Mooretown
Diary: Saturday 27th
May, 1995: Mooretown in Portland. In the entrails of Jamaica. Mooretown is the home of the Portland
Maroons. The town is set next to a little stream cutting deep into the generous
and well-endowed green hills around it. Poverty strikes the first note. The
Anglican Church is a ruined gothic revival thing, made of condrete. It is
painted black and white, perhaps to indicae the relative simpicity of the
after-life. But that church is gone and dead. The graves have been covered with
vegetation. Someone is waiting in the bus-station. Before you enter mooretown
there is a vividly coloured building which is the church of the most popular
healer in Jamaica. He is thought to have great powers. But
the building was silent as we passed. Had I come at a different time (Kevin
Lynch what time is this place?) the building would have been bellowing with
enthusiasm. It was Sunday. As we emerged from our car in the centre of the
village, we heard the wailing warnings of a preacher whose tiny little yellow
church on the hill was filled to bursting. At the centre of the village is a
concrete monument to Nanny of the Maroons, one of the national heroes. A
delapidated concrete staircase leading to a plateau with a placque. On top
of the monument a group of young boys and girls, very conscious of their
clothes watched a cricket match. We walked up the hill past the small yellow
church from which a melodic harangue emerged to a group of middle-aged men on
the other side of the Cricket field. A boy was bowled out with great decision.
A handsome man sized us up. He wanted support for his venture. He showed us his
idyllic garden full of luscious fruits and plants. In the middle of this rich
garden stood a small shack.
The reason I was here
was to talk to Colonel Harris of the maroons who wanted to generate some economic
activity in the village and thought he should do this by building a museum.
A museum to celebrate the life and ways of the Maroons. Colonel Harris lives
in the centre of the village on the main dusty road in a concrete house,
or rather a concrete accretions of spaces. On the way here we had given a lift
to a one-legged man. It now turned out that this man was “the major” who led us into Colonel Harris’ front room.
The furniture in Colonel Harris’ front room was arranged much as it would have
been in a storage room. Half of one dirty flowery couch was set agains the wall
and inaccessible because of the way the piano was placed in front of it. The
television was stacked behind Colonel Harris’ chair and the walls were
arbitrarily or contingently splodged with religious slogans and old faded
family photographs. Colonel Harris voice was beautiful and what he wanted to
talk about were all the small events and habits that made life in the maroon
village so wonderfully unspectacular. He spent half an hour describing a
boyhood game. The museum would become a glorious monument to the everyday. But
we were accompanied by a man-eating German baroness, an architect. She onwed a
hotel in Portland, The Jamaica Palace Hotel. She had
ddesigned it herself. According to local legend she had spent time in prison
for building a hybrid castle of nostalgic european references from money which
belonged to the Esast German State. She would have been funny if she was not
frightening. She stood for arbitrary energy. The power to enrich oneself at all
cost. She had offered to design the museum and wanted to take a Greek tholoi as
her model. Sha wanted something African she said. She was going to manufacture
Maroon history in order to create a sense of authenticity (these are her words)
which she believed essential to the tourist experience.