Friday, February 03, 2006
On obtaining a bush machet'
There's a popular joke going around Jamaica right now, about a rural guy who decides to go to America to find work. Customs stops him at the airport, and asks what he's going to do with the machet' he brought with him. "I goan chop bush wid it!" he says, while gesturing with the blade.
Chopping bush. They still do a lot of that, up in the highlands. Pretty much every adult you see up there (women included) are carrying a blade. It's a beautiful tool, about two feet long, the blade darkens with age and use to a brown-black denseness, except for the edge, bright shine of sharpness, kept honed by use. The handle darkens as well, accumulating a patina of sweat and dirt, worn smooth. Over time, the blade slenders, sharpened back with a rough metal file, to keep the cutting edge.
When I told Tiger that we planned to go bushing, he said, "You need a bush machet'". I proudly pulled out my shiny new blade, and he informed that it wasn't a bush machet'. "Dat one's too heavy. You got to wear it down, sharpen it up". "How you do dat?" I asked. "Wid a file. You got to work de edge.". Tiger was cool. He ran Whitfield Hall, had rasta dreads, and a peaceful amiability. Cooked up some wicked vegetarian meals, and welcomed us with a pot of hand ground, hand roasted Blue Mountain coffee. I considered commissioning him to bush up my machet', but it sounded like a lot of work. "You got a bush machet'?", I asked, "Maybe we can trade - I give you dis one, and you give me a bush machet'".
H and I had come across a pile of old machet's, rusting beside a hut overlooking a field of thyme, scallions, christmas trees, carrots..., that had been hacked into a steep slope, a mile or so up a dirt path leading up to the head of the valley. The wooden handles had been stripped off or had rotted away, so all that was left was a thin frail metal shaft, thrown down and left to rust when the farmer had picked up the next new one. So I knew that new machet's had at least some value. And when Tiger's eyes lit up at my offer, I knew that he didn't feel like he was getting the bad side of the deal.
At this point, usually my concerns about being ripped off as an idiot tourist by a smooth-talking local would usually kick in. But I was up in the Highlands, away from the dense machiavellian cesspools of tourism-based intercultural exploitation of Kingston and the North Coast. No harrassmen' up here mon. And Tiger was legit. And I wanted a *bush* machet', not some shiny dorky new blade that I bought at a hardware store.
So the next morning, as we left Whitfield Hall, on a trek to the next ridge, and Cinchona, guided by Tiger's brother, Everton, we stopped to pick up a bush machet' from Tiger's house. It felt nice in my hand, a smooth swinging heft to it, as the three of us followed a winding dirt road through XXX, and then down a zugzwanging dirt trail past steep garden plots, braced against the roots of mango trees. down towards the Green River.
H didn't get a blade. Didn't want a blade, for whatever reason. I got so much pleasure, from wandering through the landscape with my bush machet' that I felt obliged to offer him turns with it periodically. But he rarely took me up on them. Which was quite honestly fine by me...
The blade got an adequate amount of use. I quickly learned that bushing wasn't zactly a walk in the park, and that even with a machet', a trail that was a few months overgrown was a slow, struggling hack. H and I had initially planned to try trekking the Vinegar Hill Trail - it showed up on old maps, but everyone had adamantly asserted that either it didn't exist, or that it was impassable. What bush we encountered was sufficiently arduous to take their word for it.
Chopping bush. They still do a lot of that, up in the highlands. Pretty much every adult you see up there (women included) are carrying a blade. It's a beautiful tool, about two feet long, the blade darkens with age and use to a brown-black denseness, except for the edge, bright shine of sharpness, kept honed by use. The handle darkens as well, accumulating a patina of sweat and dirt, worn smooth. Over time, the blade slenders, sharpened back with a rough metal file, to keep the cutting edge.
When I told Tiger that we planned to go bushing, he said, "You need a bush machet'". I proudly pulled out my shiny new blade, and he informed that it wasn't a bush machet'. "Dat one's too heavy. You got to wear it down, sharpen it up". "How you do dat?" I asked. "Wid a file. You got to work de edge.". Tiger was cool. He ran Whitfield Hall, had rasta dreads, and a peaceful amiability. Cooked up some wicked vegetarian meals, and welcomed us with a pot of hand ground, hand roasted Blue Mountain coffee. I considered commissioning him to bush up my machet', but it sounded like a lot of work. "You got a bush machet'?", I asked, "Maybe we can trade - I give you dis one, and you give me a bush machet'".
H and I had come across a pile of old machet's, rusting beside a hut overlooking a field of thyme, scallions, christmas trees, carrots..., that had been hacked into a steep slope, a mile or so up a dirt path leading up to the head of the valley. The wooden handles had been stripped off or had rotted away, so all that was left was a thin frail metal shaft, thrown down and left to rust when the farmer had picked up the next new one. So I knew that new machet's had at least some value. And when Tiger's eyes lit up at my offer, I knew that he didn't feel like he was getting the bad side of the deal.
At this point, usually my concerns about being ripped off as an idiot tourist by a smooth-talking local would usually kick in. But I was up in the Highlands, away from the dense machiavellian cesspools of tourism-based intercultural exploitation of Kingston and the North Coast. No harrassmen' up here mon. And Tiger was legit. And I wanted a *bush* machet', not some shiny dorky new blade that I bought at a hardware store.
So the next morning, as we left Whitfield Hall, on a trek to the next ridge, and Cinchona, guided by Tiger's brother, Everton, we stopped to pick up a bush machet' from Tiger's house. It felt nice in my hand, a smooth swinging heft to it, as the three of us followed a winding dirt road through XXX, and then down a zugzwanging dirt trail past steep garden plots, braced against the roots of mango trees. down towards the Green River.
H didn't get a blade. Didn't want a blade, for whatever reason. I got so much pleasure, from wandering through the landscape with my bush machet' that I felt obliged to offer him turns with it periodically. But he rarely took me up on them. Which was quite honestly fine by me...
The blade got an adequate amount of use. I quickly learned that bushing wasn't zactly a walk in the park, and that even with a machet', a trail that was a few months overgrown was a slow, struggling hack. H and I had initially planned to try trekking the Vinegar Hill Trail - it showed up on old maps, but everyone had adamantly asserted that either it didn't exist, or that it was impassable. What bush we encountered was sufficiently arduous to take their word for it.
