Jamaica; 10 million years ago
Wood and water, water and wood.
Rain falls. Seeds sow.
Wood and water, water and wood.
Tendrils sprawl. Currents flow.
Wood and water, water and wood.
Rivers roar. Branches grow.
Wood and water, water and wood.
Trees soar. Clouds roll.
Wood and water, water and wood.
Rain falls. Seeds sow.
…and now the forest is born. Roots digging deep over limestone karst. Burrowing. Delving. Trees holding firm against frenetic storms. They bow, they sway. Yet steadfast they remain.
In swamp stillness, drizzle hangs in the air like a levitating sea. The mist settles on heart-shaped leaves and over great pools of water; ripples glisten in the morning light. On a floating log, a dragonfly settles, antennae twitching, wings still. All around, towering trunks plunge into the murky depths, where behemoth fish weave between swaying ferns, a shifting kaleidoscope of green.
The trees thirst: mighty giants that glug and grow, racing to the heavens with canopies that unfurl to salute prehistoric skies, capturing cosmic rays from distant suns, chemistry bubbling away in chloroplast cauldrons. Light turns to matter.
And now the forest is ready. Sustainer of life. Provider of food. Guardian, protector. But first it waits: waits for the first canoe, the first fire, the first smoke. This place, this land, this Xaymaca – the land of wood and water.
*
Cockpit Country, Jamaica; June 1656
The gunshot came from the north, shredding the early morning calm, tearing through the forest like a wild hungry beast. A flurry of green parakeets burst into the sky. The crack reverberated around the mountains, disorientating her slightly; she felt surrounded. Still, Afia remembered her brother’s instruction: “keep running, keep uphill, never stop!” The words went round and round in her head – would this be her last ever thought?
She ran and ran, negotiating twisted roots and torturous branches, battling against the relentless incline. These limbs, they felt separate somehow, disembodied – were they even hers? Still, they carried her, up and away, weaving through forest so dense that day was like night.
“There’ll be others…” her brother had said. Others? But who, where, when? There were those who had escaped, or tried to at least; but what had been their fates? Most had been recaptured, with only beatings and broken bones reward for claiming their freedom, their birthright. But others had gone forever: perhaps there was hope after all?
And then there were rumours of a free people who roamed the mountains – the Taino – who some say had lived here for many centuries, long before white men had descended on these shores, bringing with them the thousands upon thousands they had so brutally enslaved.
“Powww!!….“
Another shot rang out, this time unbearably close; she dared not look back. She could hear the muffled shouts of her pursuers, the snarls and barks of the dogs. They were gaining on her. She had to keep going, even as her lungs drowned in thick humid air. Faster and faster she ran – greens blurring into browns, streaked with dappled sunlight.
She did not see the rock that felled her, protruding out of the damp undergrowth, moist with morning dew and innocent as the earth. As she slipped, she landed headfirst in a nightshade bush, its branches lashing around her body. She lay there, motionless. High above, birds shrilled to the morning light, a melody of life and sadness. Below were the untamed scents of soil and vegetation and rainwater. And all around was this dark veil of foliage, enveloping her with billowing white blooms and a fragrance that was sweet and deliciously honeyed.
The shouts and barks were closing in. She tried to move, but a searing pain from her ankle made her wince. So in this secluded burrow she lay, still as stone, listening out as the inevitable footsteps approached. A snapping of branches, a rustling of grass; her heart pounding in her ears.
She thought of her brother. She thought of her parents. She thought of her life back in her Akan village, far across the ocean, where her people lived and worked and played and sang and ate, the steady reassuring waters of the Afram flowing nearby. She thought of the cruelty that had wrenched it all away, the sheer confusion of it all, the stupidity, the violence, the arrogance. She could feel a rage inside her, a rage that ran through every sinew, coursed through every vein. How she wanted to fight! But they were many, and had dogs and guns and hate. So there she remained, shadowed by this cradling embrace of leaves and petals, until she suddenly began to notice how tired she was.
When she awoke, she lay awhile, listening to the stillness of the forest at twilight. Eventually she crawled out of the thicket, gingerly levering herself up and testing her ankle. She grimaced, but managed to limp a few steps before steadying herself against a tree, beyond which stretched a narrow glade. And then she saw her.
The woman was sitting on her haunches, bare but for a thin cotton band draped around her hips: patterns of red were painted all over her light-tan skin. She leant over a mound of earth, and proceeded to dig into it with a small wooden trowel. A faint bellow of smoke suddenly rose up, like some kind of ghostly apparition, before gradually fading away into the forest.
Inside the pit lay a sizable package, wrapped in burnt-brown pepper elder leaves, and resting on a lattice perched over smouldering hot rocks and embers of pimento wood. With heavy calloused hands, the painted woman withdrew the parcel and placed it beside her, waiting patiently until the sky had darkened to a purple hue and the birds had silenced their evening song. And then she carefully unfurled it.
Even from across the glade, Afia picked up the wondrous scents of salt, bird pepper and allspice; she inhaled deeply, savouring aromas that seemed both strange and familiar at the same time, conveying a sense of nurture and vitality. She watched on as the painted woman drew out a knife, and began busily carving the meat. And then, almost ridiculously, Afia sneezed.
Immediately, the painted woman glanced up. She had been seen! And now she must run (“keep running, keep uphill, never stop!..“) except that her feet were rooted to the spot; something was holding her back. A calmness gradually descended; there was a softening in the air. The two women held each other’s gaze, eyes locked; stories seemed to flow between them, even though no words had been spoken.
The painted woman then resumed her task, skewering some meat onto a knife, before beckoning to her from across the glade. Afia dusted herself down, showering a raft of twigs and soil back to the earth, and hobbled over. As she approached, she bowed her head, before sliding a chunk of meat off the tilted blade. She bit into the soft flesh and chewed. Sudden bursts of flavour were unleashed inside her mouth – salt and spices, smoke and wood – spiralling round and round, stirring her, awakening her, filling her with a renewed sense of hope. She was free at last.
*
Brixton, London; June 1962
Thursday
Dear Diary,
Exciting news – we’ve got new neighbours next door! They’re from Jamaica. Mum said they’ve come over on a massive boat, and it took them a whole month to get here. That’s even longer than when mum and dad came over from Germany during the war.
However, it seems like no one on the street wants much to do with them. People just stare or tut or shake their heads. When we moved in last year, at least one or two people said ‘hello’ when they passed us in the street. Although that’s nothing like the Williamsons at number 72 – they got battenbergs and everything!
Anyway, I like that they’re from Jamaica. Jamaica was where Gary Sobers made his test debut for the West Indies. He took four English wickets in his very first innings – Bailey (23), Wardle (66), Lock (4) and Laker (9). He really is the world’s best all-rounder. I couldn’t believe it when I finally got his cigarette card from Freddy at school. Whizzo!
Friday
When we were coming back from synagogue this evening, guess who we bumped into? – the new Jamaican family next door! They told us how smart we looked in our suits, and how pretty my mum’s hat was, which made her blush like a strawberry.
They asked if we’d been to some special do at church. I was surprised when my mum told them we’d been to synagogue. Mum and dad never usually talk to people about synagogues and stuff. Anyway, this seemed to please them no end, and they had a whole conversation how Jesus was also a Jew.
While the grown-ups were chatting, the girl came up to me. She’s about my height, and she said her name was Denise. Then, she asked if I liked cricket! Cricket? Of course! – I said. What luck! I told her all about my cigarette card collection, and said she could have a look one day, and she said okay then. Can’t wait to show them to her – she’s going to love my Gary Sobers card!
Saturday
I was just in my bedroom, sorting out my new cricket cards on the floor (it’s great my dad gets through so many cigarettes!), when I heard all this mighty whacking coming out the back. So I leaped to the window, trying not to be seen – mum keeps saying it’s rude to stare – and saw Denise’s father hammering a giant post into the ground. What on earth is he up to? Quite a few neighbours must have wondered the same thing, because I saw them staring out too. Mrs Jones at number 43 looked quite furious!
Anyway, he carried on bashing several more posts in, spacing them all round the garden, before covering them with this giant net. I forgot about trying to hide and just stared out with my mouth wide open – what could it all be for? A moment later, he came out again, with Denise as well this time, and… a bat, a ball and some stumps. Cricket nets! How super!
Just then, Denise looked up and caught me at the window. I ducked for a moment, hoping she hadn’t seen me, but as I began to peer over again, she waved at me. And kept waving: she was inviting me round. I didn’t need asking twice. I jumped up, ran downstairs, and knocked on their front door.
It was really fun playing together. I tried to pretend I was Gary Sobers, but Denise is actually a pretty handy off-spinner – it wasn’t long before I lived up to my class nickname of Daffy (Duck). We played all afternoon, and Denise offered me some tips too. If I practise some more, maybe I’ll make the school team after all!
Sunday
I was just cycling back from my paper round when I almost banged right into Denise and her family. They were all made up in fancy suits and dresses for church. They asked if I could read Hebrew, and I said I could a bit. So they invited me round to read some psalms – “in the Lord’s language”, as they called it. It didn’t seem to matter that I’m the worst in my Hebrew class.
Later on, I popped over with my prayer book to sing some songs from synagogue. They sat me on this big armchair, whilst they all squashed onto the sofa. I sang Shema Yisreal and Lecha Dodi. They listened very quietly and even gave me a clap at the end, as well as a glass of lemonade – and some jammy dodgers which was the best bit.
Anyway, they asked if I wanted to stay for lunch, as some family were coming over to see their new house. Mum and dad said yes, and I took round some of my favourite cricket cards to show Denise. I could tell she was impressed. When we went out the back, it was already filled with people, all chatting and laughing. Denise’s father had set up the gramophone so that you could hear the music playing through the open window, including my favourite – Cricket, Lovely Cricket! Denise’s uncle was busy telling jokes, and her father was showing everyone the cricket nets he had built. Then I looked up and spotted Mrs Jenkins frowning from beside her curtains.
A few people were gathered around this strange metal thing I’d not seen before – it looked like a barrel flipped over onto stilts. I asked Denise about it, and she was amazed I didn’t know. She told me it was a jerk pan. When her father opened the lid, a gigantic waft of smoke blew over – it was unbelievable! It smelled of salt and spices, smoke and wood, all at the same time. I thought it smelled delicious, but I heard Mrs Jones in the garden behind muttering about messing up her washing.
Denise’s father then spotted me. ‘Hello, young Samuel!’ he said, waving me over before pointing to the grill. ‘What would you like now: a nice bit of pork or some fish?’ I said fish, and indeed there was a whole fish just lying there on the grill – with eyes and everything! – and he lifted off a slice onto my plate. I took a bite, and it tasted like nothing else I’ve ever had. It was amazing.
‘If you like fish, you should try these,’ he then continued. And from another dish, he popped a few fried balls onto my plate. They smelled like mum’s chopped and fried gefilte fish, but slightly different too. Stamp and go, he called them – such a marvellous name! They were made from something called saltfish, and tasted really good. In the end, I reckon I ate seven, maybe more, because I went home completely stuffed.
*
Thornton Heath, London, October 2020
I first came across The Original Tasty Jerk (aka Tasty Jerk) a few years back. At least my nose did, catching an aroma that was as astonishing as it was unexpected, just when I was stepping out from Selhurst Park stadium one sunny autumn afternoon. It was that type of scent that halted you in your tracks.
I’d just been watching Crystal Palace play Manchester City – the team I’ve obsessively followed since 1981 – and a game memorable for Kevin de Bruyne’s debut and a last-minute winner from Kelechi Iheanacho. But most of all, it was the first time I’d taken my oldest (who was eight at the time) to a match, thereby fulfilling the obligatory ritual of handing down stubborn football club allegiances to the next generation. Sitting amongst the home crowd, we tried our best to stifle our celebrations, perhaps succeeding only marginally.
Next to us was my father-in-law: a dyed-in-the-wool Palace fan from the days he grew up on these surrounding streets. He may not have been as enamoured with the scoreline, but he was clearly touched by the occasion: three generations coming together at his old football haunt. After the game, he brought us to his childhood home, and showed us the route he used to take for his paper round; all the while regaling us with fond memories of the festive matches he attended with his sister, just as the Christmas goose was roasting in the oven.
That would have been in the 1950s, and it was around this time that the Windrush generation first arrived, many gravitating to this part of the city. Over the years, Thornton Heath became home to one of London’s largest Caribbean communities, contributing much to the area’s life and identity, and shaping its food culture too: from its specialist grocery stores to bakeries that brim with hardo and patties.
The jerk scent that I caught that day was therefore perhaps not so surprising after all. That scent would have wafted out decades back as a new community began establishing itself, bringing with it the dishes and traditions from the bustling roadside jerk stalls of Boston Bay and beyond.
But for me, that smell was something new and wonderful. I made a mental note, and vowed to try this food whose scent had so utterly captivated me. Time however passed, life continued, and this memory eventually faded into the back of my mind.
It wasn’t until a few years later that it stirred again, and it came at the point when time itself seemed to stop: the time of pandemic. Despite my deep love of cooking, I was missing that particular thrill of eating out. And I was missing London too: its pockets of life and counters of food largely out of reach as we hunkered down in our homes.
Then I caught an article in the London edition of Eater on the best grills for takeaway; Tasty Jerk suddenly appeared in the text. At which point a memory bubbled up, bursting into my consciousness and releasing that heady, invigorating scent of salt and spices, smoke and wood. It sounded like the perfect antidote to months of effective confinement. So I ventured out, like a rabbit from a burrow, tentatively zigzagging my way through London’s southern suburbs.
Finding Tasty Jerk was easy – once I reached the stadium, I caught sight of the dark soaring pillar of smoke, almost biblical in how it towered above Whitehorse Lane. I headed towards it, eventually arriving at an unassuming one-storey cabin, marked by an oversized steel chimney protruding towards the heavens. A queue was snaking its way onto the pavement.
When I eventually got inside, the room was all cramped and dark, as though the bright autumn sunshine had suddenly been extinguished, sucked into the gaping vent above. On the back wall was a row of oil drums, in whose bellies burned a mass of hardwood coals. Various joints of meat lay over the grills, catching the surges of smoke from underneath; chefs shuffling them about like draughts pieces. Smoke and sweat, heat and motion; the clang and thrum of metal against metal.
After ordering, I was ushered along the counter, where I caught sight of one of the chefs retrieving a chicken leg from the griddle, hacking through its flesh and bone with a heavy cleaver, before dispatching the chunks of meat into a foil container. He then plunged a ladle into a metal sink containing a rich glossy gravy, swirling it about and summoning tides and currents and mysterious residues from the depths, before spooning it over the meat and a mound of rice-and-peas.
Stepping back out into the blinding bright light, I turned into a relatively empty Sainsbury’s car park, and perched myself on a ledge. I removed the paper lid, and delighting in the ascending bellow of scented steam, I dived in.
Everything about that moment was joy. The crisp of the skin, the layers of spicing, the tantalising smoke coursing through the meat, the feverish heat and fruitiness of the hot sauce. There was gnawing and scraping and sucking of bones, gravy dribbling down my chin; the oppressive claustrophobia of the pandemic finally melting away. As I ate, I found myself watching the smoke as it streamed out of the funnel, tracing the wisps as they soared and swirled over the road, as though delighting in its own freedom, before at last offering themselves up to the South London sky.
*
As much as I love jerk chicken, I only became aware of its deep historical significance when starting to research this piece. A huge thanks to Melissa Thompson (aka @fowlmouthsfood) – not only did she kindly review a draft of this piece, but her exceptional debut cookbook, Motherland, gives such a fascinating thought-provoking account of Jamaica’s history, especially around the period of colonisation and slavery. It was both a great resource and a real inspiration, and its recipes are fabulous too.
Melissa also talks in more detail about jerk cooking on the wonderful Sonder and Salt podcast, as well recommending another great spot for jerk chicken in London – Maureen’s Brixton Kitchen. A shout out too for the jerk cooking at Paradise Cove, which the inspiring Chef Tee is due to reopen after a crowdfunding campaign. Also check out Riaz Phillips’ highly acclaimed cookbook, West Winds (and East Winds just released too), as well as his piece in Vice magazine on the history of jerk cooking. And if you fancy learning how to do your own jerk cooking, then Tash (aka @foodIfancy) has started up some regular workshops to help guide you through.
The story of neighbouring Jewish and Jamaican families in Brixton is inspired by the film – Wondrous Oblivion – written and directed by Paul Morrison. It’s a charming understated film, warm-hearted yet poignant, exploring themes of immigration and racism experienced by the respective London communities.
Finally, for another piece using creative writing to delve into food history and themes of immigration and colonialism, feel free to check out Dhal Puri Roti; A History in Three Vignettes.
jerk
Tasty Jerk
jerk
jerk jerk
