Orville Taylor | Diaspora Jamaiquina

A glass of sorrel, not laced with lethal ginger as we are accustomed on the Island. This is not Ghana or Kenya, where some Jamaicans do not even recognise it, because of its local name. Hibiscus is what is on the label of bottles or packages. Its scientific name is Hibiscus sabdariffa. In Africa, it is called ‘bissaj’

Not in this hemisphere though. In all of Spanish Central America and Latin America on the whole, it is called ‘Jamaica’, pronounced ‘ha maa ika’.

Originating from West Africa, like most of the Jamaican human population, this plant encapsulates and epitomises, exactly what we are; a unique black, African originated culture, mixed with spices from other regions and cultures. Ginger, the ubiquitous condiment is added to everything; from meats and fish, to drinks, both warm and cold. Scientifically named zingiber officinale, it is native to south-east Asia and might have come with the Indians and Chinese, like the mango. Combined and creolised with sorrel it is our ethnic marker.

That it is called Jamaica, reveals a deeper connection and history than one would believe. Trust me, if we want to search for the oldest Jamaican and arguably strongest Jamaican Diaspora, we do not go to Britain to find the Windrushers. Neither do we go to the US, where we have colonised Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and South Florida.

Not even Sashamane in Ethiopia, where another Jamaican ethnic marker, Rastafari, liveth, can make such a claim.

Many of us are familiar with the story of ‘Colon Man’ who with his brass chain is the protagonist in a Jamaican folk song. A set of Jamaicans settled in Panama, in the early 1900s during the construction of the canal. Chronicled in the masterpiece, Dying to better Themselves, by Olive Senior and other literature, much is known about these communities.

Thousands of Jamaican descendants live in Colón in Panama. Indeed great-great-grandchildren, like Williams and Dilcia, whom I met in Panama, talk a recognisable Jamaican Patwa, and cook endless dishes, such as seasoned rice (one pot) rice and peas, and the famous ‘run rung.’

Limón (Puerto Limón) in Costa Rica, is the same Jamaican diaspora enigma. Some 100,000 Jamaican descendants and others who barely look African, yet, evince the culture. In that town, there are Jamaican shops and business and yes, ‘dem talk like we to’. The wider Limón province has another 250,000.

San Andrés, an island off the coast of and part of Colombia, is also another commune, whose 70,000 inhabitants carry loads of Jamaican culture. Apart from the obvious indigenous populations, decimated by the European arrival, a populace of enslaved Africans were brought there in the 17th century. Jamaicans were introduced in the 18th century, leading to an ethnic community called ‘Raizales’. They are as Jamaican as Cornmeal porridge.

But, speaking from first-hand experience, Bluefields, a municipality of almost 60,000 residents on the southern coast of Nicaragua, takes the cake. Actually no, they give the ‘pudding.’ A wet top, well moist pudding, substituting coco, the root tuber, instead of sweet potato; only Miss Ivy’s ‘puddn’ has tasted better or more authentic. The Ras in St Ann in Jamaica is lucky they live so far.

Baked by a Patwa-talking Garifuna woman, Lila Cayaso-Bennett who favours Miss Esmie from next door, this pastry is only one of the multiple culinary delights that feel like home. ‘Tostones,’ despite sounding too eerily like male genitalia, are our same crushed green plantains. Fried when ripe as in Jamaica as well, it accompanied the ‘gallo pinto,’ which means spotted or painted cock.

My Spanish fluency betrayed my imagination, until I realised that it was simply rice and peas. Seafood, lobster, shrimp, and fish flagged the J in Jamaican. Delicious!

A seafood soup with coconut milk; not a chowder, served with a significant Jamaican Patwa flavour, is chunky fish tea. ‘Maaaad!’

Requiring a domestic flight from Managua, strangely one goes through immigration-type screening in the local airport.

Her name is Chelsy Joseph, our guide, early 20s, looks like one of my students, but way more polite. She kills us with “Sar” and “Mam”. Not only looks Jamaican, but she fits seamlessly like a lost relative. She is not unique, the black taxi drivers understand and speak what sounds like an earlier version of our language, with ‘sar’ too.

All tables in the restaurant have people speaking flawless Patwa, some drinking sorrel.

Her grandmother’s grand parents were Jamaican. ‘Miss Carmen’, is 86 years old. No medication, heard of our interests and invites us home. Her Patwa and English sound more authentic than many ‘Jafakeans’, whose twang is an embarrassment.

She is an icon, recipient of Nicaraguan national honours; a synthesis of our Miss Lou, Olive Lewin and Rex Nettleford. Carmen, Mrs Carmela Cash Campbell, has kept Jamaican culture going for more than 50 years. Dance festivals over the year. And yes, they do ‘Palo de Mayo’ (Maypole), annually. Their maypole celebrations completely dwarfs anything else in the entire Jamaican mainland or Diaspora. Residents of Bluefields are the direct descendants of migrants from here from the 1700s and 1800s. That they have maintained Jamaican culture across three centuries, is phenomenal.

Interesting Carmen’s children, Darson, Dean and Marjorie Joseph, who live in the US, have to defend themselves to Jamaicans who feel that these ‘Hispanics’ as simply appropriating Jamaican culture, like so many others, who believe that the Jamaican national word is a fabric derived from bamboo. By the way, it is a staple word in Bluefields parlance as well.

Bluefield people know and identify as Jamaican. Stephanie Hooker looks incredibly like ‘V’ and her Jamaican accent places her easily in Siloah, St Elizabeth.

This is black history; our living history.

Jamaica; nuestro pueblo

Orville Taylor is senior lecturer at Department of Sociology at The University of the West Indies, a radio talk-show host, and author of ‘Broken Promises, Hearts and Pockets’. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com and tayloronblackline@hotmail.com.