and begin to like them. I still have difficulty maintaining discipline from time to time, and have produced a cane once, threatening to use it. After Christmas, I'm told, the kids go through a great change in outlook, and become easier to manage.
I hope all this hasn't put you off. As I said no two VSO jobs are the same, and ours is the acknowledged rough assignment in Jamaica. No one else has two classes in each room. Few others don't feel entirely safe in school: the other volunteer had his face slashed in the second week, but that's the first time it's ever happened to any VSO volunteer in the world. Equipment is better in other schools. Each school has its problems, but none have the number or scale of those here. I'm rather flattered, actually, that they thought me equal to the job. The kids, at their best, are really quite charming, so childish and naive, that European kids of the same age are far more sophisticated. Rural children are far less hard-bitten, and much more keen to learn, and most assignments are in the rural areas, and most are in Africa, which I believe has far fewer problems than here.
Outside the curriculum I have a few little jobs. I help with the Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme; I helped at the Polio Centre while the team was training for the paraplegic games; I'm going to teach a lesson or two at the Adult Literary courses, and I do other odd jobs which crop up.
The attitude towards whites ranges from warmhearted friendliness to outright hatred, that is out of school. There's a very strong Black Power movement in Jamaica, and associated with this is a pseudo-religious sect called the Rastafari, or Rastas for short. They worship Haile Selassie as the only remaining Black emperor, abuse whites, and blacks who practise Western ways, and generally make a nuisance of themselves. If you meet one of them in the street he shouts "Satan I" at you, along with other epithets, but rarely attacks you. The Rasta's main characteristic is his outlandish dress, and especially his hair style, which he twists into a mass
of pigtails, rubbing oil into it to get the colour of------,
and trains it upwards. If you can imagine a coffee-coloured mop that's just seen a ghost, you'll get the idea. We had some rather nasty Black Power riots a month ago, in which these fellows were involved. Three deaths, a million pounds damage, a curfew and troops on the streets for three weeks were the results. I was stranded downtown by a bus strike the night they were on, and believe me it wasn't pleasant. But these things only happen from time to time. There was one scheduled for Saturday, and another for today, (Wednesday now), but so far neither have come off. By the way, it was during the disturbances that I discovered I liked working here, because we were confined to our homes the day after, and I almost went mad with boredom and frustration.
J. A. Wood

IN DEFENCE
The most valid criticism concerning the previous attempt at producing, mainly by the boys, a School magazine was its preoccupation with death, war and suffering. It was "condemned" for its unquestioning acceptance of the fashionable cynical approach. I feel guilty that I joined in this condemnation, accepting the fact that the editors and contributors of the magazine were merely making a feeble attempt at "keeping up with fashion", without making any attempt to defend the magazine representing the School to which I belong at least in body if not in spirit. The defence of that and any future magazine is the aim of this article. Considering the criticism from the aspect of a defender rather than that of an aggressor, I now dismiss it as invalid. The form of literature which was presented in the magazine represents not a petty attempt to be fashionable but rather a stage in the maturity of the would be observer come writer, for it is necessary to recognise the faults before one can appreciate the beauty. Therefore, though we may have the ability to recognise and express the faults which exist in the present society we are not able to appreciate (or if we are, then we do not have the ability to express this appreciation in the form of poem or a short story) the beauty that is present in the world. This reason, I feel, is adequate to excuse a certain preoccupation with the forementioned aspects of life.
G. Mackenzie, VI.

Literature

DOUBTFOOL
Hands clutched the cross which hung on breast,
That sunken, deformed, ugly chest.
He was approaching eternal rest.
The withered hands were covered in sweat
For what if his saviour he did not meet.
What if there was no heavenly seat.
Year of self-sacrifice—But in vain,
No reward for days of toil and strain.
After life without—no everlasting gain.
There was now a fear of death,
A time when there would be no more breath.
Suffocated by the ever present wreath.
During his life he had for others been a slave.
And now !  On his coming to the grave,
His reward !   Eternity in my own black cave
G. Mackenzie, VI.