Carving a living in Ipswich’s hills

May 01, 2025
Ipswich artisans Audley Simpson (left) and Everton Samuels proudly display their wooden creations.
Ipswich artisans Audley Simpson (left) and Everton Samuels proudly display their wooden creations.
Wooden turtles, carved in Ipswich, capture the spirit of Jamaica.
Wooden turtles, carved in Ipswich, capture the spirit of Jamaica.
Audley Simpson of Ipswich, St Elizabeth, brings a bird to life from cedar wood.
Audley Simpson of Ipswich, St Elizabeth, brings a bird to life from cedar wood.
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In the quiet hills of Ipswich, St Elizabeth, about 30 kilometres from Lacovia and not far from the St James border, woodchips fly like confetti beneath the shade of a mango tree.

Public transportation is rare is these areas. The road into the village is barely passable, overrun with rocks and thick vegetation. As Everton Samuels puts it, "The worst roads lead to the most beautiful destinations."

Here, far from the bustle of town, he and long-time friend Audley Simpson carve life from fallen logs. With just machetes and sandbags, they transform chunks of cedar into roosters, birds, turtles, and other requested animals. It's not a pastime. It's survival.

"It send mi daughter dem through school," said Simpson, eyes fixed on the grain of a turtle's shell.

"Nuh care how yuh go out, yuh affi come in wid a money. Sometimes the market bad, yah come in back wid supme pack up."

The men say they picked up carving out of sheer necessity. "Is just something mi try," Simpson said. "We too far from anywhere weh yuh can really mek money, so mi just start carve one day and mi never stop." Samuels agreed, "Same way mi start too just find a piece a wood and mi say, 'mek mi try shape something.'"

That was decades ago. Today, their hands move like memory, knowing where to chip, where to smooth, where to stop.

The animals they carve travel far beyond Ipswich's bushy footpaths. From Santa Cruz to Montego Bay, Lucea, Negril and even overseas, their work moves quietly across parishes, feeding families and funding school fees.

Each sculpture tells a story, "Mi never forget," Simpson recalled. "A lady from America buy one small turtle mi carve. Mi get $500 fi it and mi go buy flour, rice, and a tin mackerel."

And the pieces vary by audience. "Mi haffi carve out more angle fi the Canadian dem than mi do fi local people," he explained, holding up two turtles, one rounded, the other more intricate. "Dem like when it have nuff detail."

Before a single cut is made, they must find wood. That often means walking three or four miles into the hills, past the abandoned Ipswich train station and dodging wild hogs.

The wood is scrubbed, shaped, and brought to life, hummingbirds poised to drink nectar and turtles inching toward invisible shorelines. Some carvings are left plain; others bear "Jamaica" or names of countries carved across their backs.

He told THE STAR, "Mi hope dem see Jamaica inna it," Simpson said. "Mi hope it remind dem of somewhere peaceful."

Samuels and Simpson sit among their creations, cedar dust in the air, wooden creatures at their feet, and the worn tools of their trade beside them. They know what they're carving isn't just art. It's identity. It's resistance. It's love.

"Nuh better nuh deh we affi find a way not just fi me and mi family but fi the entire community, nuh baddi nuh care bout we." Samuels said.

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