The Passing of Hurricane Lenny
By Hans N. Lechner
2001
On November 14th, 1999, Hurricane Lenny passed about 100 miles south of Jamaica. I was a new Peace Corps Volunteer at the time and was traveling around the island visiting some of the other volunteers.
I was in the northeast parish of Portland in the Buff Bay River Valley. I had traveled from Long Bay, in the east, to Buff Bay where I found a taxi heading south to the community of Rose Hill where a fellow PCV was living. It was only about five miles from Buff Bay to Rose Hill but the ride took well over 20 minutes. The recent rains had created small craters in the road and minor landslides had covered some parts, also the driver made numerous stops to dropoff and pickup passengers. The road followed a straight and swift moving river that had carved a deep valley through the marine sediments and was scratching at the surface of the igneous rocks that formed the island. A dark green blanket of vegetation crept up from the water and covered the valley walls. Along the bank of the river freshly washed clothes lay neatly spread on the bigger rocks with the hope that they would dry before the rain started to fall.
Upon reaching Rose Hill, we climbed from the taxi and were immediately greeted by "Psyche," an elderly Rasta man with thick, long dreadlocks and a knotted beard that hung off his chin. His dark eyes beamed a mysterious knowledge and wisdom, and years of hard work were written on his hands. He gave us a warning that a hurricane was coming. We made our way into a roadside bar, tuned in the radio, and ordered a few cold beers. Sure enough there was a hurricane watch in effect for the island of Jamaica. Lenny was only rated as a category one hurricane but it could have easily grown stronger. The situation seemed desperate.
We were on the rainiest part of the island in a narrow river valley, which is prone to flooding and landslides and a hurricane was heading our way. I was excited – being from California I’m accustomed only to earthquakes – this was to be my first hurricane. I was also quite nervous. There were no phones in Rose Hill and few houses had electricity or running water; also, the terrible road that had led us here was the only way out. What if it were to washout? How long would it take before vehicles could get in or out? I was more worried about landslides and flooding but was reassured by Psyche that most of the houses were built above the high water mark and on solid bedrock. Psyche and other locals were more concerned with the strong winds that always accompany a hurricane. However, they felt sure that the high canyon walls would shelter their homes. We would just have to wait and see.
There was no TV, which meant no televised "storm watch;" we had only the radio to inform us of what was to come. We filled a dozen empty rum bottles with drinking water, bought 20 candles and a deck of cards and carried them to up the hill to the PCV's house. Once that was done all that was left to do was sit at the shop, drink beer, and watch the river.
It was difficult to see the night sky because of the limited view provided by the canyon. However, when I first looked up there was a thick ceiling of dark clouds. An hour later the clouds had thinned and I was able to observe a few of the brighter stars. Eventually the clouds returned. Psyche attributed the break in the clouds to the spiral arms of the hurricane passing over the island. The hurricane was close. There was a strong breeze coming down the valley but not too much wind. I heard a soft moan as it moved through the bush. The stands of bamboo on the rivers edge bent gently forward and back. We were also getting rain in small doses and the river didn’t seem to be rising. The stress of the situation was receding. We ordered a few more beers and reasoned with Psyche in true Rasta fashion. Psyche explained to us the shifting fortunes associated with Hurricane Gilbert in 1988. Some people lost everything, while others got free zinc, lumber and a new satellite dish, which had blown into their yard. Around two in the morning the rain began to fall heavier, but it never became threatening. It came in heavy downpours separated by an hour or so. When we felt safe enough, we went back up the hill to try to get some sleep. During the night I was awakened several times by the excitement of the situation and the pounding of rain on the zinc roof.
In the morning the rooster's crow announced the rising sun and aroused me from my sleep. Kids were playing football in the street, women were washing clothes in the river, and the men were heading off to their farms. It was as if yesterday had never happened. Things were back to normal. Psyche was still sitting in front of the little shop, head down, dreadlocks hanging over his face, the fragrant smoke from his spliff hung over his head. He hadn’t slept all night. Lenny had passed and was moving east toward Puerto Rico. Mother Rose, the PCV's landlady, fixed breakfast for us. The salt fish, boiled green banana, yam, and dumpling got me ready for the journey to come. It was slow getting a taxi out of the valley that morning, so we sat idle on a huge boulder between the river and the road and waited. Eventually, a beat up Corolla wagon stopped for us; we squeezed into the back seat and left the bush behind us.