Chapter 23
ZINZI
Kingston Railway Station
The awe. The excitement. The wide-eyed wonder.
Even a hint of fear in one young woman’s eyes—possibly the smartest reaction.
These are the faces of the travelers I seek as I walk past the ticket counters and cargo holding spaces toward the waiting area on the ground floor of the Kingston Railway Station.
This is where my group has been instructed to wait for me, their guide from Kingston to Cockpit Country, the home of the Maroon people and the village of Accompong.
The journey begins for them at the train station, near the waterfront at the western edge of downtown Kingston.
A two-story structure, the Kingston-to-Montego-Bay railway station is Georgian in architectural style and made of brick and stone, with a touch of elegance in the mahogany staircase that leads to the stationmaster’s quarters.
Arched doorways and windows, wide eaves, and overhanging roofs offer little protection for passengers from the sun and daily rainfall.
Stylish yet weathered, built in 1845, it has been repeatedly patched and mended after hurricanes, rainstorms, lightning strikes, and the brutal heat that melts even stone in a decade or so, but the Kingston Railway still holds up.
I haven’t been inside the station in ages—since my last trip to Accompong a few years ago.
I can’t even recall how long exactly. I wonder if the Americans notice the remnants of old-world beauty?
Will they appreciate the artistry of the wooden tracks and the steam locomotive engine, or the winding path as we twist around and upward into the cool, jagged jungle of the Cockpit?
I spot them precisely where I asked them to gather.
There are three women and two men. At first glance, they are somewhat of an unusual bunch.
The riding pants, pith helmets, heavy lace-up boots, and knapsacks are too creased, starched, and shiny.
The price tags are still visible, even though I can’t actually spot any—they are there.
I next note the line of sweaty, shirtless load bearers nearby, carrying their stream of crates, suitcases, and equipment—far too much to take in.
With my gaze back on the group, I see that they don’t appear particularly brave for such a dangerous journey and extended stay. I have been told they will be in Accompong for at least a month or longer.
The Cockpit is a rugged, forested region with steep-sided hollows and a striking maze of sinkholes, ridges, underground rivers, and caves.
It is known for its jagged, weather-carved limestone landscape, which made it a perfect stronghold for escaped, enslaved Africans who resisted British colonial rule in the 17th century and to this day—the Maroons.
That’s why I know it so well. The ins and outs of this region were my home, and my father taught me how to survive in Cockpit Country.
Too bad he never figured out how to live through the cruelty of picking sugarcane on a Jamaican plantation.
The first person I meet is Katherine Dunham, the leader of the group.
She is much younger than her reputation suggests.
And yes, she has a reputation. Once I received the leader’s name, I asked around, curious about this independent-minded American Negro.
Interestingly enough, several important people in Jamaica, including Colonel Rowe, leader of the Maroon people and a citizen of Accompong, know of her.
She and her party will be his guests on his property during their stay.
Hopefully, her ego will be flexible enough to follow directions.
I introduce myself, and Miss Dunham explains that the group consists of anthropologists, a biologist, a camera operator, and an assistant—none of them are tourists. I don’t understand why she says this because I made no mention of any of them being tourists.
Miss Dunham announces the names of the rest of the members of her party: Vivian Jean Hartfield, her husband, Tobias Hartfield, but call him Tully, and their two assistants, Robbie Barnes and Othella Montgomery.
Something about this girl, however, is different.
She’s young, but she doesn’t look her age.
Not so much older but she seems experienced.
She’s round and pretty, but her gaze moves deliberately and doesn’t miss a thing.
Dunham goes on about her credentials, mentioning that her travel fellowships from the Julius Rosenwald and Guggenheim Foundations cover the entire cost of her journey. I wonder why she needs to impress me, but the train will begin to board soon and it’s my turn to speak.
“I have a few announcements, so please bear with me,” I interrupt her flow of details.
“Sorry, of course,” responds Miss Dunham, gesturing to the group. “Everyone, come closer. This young woman has some important updates before we board the train.”
“My name is Zinzi Green and I will be your guide to Accompong.” The Hartfield woman gasps audibly, and Dunham silences her with a wave.
“Continue, Miss Green,” she instructs as the other woman looks awestruck but obeys, closing her gaping mouth.
“The Cockpit stretches across the center of the island and is full of sinkholes, dense forests, and caverns. There are plenty of tropical plants and plenty of tropical insects and other animals. It is the most dangerous region in Jamaica.” I pause for emphasis, and from the wide-eyed terror in the young girl’s eyes, I have one believer.
“Your survival relies on you keeping aware of your surroundings. When we arrive in Maggotty, we’ll get our mules and set off for Accompong. ”
“Mules?” the young girl inquires. “What is a mule?”
I hold my chuckle in my throat. “Your name is Othella, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“A mule is an animal that results from crossing a horse with a donkey, but it has a gentler nature,” I explain. “Now, let’s get ready. We have a three-hour train ride ahead.”
Suddenly, Mrs. Hartfield steps forward eagerly. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I feel like I already know you.”
I look at her sideways. “What do you mean?”
“Your last name is Green,” Mrs. Hartfield says with a grin. “My maid is Maxi Green. She was raised in Accompong but moved to America in 1915. She arranged for you to be our guide.”
“Your maid?” I cross my arms over my chest, blocking a possible embrace I suspect from the way she leans toward me. “Mrs. Hartfield, I’m sorry, but I don’t know a Maxi Green. My mother asked me to do this.”
“Call me Vivian Jean,” she says. “But you’re too young to remember her. I’m sure your mother does. Can you believe I never asked Maxi the name of the family members she reached out to?”
Getting a closer look at Vivian Jean, I see she is stylishly dressed in the latest riding pants fashion, but she’s as thin as a rail. I can guess it’s not because she starves herself. She is simply excitable, and she speaks quickly, like flames fleeing from a burning building.
“There are many Greens in Jamaica,” I say. “But I don’t know of a Maxi Green in my family.”
“Are you from Accompong?” Vivian Jean persists. “You see, she arranged for our guide—I mean, you—and she said it would be one of her relatives, or that’s what I thought she said. …” She grimaces with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, but she’s not only my maid.”
“I don’t know her,” I reply gruffly, then remember I should soften my tone. “When we get to Accompong, you can ask my mother if she does.”
A train whistle sounds, and a wave of anxiety settles in my stomach.
My thoughts shift from Katherine Dunham, Vivian Jean Hartfield, and the other members of the Dunham expedition to the challenges of recent days.
The last thing I want is to leave Kingston.
The labor movement needs me, and I need it.
Allan said he understood why I had to go, but do I?
The train whistle sounds again.
“Let’s move,” I say. “The train won’t wait forever.
” I glance at the load bearers and urge them to hurry.
I stay on the platform until everyone and everything that needs to board the train gets on the train.
It takes a while because the expedition has many crates, boxes, and supplies.
This isn’t merely a weekend excursion. Forget a month, they’ve brought enough provisions to stay in Accompong for a year.
I wish them well, but if the spirits allow, I’ll return to Kingston before the expedition unpacks.
There is too much history for me in Accompong, and it’s not the kind you sing about around the firepit or recite in a ritual.
I’ll see my mother. She is ill, after all. I just can’t stay long—I can’t stay long at all.