bamboo to knock the little bastards down the gully and then go pick through the ones that the birds haven’t mangled. The otaheiti is about the size of your average pear. The skin has a perfumed scent, like a rose, and despite having the appearance of a morbidly-infected hemorrhoid, it has a pleasant taste, being most akin to that of a white grape. The flesh is puffy but juicy when chewed. The pit is about the size of a ping pong ball, and comes out easily, allowing one to consume multiple otaheities with minimal mess. See the picture below for further detail. Since it’s not pulsating flesh, Athena is ambivalent to the bounty set before her. Picky bitch.

Behold! Limes! Limes are very popular around here, usually taking on the roles of lemons in many recipes. I juice them and mix them with various flavors of syrup to create tasty, tooth-rotting concoctions. There’s a lime tree growing down the gully that I often plunder to evade scurvy for another day. My lime tree is slightly different from the others in the neighborhood because it utilizes a secret ingredient: dead people. The tree grows beside the graves of the ancestors buried in my backyard, and I must say that you can definitely taste the difference between normal limes and my superior corpse limes.

This beauty is known as a soursop, and it’s as delicious as it looks. It’s a tough fruit that’s typically juiced, since trying to eat one is like biting into a pinecone. The juice is usually mixed with milk and tastes like a mix of strawberry and pineapple. In addition to being rich in vitamin C, B1, and B2, the soursop’s leaves can be boiled as a tea that helps induce sleep. All of my attempts to harvest and utilize this bastard have failed miserably, so I usually just give the fruit away, opting to buy the juice at the store instead.

This monstrosity is by far one of my favorite delicacies to serve to my guests, since I get to chop the sonofabitch with my trusty machete. The Mayans called it cacahuatl, the Spanish called it cacao, but you know it as chocolate.

Cacao was serious business in the Rio Pedro Valley in the fifties and sixties, but the price of it collapsed and the industry tanked. As a result, cacao grows wild on every hill and gully, and some of the old timers still harvest it and produce homemade chocolate. A popular drink around here is milo, which is boiled raw chocolate and cinnamon leaves infused with a pound of cane sugar. As such, milo is the cure for everything. The cacao fruit can be enjoyed right off the tree too, just chop it open and feast on the tangy pulp that clings to the cocoa beans. It’s a great snack food for wasting time.

In addition to these exotic gems I harvest bananas and plantains from my yard regularly, and the mangoes will be ripening soon. After them come grapefruits and tangerines, provided they aren’t all stolen by schoolchildren since the trees sit so close to the road. There’s also a papaya tree down the gully that occasionally grants me an edible fruit that hasn’t been ravaged by the birds. In all, the wide varieties of fructose around here constitute one of the many pleasures of Jamaican life. It’s a testament to the agreeable climate and the untold potential of the soil.