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With most endeavors, there are setbacks. Without motion backwards, we would never really know which way is forward now, would we. Sure we would. Who wants to be a tiny vector? It is those long, colorful vectors that get all the press. Triumph over adversity builds character,... and adds interest. That said, the rant continues....
Adversity implies an adversary, and this project has three; the Contractor, the Client, and the utilities. Every couple of months, AMC will dust off the most excellent World War II drama, “Young Lions”? The Job has a few similarities. Take the cast,... please.
As Americans, the Company staff gets to play Dean Martin’s character, Michael Whiteacre. Rich, smooth, and all-powerful, he is a lover, not a fighter, and can croon with the best of them. The contractor is like Montgomery Clift’s Jewish character, Noah Ackerman. Out of principal, he lets himself get beat to a pulp again and again and again. He and Dean are fighting for the same cause, but for wildly different reasons. The Client shall be cast as Lieutenant Christian Diestl, the Nazi officer played by Marlon Brando. Idealistic to a fault and, shot dead face down in a drainage ditch, he is the loser in the end, the obvious demise of a flawed ideology. The Utilities,.... hmmm,... let us say the utilities are the Bavarian Alps in the first scene. The immovable object.
There are three major utilities that we have to work with, around, and through. Jamaica Public Services Company (JPSCo.), a recently divested, quasi-governmental organization, provides electricity to the island. The vast majority of their distribution facilities are on power poles adjacent to the roadway. As we widen and realign the highway, we force the relocation of these poles. In the States, most utilities occupy the right-of-way under the condition that, if public work in the right-of-way requires is in conflict, they will be immediately relocated. Sure, there are conditions where major facilities require modification to the roadway design. However, it is usually no big deal to plant a few more poles and swapping the lines. Unless you are here.
In Jamaica, most of the holes for power poles are dug by hand by a couple of guys using long iron bars with a flattened tip. Once the holes are dug, the poles are erected, but there is usually no crane, so this takes a while using only A-frames, blocks and tackles. Then, the poles are climbed by the linesmen who, armed with a hand augers and open ended wrenches, affix the cross members and accouterments. The cables are unreeled by hand, then dragged and scratched across hill and dale by gangs of men to positions under the poles, from whence they are hoisted up to their final location. This slow and steady method might win this race, except when the going gets too tough, the crew may just get going, give up and move on to an easier task for a while.
Once JPSCo. has energized the new lines, they are not out of the way, because the telephone cables are still hanging on the old power poles. The telephone utility is Cable and Wireless, Jamaica, Limited (CWJL). For years, their concession agreement included a guaranteed of profit. They are totally uncooperative, and demand four weeks once the power lines are moved to relocate their lines to the new poles. Once four weeks are up, they will demand four weeks to relocate their lines to the new poles. Once four weeks are up, they will demand four weeks to relocate their lines to the new poles (continue ad nauseam). Only then can the old poles be retired by JPSCo. and the work proceed.
Neither JPSCo. nor CWJL will temporarily relocate their facilities, which further slows the process. They want the contractor to complete excavation before they will act, yet the contractor expects the utilities to be out of his way before he takes possession of the site. If the contractor was smart, he would be charging for additional time and overhead as his project is being delayed. Well he’s not and he isn’t,... a victim of his own inefficiencies.
The third utility is the National Water Commission (NWC). The NWC is a cabinet level agency, yet cut from the same cloth as the power and phone companies. Sadly, while we can see exactly where aerial cables are located, the water mains are (usually) buried. More sad is the fact that the NWC has no accurate idea as to where their facilities are, and exerts no control over those who would make illegal taps and steal its water.
There is no service providing joint utility locating information for excavators here. Fortunately, there is no natural gas, because most buried utilities are located with heavy equipment. When a water service is yanked, someone will hack off a tree limb with their machete, and then whittle a point on the end, so that it can be crammed into the gushing pipe to stop the flow. If reported, the NWC may be back to restore service in a few days. If it is a leak in a main and it is not too bad, it may runs for weeks or months before repairs occur.
An 800 millimeter water main runs between the treatment plant at Great River (Chainage 162+650) and the end of the project at Bogue (Chainage 171+200), just outside of Montego Bay. This main is the primary supply line for Montego Bay and cannot be disrupted. The cover over the pipe varies between 1.2 meters and 0.0 meters, depending on the material to be excavated during its installation. In rocky or swampy areas, the pipe is hardly buried. It is completely exposed and vulnerable as it spans creeks and gullies at numerous locations. In this section of the project, the old 250 millimeter distribution and supply line is still alive and buried just below the right edge of pavement. Then, there is a way old 100 millimeter asbestos distribution line, the location of which is unknown until we break it again. Unfortunately, as our project flattens both horizontal and vertical curves, conflicts develop between our proposed improvements and the existing facilities.
Recently, I have been trying to get the NWC and the contractor to determine the exact locations of these lines, so that I can better determine the actual level of conflict (and limits of redesign, eventually). As always, it is the contractor’s responsibility to determine the actual location of all utilities and to inform the Engineer of any conflicts therewith. So, after numerous beatings and admonitions, I accompanied both contractor and utility to scores of locations where we would dig potholes and survey the pipes in place. Eventually, the work got too hard for them, so the effort was abandoned with a dozen holes to go.
Shortly thereafter, the NWC presented me with a detailed bill for the two and a half days that they assisted the effort with labor and the scariest backhoe that I have every seen. The bill, quite detailed, including rental receipts for the hoe, was for four and a half days of effort. Straight faced was the criminal who presented it to me. [Certain earthmovers may want to consider this place once their time is up.] Straight faced was I as the bill was rejected. [But not on this project.]
Over two years have passed since the start of the Works, and utility conflicts are delaying the progress on almost 40% of the length of the project.
To cop a Jamaican attitude - this means job security.
Read More......
1999-12-14
1999-11-25
Food (Tis the Season)
Should you ever visit us in the land of wood and water, you will probably be subjected to our import shopping list. This is more than just a ploy to scam some free food,...
Despite the pervasive poverty here, there is little obvious malnutrition. If you live in the country, are hungry and have no dollars, you can always steal a breadfruit, banana, or ackee off of the neighbor’s tree (what you may call “praedial larceny”). If you need some protein, there are fish in the sea. Even if you earn very little, you can still raise a chicken or two. Many rural people have small vegetable gardens adjacent to their zinc shacks, so there appears to be an adequate supply of food. This is fine if you like a diet of breadfruit, banana, ackee and chicken with a couple of vegetables. However, we prefer a little more variety, so we go grocery shopping.
We buy most of our fruit from Jason, a Rastafarian vendor at Mosquito Cove, who I pass on my commute. Along with the banana, plantain, pineapple, lime, and pear (what you may call an “avocado”), I get vague and occasionally confusing infusions of the Rasta way. If I have time, there are Red Stripes in his cooler which I consume during the lecture. He is a self-proclaimed herbalist, healer, musician, drum maker, farmer, and politically astute commentator. As such, I am never in a real hurry to leave. Plus, he speaks more Patois than English, so I use the opportunity to train my ear, little by little, to understand the local speech.
Hopewell is a little village also on my commute. I buy my Gleaner every morning from Beverly, an elderly woman who sells them there. I swerve across the oncoming traffic, stop in the opposing lane, and she brings me my paper,.... all for just JA $14.
Every Friday is market day in Hopewell, when I actually get out of the van (what you may call a “truck”) and scour the market in search of vegetables. The market is crowded along both sides of the road and spills onto the pavement. There is a market building, but most of the vendors stick to the high exposure areas adjacent to the roadway. Wares are sold out of the backs of trucks and vans, from pushcarts, or from displays laid out on tarps and blankets.
I buy most of what I need from two guys who sell their produce from the back of a pick up truck. I buy from them primarily because they are located next to the newspaper lady, and have a relatively consistent selection and quality. Early in the day, their truck is full to overflowing with onions, potatoes, scallions, coconuts, beets, and cabbage. I will spend a couple hundred dollars here, then walk down the road fifty meters or so to the ladies who sell yam and, if I am there at the right time, callaloo.
Most times, though, I cannot get all that I need at the Hopewell market, so I try to stop in Lucea later in the day. Lucea, the parish seat of Hanover, has a substantially larger market than at Hopewell. There are carts and bins of attractive produce, crammed into too small a space, packed with shoppers.
Hustling. Bustling. Noisy. Here, I am more often able to find good green peppers, green beans, callaloo, and tomatoes, as well as other vegetables which look tasty at the time. My business goes to whoever has the best looking tomatoes. I try to hit this market at lunchtime, so I can stop for patties or Ital on the way back to work.
For dry goods, we visit the grocery store, located in a strip mall in Montego Bay. We regularly spend JA $3,000 here - on rice, peas (what you may call “beans”), soda, bread, pasta, dry goods and cupboard fare. It is not dissimilar from any Ma and Pa grocery store in Smallville. There are a dozen aisles, dairy to the left, produce in the back, house wares to the right. It has got a peculiar smell, but you get used to it.
There is a large portion of shelf space given to syrups. Not the maple flavored pancake variety, but mango, guava, strawberry, passion fruit, and pineapple flavored syrups. What these are used for, we have no idea, but they sure stock a lot of them. One of the local brands of everything is Grace, which amuses me, as Grace Brothers was the haberdashery, subject of much confusion, tomfoolery and entendre, featured in that old Brit comedy, “Are You Being Served”.
One word of tropical shopping advice; NEVER buy from the freezer case. The food probably was not continuously frozen. More likely, it was frozen at the plant, thawed during transport, refrozen, then rethawed and refrozen in the freezer case. Another word of advice; stay away from the chicken feet. Those bright yellow appendages may look tasty in their twenty count bags, and the price cannot be beat, but do not forget that they are the feet of chicken. Eat at your own risk.
We usually go down every aisle. The selection changes often, so new items may be available at any time. Sometimes, items will be stocked where there is space for them, instead of where it makes sense to stock them, so you need to be alert. If we are lucky and find rare food, we will buy more than we need, continuing the shortage cycle. There is never a shortage of boxed milk, it seems, nor pepper sauces.
Undoubtedly, the shopping list is still incomplete, so we may go to the Farm and Fresh, a specialty grocery next door, for high priced, yet desirable items that we cannot find elsewhere.
Next to the Farm and Fresh is the beer and rum retailer. Here we purchase from their selection of Red Stripe, Ting (a locally produced, less carbonated, sweeter Squirt), tonic, and scores of varieties of rums, rum creams, and rum liqueurs. They get a lot of our money. Ask Jackie about Banana Rum Cream and Chocolate Syrup on the rocks.
We were purchasing meat, mostly chicken, at the grocery store, but we may get a better selection at a butcher who just opened near the hacienda. At the grocery, the beef is never that tasty, there is little pork, and turkey runs over JA $500/kg, so we do not eat a lot of those. When the grocery has beef, you see every cut on the cow. The same with pork. Apparently, they butcher the entire animal at once, and fill the case with every thing from T-bones to tongue to tripe. If we get there at the right time, cheap T-bones. If we are late.... cheap tripe.
There is also a small grocery outside of Hopewell, where you might get lucky and find sour or cream cheeses, so it is worth a stop on occasion. In addition, Tony stops by the apartment two or three times a week with fresh orange, grapefruit, ortanique, and passion fruit juices.
We shop at each of these locations most every week and still cannot find all of the food that we like, yet take for granted in the States. Our list is always incomplete. So, when you visit, remember the Rice-a-roni, Kraft Parmesan Cheese, and Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies.
There is more that we need. We will send you a list. Read More......
Despite the pervasive poverty here, there is little obvious malnutrition. If you live in the country, are hungry and have no dollars, you can always steal a breadfruit, banana, or ackee off of the neighbor’s tree (what you may call “praedial larceny”). If you need some protein, there are fish in the sea. Even if you earn very little, you can still raise a chicken or two. Many rural people have small vegetable gardens adjacent to their zinc shacks, so there appears to be an adequate supply of food. This is fine if you like a diet of breadfruit, banana, ackee and chicken with a couple of vegetables. However, we prefer a little more variety, so we go grocery shopping.
We buy most of our fruit from Jason, a Rastafarian vendor at Mosquito Cove, who I pass on my commute. Along with the banana, plantain, pineapple, lime, and pear (what you may call an “avocado”), I get vague and occasionally confusing infusions of the Rasta way. If I have time, there are Red Stripes in his cooler which I consume during the lecture. He is a self-proclaimed herbalist, healer, musician, drum maker, farmer, and politically astute commentator. As such, I am never in a real hurry to leave. Plus, he speaks more Patois than English, so I use the opportunity to train my ear, little by little, to understand the local speech.
Hopewell is a little village also on my commute. I buy my Gleaner every morning from Beverly, an elderly woman who sells them there. I swerve across the oncoming traffic, stop in the opposing lane, and she brings me my paper,.... all for just JA $14.
Every Friday is market day in Hopewell, when I actually get out of the van (what you may call a “truck”) and scour the market in search of vegetables. The market is crowded along both sides of the road and spills onto the pavement. There is a market building, but most of the vendors stick to the high exposure areas adjacent to the roadway. Wares are sold out of the backs of trucks and vans, from pushcarts, or from displays laid out on tarps and blankets.
I buy most of what I need from two guys who sell their produce from the back of a pick up truck. I buy from them primarily because they are located next to the newspaper lady, and have a relatively consistent selection and quality. Early in the day, their truck is full to overflowing with onions, potatoes, scallions, coconuts, beets, and cabbage. I will spend a couple hundred dollars here, then walk down the road fifty meters or so to the ladies who sell yam and, if I am there at the right time, callaloo.
Most times, though, I cannot get all that I need at the Hopewell market, so I try to stop in Lucea later in the day. Lucea, the parish seat of Hanover, has a substantially larger market than at Hopewell. There are carts and bins of attractive produce, crammed into too small a space, packed with shoppers.
Hustling. Bustling. Noisy. Here, I am more often able to find good green peppers, green beans, callaloo, and tomatoes, as well as other vegetables which look tasty at the time. My business goes to whoever has the best looking tomatoes. I try to hit this market at lunchtime, so I can stop for patties or Ital on the way back to work.
For dry goods, we visit the grocery store, located in a strip mall in Montego Bay. We regularly spend JA $3,000 here - on rice, peas (what you may call “beans”), soda, bread, pasta, dry goods and cupboard fare. It is not dissimilar from any Ma and Pa grocery store in Smallville. There are a dozen aisles, dairy to the left, produce in the back, house wares to the right. It has got a peculiar smell, but you get used to it.
There is a large portion of shelf space given to syrups. Not the maple flavored pancake variety, but mango, guava, strawberry, passion fruit, and pineapple flavored syrups. What these are used for, we have no idea, but they sure stock a lot of them. One of the local brands of everything is Grace, which amuses me, as Grace Brothers was the haberdashery, subject of much confusion, tomfoolery and entendre, featured in that old Brit comedy, “Are You Being Served”.
One word of tropical shopping advice; NEVER buy from the freezer case. The food probably was not continuously frozen. More likely, it was frozen at the plant, thawed during transport, refrozen, then rethawed and refrozen in the freezer case. Another word of advice; stay away from the chicken feet. Those bright yellow appendages may look tasty in their twenty count bags, and the price cannot be beat, but do not forget that they are the feet of chicken. Eat at your own risk.
We usually go down every aisle. The selection changes often, so new items may be available at any time. Sometimes, items will be stocked where there is space for them, instead of where it makes sense to stock them, so you need to be alert. If we are lucky and find rare food, we will buy more than we need, continuing the shortage cycle. There is never a shortage of boxed milk, it seems, nor pepper sauces.
Undoubtedly, the shopping list is still incomplete, so we may go to the Farm and Fresh, a specialty grocery next door, for high priced, yet desirable items that we cannot find elsewhere.
Next to the Farm and Fresh is the beer and rum retailer. Here we purchase from their selection of Red Stripe, Ting (a locally produced, less carbonated, sweeter Squirt), tonic, and scores of varieties of rums, rum creams, and rum liqueurs. They get a lot of our money. Ask Jackie about Banana Rum Cream and Chocolate Syrup on the rocks.
We were purchasing meat, mostly chicken, at the grocery store, but we may get a better selection at a butcher who just opened near the hacienda. At the grocery, the beef is never that tasty, there is little pork, and turkey runs over JA $500/kg, so we do not eat a lot of those. When the grocery has beef, you see every cut on the cow. The same with pork. Apparently, they butcher the entire animal at once, and fill the case with every thing from T-bones to tongue to tripe. If we get there at the right time, cheap T-bones. If we are late.... cheap tripe.
There is also a small grocery outside of Hopewell, where you might get lucky and find sour or cream cheeses, so it is worth a stop on occasion. In addition, Tony stops by the apartment two or three times a week with fresh orange, grapefruit, ortanique, and passion fruit juices.
We shop at each of these locations most every week and still cannot find all of the food that we like, yet take for granted in the States. Our list is always incomplete. So, when you visit, remember the Rice-a-roni, Kraft Parmesan Cheese, and Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies.
There is more that we need. We will send you a list. Read More......
1999-10-28
Weather
We had a pleasant and beautiful Saturday in Negril.
Got to the Pickled Parrot by 10:30 or so. Spent more time than usual taking in her amenities. We snorkeled a bit. Drank a few buckets of Red Stripe. Talked to the locals. Even paid one of them to perform a one and a half off of the rope swing. Although my first attempt at the rope and bar was relatively successful, my second was not, and I actually hurt myself on the third. Well, nothing ten kilos and twenty years ago would not have cured.
From there, we drove to Cosmos, on the beach, for a stroll up to the trampoline at Margaritaville. A nice walk, indeed, once you run the gauntlet of higglers and dealers.
“Smoke?”
“Gram?”
“Girl?”
By the time we were through with it all, we were exhausted. I was sore and sunburned, and rued the drive home, burned back wincing at the abrasive seats as we rumbled over the eighty kilometer pothole which is the highway, fearing my arms would not function at that next critical shift. We got home after dark, and barely made it until 21:00 before the eyelids summoned me to bed.
Sunday morning was cloudy, a rarity for the island. The clouds soon turned to rain. All right, we sometimes do get morning showers, but these did not seem to be letting up any time soon. I was beginning to think this rainy day was a good thing. I was still sore and sunburned and I could use a day in the shade, as opposed to wasting the day at Doctor’s Cave Beach as we had planned.
I went back and forth for a while here. Soothing shade or stunning snorkeling? Soothing or stunning? Hmmm...
Ultimately, the choice was not mine. The rains continued for the entire day. There would be no beach. No lime squishies. No patties and Red Stripes for lunch.
Just as well. I was still sore.
Hank called in the evening. It had rained all day from Montego Bay to Negril, and one abutment for the temporary bridge at Maggotty had washed away. There would be no way to get to the camp until it was repaired. I told him that I would try to be on location in the morning, at least to gather data and work on a solution. That did not happen.
From what I have been told, there are three seasons in Jamaica - wet, dry, and tourist. July through October is wet. Quite coincidentally, this correlates with the hurricane season. Since we moved here in July, all we have known is the wet season. I thought I had it mostly figured out. Every second or third day it would rain. Usually in the afternoon. Usually for an hour. Then, Ra would make his reappearance (“and there was much rejoicing”). This is really a great way to maintain the lushness. A good soaking followed by some hot.
Most often, the rains would be scattered across the north coast. Some days, we would get rain at the camp and the wives would be dry as they lounged by the pool. Some days, rain would scatter elsewhere from Negril to Ochi. Rare was the event which would deposit precipitation across the entire north coast at the same time. Even more rare is the heavy event which covers the entire north coast for the entire day. That rare day was Sunday.
As could be expected here, there is no way to estimate the return frequency of the day’s event. Let us just stick with the “rare” thing. Eventually, I did make it to work, but not the next day, and only after government and contractor crews had reestablished passable roadways from home to camp.
The flooding and associated problems were widespread. In Reading, the road up to Anchovy had become the primary drainage course for runoff from the surrounding hills. The flows had conveyed hundreds of cubic meters of cobbles, rubble, and rock down to the A1, and deposited them half a meter thick in some places. The extent of this deposition was over the entire roadway for a distance of a few hundreds of meters. Some of the rocks were as large as three hundred millimeters in diameter, although most were in the fifty to one hundred millimeter range.
Outside of Unity Hall, at Spring Garden, flows over the roadway had washed out portions of the seaside lane in numerous locations.
The road to Unity Hall itself had turned to mud and washed down onto the highway, turning it totally impassible for a time. This was as far as I made it on Monday, where I sat for almost an hour before turning around and calling it quits. I leave plenty of work on the laptop for this very reason. I would have waited a little longer, just out of curiosity, but I spoke to a man who had walked down to the blockage and did not sound very encouraging with his report.
The Jamaicans lack both the experience and the discipline to deal with the intricacies of lane sharing. Too often, if there is just one lane, drivers will approach from both sides and stop in the middle. No sooner is this situation resolved than it occurs again. Of course, the public works people have no idea how to conduct a traffic control exercise. Rarely do you see red flags and green flags manipulated by the flagmen. More often, you will see a red oilcan and a leafy branch. Sometimes you will see a green leafy branch with red flowers. Jah only knows what this is supposed to represent. The cops are no help at all. They will sit in traffic with the rest of us, then drive through the trouble spot and continue going to lunch.
On the west side of Hopewell, a culvert headwall was washed away, due to the force of flows over the highway, impacting from the roadside. Again, mud and cobbles rendered the roadway impassible.
In Sandy Bay, another flow of rocks and mud washed down a concrete lined channel and lodged in the town’s largest culvert, plugging it, and forcing the rock filled flow onto the pavement, resurfacing the roadway with mud and aggregate and flooding every building and structure along the main road half a klick to each side of the culvert. Except for another huge event two weeks ago, this had not occurred since Gilbert thrashed the island in the late 1980's.
At Maggotty, one of the abutments went out to sea, and the bridge tried to follow. The first day I saw this temporary structure, I wrote a memo stating my opinion regarding its lack of capacity. It still failed, leading me to believe that memoranda leave something to be desired when asked to provide adequate flood conveyance.
Prior to its failure, the reduced capacity of the channel through the bridge forced floodwater to back up above the bridge, overtopping the levees, flooding houses, almost drowning cattle, and submerging the driveway to the skills training center (they had to hire a row boat to get the students and staff to the road).
Fortunately, the temporary bridge was sturdy, and soon welded to a couple of hastily driven temporary piles, so a new abutment could be quickly constructed beneath it. Fortunately, no one died, protecting my safety record. Fortunately, the effects were widespread, so people are not looking for our specific heads on a communal platter. Hopefully, the improvements we are making, once they are complete, will work to alleviate these affects.
Fortunately and hopefully.
Beside this, it all irie. Read More......
Got to the Pickled Parrot by 10:30 or so. Spent more time than usual taking in her amenities. We snorkeled a bit. Drank a few buckets of Red Stripe. Talked to the locals. Even paid one of them to perform a one and a half off of the rope swing. Although my first attempt at the rope and bar was relatively successful, my second was not, and I actually hurt myself on the third. Well, nothing ten kilos and twenty years ago would not have cured.
From there, we drove to Cosmos, on the beach, for a stroll up to the trampoline at Margaritaville. A nice walk, indeed, once you run the gauntlet of higglers and dealers.
“Smoke?”
“Gram?”
“Girl?”
By the time we were through with it all, we were exhausted. I was sore and sunburned, and rued the drive home, burned back wincing at the abrasive seats as we rumbled over the eighty kilometer pothole which is the highway, fearing my arms would not function at that next critical shift. We got home after dark, and barely made it until 21:00 before the eyelids summoned me to bed.
Sunday morning was cloudy, a rarity for the island. The clouds soon turned to rain. All right, we sometimes do get morning showers, but these did not seem to be letting up any time soon. I was beginning to think this rainy day was a good thing. I was still sore and sunburned and I could use a day in the shade, as opposed to wasting the day at Doctor’s Cave Beach as we had planned.
I went back and forth for a while here. Soothing shade or stunning snorkeling? Soothing or stunning? Hmmm...
Ultimately, the choice was not mine. The rains continued for the entire day. There would be no beach. No lime squishies. No patties and Red Stripes for lunch.
Just as well. I was still sore.
Hank called in the evening. It had rained all day from Montego Bay to Negril, and one abutment for the temporary bridge at Maggotty had washed away. There would be no way to get to the camp until it was repaired. I told him that I would try to be on location in the morning, at least to gather data and work on a solution. That did not happen.
From what I have been told, there are three seasons in Jamaica - wet, dry, and tourist. July through October is wet. Quite coincidentally, this correlates with the hurricane season. Since we moved here in July, all we have known is the wet season. I thought I had it mostly figured out. Every second or third day it would rain. Usually in the afternoon. Usually for an hour. Then, Ra would make his reappearance (“and there was much rejoicing”). This is really a great way to maintain the lushness. A good soaking followed by some hot.
Most often, the rains would be scattered across the north coast. Some days, we would get rain at the camp and the wives would be dry as they lounged by the pool. Some days, rain would scatter elsewhere from Negril to Ochi. Rare was the event which would deposit precipitation across the entire north coast at the same time. Even more rare is the heavy event which covers the entire north coast for the entire day. That rare day was Sunday.
As could be expected here, there is no way to estimate the return frequency of the day’s event. Let us just stick with the “rare” thing. Eventually, I did make it to work, but not the next day, and only after government and contractor crews had reestablished passable roadways from home to camp.
The flooding and associated problems were widespread. In Reading, the road up to Anchovy had become the primary drainage course for runoff from the surrounding hills. The flows had conveyed hundreds of cubic meters of cobbles, rubble, and rock down to the A1, and deposited them half a meter thick in some places. The extent of this deposition was over the entire roadway for a distance of a few hundreds of meters. Some of the rocks were as large as three hundred millimeters in diameter, although most were in the fifty to one hundred millimeter range.
Outside of Unity Hall, at Spring Garden, flows over the roadway had washed out portions of the seaside lane in numerous locations.
The road to Unity Hall itself had turned to mud and washed down onto the highway, turning it totally impassible for a time. This was as far as I made it on Monday, where I sat for almost an hour before turning around and calling it quits. I leave plenty of work on the laptop for this very reason. I would have waited a little longer, just out of curiosity, but I spoke to a man who had walked down to the blockage and did not sound very encouraging with his report.
The Jamaicans lack both the experience and the discipline to deal with the intricacies of lane sharing. Too often, if there is just one lane, drivers will approach from both sides and stop in the middle. No sooner is this situation resolved than it occurs again. Of course, the public works people have no idea how to conduct a traffic control exercise. Rarely do you see red flags and green flags manipulated by the flagmen. More often, you will see a red oilcan and a leafy branch. Sometimes you will see a green leafy branch with red flowers. Jah only knows what this is supposed to represent. The cops are no help at all. They will sit in traffic with the rest of us, then drive through the trouble spot and continue going to lunch.
On the west side of Hopewell, a culvert headwall was washed away, due to the force of flows over the highway, impacting from the roadside. Again, mud and cobbles rendered the roadway impassible.
In Sandy Bay, another flow of rocks and mud washed down a concrete lined channel and lodged in the town’s largest culvert, plugging it, and forcing the rock filled flow onto the pavement, resurfacing the roadway with mud and aggregate and flooding every building and structure along the main road half a klick to each side of the culvert. Except for another huge event two weeks ago, this had not occurred since Gilbert thrashed the island in the late 1980's.
At Maggotty, one of the abutments went out to sea, and the bridge tried to follow. The first day I saw this temporary structure, I wrote a memo stating my opinion regarding its lack of capacity. It still failed, leading me to believe that memoranda leave something to be desired when asked to provide adequate flood conveyance.
Prior to its failure, the reduced capacity of the channel through the bridge forced floodwater to back up above the bridge, overtopping the levees, flooding houses, almost drowning cattle, and submerging the driveway to the skills training center (they had to hire a row boat to get the students and staff to the road).
Fortunately, the temporary bridge was sturdy, and soon welded to a couple of hastily driven temporary piles, so a new abutment could be quickly constructed beneath it. Fortunately, no one died, protecting my safety record. Fortunately, the effects were widespread, so people are not looking for our specific heads on a communal platter. Hopefully, the improvements we are making, once they are complete, will work to alleviate these affects.
Fortunately and hopefully.
Beside this, it all irie. Read More......
1999-10-19
Accommodations
We have finally completed the sale of our Crocker Township property. It certainly took longer than either of us anticipated, and was more annoying than I could have imagined.
When we decided to move to the Greater Antilles, we had to somehow dispose of our house in the States. One option was to rent the place. We found a property manager and had a couple of rental prospects, but decided against this plan for a number of reasons. Primarily was the fact that our home and grounds were a maintenance intensive property, and there was no way we could depend on a renter to care for the place in the appropriate fashion. We wanted to return to a house in the same condition as when we left it and, after eight years of continuous effort, I think it looked nicer than it had since the 40's. Why would a tenant spend four hours a week on the yard? Why should a tenant spend four hours a week on the yard?
So we decided to sell. I hear that selling by owner can work, but we probably needed more time, and we definitely needed a better understanding of house marketing. After two weeks of intensive walk-throughs but with no offers, our departure clock loudly ticking, we contacted a realtor friend of ours, and put his sign in the yard.
The first offer came that day [conspiracy] from the developer largely responsible for our increasing number of neighbors. I have no doubt that he would have carved the parcel into pieces, so it is probably fortunate that we did not reach an agreement.
Next was a couple from Des Moines, who needed a larger place for themselves and their two girls. He worked nearby. They seemed nice enough. They made an acceptable offer. We expected to close the Monday before we left town, but we learned on Tuesday that the couple had purchased a new truck, on credit, the Saturday before, effectively eliminating their bank’s approval for the mortgage. All of a sudden, the nice couple turned out to be a couple of Morons, and I no longer wanted to sell them our house.
Fortunately, in the same call where we were informed that we had Morons for buyers, we learned that there was another couple interested.
Meanwhile, the movers are scheduled to arrive on Thursday and Friday, and we have yet to finalize what goods are traveling by air, by sea, or only to storage. As a result of our effort to prepare for them, the house is neigh unto shambled, with boxes everywhere packed to various levels, and piles and stacks of whatnot in every room. I thought we were sold, so I had delayed and neglected any type of yard work.
Throughout the time we were trying to lure a buyer, we had kept the house spotless, cleaned, pressed, shampooed, and well manicured. Now it was a wreck, more like usual, and I had a tour to give. The Fates do this sort of thing to test my resolve.
Couple number two arrived for their tour right on time. I decided that I liked them better than the Couple of Morons. Both Alpha Geeks, they wanted a place in the country located between their programming jobs in Ames and West Des Moines. As high earning renters, they had no house to sell and a boatload of cash to put down. I liked them more all the time. It seemed as if they liked the house, too.
The husband seemed amused as the wife told me of her plans to construct a “Woodhenge”. She seemed quite pleased when I showed her my monuments aligned to the rising solstice sun. I knew then that they would make an offer [perhaps it is time for the Pagan Real Estate Network].
The offer came the next morning, but there was one problem, disguised as a couple of Morons. Apparently, the nonrefundable earnest money in Iowa is refundable. We could not just take their US $1,000.00 and deal with the new folks, but had to first give the Morons notice that they had not satisfied their half of the contract, then give them opportunity to remedy the situation, then (ultimately) give them their deposit (if we were still in town, I would have fought this until I had spent US $1k in attorney fees). The closing got moved to after we were out of the country. In fact, when we left town, we did not know to whom we were selling.
Eventually, the resolve of the Morons to move to the country withered and, by the end of July, final papers were signed.
“Hey”, you might be exclaiming if your reading comprehension skills are in the eighty fifth percentile, “if they closed on the house in July, how come I’m not getting this diatribe until the middle of October?”
The reason for this, gentle readers, is that we only sold most of the land to the Geeks, but not all of it. The quarter hectare behind our eastern neighbor we sold to him. John is a great guy. He let me use his lawn mower. He has some funky power tools. He watched over the place when we were out of town. He has a friendly dog. He needed more space for a pole barn. Plus, selling him a portion of our lot should not adversely affect the character of either parcel, but would reduce the possibility that our old place would be further divided.
Sadly, the Power of Attorney we left with Bryan covered the sale of the entire parcel, but did not cover the sale of a portion of it. Once this minor point was discovered, we were sent the documents to sign in Jamaica, to be witnessed by a notary, a local attorney who, after payment of JA $500.00, gave us his signature, stamp, embossed seal on one of those gold foil stickies, and sent us on our merry way.
Now we are finally homeless.
Additionally, for the first two months here, we had no lease, and the Company sent no rent check, so we were squatters, too. That has since been resolved.
Now we are just homeless, but homeless in the Caribbean. Read More......
When we decided to move to the Greater Antilles, we had to somehow dispose of our house in the States. One option was to rent the place. We found a property manager and had a couple of rental prospects, but decided against this plan for a number of reasons. Primarily was the fact that our home and grounds were a maintenance intensive property, and there was no way we could depend on a renter to care for the place in the appropriate fashion. We wanted to return to a house in the same condition as when we left it and, after eight years of continuous effort, I think it looked nicer than it had since the 40's. Why would a tenant spend four hours a week on the yard? Why should a tenant spend four hours a week on the yard?
So we decided to sell. I hear that selling by owner can work, but we probably needed more time, and we definitely needed a better understanding of house marketing. After two weeks of intensive walk-throughs but with no offers, our departure clock loudly ticking, we contacted a realtor friend of ours, and put his sign in the yard.
The first offer came that day [conspiracy] from the developer largely responsible for our increasing number of neighbors. I have no doubt that he would have carved the parcel into pieces, so it is probably fortunate that we did not reach an agreement.
Next was a couple from Des Moines, who needed a larger place for themselves and their two girls. He worked nearby. They seemed nice enough. They made an acceptable offer. We expected to close the Monday before we left town, but we learned on Tuesday that the couple had purchased a new truck, on credit, the Saturday before, effectively eliminating their bank’s approval for the mortgage. All of a sudden, the nice couple turned out to be a couple of Morons, and I no longer wanted to sell them our house.
Fortunately, in the same call where we were informed that we had Morons for buyers, we learned that there was another couple interested.
Meanwhile, the movers are scheduled to arrive on Thursday and Friday, and we have yet to finalize what goods are traveling by air, by sea, or only to storage. As a result of our effort to prepare for them, the house is neigh unto shambled, with boxes everywhere packed to various levels, and piles and stacks of whatnot in every room. I thought we were sold, so I had delayed and neglected any type of yard work.
Throughout the time we were trying to lure a buyer, we had kept the house spotless, cleaned, pressed, shampooed, and well manicured. Now it was a wreck, more like usual, and I had a tour to give. The Fates do this sort of thing to test my resolve.
Couple number two arrived for their tour right on time. I decided that I liked them better than the Couple of Morons. Both Alpha Geeks, they wanted a place in the country located between their programming jobs in Ames and West Des Moines. As high earning renters, they had no house to sell and a boatload of cash to put down. I liked them more all the time. It seemed as if they liked the house, too.
The husband seemed amused as the wife told me of her plans to construct a “Woodhenge”. She seemed quite pleased when I showed her my monuments aligned to the rising solstice sun. I knew then that they would make an offer [perhaps it is time for the Pagan Real Estate Network].
The offer came the next morning, but there was one problem, disguised as a couple of Morons. Apparently, the nonrefundable earnest money in Iowa is refundable. We could not just take their US $1,000.00 and deal with the new folks, but had to first give the Morons notice that they had not satisfied their half of the contract, then give them opportunity to remedy the situation, then (ultimately) give them their deposit (if we were still in town, I would have fought this until I had spent US $1k in attorney fees). The closing got moved to after we were out of the country. In fact, when we left town, we did not know to whom we were selling.
Eventually, the resolve of the Morons to move to the country withered and, by the end of July, final papers were signed.
“Hey”, you might be exclaiming if your reading comprehension skills are in the eighty fifth percentile, “if they closed on the house in July, how come I’m not getting this diatribe until the middle of October?”
The reason for this, gentle readers, is that we only sold most of the land to the Geeks, but not all of it. The quarter hectare behind our eastern neighbor we sold to him. John is a great guy. He let me use his lawn mower. He has some funky power tools. He watched over the place when we were out of town. He has a friendly dog. He needed more space for a pole barn. Plus, selling him a portion of our lot should not adversely affect the character of either parcel, but would reduce the possibility that our old place would be further divided.
Sadly, the Power of Attorney we left with Bryan covered the sale of the entire parcel, but did not cover the sale of a portion of it. Once this minor point was discovered, we were sent the documents to sign in Jamaica, to be witnessed by a notary, a local attorney who, after payment of JA $500.00, gave us his signature, stamp, embossed seal on one of those gold foil stickies, and sent us on our merry way.
Now we are finally homeless.
Additionally, for the first two months here, we had no lease, and the Company sent no rent check, so we were squatters, too. That has since been resolved.
Now we are just homeless, but homeless in the Caribbean. Read More......
1999-09-21
Enter the Project
Ah,... the job. I had a feeling that there was some reason why I was getting paid to live here. It must be the job (a.k.a. “The Job”).
First and foremost, it is not all sun, rum, reggae, ackee and saltfish, and romantic dinners on the veranda watching the cruise ships depart.... there is the Job, too. The Job, however, relates directly to the rum, sun, and etceteras, for these are the reasons that tourists perform their yearly migration to the Caribbean. Jamaica’s fragile economy would wither if it had to survive on their two major exports, bauxite and bananas (I might address ganja in another missive), so Jamaicans rely on the infusion of US and Euro dollars which they are happy to separate from the tourists who bring them here. However, these imported dollars and their foreign carriers need a more efficient distribution system, which the USAID is going to provide.
Great numbers of tourists fly into Montego Bay then motor to Negril to the west or to Ocho Rios, Port Antonio, and Boston Bay to the east. The drive to these tourist Meccas are, as are drives everywhere on the island, oftentimes an adventure, as the roads, as we say in the transportation industry, are “pieces of crap”.
The condition and configuration of the existing highways on the island (in general), and along the north coast (specifically), we can blame on the British (mostly because blaming the Brits is almost as much fun as blaming Canada, or even deriding the French). The Brits are to blame because they built roadways here without taking into account that, decades after independence, the Jamaicans would liberalize certain import laws, thereby allowing automobile density on the island to double over the course of four to five years with no regard for the impacts this would have on the capacity of the existing streets. The result is a transportation infrastructure underdesigned, overutilized, and poorly maintained.
[Enter SMARMY CONSULTANT, stage right]
“Have I got a road to sell you! It will speed tourists to tourist spots, speed workers to industry, and speed crops to market. It will create jobs. It will be maintenance free, wide and safe, comes in a wide range of colors and, best of all, someone else will pay for it. You cannot lose!”
[Enter CYNICAL CONSULTANT, suspended by cable]
“Liar, liar. Pants on fire!”
Sure, Mr. Smarmy has some good points, but they are not completely truthful. Tourists will get to tourist spots quickly, but they will not get as close to the island and her people at 100 kph as they did while driving at 50 kph. Money will go to Hoteliers and their American and Cayman bank accounts, not the locals. The road will bring workers to industry,... if there was any industry. There will be construction jobs for a time, but they will be short term, and the equipment has to be deported once the project is complete, so the workers who have been trained to operate an excavator or motor patrol will have nothing to operate once we are through. A big chunk of project change is used to buy materials from the United States for incorporation into the works, so the local economy does not benefit as much as it would from a similar project in the States. The road will be maintenance free, but only because there is little roadway maintenance anywhere (the highway will need maintenance, but you do not get much for free).
With two 3.65 meter lanes and 2.40 meter shoulders, what we are really constructing is a high speed, four lane, “dual carriageway”, pass whenever, overtake on the shoulder, many people will die sort of highway.
It will be multi-colored, ranging from black to gray to white, with some yellow tossed in for striping and signage.
It will not be free. The Peoples of the United States (USAID) and Japan (OECF) are funding the construction itself (thanks, guys), but the Government of Jamaica is saddled with the costs of acquisition and relocation, which could equal the originally estimated construction cost of some US $30-40M. Also, the Jamaicans get to pay our almost embarrassingly large consulting fees. That is a lot of cake for a country deep in dept, where the average family earns around US $3k a year (the union wage for unskilled labor runs less than a buck and a half an hour).
With that said, there is nothing like the dust and diesel fumes, the loud equipment, and the smell of concrete to tell me that something is being built. An accountant works all day and sees numbers change in a ledger. The baker bakes the loaves, then sells the loaves, and starts again tomorrow exactly where he started today. I am exacting scars on the planet that you will be able to see from space.... and I get to drive over my work.
Sense a philosophical conundrum?
Well, in the words of the Goose, “it’s nothing a year in the Tropics won’t fix”. Read More......
First and foremost, it is not all sun, rum, reggae, ackee and saltfish, and romantic dinners on the veranda watching the cruise ships depart.... there is the Job, too. The Job, however, relates directly to the rum, sun, and etceteras, for these are the reasons that tourists perform their yearly migration to the Caribbean. Jamaica’s fragile economy would wither if it had to survive on their two major exports, bauxite and bananas (I might address ganja in another missive), so Jamaicans rely on the infusion of US and Euro dollars which they are happy to separate from the tourists who bring them here. However, these imported dollars and their foreign carriers need a more efficient distribution system, which the USAID is going to provide.
Great numbers of tourists fly into Montego Bay then motor to Negril to the west or to Ocho Rios, Port Antonio, and Boston Bay to the east. The drive to these tourist Meccas are, as are drives everywhere on the island, oftentimes an adventure, as the roads, as we say in the transportation industry, are “pieces of crap”.
The condition and configuration of the existing highways on the island (in general), and along the north coast (specifically), we can blame on the British (mostly because blaming the Brits is almost as much fun as blaming Canada, or even deriding the French). The Brits are to blame because they built roadways here without taking into account that, decades after independence, the Jamaicans would liberalize certain import laws, thereby allowing automobile density on the island to double over the course of four to five years with no regard for the impacts this would have on the capacity of the existing streets. The result is a transportation infrastructure underdesigned, overutilized, and poorly maintained.
[Enter SMARMY CONSULTANT, stage right]
“Have I got a road to sell you! It will speed tourists to tourist spots, speed workers to industry, and speed crops to market. It will create jobs. It will be maintenance free, wide and safe, comes in a wide range of colors and, best of all, someone else will pay for it. You cannot lose!”
[Enter CYNICAL CONSULTANT, suspended by cable]
“Liar, liar. Pants on fire!”
Sure, Mr. Smarmy has some good points, but they are not completely truthful. Tourists will get to tourist spots quickly, but they will not get as close to the island and her people at 100 kph as they did while driving at 50 kph. Money will go to Hoteliers and their American and Cayman bank accounts, not the locals. The road will bring workers to industry,... if there was any industry. There will be construction jobs for a time, but they will be short term, and the equipment has to be deported once the project is complete, so the workers who have been trained to operate an excavator or motor patrol will have nothing to operate once we are through. A big chunk of project change is used to buy materials from the United States for incorporation into the works, so the local economy does not benefit as much as it would from a similar project in the States. The road will be maintenance free, but only because there is little roadway maintenance anywhere (the highway will need maintenance, but you do not get much for free).
With two 3.65 meter lanes and 2.40 meter shoulders, what we are really constructing is a high speed, four lane, “dual carriageway”, pass whenever, overtake on the shoulder, many people will die sort of highway.
It will be multi-colored, ranging from black to gray to white, with some yellow tossed in for striping and signage.
It will not be free. The Peoples of the United States (USAID) and Japan (OECF) are funding the construction itself (thanks, guys), but the Government of Jamaica is saddled with the costs of acquisition and relocation, which could equal the originally estimated construction cost of some US $30-40M. Also, the Jamaicans get to pay our almost embarrassingly large consulting fees. That is a lot of cake for a country deep in dept, where the average family earns around US $3k a year (the union wage for unskilled labor runs less than a buck and a half an hour).
With that said, there is nothing like the dust and diesel fumes, the loud equipment, and the smell of concrete to tell me that something is being built. An accountant works all day and sees numbers change in a ledger. The baker bakes the loaves, then sells the loaves, and starts again tomorrow exactly where he started today. I am exacting scars on the planet that you will be able to see from space.... and I get to drive over my work.
Sense a philosophical conundrum?
Well, in the words of the Goose, “it’s nothing a year in the Tropics won’t fix”. Read More......
1999-08-21
The Driving Game
Some of you may remember a competition that would occur each day in suburbanland. The Guys called it The Driving Game. The rules were quite simple.
1. Pass as many cars as you possibly can
2. Do not get passed
In general, points were assigned singularly for each pass. Add a point when overtaking, deduct a point when overtaken. Occasionally, additional points could be made or lost due to extreme driving skill or lame-ity. The object of the game, of course, was to be in the black whenever you got to wherever you were going.
With just a little practice, and a little nerve, it was an easy game to win. City traffic was large and four-lane roads were common, so a skillful weave could rack up scores of points in little time. Of course, using the merging lane for a big pass was common, the mainline traffic would always yield. I had not played the Game in many years (I got a “couple” of speeding tickets back in those days). Then I experienced Life in the Tropics. Here, the Game is played by masters. Competition is fierce. Base scores are much lower.
Contestants – The TAXIMAN
Scourge of the roadways. Watch for the red of his license plate in your mirrors.
The MINIBUS DRIVER
Endangering up to 15 at a time.
The CITIZEN
Often times has a nice car. Do not expect it to remain that way.
The CONSULTANT
As many as 17 Mitsubishi horses propel this diesel powered foreign invader.
Course - Traffic volumes along the A1 Highway average six thousand vehicles per day just west of Montego Bay to three thousand vehicles per day at Negril. The road is two-lane and undulates both vertically and horizontally. The vegetation wants to take it back, but passing vehicles keep the bush contained to the edge of pavement. The playing surface, then, is roughly seven meters wide. Assuming a car is stopped at the edge of the slab for no apparent reason, this is still a two-lane road,... just two really narrow lanes.
Pavement markings and signage (locally, “road furniture”) are a joke. This is probably just as well. If no passing zones were marked, they would be ignored. Speed limits are rarely posted. They are usually set at 50 kph in town and 80 kph in the country. Where one stops and the other begins is anyone’s guess. General rule - go as fast as you can.
Hazards - The Pedestrian/Hitcher/Higgler. These folks are everywhere, constantly violating what we learned while earning Hiking Merit Badge; walk in a group against traffic with a reflective cloth tied around your ankle. The ‘tropical produce sales centers’ so closely abut the pavement that any mistake could give you a windscreen covered with ackee. On the bright side, there are plenty of beer shacks available for, er,… refueling.
The Bicyclist/Scooterboy. No regard for their own lives. If I were to ride here, I would need a large motocross machine with a really loud horn.... and kevlar duds. With machine guns, it could be just like David Carradine’s destructocycle in “Deathsport".
The Ice Man. I usually score a point or two passing the ice man in the morning. Electricity does not always make it to the (relative) boondocks. Blocks of ice are produced in the larger towns and transported to the various beer shacks and restaurants (food shacks) in a flatbed truck, unwrapped and covered with a tarp. Sometimes, the truck stops for a delivery. Sometimes it just slows while the labor leaps to the ground, delivers the ice chunk, and races to catch his coworkers. Will it come to a complete stop? Jah knows. Is it safe to pass? Jah knows that as well, but he is not talking.
The Taximan. Stops on a ten dollar coin. Has no brake lights.
The Minibus Driver. See Taximan. The problem with both of these is that the particularly aggressive ones will stop in front of you, drop off a fare while you pass, then pass you again on their way down the road. In this way, you can lose points to the same guy multiple times in the same round.
The Ever-changing Rules of Yielding. One iteration is this: if you are on the mainline, it is acceptable, and sometimes encouraged, to stop suddenly and back up traffic while someone enters the traffic stream from a sideroad or driveway.
Cattle. The adults are not so bad, but the calves are more skittish and random.
Goats/Pigs/Dogs. Hard to see. Are they feral, or will someone miss them if they do not come home?
Dumbasses. I mention the donkeys because this just happened on the drive home. It had rained in the afternoon, so the pavement was slicker than usual. A herd (pod?) of burros was crossing the road. The last one freaked and actually fell on his ass 15 meters in front of my rapidly decelerating Dogwagon.
“Dumbass”, I remarked.
And, of course, the largest hazards are the People Playing the Game in the Opposing Lanes.
Rules - Repeat after me, “What traffic cop?”.
Strategy – Know your power curve.
Use road hazards to your advantage.
Fear nothing.
Do not die.
The choice to play is not mine to make. If you do not play, you lose time and gain aggravation. I am in the game, regardless, every time I start the vehicle. To my benefit, attitudes formed by the sedate Iowa driving I used to do have rapidly been swept away, replaced by the offensive Chicagoland driving habits I thought I had lost. Soon, I will drive worse than a Jamaican.
GAME ON!
But remember, “The more you drive, the less intelligent you become” [Repo Man]. Read More......
1. Pass as many cars as you possibly can
2. Do not get passed
In general, points were assigned singularly for each pass. Add a point when overtaking, deduct a point when overtaken. Occasionally, additional points could be made or lost due to extreme driving skill or lame-ity. The object of the game, of course, was to be in the black whenever you got to wherever you were going.
With just a little practice, and a little nerve, it was an easy game to win. City traffic was large and four-lane roads were common, so a skillful weave could rack up scores of points in little time. Of course, using the merging lane for a big pass was common, the mainline traffic would always yield. I had not played the Game in many years (I got a “couple” of speeding tickets back in those days). Then I experienced Life in the Tropics. Here, the Game is played by masters. Competition is fierce. Base scores are much lower.
Contestants – The TAXIMAN
Scourge of the roadways. Watch for the red of his license plate in your mirrors.
The MINIBUS DRIVER
Endangering up to 15 at a time.
The CITIZEN
Often times has a nice car. Do not expect it to remain that way.
The CONSULTANT
As many as 17 Mitsubishi horses propel this diesel powered foreign invader.
Course - Traffic volumes along the A1 Highway average six thousand vehicles per day just west of Montego Bay to three thousand vehicles per day at Negril. The road is two-lane and undulates both vertically and horizontally. The vegetation wants to take it back, but passing vehicles keep the bush contained to the edge of pavement. The playing surface, then, is roughly seven meters wide. Assuming a car is stopped at the edge of the slab for no apparent reason, this is still a two-lane road,... just two really narrow lanes.
Pavement markings and signage (locally, “road furniture”) are a joke. This is probably just as well. If no passing zones were marked, they would be ignored. Speed limits are rarely posted. They are usually set at 50 kph in town and 80 kph in the country. Where one stops and the other begins is anyone’s guess. General rule - go as fast as you can.
Hazards - The Pedestrian/Hitcher/Higgler. These folks are everywhere, constantly violating what we learned while earning Hiking Merit Badge; walk in a group against traffic with a reflective cloth tied around your ankle. The ‘tropical produce sales centers’ so closely abut the pavement that any mistake could give you a windscreen covered with ackee. On the bright side, there are plenty of beer shacks available for, er,… refueling.
The Bicyclist/Scooterboy. No regard for their own lives. If I were to ride here, I would need a large motocross machine with a really loud horn.... and kevlar duds. With machine guns, it could be just like David Carradine’s destructocycle in “Deathsport".
The Ice Man. I usually score a point or two passing the ice man in the morning. Electricity does not always make it to the (relative) boondocks. Blocks of ice are produced in the larger towns and transported to the various beer shacks and restaurants (food shacks) in a flatbed truck, unwrapped and covered with a tarp. Sometimes, the truck stops for a delivery. Sometimes it just slows while the labor leaps to the ground, delivers the ice chunk, and races to catch his coworkers. Will it come to a complete stop? Jah knows. Is it safe to pass? Jah knows that as well, but he is not talking.
The Taximan. Stops on a ten dollar coin. Has no brake lights.
The Minibus Driver. See Taximan. The problem with both of these is that the particularly aggressive ones will stop in front of you, drop off a fare while you pass, then pass you again on their way down the road. In this way, you can lose points to the same guy multiple times in the same round.
The Ever-changing Rules of Yielding. One iteration is this: if you are on the mainline, it is acceptable, and sometimes encouraged, to stop suddenly and back up traffic while someone enters the traffic stream from a sideroad or driveway.
Cattle. The adults are not so bad, but the calves are more skittish and random.
Goats/Pigs/Dogs. Hard to see. Are they feral, or will someone miss them if they do not come home?
Dumbasses. I mention the donkeys because this just happened on the drive home. It had rained in the afternoon, so the pavement was slicker than usual. A herd (pod?) of burros was crossing the road. The last one freaked and actually fell on his ass 15 meters in front of my rapidly decelerating Dogwagon.
“Dumbass”, I remarked.
And, of course, the largest hazards are the People Playing the Game in the Opposing Lanes.
Rules - Repeat after me, “What traffic cop?”.
Strategy – Know your power curve.
Use road hazards to your advantage.
Fear nothing.
Do not die.
The choice to play is not mine to make. If you do not play, you lose time and gain aggravation. I am in the game, regardless, every time I start the vehicle. To my benefit, attitudes formed by the sedate Iowa driving I used to do have rapidly been swept away, replaced by the offensive Chicagoland driving habits I thought I had lost. Soon, I will drive worse than a Jamaican.
GAME ON!
But remember, “The more you drive, the less intelligent you become” [Repo Man]. Read More......
1999-08-01
Routine
This first collection is entitled "THE ROAD TO NEGRIL or Reptiles and Samurai, Sunshine and Lollipops". They were written from August 1999 through July 2002.
Oh, and just for the record, all contents of "Thorazine in your Farina" copyright by PalmerWorld, except as noted or where blatently obvious, like the Ramones lyrics in the preceeding post.
=====
Routine
It has been three weeks now, and the routines are starting to settle in. Up with the sun, then a breakfast of gruel, fresh fruit and Blue Mountain coffee on the patio as I watch the boats in the marina. Maybe read some. Off at seven or so for the commute to the office, forty five minutes on a crap road which is their “A1 Highway”.
The office is a couple of trailers salvaged from Guantanamo Bay by the Contractor. My space is a quarter of what it was in Des Moines, and the decor is atrocious, unless you like the bad paneling and mismatched furniture typical of a site office. My view is of the side of one of the dormitories set up in second hand cargo containers for most of the Koreans and Indians. The view out of the front doors is north to the sea, less than a kilometer distant and fifty meters below. The camp also houses the Contractor’s offices, shops, fabrication areas, stockpiles, and concrete plants.
If I do not pack a lunch, Bruce, our man Friday, will head to Lucea and pick up something. The curries are mild, the Jerk can be incredible. I may come to love the Ital, or Rasta-food. It is all Vegan and really, really tasty,... once you add salt.
I usually split around five for the trip back to Montego Bay. I have been assigned this small right-drive Mitsubishi 4x4 pick-up. It is a crew cab, so there are four doors and a very short bed. It is a 2.2 liter diesel five speed Dogwagon, which is a shame. All the roads are two lanes, and there is little visibility, so what in the States would be considered unsafe passing is common and necessary. More power would be appreciated, but is unavailable. As such, I have got to really beat on the thing. So what else is new?
Common road hazards include awful pavement, standing water, feral dogs, small groups of goats and lots of cattle, with and without their egrets. Pedestrians walk on the road. They are my biggest concern.
Well,... maybe the taxis are my biggest concern. Back when the island was flirting with Communism, there were imports of tens of thousands of Russian-built Lada’s. They are little four door econoboxes which are vaguely reminiscent of the old BMW 2002's, and are probably rip-offs of some old Fiat design, except that there are no working taillights on any of them. They stop with no notice in the middle of their lane to pick up and drop off fares. They race you to bridges. They pass you on curves. The minibus drivers are just as bad, maniacally driving through the country carrying twice the legal passenger load. These cabs and such are everywhere, perhaps as many of them as there are private cars.
There is a lot of honking, too. Honk to give way, honk to take way, honk to gain attention, honk to annoy, honk just for the sake of honking. I need a bigger horn.
Five or six days of this, and I am ready to hit the beaches. We have been to Negril a couple of times in the past three weeks. It is on the far western tip of the island and reported to be THE place for sunsets, although we have yet to see one there. To do so would require that we either stay the night or drive back in the dark, which we will not do (yet) for safety reasons (the road really needs to be replaced, we joke).
Negril has a beach twelve kilometers long of very fine white sand. The water is like a warm bath, sans Mr. Bubble. For a buck you can rent a chair and watch the flat blue waters do nothing. There is little tide here and the seas are almost always calm. Get some food at Cosmos or one of the other beach restaurants then have a couple of Red Stripes down the road at the Pickled Parrot and engage in some cliff diving.
Maybe cool off by the pool once we are back in town, then go out to eat.
We are in such a rut, but we will manage. Read More......
Oh, and just for the record, all contents of "Thorazine in your Farina" copyright by PalmerWorld, except as noted or where blatently obvious, like the Ramones lyrics in the preceeding post.
=====
Routine
It has been three weeks now, and the routines are starting to settle in. Up with the sun, then a breakfast of gruel, fresh fruit and Blue Mountain coffee on the patio as I watch the boats in the marina. Maybe read some. Off at seven or so for the commute to the office, forty five minutes on a crap road which is their “A1 Highway”.
The office is a couple of trailers salvaged from Guantanamo Bay by the Contractor. My space is a quarter of what it was in Des Moines, and the decor is atrocious, unless you like the bad paneling and mismatched furniture typical of a site office. My view is of the side of one of the dormitories set up in second hand cargo containers for most of the Koreans and Indians. The view out of the front doors is north to the sea, less than a kilometer distant and fifty meters below. The camp also houses the Contractor’s offices, shops, fabrication areas, stockpiles, and concrete plants.
If I do not pack a lunch, Bruce, our man Friday, will head to Lucea and pick up something. The curries are mild, the Jerk can be incredible. I may come to love the Ital, or Rasta-food. It is all Vegan and really, really tasty,... once you add salt.
I usually split around five for the trip back to Montego Bay. I have been assigned this small right-drive Mitsubishi 4x4 pick-up. It is a crew cab, so there are four doors and a very short bed. It is a 2.2 liter diesel five speed Dogwagon, which is a shame. All the roads are two lanes, and there is little visibility, so what in the States would be considered unsafe passing is common and necessary. More power would be appreciated, but is unavailable. As such, I have got to really beat on the thing. So what else is new?
Common road hazards include awful pavement, standing water, feral dogs, small groups of goats and lots of cattle, with and without their egrets. Pedestrians walk on the road. They are my biggest concern.
Well,... maybe the taxis are my biggest concern. Back when the island was flirting with Communism, there were imports of tens of thousands of Russian-built Lada’s. They are little four door econoboxes which are vaguely reminiscent of the old BMW 2002's, and are probably rip-offs of some old Fiat design, except that there are no working taillights on any of them. They stop with no notice in the middle of their lane to pick up and drop off fares. They race you to bridges. They pass you on curves. The minibus drivers are just as bad, maniacally driving through the country carrying twice the legal passenger load. These cabs and such are everywhere, perhaps as many of them as there are private cars.
There is a lot of honking, too. Honk to give way, honk to take way, honk to gain attention, honk to annoy, honk just for the sake of honking. I need a bigger horn.
Five or six days of this, and I am ready to hit the beaches. We have been to Negril a couple of times in the past three weeks. It is on the far western tip of the island and reported to be THE place for sunsets, although we have yet to see one there. To do so would require that we either stay the night or drive back in the dark, which we will not do (yet) for safety reasons (the road really needs to be replaced, we joke).
Negril has a beach twelve kilometers long of very fine white sand. The water is like a warm bath, sans Mr. Bubble. For a buck you can rent a chair and watch the flat blue waters do nothing. There is little tide here and the seas are almost always calm. Get some food at Cosmos or one of the other beach restaurants then have a couple of Red Stripes down the road at the Pickled Parrot and engage in some cliff diving.
Maybe cool off by the pool once we are back in town, then go out to eat.
We are in such a rut, but we will manage. Read More......
1999-07-04
Suds for Joey
she was a really good friend,
a really good friend to me, yeah.
she was a really good friend,
a really good friend to me, yeah
but they took her away tossed her in the bin
now she's hanging out in East Berlin - ow-ooo
she had a very bad affair
with some cat from Hiroshima
she turned into a head of lettuce
she eats Thorazine in her farina
but they took her away tossed her in the bin
now she's hanging out in East Berlin - ow-ooo
and everytime I eat vegetables
it makes me think of you
and everytime I eat vegetables
I don't know what to do
to do - oh yeah yeah Read More......
a really good friend to me, yeah.
she was a really good friend,
a really good friend to me, yeah
but they took her away tossed her in the bin
now she's hanging out in East Berlin - ow-ooo
she had a very bad affair
with some cat from Hiroshima
she turned into a head of lettuce
she eats Thorazine in her farina
but they took her away tossed her in the bin
now she's hanging out in East Berlin - ow-ooo
and everytime I eat vegetables
it makes me think of you
and everytime I eat vegetables
I don't know what to do
to do - oh yeah yeah Read More......
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