State of Things

How are you? I am fine.

It strikes me that, until I was old enough to know better, every letter to spring from the aquifer of this artesian began that way. Was there actual care expressed therein, or was it simply a way to transition from the “Dear Great Aunt Hyacinth” to the “thanks for the tube socks” part of the letter?

I was never really into letter writing. Seems that it was so much more convenient to just talk to someone nearby, than try to engage in some terminally slow-motion conversation with a person days away. This has not changed much through the years, technological advances or no.

I actually do hope that you are all well, both for your sake and for mine. On this end, I am, as they say on the island, not too bad. I have heard that any reply more enthusiastic than “not too bad” is an invitation to any nearby duppy to worsen your existence. Of course, the tourists are taught to say “ever-ting’s irie”. This could be a ploy to get a few rich vacationers to suffer just a bit, as admitting to feeling good would bring the duppies down ‘pon their heads. Maybe then they would feel just a small part of what most every Jamaican feels every day which, no doubt, is oftentimes frustration.

One of the upstart third parties here, the National Democratic Movement, or NDM, has as their slogan, “Jamaica too rich to be so poor”. The point being that, with the copious resources of sun, sea, soil, people, and bauxite, there should be no reason why the population cannot all richly benefit. Yet despite annual promises of forthcoming prosperity from the People’s National Party (and the Jamaica Labour Party before them), Jamaica still has the worst economy in the Antilles, second only to Haiti.

It seems that most conversations that I have with the locals eventually turn towards the state of things. Invariably, the people believe that corruption exists in every level of government, from street cop to vehicle inspector to chief cop to the Prime Minister’s cabinet. A recent Gleaner poll showed that some seventy percent of the population claimed to know at least one corrupt policeman. As well, when you consider the huge amount of foreign grants and loans made to this country compared to the minuscule improvements apparent from their use, it is easy to imagine that much of this funding is being rerouted or malappropriated.

Aggravation is inevitable. How can you believe that inflation will be controlled, jobs will be produced, crime will be reduced, and this damn highway will get constructed, when there is rarely results on the order of the promises? Why should you work hard to succeed when the rewards go easily to the criminals? What do you do when there seems to be no way out of your duppy-plagued existence, no way to change the system which keeps you held to the ground, no way to offer your family any level of long term security?

Maybe you go to nightclubs and dancehalls, and let the intensely loud music wash away your troubles. Maybe you go to church a few times a week (and maybe a tent revival during) to hear some preacher reassure you that your reward is not of this earth. Maybe you smoke yourself silly, until you see the solutions to the problems so clearly, only to forget them once you come down (in this light, it may be best to stay high). Or maybe you play bingo. At least, that is what we thought to do Friday night (not that my frustrations in constructing this project are anywhere near to the local variety).

On Friday night, we attended the First Annual Sea Fans Bingo Night. The Sea Fans is the local dive club in Montego Bay, organized to advance the sport and to assist with efforts to monitor and maintain the Montego Bay Marine Park. Not being one of those club joining kind of guys, I have yet to join the club. From what I can see, most clubs are just opportunities for people to drink beer and tell war stories. If I wanted to spend my time doing that, I would just spend my days in a construction field office.

Anyway, the bingo itself was for a seemingly good cause, and the door prize was a weekend for two at one of the Hedonism’s, so we bought a couple of cards and settled down for the 19:00 start. At 19:50 (19:00 JST, Jamaican Standard Time), the caller finally got down to it, and we trudged laboriously through the eighteen games scheduled for the evening, each with a lame donated prize (unless you really wanted that pale mauve table lamp or just had to have another toaster). I was surprised at the number of Bingo crazies there, filling their tables with a dozen or more cards, yelling at each other and the caller, complaining bitterly about the quality of the prizes, and generally making a ruckus. I thought they would cause the grand prize donator to blow a gasket, but he maintained his internal pressure throughout to a point just below boiling.

The dog eared cards (“books”) were stamped with the seal of Chapter 3700 of the Ladies VFW Auxiliary somewhere in Louisiana. The cage and balls (“seeds”) were borrowed, with the books, from some local church. Without an interpreter nearby, it would have taken much longer to figure that a call of “round woman” meant B-8, that “Christmas morn’” is I-25, that “forty blind” is just N-40, that “fifty..... fifty..... fifty..... fifty..... .....two” was just a really annoying way to say G-52, or that “top and bottom” is O-69. The game took forever to play and the bingo crazies were just a little scary and, as such, it will probably be our last attendance of this annual event.

Saturday we had a refreshingly well served dinner at The Native. The brown stew chicken was excellent, as was the red pea soup. The drinks, food, drinks, and check arrived promptly and in good repair. The only minor annoyance was the group of forty from the Princeton Review seated at the tables adjacent to ours. I hate to see joyful enthusiasm when I am feeling sullen. It spoils the mood. We hit the casino afterwards, and departed as winners.

The Suarez Circus is in town this week (the world’s only circus with a polar bear act), so Sunday we went to their evening show, the culmination of a relatively distracting weekend.

Come Monday, and I returned to my occasionally exasperating employment, secure in the fact that, if this country self-destructs tomorrow, and if I can get a flight off island, I can easily find a position elsewhere. I can always return to the motherland, where the system is not nearly as corrupt (at least, not so visibly corrupt), and find gainful employment, a nice home, and relatively safe streets.

Once back in the First World, I can harbor, nurture, and maintain my typical frustrations about the lack of choice in elections, how taxes are really oppressive, or how there is nothing good on cable tonight. Minor inconveniences, when you consider that the rest of the planet cannot get a decent pizza delivered; so exploit it while you can! Read More......

Linkage

We had little idea as to what to expect of this place prior to our move here.
My initial assumption was that the work would be challenging and, by extension, rewarding. Our biggest concerns were more on the lines of our level of comfort. Not to say that we needed plush surroundings, upstairs maids and gilded Barcaloungers, but we did not want to live in wattle huts. As it turns out, as close as we get to wattle is the cedar shakes on the roof of the apartment building.

Of course, there were many questions to be asked before we could give up our comfortable middle class exurban existence. 1) Could we drink the water? 2) Is utility distribution regular and consistent? 3) Is food plentiful? 4) Is there a problem with crime? 5) Would there be adequate golfing opportunities?

1) If you like the taste and smell of chlorine, you will love the National Water Commission. Of course, chorine does not kill all of the bugs in a municipal water supply, but it will kill a great deal of them, even more if you up the dosage. Combine the bugs normally occurring in the supply with the deteriorating distribution system and plethora of illegal, unsanitary taps, and the chorine overdose make sense. We imported a filter that mounts on the faucet to rid what we ingest of the residual chorine and the balance of the bugs.

2) When the cruise ships are in, our water pressure is drastically reduced, as we are on the far end of the stub that supplies the port, and the ships refill their potable water supplies while they are here. If there is a threat of an outage (heavy weather or strike), we stockpile. As for electricity, most storms knock out the power for anywhere between a couple of seconds and a couple of hours. We keep candles for this occasion, and an uninterruptible power supply on the Dell. For phone service, quality connections and consistent communications via Cable and Wireless is irregular at best, but this is not an insurmountable situation.

3) There is plenty of food, although I am disturbed by the growing availability and popularity of imported vegetables, as well as processed foods. With their generally lower prices and better quality, I do not wonder why they are so common. What disturbs me is that this is a country that can ill afford to send hard currency off island, especially for basic necessities.

4) There is a problem with crime. Do doubt. We are fairly well removed from it and do our best to keep our distance, so for us, crime is not much of a problem, directly. As per this morning’s Gleaner, however, 722 persons have been murdered (“died violently”) since January. As such, the two million resident here each has about one chance in 2,400 of being murdered this year. Compare this to the less than one in 60,000 chance for the statistically average Iowan, and you might think that this is a comparatively violent place.

5) We were told that there were golf courses on Jamaica, so we brought our clubs.

Unfortunately, they spend most of their days in the closet, huddled in a corner next to the more commonly used tennis rackets, often used scuba gear and recently used and empty Ting bottles.

There is golf here, but not that “twenty bucks a round at the municipal course” type of golf. This is more like “twenty bucks plus tip just for the caddy” type of golf, and you must have a caddy. Break into the dead presidents, as rounds can easily run a hundred or two, plus caddy, beverages, balls, tees, and sundries.

We rarely golf.

Joel and Susan, our downstairs neighbors, are on the links most every weekend, but they have a scheme. First, they have joined the local federation, which allows them to play at the more favorable local rate (we have yet to pursue this membership). Second, I think that they are more fanatical about the game than we.

The wife and I played one weekend on a course at a resort in Runaway Bay. This was in the middle of June, and we had not had much rain for weeks beforehand. The fairways were almost as hard as the cart paths. The greens were brown, and very fast. The wind blew hot.

To our benefit were the caddies, who lugged the bags and gave us pointers and sound club selection advice. We gave up after nine in favor of the unlimited drinks at the hotel, but it was the best half round I ever shot, which is not good by anyone else’s standard but my own.

From there, the clubs were relegated again to their space in the closet until last week, when I gave in to the occasional badgering by the Koreans to join them for their Sunday game. I drove to Tryall bright and early (by Jamaican standards) to try to get a grip on my game and to whack a bucket of balls. The Koreans (Mister Ji, the project manager, and Mister Kim, one of many Kim’s) arrived ready to play, with matching two-toned spikes, unnaturally gaudy and suitably mismatched togs, and expensive clubs in leather bags.

There are rarely people seen on any of the courses I drive by, so I was not at all surprised when we walked onto the first tee and began to hack. No crowded tee times. No pushing the group in front, or from the group behind. Not worrying that you are wasting someone’s time while you scrounge for a ball lost deep in the bush.
But that is just one of the reasons to have a caddy. Not only do they hump the clubs, but they also keep track of where you hit, and find your lost balls. In addition, they will slice open a coconut for you to drink and, at Tryall, they keep your score,.... very well. No “practice swings”, Mulligans, winter rules, or toe wedges for these boys. Fortunately, they cannot count over ten.

Off we tramped then, over hill and dale, past palms and vistas, through sand and water. At least, I made it through the sand and water; the Koreans had some trouble with the creeks and bunkers. I had my usual handicap - I do not play well. The Koreans were in the same boat, despite their efforts in looking like golfers, and we spent much time watching the caddies root around in the bush for lost balls.

I have long thought that there is some ancient Asian tradition of losing, especially when golfing. I have no idea from whence I heard of this tradition, or why it is so, or whether or not the winner or loser is the real winner, but when the round was complete, I discovered that had upheld this great custom, losing quite dramatically.

In retrospect, I would have crushed them both had I shaved a stroke from every hole, and I could have done so, too, except that the caddies were keeping score.

One more thing. On every other hole it seemed, Ji would ask that we move the cup to wherever his mis-hit ball would stop. This was not at all surprising because, as a contractor, he has lost sight of his goal of project completion, and instead works hard to do nothing more beyond the point he is at.

I just thought it was sort of funny. Read More......

Neptune

I went on my first night dive a short while back. I accompanied the wife with Kris to use the facilities at Sandals, instead of my usual dive haunt at Jack Tar, one of the other resorts in town.

It was a nice set up, really. Their nine meter boat was new last season, and is equipped special as a dive boat. Two benches run down the sides of the deck, with little cups mounted to the back of the seats to hold your tank in place while you assemble your equipment and suit up. Actual steps, lowered into the sea, make it much easier than a ladder to exit the water. Once back on board, there are fresh water showers and a trip to seats on the flying bridge to take in the sights of Jamaica’s Second City as you motor back to the pier.

If only the captain could get the thing to plane. Instead, we plowed through the water, nose way high, stern way low, engines straining to move the water aside to allow us passage. He must not know any better. I imagine that someone pointed to the boat and said, “drive this and don’t hit anything”. In that, he seems to do a fine job.

Besides the Captain, we had two divemasters with us, plus a newlywed couple from Montana. The newlyweds were newly certified, and were diving two or three times a day (aside: freaks). Victor was scheduled to accompany us as well, but his wife chickened out and yanked him at the last minute.

The most exciting part of a night dive is entering the water, black as pitch, with neither sight nor indication as to what may lie beneath. You make a giant stride of faith, and trust that the water will be deep and the sharks asleep. I had been on this site a couple of times before, and being there after dark was like strolling through a familiar city in the wee hours before dawn, with few lights and no traffic, when only the insomniacs are moving about. In this case, the squirrelfish, all big-eyed and orange and less skittish than usual.

We use flashlights, of course, and with seven of them blazing, plus the small beacons tied to our rigs, visibility was not dissimilar to a daytime dive after a storm has churned up the bottom of the sea and polluted the view with all sorts of crud and particulates. The lights easily picked up the red eyes of shrimps, the translucent bodies of fry, and the glint of another diver’s flipper just before it tries to unseat your regulator. When we turned off the hand lights, it was not quite cave dark, but it was dark enough to see the previously unseen individual glows from untold numbers of tiny phosphorescent critters.

Since the wife is currently off island working on the Hart campaign, I did not hesitate to partake in another night dive this last week. For amusement’s sake, if naught else.

This time, we (Hank, Rita, and I) went through Jack Tar, using Divemaster Dwayne from the Holiday Inn. The dive boat at Jack Tar is about the same length as the Sandals boat, and they are both boats, but any further resemblance stops there.

Wilbert, the Rasta captain, told me once that it used to be part of the Royal Navy in the 1930's, as some patrol boat or something. It is open decked, with the only cover coming from a retrofitted canvas shade. There are no lights, running or otherwise, so we use our dive lights to ready our equipment. There is no head or running water, only the sea and a bucket of slightly briny tap water. The boat is sometimes loud, on this night crowded, and generally full of character.

With us were two Cockneyed Brits, who usually dive in dry suits in the northern lochs. Dwayne’s wife, a Canadian and marine biologist for the Montego Bay Marine Park, came with us, as did the Marine Park ranger and his girlfriend (du jour), a Peace Corps volunteer assigned to the Marine Park. The purpose of this dive was to witness coral spawning.

Watch enough Discovery Channel and I am sure that you will see this. The camera is really close to the coral; all is still, when --poof-- the coral spew their gametes. This rises as a milky cloud and flows to the appropriate receptors. There is little romance, just raw sexual activity, just like on the Playboy channel, only the spawning coral are more traditionally educational, … and somewhat smaller breasted.

Unfortunately, we must have come at a bad time, as we failed to see the coral spawn (perhaps they had a haddock).

Actually, I was not looking very hard. Sure, coral is interesting and all, but it usually just sits there, and there is always the hope when you are diving that there will be something bigger, more colorful, more tentacled, or more active just over the next rise. So I would scan the coral for a time, but then be drawn by whatever was just out of sight.

There is much out of sight, of course, because it is a night dive, and even with lights, visibility is still limited to five to ten meters, less to the side of the beam. So you tend to concentrate on what is immediately before you - bright red prawn, sponge, sexually inactive coral, sleeping jackknife fish, sponge, sexually inactive coral, tiny undulating red starfish (ruby brittle star), sponge, sexually inactive coral, purple mouth moray (a strikingly purple eel) - back up, hover, try to get as close a look as possible while staying clear of those very sharp teeth - sponge, sexually inactive coral,....

In one sandy area, while contemplating sea urchin trails, a small movement beneath the sand captured my attention. I moved in slowly and could only see two small plumes, four centimeters apart, blowing little puffs of sand into the sea. I waved my hand close to the disturbance to remove the cover. As the cloud moved up and away, I saw part of an unidentifiable (and ultimately unidentified) creature who immediately worked to rebury itself.

All I could see, despite numerous attempts, was part of a round head, and while I exposed a spherical head segment some fifteen centimeters across, the diameter of the sphere could have been twice that or more. This head had a visible mouth as straight as a string across the entire exposed portion, almost muppetlike, with two nostrils of sorts, the source of the plumes. Each time I exposed it, it reburied itself.

I could not tell if it was a crustacean or just a really ugly fish, and had no idea how much of it was still buried. For all I know, it could have been a monstrous sea creature, twenty meters in length, with huge gnashing teeth, able to sink our small boat with a casual flick of the tail, ravenous and hungry for divers.

I pestered it for five minutes. If it was a giant sea monster, at least it could show some restraint. Most everyone except the Brits saw the thing, and no-one, not even the ranger or biologist, could identify it.
The dive was shallow, just nine to twelve meters, so we got to spend over an hour at the bottom, surrounded by the familiar and the strange, intruding in the bedchambers of polyps.

It was fascination at five fathoms and, with apologies to Chris Cornell, a dive in the superunknown. Read More......

Tump Thump

A couple of months ago, Chris declared that he would pursue his Jamaican driver’s license. After half a year on the island, he thought it was something he should accomplish, since his Australian license was only good for the first thirty days that he was here. Upon hearing this, I too decided that having one could be wise, since legal use of my Iowa license expired more than a year ago. I could probably make it through my tenure here without ever having a local license but, what the hey,... we have little to do until the government sorts out who will complete the work.

Ten years ago, when I moved back to Iowa from Illinois, I went to the IDiOT examining station, whereby they scrutinized my existing license, gave me an eye exam, and filled out a form. After a flash of light and a brief wait, my new identification was spat out the far end.

Not so, Jamaica. The first of many steps is to look deep inside of yourself and ask, “how much free time do I really have?”

Next step, the tax office, which has the application form, on a double-wide sheet of legal paper, three-fourths of which must be filled with redundant data. With a little word processing, this could be reduced to both sides of a sheet of letter, or less if you get rid of the medical examiners certification, my next stop.

This was my second experience with Jamaican country medicine. The first was for the removal of some stitches from my back that I had received in Chicagoland. After almost blacking out during that procedure, the doctor remarked, “the mind and the body are sympathetic”. Only when I got home to a mirror did I realize what he meant, because it was the wound tearing open which convinced my mind that maybe, just maybe, it would rather be elsewhere for the balance of the procedure.

Apparently, the doctor could not tell that the incision had not fully healed prior to starting his work. But what do you expect for JA $500?

With this experience permanently and painfully in place, I drove to the offices of Doctor Stair. Before me were four others, crammed into uncomfortable metal folding chairs. After an hour or so (in which I peed in a reused plastic cup, had my blood pressure measured, and read the various posters regarding STD’s, sexual dysfunction and Viagra), I met the doctor, who checked my eye chart reading skills.

We talked about the highway more than my health and he eventually signed the form with multiple rubber stamp flourishes. The doctor suggested that I use my office address, as he thought it best to pursue a license using an address in the parish. With White Out and pen, he made the changes.

I had four passport photos left over from something or another, and these I presented to Mister Stair, brother of the Doctor, Custos of Lucea, employee of the Contractor, and friend of the Justice of the Peace, who must verify my identity and suitability for licensure. A week later, my form and photos were returned, duly notarized, verified and rubber stamped, despite my never having met the Justice.

Now we were getting somewhere, but not until we made another trip to the tax office, to pay the application fee. Of course, we (as Chris was with me at the time) could not pay the fee without a Taxpayer Registration Number. We could not get them that day, but we could apply for them, and be issued Temporary Taxpayer Registration Numbers that would last for the four months needed to process our request for a permanent number. The TTRN has a rubber stamp on it, to signify its officiality.
Next window please, where we paid the application fee, and received additional rubber stamps.

At the examiners, I presented my form and receipt to the Island Transportation Authority clerk, and was informed that the change in address made by Doctor Stair needed to be initialed by him,... and rubber stamped. Chris had a similar address snafu, so we retreated.

I secured the necessary initials and stamp, returned after lunch, and was given a slip of paper (rubber stamped), noting when I should return for my examination, some three weeks hence. In the mean time, I would bone up on Jamaican Rules of the Road pamphlet (remove the bulbs from your taillights, pass wildly, never dip your headlights, drive on the left).

Finally, the day of my examination was upon us. Chris was nervous we motored to the examiner’s station. He had yet to review the Rules of the Road, so he read the book as I drove.

A surprise awaited us, multiple exams. Since we were pursuing a “General” license, we were to be tested on our “Mechanical” knowledge as well as our “Rules” knowledge. Unfortunately, I had no clue as to how to answer the following highly technical mechanical question:

Q. If you are driving steadily along and your vehicle stops suddenly, what could be a possible cause?

Ok, the stop is sudden, so we can probably discount fuel, air, or electrical problems. If the engine quit, the vehicle would still roll along, unless the pistons seized, but then the transmission should allow for continued forward movement. Maybe applying the brakes would cause the vehicle to stop suddenly, but I would not be applying the brakes if I were driving steadily along. Hence, I must have hit a cow.

A. A disconnected coil wire.

Ah. Likewise, the Rules test had such posers as:

Q. What signal must you give when you are about to slow down or stop?

A. Extend your right arm with the palm of the hand turned downwards, and move it slowly up and down keeping the wrist loose, and….

Q. If you were at the intersection of a major road, how would you turn your vehicle around?

A. Reverse into the minor road and then drive forward into the major road.

We would see our test results after completing the Driving Test, actually driving around Lucea with the examiner in tow. Breathe deeply, relax, coordinate the use of turn indicators and the wagging arm signals, do not nail any peds, drive like you have had six too many and a state trooper is riding your bumper.

I think this is where I failed. Except for my last cholesterol screening, this is my first failed anything since that three semester Dynamics fiasco at State. I guess I was too cautious in avoiding all potholes and people. I waited at intersections until it was actually my turn. I stayed within my lane through the uphill hairpins. I checked my mirrors and waggled my arm prior to stopping. I did not sound my horn unnecessarily. I stayed within the speed limits at all times.
The examiner asked if I drive much on the island. Apparently, he wanted not a flawless example of courtesy on the roads, but more of the aggression typical of the local taximen

When we got back to the examiner’s station, I saw my Rules score, 25 of 26 (20 is passing), and my Mechanics score, 7.5 of 22 (16 is passing) (oops). Despite this, I think my cautious driving cost me, as Chris got an 11 on the Mechanics, and he got licensed. Anyway, I had two weeks to study before retesting.

So, yesterday morning I reported to the examiner, and was instructed to report to the tax office to pay another examination fee, and to get another stamp. That done, I retested my mechanical knowledge, scoring 21 of 22. I could pick up my new license the next day, today, at the tax office, provided I paid the licensing fee, which I did (three rubber stamps), and was informed that the machine that makes the licenses is broken.

I am to return in a couple of months. Until then, I will continue to drive with no valid license, as I suspect is the case with the majority of the road warriors already out there. Read More......

Lizard

One of my favorite Wailer tunes is “Maga Dog”, back when Bob was not yet Marley, but still just another Wailing Wailer with Peter and Bunny. The chorus being, “Fi sorry fe maga dog, turn roun’ bite you - arf, arf.” In a more standard English, this translates roughly to “do not feel compassion for nor show charity to the dregs of society, as they will not appreciate what you have done, and oftentimes scorn you for your efforts - arf, arf.”

This is an old Jamaican adage, which seems to express an intolerance of those who are poor. Strange in a place where most of the population is poor. Everyone is out for himself or herself, though. The communists still resident to the north, scattered through the island’s history, and inherent in the locally popular religious teachings must not have got their message to stick - at least the part about the redistribution according to need.

We have ample opportunities to demonstrate charity and compassion. There are beggars at the grocery store, at the market, and at the shops, who may get to eat today if you would only give them twenty dollars. There are the vendors in their rickety shacks, in town and along the country roads, who may get to send their pickneys to school if you would only buy something from them today. There are the people on the road begging rides to wherever, who may get to their jobs or interviews on time today, or may get to bring their goods to market, or get to the doctor in town, if you would only stop and give them a lift.

Unless you are staying at one of the all-inclusive resorts, where everything is provided for you and you never have to leave the compound, there is no escaping the poor realities of the Third World. People do live in shacks. People do dress in rags. Maga dog do eat garbage from piles on the street. Sometimes, this can get a bit thick. But what can you do?

First, try to become desensitized to the reality that folks are poor. Despite the fact that we are, without a doubt, comparatively fabulously wealthy, there is no way that we could help them all and single-handedly raise the standard of living of all Jamaicans. We are a very small drop in a very large bucket. I have neither the patience nor resources for this task.

Second, choose your battles. While we cannot lift up Jamaica, we can align ourselves with a few, and try to make a difference with those. We tip well our usual wait staff. We buy more fruits, vegetables and juices than we can comfortably consume from our usual vendors. We have the newspaper lady keep the change and buy a ticket for every fund raising organization that she hawks with the news. That sort of thing.

We have yet to be bitten, but perhaps because the maga dog is still ruminating on the scraps he has been given. Maybe he will get rabies and attack later. Maybe he will choke.

On that note,...

I was only a few chains from home when I glimpsed the tip of the lizard’s tail over the nose of the Dogwagon. It took me a few seconds to process the information, and by that time he was making his way along the ridge between bonnet and fender towards the cab. He was one of the scaly and mottled brown varieties, some 12-15 centimeters in length.

I have often times watched ants on my windscreen as I accelerate down the road, wondering when the combined forces working against them would overwhelm the natural stickum on their feet. Now, watching the lizard move towards me, I wondered when he would succumb to the hazards of this new environment and be thrown from his hitched ride. Would the fall cause him any degree of damage? Should I care about a lizard?

As he continued to move towards the cab, I was plucked from my detached reverie regarding the future of this beast by the realization that, as he was advancing along the fender, he was getting closer to me. His line of travel was one which would lead him in short order to my open window. I could not close this window, as my cup holder was lodged over the sill and to move it would cause me to spill my scalding morning tea.

As much as I appreciate, and even enjoy, the occasional company of lizards (for insect control, they are unsurpassed), extremely close company with them is not my usual preference. I can hear the pro-lizard factions complaining already - “Lizards are just misunderstood”, they will whine, “they make wonderful, loving pets, and eat very little, and they are so very cute.” Hey, I understand that they are lizards, and I also understand that I do not want them loose in my vehicle. “But, but, but,....”

Okay. I am driving. There is a lizard on the hood. The lizard wants to join me for the drive.

I had seconds to act and intercept, and closing the window did not seem to be a viable option. If the lizard were to enter the cab, he could interfere with my driving - I could smash him under the clutch pedal, he could demand to be taken to Flankers, he could slash furiously at my unprotected face and throat with his razor-sharp tail and talons, or perhaps just sniff at me with his forked tongue.

While any major disruption was unlikely, I still thought it best to pull over and somehow convince this reptile to take to the ground and walk the rest of the way. My hope was that this would result in the best solution for the both of us. Happy with my plan, I activated my indicator, veered to the verge, brought the Dogwagon to a halt, and got out to deal with my little problem.

A few nudges to his lizard butt and he jumped to the pavement, turned to the right, ran his slinky lizard run out to the roadway centerline, and was squished by a passing Mitsubishi.

Fi sorry fe maga dog, turn roun’ get mash up.

Arf. Arf. Read More......

Lambs Wool

Someone tried to kill a friend of mine two weeks ago. Actually, it was a group of someones, and they were originally trying to kill my friend’s son, when my friend intervened.

Jason is a fruit vendor and Rastafarian. I would see him a couple of times a week for banana, pineapple, or whatever strange and exotic plants he would foist upon my curious palette. Jason has a son, eighteen, who is a menace to society, has seen his share of the Jamaican reform system, and has a crack cocaine habit. Recently, the babymother decided that she had lived long enough with the hassle of Junior, so she sent him to live with the babyfather, Jason.

Shortly after his arrival, the police paid a courtesy call on Jason’s fruit stand/home, where they informed him that Junior was indeed a menace, and that they may have to kill him someday. The local constabularies cannot take it upon themselves to pursue simple traffic violations, but they can make death threats. It is this high level of professionalism which makes them feared and respected island wide,... or is it just feared.

Jason however was undeterred (as a Rasta, he is more accustomed to police harassment than the average Jamaican) and put his son to work - tending the orchards, harvesting, and selling the fruit. His is not a large scale operation by any stretch of the imagination. It may gross JA $500 on a good day. But expenses are low, and there is plenty of fruit to eat, so Jason took in Junior to give him some good (good and late) father-son quality time and one last ditch attempt at an education in ethics.

I am sure it is tough to play second banana to crack. More so to watch your glass-eyed son head across the road with every dollar he earns to be summarily wasted (pick your meaning) at the Dwarf Factory, (a.k.a. your friendly neighborhood crack house). Actually, it is more of a crack shack, disguised as a beer shack, but with a sign out front proclaiming it to be some type of little people manufactory. Methinks the sign does not lie.

I just cannot understand what the appeal of crack could possibly be, especially to a people living on a tropical island with huge amounts of some of the best marijuana in the world (they say), at Third World prices (to boot). Apparently, just having ready access to cheap, ample, and potent herb did not appeal to Junior, who had been rolling his spliffs spiked with crack. How nice,... mellow and the extreme opposite of mellow in one easy conveyance. Like a beer and espresso boilermaker, only a lot more psychotic.

Somehow, on a recent Wednesday evening, there developed a disagreement between the crack dealers or crack users and an increasingly paranoid Junior crackhead. Shortly thereafter, an argument ensued, and the machetes came out for the hacking.

In a poor country like Jamaica, the general population has no access to Turner Classic Movies. As such, these fighters had no proper education in the sort of swash buckling, epee wielding, clever witticism spewing sort of Errol Flynn type sword fighting to which we, as civilized (koff) personages, have become accustomed and in which we would no doubt engage if pushed to such an act. Instead, rusty machetes are used for close quarter hacking.

Hack is the operative word. A machete is foremost a gardening tool, crudely sharpened on a rock. A machete duel is more like clubbing your neighbor with a Garden Weasel than it is some epic battle from Savage Sword of Conan.

Seeing his son attacked and bloodied, and apparently unfazed by a similar incident years ago that cost him part of a foot, Jason armed himself and waded into the fray, only to be set upon by the attackers. They were rescued by a couple of passing Rastafari, who dragged Jason and son into their car and sped them to the hospital, both to be treated for severe head wounds. Of course, attempted murderers then turned successful thieves, and stole everything Jason owned, including his livelihood, as there is little hope that he will be able to safely resume business across the road from the Dwarf Factory.

I see Jamaica mostly in the light of day. At night, we stick to the main roads, and only visit locations that we know to be tourist friendly (i.e., safe). The tourists are very rarely killed. Probably less than half of a percent of the 900-1000 people who will be murdered here this year will be visitors. The other 99.5 percent will be shot or hacked or clubbed or stoned to death by their fellow man, out of view of the tourist, who would rather not know about such things.

It is expected that the longer I live here, and the closer I get to the place, the further I will venture, and the more I will associate with locals. This acclamation will actually make me less safe. I used to think that it was the naive tourists who would be the target, but that has changed. I guess it may be better to wear a loud flowered shirt with a waterproof disposable camera hanging around my neck than it is to try to live closer to the people who make this island their home.

The doctors patched Junior’s scull back together, but I doubt they gave him any more brains in the process, so maybe the police will eventually get their chance to kill him. As Jason does not have a home or business anymore, kicking Junior out of the house is moot, and about two weeks too late. Jason receive untold stitches to his noggin, may lose an eye, and could end up with one of those gnarly full-head vertical scars, provided that he survives his stay in the hospital. I am trying to watch more Errol Flynn, and will keep quite sharp the machetes kept at the front door and under the seat of the van.

In all, big trouble in a little paradise is unsurprising. Do the wolves lay with the lions? No. Just as snakes eat rodents, mongeese eat snakes, and eagles eat mongeese, wolves will eat lamb. Things eat. Things get eaten.

I doubt, though, that any Eden ever had crack smoking lambs consuming fraternal shish-kabob. Read More......

Ginnegogs

I am sure that somebody, at some time or another, prattled on about the evils of cynicism. That it was self defeating. That it did more harm than good. That it made people sad and cry. That it tends to bring into doubt the sincerity of others.
Case in point - the North Coast Highway.

As of today, it looks as if the project will continue for a while. It even appears as if the Contractor will remain as the contractor of record, and that the Company will remain as the Engineer’s Representative,... for a while. Unfortunately, the Jamaican project director has been replaced by a man who is in so tight with the contractor that it has squeezed all suitable similes right out of my head.

As the story goes, the Contractor was going to walk off of the job. He would abandon his camp, his equipment, his labor, and his project, collect his cache of Jamaican souvenirs and trinkets and hop a plane to the far corners of the earth, never to be seen again. But he had a second thought, prompted by his meetings with an American claims resolution expert. This claims expert convinced the contractor that there was probably money to be made, if they only were to pursue it in the right manner. The total shut down of operations two months ago was a good start. It worked like a rabbit punch to the heads of state, stunning them, forcing the government to realize their lack of a suitable defensive position, and setting the stage for the next round of the fight.

To rescue the project, the government quickly assembled what we jokingly call their “Dream Team”, as in, “nightmarish”. This team is definitely not a group of seasoned professionals against whom all challengers will be summarily dispersed. It consists instead of an attorney, an engineer, and a bureaucrat, none of whom has a history with the Works. At the risk of future lawsuits, I will not slander the attorney.

The engineer is an owner of one of the largest engineering consultancies on the island, who probably feels that he should be doing the construction management work that my firm is now doing, and may be pissed at us for Jah knows what other reasons.

The bureaucrat is a former permanent secretary to the Ministry, who (I hear) has been in the recent (and perhaps current) employ of one of the larger contractors on the island, a contractor who stands to receive much of the work to remain, and whose owner and namesake is currently a consultant to the Contractor. This bureaucrat is the new project director, and our new Client representative.

After enacting the above jobs program, the government (the Right Honourable P.J. Patterson, actually) demanded that the Contractor’s ginnegogs report to the island immediately to begin negotiations. The contractor ignored the mandate, and took his time to arrive. By the time the Korean wheels got to Kingston, they had set the tone and pace of what was to come. Soon thereafter, we received a call from our President, asking why we did not show up at the negotiations. The only response we could give him was the obvious one, that we were never invited. It seems way more than odd that an owner would enter into any negotiations with a wily or inept (maybe both) contractor without the benefit of bringing with him someone with experience on the project.

Someone (the current permanent secretary) may have begun to realize this, right before calling our president. Anyway, we called the bureaucrat to tell him we were coming for the second day of talks, and could only reach his secretary, who was slightly less than a fount of useful information. Assuming that we were still expected, we hopped a Jamaica Express flight the next morning and reported to Kingston, suitcases in tow, for these negotiations could take days. Not surprisingly, we had yet to be informed as to where the meetings would be held, or at what time, only that our president said that we should be there. In response, we went to a nice restaurant and had a long breakfast.

After we had washed down the ackee and saltfish, callaloo, yam and plantain with a couple of liters of coffee, we instructed our driver to take us to the Minister’s office in New Kingston. Sporting our clip-on visitor’s badges, we worked our way through the labyrinth of cubicles and desks piled high with unprocessed paperwork, until we stumbled across the bureaucrat, who directed us to an unused office. He returned with an American who turned out to be the Korean’s claim resolution expert.

We spoke for a half hour or so, in very general terms regarding project progress, problems, reasons for delays, and potential solutions. Then we were excused, and allowed to return to Montego Bay. We collected our bags and had our driver take us back to Tinson Pen, the tiny commuter aerodrome next to Kingston harbor.

Heavy rain had fallen for much of the morning. Rain still threatened, and dark storm clouds still clustered about in the mountains over Kingston. As soon as the thirty seat, top winged turbo-prop left the tarmac, I knew that I would not be enjoying the forthcoming flight. The pilot seemed to have little control over his rudder, and we yawed and yawed, back and forth, forth and back. Immediately after takeoff, we entered heavy turbulence, which continued through to Montego Bay. Beverage service was canceled. It was the worst air experience of my life.

Although the flight was only thirty-five minutes in duration, it felt much longer, and I deplaned soaked in a cold sweat and weak at the knees. It would take the rest of the day and a few stiff drinks, a couple of beers, a nice bottle of Chilean merlot, and a very tasty Italian meal to recover.

There is no analogy here. It was just an awful plane ride.

Later in the day, negotiations were completed, and the Government of Jamaica gave away the proverbial farm. They still need someone to manage the livestock, so to speak, so our positions are secure for the time being. Read More......