Nicole Dennis-Benn on sex tourism and prostitution in Jamaica
By Magdalena Moursy
Nicole Dennis-Benn’s brilliant debut Here Comes the Sun exposes Jamaica’s paradise façade, where the local community’s complex social issues are poignantly captured in the daily struggles of three working-class women.
The country’s lucrative tourist industry is founded on the illusion of an exotic paradise — luxurious hotels located by white sandy beaches lined with coconut palm trees. Rastafarians high on Bob Marley and weed, talking peace and loving reggae. But this idyll completely relies on the working-class community selling their land, souls and bodies to maintain the fantasy that attracts Western tourists.
Margot, the lead character, comes to realise she must play a part in this tragedy–that Jamaican women’s social mobility is primarily dependent on Western tourists’ fascination with the idea of the black goddess –if she is to progress in her career at the hotel and provide better opportunities for her little sister.
‘She undresses for the client, whose main goal is usually to satisfy a deep curiosity that he never had the balls to satiate with the woman in his own country. Like black woman’s breasts for instance. Many of these men as to know the shape of them; the nipples, whether of not they are the same colour as tar pressed on the heels of their leather shoes from the paved roads in Europe or America; or if black nipples have in them the richness of topsoil after a thorough rain shower. They want to touch. And she lets them. Their eyes widen like children ogling baby frogs for the first time, careful to hold them so they don’t spring from their grasp. She doesn’t see it as demeaning. She sees it as merely satisfying the curiosity of foreigners; foreigners who pay her good money to be their personal tour guide on the island of her body’.
Extract HERE COMES THE SUN by Nicole Dennis-Benn is published by Oneworld
Ahead of her second novel, Patsy, released next year Libreria spoke with Nicole on the issues of prostitution and sex tourism in Jamaica the importance of giving voices to those underrepresented in order to preserve the country’s inherent beauty.
Q: You call Here Comes The Sun your “love letter to Jamaica”. Can you explain what this means?
I call Here Comes The Sun a love letter to Jamaica, because it’s my attempt to preserve Jamaica’s beauty by depicting her flaws. Jamaica is still very much a part of me. It’s a place where my childhood memories are buried and where my family still reside. I was always aware of the discrepancies between the tourism industry and local communities. My family and I took regular trips to the North Coast, because my mother had gotten a job as a customs officer and worked some weekends in Montego Bay. I was mesmerised by how different the island looked in tourist areas, a stark contrast to Kingston — the paved roads, the flower beds, the billboards with smiling faces and ONE LOVE boldly written in black, green, and gold. This was the beginning of the tourism boom in the early 90’s, when we would drive by signs on beaches warning us not to trespass unless we were staying at the affiliated hotel. Each time there would be a new hotel, bigger and more lavish, where land or homes used to be. Years later, when I returned as a visitor and stayed at a resort, I noticed that the only representation of Jamaican culture was through the lens of local artists they allowed on site. Even the food was watered down. One hotel clerk mentioned that most tourists would rather have their vacation in our beautiful country without seeing the people. I knew then that I had to tell the story of the people who didn’t get seen.
Q: You give an account of the most marginalised members of Jamaican society [working class women], how have they reacted to your portrayal of them?
Yes, I wanted visibility for women in our culture, specifically working-class women. Most feel invisible, pushed to the margins of society and silenced. I also depict working-class Jamaican women in my new novel, PATSY, which documents the day-to-day struggle of an undocumented immigrant woman in America who abandoned her young daughter in Jamaica in escape of a society where she felt trapped and invisible, and in search of her personal freedom—a taboo issue in our culture where motherhood is a central role as a woman in our society, and in any society.
While rape, incest, and violence against women remain prevalent in Jamaica, the focus tends to be on other issues that exclude them. Jamaican working-class women who happened to have read Here Comes the Sun, loved it. I had several opportunities to read excerpts back home — first to my friends and family before the book came out; second, at Calabash Literary Festival, and third, the House of Dancehall where I was in conversation with culture and gender scholar Dr. Donna Hope and reggae artist Tanya Stephens before an audience of Jamaican women. This event was organised by Kingston Book Festival. The women who came out to House of Dancehall really appreciated the book and having an outlet at the venue to discuss the themes around gender and sexuality. I was invited back home that August by We Change Jamaica — a feminist group on the island — as a keynote speaker for their Pride event where men and women expressed how much they appreciated my book.
Though I am very happy with the reception my book has gotten in Jamaica, I wish there were more ways it could reach the average working-class person. Unfortunately, not many working-class Jamaicans have the opportunity to attend literary festivals or readings. That would mean they’d have to take off work; that would mean they’d have to find a way to travel to the middle of the island and find money to stay at a hotel. Most of these literary events are not advertised to Jamaica’s working-class in areas where they live; and even if they were, most working-class women like my mother are already too consumed with surviving systematic inequalities in the day-to-day grind to notice.
I realised that as an author from the working-class, I had to be the one to reach them. Literally. I would go out and buy my books and give to those who cannot afford it. I would also give informal readings in my community. Once, I gave a sidewalk reading for those who weren’t able to take off work and attend my literary event. This happened in Nantucket where I was invited as a literary guest at the book festival. There, I purchased my book for the Jamaican women who were working there for the summer as hotel and restaurant staff and nannies. They were very impressed that I was a featured author at a big literary event — an author who looked them with their accent. And most importantly, an author who was as invested in telling our stories as much as getting it to them. I’ll always remember the pride I saw in their faces once they saw me and held my book.
Q: Why is it important to reveal the impact of sexual tourism?
Upward mobility in Jamaica is extremely difficult, which is why a lot of working-class Jamaicans leave. But those who stay have to find ways to make ends meet. In my book, Margot had to supplement her meagre salary as a hotel clerk with prostitution. In a country like Jamaica where tourism is our number one revenue, our disenfranchised population capitalise off that. It’s not like the hotels are using their profits to make things better for us and our society. Maybe one or two hotels like Rock house Hotel might have scholarships for children to get books. But more could be done. Education is not free in Jamaica. More children would benefit from having their school fees paid. It’s the only way they can break the cycle of poverty in our country. It’s unfair to judge sex-work without first contemplating the infrastructure in place to keep them in a certain position as impoverished and/or working-class in our society. Survival is key. Therefore, I wanted to humanise sex-workers in my book with a character like Margot. People look down on them and the work they do, but in reality, it’s a job that puts food on the table, provides a roof over their heads, and pays for their children’s education — something the government won’t do.
