Posts
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......
2000-12-13
2000-10-29
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......
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......
2000-09-24
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......
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......
2000-09-14
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......
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......
2000-08-19
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......
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......
2000-07-25
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......
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......
2000-07-14
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......
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......
2000-06-22
As So Much Cattle
The pillar of thick black smoke that rose above the highway camp, although completely unexpected, was unsurprising to me as I rounded one of the many bends between Tryall and the near side of Sandy Bay. At this point, I was still nine kilometers from the end of my morning commute, and at the first location where I could spy the thirty meter tall cement tower and the balance of the compound, on the point of land the maps designate simply as Pointe.
Sure, I was unsurprised (that is my island mantra, “I’m not surprised”), yet I was mildly disturbed. If the camp were to be burned to the ground, the day’s efforts would become more challenging. While the machines get backed up regularly, the paper records would certainly be damaged, and to recreate three years of project documentation would be just slightly more than annoying.
With each bend along the coast, I was a little nearer to the office, and I could get another brief glimpse of the goings on at Pointe. The plume of smoke was still rising, and my irk was turning to ire. Something like this was sure to be intentional, and I quickly ran down the list of suspects.
Top of the list,... the contractor. He would not be the first one to torch a poorly performing project. He certainly had unfettered access to the site. He was well aware of what would burn. He had little to gain by continuing his efforts here.
Of course, labor had to be disgruntled by the way they were let go, with little warning and no future prospects. They, too, knew what would burn, and site access was as easy as bribing one of the underpaid guards at the gate. Hell, storming the gates would not be far fetched, considering previous mob actions associated with this project.
Third on the list, the JLP (Jamaica Labour Party). If this project fails, they are one step closer to regaining control of the government, as the inability to construct the highway would be (and already is) a huge embarrassment to the current party in power, the PNP (Peoples National Party). Considering the level of ultra-violence that surrounds the national elections on their five year cycles, and the rapidly diminishing popularity of the JLP, I would not put it past the party irregulars to resort to such flamboyant tactics.
With each kilometer, the Dogwagon seemed to squeak and rattle with a greater sense of urgency. I have had projects go down in flames before, but it was always in a figurative sense. If this one were to go up in literal flames, I wanted pictures. I knew that, once I made it through the cut up the hill on the west side of Mosquito Cove, I would be able to see the entire compound, and could start planning my photo locations.
But when I got to that point, the angle of the smoke was not quite right. While still rising from the center of the compound, it seemed to be a little in front of where the flammables were supposed to be. The plume seemed too small as well; not nearly the magnitude of smoke that I imagined would be spewing from a Navy Surplus triple-wide engulfed in a tropical conflagration.
Less than half a klick from the gate, I located the object of such concern and imagination. Just another flaming cow. The second this month. I guess there would be a day’s work after all.
For a variety of reasons, local beef prices are depressed. I have heard that there is a(n unfounded) fear of mad cow disease pervasive here. While this may account for some of the lack of demand, the fact that there have been absolutely zero reported cases of angry cows makes me think that there are other factors involved.
If I had to speculate, I would say that the reason for the low demand for beef is that the local beef tastes really bad.
As there are no expansive grain farms on Jamaica, grain which could be fed to these cattle, many of the beasts are free range, living off whatever scrub they can forage. This results in a steak with little fat whatsoever, and with no difference in taste or texture from the inside of the cow to the outside. There are large ranches on the south coast, where cane waste is sometimes used as a feed supplement, but we do not see that beef on this side of the island.
On the north coast, free range is almost an understatement. Unpenned cattle are everywhere, crossing the roads in the country in small groups, cow/calf combinations on the shoulders, entire herds sleeping on the beach in Sandy Bay or in the middle of the Freeport roundabout. It is a wonderment that more of them do not meet their fates at the front ends of Ladas.
There are government pounds, where the aforementioned wayward bovines, once rounded up, are detained until such time as their owners come to bail them out. However, I have heard that a few weeks' charge of room and board for a cow quickly surpass its value, so farmers do not pay the ransom, the pounds stay full, and no further cows are detained.
The value of cattle is so low that it makes no economic sense to even repair the pasture fences. The cattle roam free, and eventually end up on the roads, where they spend the nights sleeping on the asphalt, which still radiates heat from the day before, and where they occasionally meet their demise as 500 kilo hood ornaments on the ubiquitous Russian sedans.
As in the States, it usually falls on the public works people to clean up the roadkill carcasses. With limited resources, the public works departments here are a bit more, how shall we say,... creative. Small beasts are usually left to the ravages of traffic and, once suitably tenderized, carrion. Mid-sized dead things are scooped up if in town, or tossed into the bush if in the country. Cows are big animals, and large equipment and disposal sites are scarce, so they usually get pushed to the shoulder, covered with four to six old radial tires, doused with diesel fuel, and set afire.
The column of smoke I had witnessed that morning was not caused by malice, but was performed as a public health service. On my commute the next day I saw only a scorched patch of earth, a big charred pelvis, and a twisted pile of steel belts where the barbeque had been.
The project was in the same state of uncertainty as it had been the morning before.
Not quite a large dead thing yet, but sleeping on the highway was a move in that direction. Better have a couple of tires around, just in case. Read More......
Sure, I was unsurprised (that is my island mantra, “I’m not surprised”), yet I was mildly disturbed. If the camp were to be burned to the ground, the day’s efforts would become more challenging. While the machines get backed up regularly, the paper records would certainly be damaged, and to recreate three years of project documentation would be just slightly more than annoying.
With each bend along the coast, I was a little nearer to the office, and I could get another brief glimpse of the goings on at Pointe. The plume of smoke was still rising, and my irk was turning to ire. Something like this was sure to be intentional, and I quickly ran down the list of suspects.
Top of the list,... the contractor. He would not be the first one to torch a poorly performing project. He certainly had unfettered access to the site. He was well aware of what would burn. He had little to gain by continuing his efforts here.
Of course, labor had to be disgruntled by the way they were let go, with little warning and no future prospects. They, too, knew what would burn, and site access was as easy as bribing one of the underpaid guards at the gate. Hell, storming the gates would not be far fetched, considering previous mob actions associated with this project.
Third on the list, the JLP (Jamaica Labour Party). If this project fails, they are one step closer to regaining control of the government, as the inability to construct the highway would be (and already is) a huge embarrassment to the current party in power, the PNP (Peoples National Party). Considering the level of ultra-violence that surrounds the national elections on their five year cycles, and the rapidly diminishing popularity of the JLP, I would not put it past the party irregulars to resort to such flamboyant tactics.
With each kilometer, the Dogwagon seemed to squeak and rattle with a greater sense of urgency. I have had projects go down in flames before, but it was always in a figurative sense. If this one were to go up in literal flames, I wanted pictures. I knew that, once I made it through the cut up the hill on the west side of Mosquito Cove, I would be able to see the entire compound, and could start planning my photo locations.
But when I got to that point, the angle of the smoke was not quite right. While still rising from the center of the compound, it seemed to be a little in front of where the flammables were supposed to be. The plume seemed too small as well; not nearly the magnitude of smoke that I imagined would be spewing from a Navy Surplus triple-wide engulfed in a tropical conflagration.
Less than half a klick from the gate, I located the object of such concern and imagination. Just another flaming cow. The second this month. I guess there would be a day’s work after all.
For a variety of reasons, local beef prices are depressed. I have heard that there is a(n unfounded) fear of mad cow disease pervasive here. While this may account for some of the lack of demand, the fact that there have been absolutely zero reported cases of angry cows makes me think that there are other factors involved.
If I had to speculate, I would say that the reason for the low demand for beef is that the local beef tastes really bad.
As there are no expansive grain farms on Jamaica, grain which could be fed to these cattle, many of the beasts are free range, living off whatever scrub they can forage. This results in a steak with little fat whatsoever, and with no difference in taste or texture from the inside of the cow to the outside. There are large ranches on the south coast, where cane waste is sometimes used as a feed supplement, but we do not see that beef on this side of the island.
On the north coast, free range is almost an understatement. Unpenned cattle are everywhere, crossing the roads in the country in small groups, cow/calf combinations on the shoulders, entire herds sleeping on the beach in Sandy Bay or in the middle of the Freeport roundabout. It is a wonderment that more of them do not meet their fates at the front ends of Ladas.
There are government pounds, where the aforementioned wayward bovines, once rounded up, are detained until such time as their owners come to bail them out. However, I have heard that a few weeks' charge of room and board for a cow quickly surpass its value, so farmers do not pay the ransom, the pounds stay full, and no further cows are detained.
The value of cattle is so low that it makes no economic sense to even repair the pasture fences. The cattle roam free, and eventually end up on the roads, where they spend the nights sleeping on the asphalt, which still radiates heat from the day before, and where they occasionally meet their demise as 500 kilo hood ornaments on the ubiquitous Russian sedans.
As in the States, it usually falls on the public works people to clean up the roadkill carcasses. With limited resources, the public works departments here are a bit more, how shall we say,... creative. Small beasts are usually left to the ravages of traffic and, once suitably tenderized, carrion. Mid-sized dead things are scooped up if in town, or tossed into the bush if in the country. Cows are big animals, and large equipment and disposal sites are scarce, so they usually get pushed to the shoulder, covered with four to six old radial tires, doused with diesel fuel, and set afire.
The column of smoke I had witnessed that morning was not caused by malice, but was performed as a public health service. On my commute the next day I saw only a scorched patch of earth, a big charred pelvis, and a twisted pile of steel belts where the barbeque had been.
The project was in the same state of uncertainty as it had been the morning before.
Not quite a large dead thing yet, but sleeping on the highway was a move in that direction. Better have a couple of tires around, just in case. Read More......
2000-06-07
Project Status
Even with the project stalled, stopped on the shoulder, transmission in park, headlights dimmed, emergency brake engaged, the one working indicator flashing, bonnet raised, white rag tied to the car pole, left front tire nothing but scattered steel belts since he drove the damn thing for the last seventeen kilometers on a flat, rim destroyed, no spare, out of washer fluid, driver leaning on the fender sucking his last Marlboro down to the filter, pissed off passengers sitting on the right-of-way fence having spent the last two hours unsuccessfully trying to flag down a ride while continually deriding the jerk of an operator who swore he had a good spare in the boot, twenty-three kilometers from the nearest town, sun is going down and everybody is tired and hungry,... we are still hosting weekly progress meetings with the Contractor.
Of course, after a couple of months of idleness, there is no progress on which to report. We go through the motions, though, and the meetings give us regular opportunities to admonish what is left of the Korean project staff.
They kept a few employees here, to tidy up particularly messy areas, and to perform some remedial work. I have noticed that one of the Mr. Lees (“Bridge Lee”) is starting to look particularly shaggy, so I imagine that one of the Koreans to leave the island for home was the man who doubled as the barber. Besides Lee, there are three Indians and one more Korean, two Jamaicans in the office, and two Jamaicans as domestic help. Hardly enough to construct a seventy-one kilometer roadway project.
Not even enough to explain why they have stopped work.
Through this period, we have been trying to keep our staff busy with what little work we can invent, so that we do not have to lay them off and rehire them later. As such, they do very little, never quite completing an assigned task. To complete your work could make you redundant, so the fear of losing one’s job actually slows down the output. This is so anti-Capitalist.
Meanwhile, the government refuses to terminate the contractor. Sure, such action would be an annoyance, even politically unpopular, but I see no way that the Koreans will complete the work, even if we succumb to their ludicrous demands. Their first offer was to complete one quarter of the project length for a sum equal to the contracted amount to complete the entire project. In addition, they want immediate payment for all claims (real and imagined, documented or not) against the project equal to five times what any reasonable person could justify. Plus, they want half of this before they will even come to the negotiating table. As a result, we have a frustration surplus here of ample quantity to supply the needs of the entire Caricom.
Solution? We spent Sunday at an all-inclusive in Negril, adding shots of dark rum to the children’s drink menu while relaxing at the swim-up bar. Try the Boo Boo Special - orange juice, pineapple juice, strawberry syrup. Then add rum and a lime. Yum. Actually, I was already making these at home. Who would have thought that the pickneys would be drinking them too, sans rum and lime?
Now that you are beveraged,...
Dave has been down here for a spell. He has decided to call Jamaica the “Land of the Unfinished Concrete Shell”. And why not?
As you drive around the island, you notice numerous houses apparently under construction. Typically, the site will have been cleared, and the shell of the building will be erected and roofed. The exterior and interior walls of these houses are made of concrete block, occasionally reinforced and filled with concrete, then plastered with a cement grout. Utility services and conduits, all of thin walled PVC, are cast into the blockwork, to be sheared by any future differential settlement to which the house may someday be subjected. Once a concrete roof is in place, construction stops. The unfinished concrete shell can remain in place for years, until such time as the owner saves enough money to complete the project.
Jamaica is a poor country. Plagued by massive unemployment of the unemployable and fiscally irresponsible leadership. Any money that is available to lend is sold at usurious interest rates. To secure a mortgage when the cost of money is high and little likelihood that you will be employed next year is foolish anywhere, so Jamaicans build what they can when they can. It appears to me that the commitment to finish the project, er,.. house will not be made until the homeowner has the funds in pocket to complete the work.
If he were to come back with money enough to install just the fixtures, they would be stolen. Maybe just the windows? They would be stolen. Iron bars? Stolen. To secure the building, the homeowner must install fixtures, windows, iron bars, and whatever else is required to make the place livable, so that he can move in and guard his castle from the inside. I suppose he could hire someone to guard fixtures, windows, and iron bars, but what is to stop the guard from going halvsies with the t’iefs?
These half completed houses are everywhere. Combine them with the shells of structures abandoned after Gilbert hit in ‘88, and Dave may have stumbled across this month’s analogy. Let us beat on this dead horse and see who salutes. M’kay?
Lessee. The houses are the roadway, right? The houses are not done, and the road is not done either. In the end, nobody will care. Was it Dick Van Patton or Robert Fripp who said, “In the way that that it is that way that it is the way that it is.” Probably Fripp. This is Jamaica. Everyt’ing is everyt’ing. Analogy complete.
The glass half empty side of me agrees that nobody will care. Nobody will act.
There will be much talk, high level meetings, maybe some public demonstrations, but little direct action. To complete the project with the current contractor requires a contractor who wants to complete the project. We do not have that. They are bankrupt. Everybody knows that they are bankrupt, yet talks continue as if, somehow, the Contractor will find the capital to continue with the works. Ain’t gonna happen. At least, not that simply.
Option two - retender. This would involve finding someone else to complete the work. This would involve funding someone else to complete the work. This island will never see The Contractor’s low low crazy Earl prices again, nor can they extend their Japanese loan forever. Hence, the Jamaicans would need another boatload of cash. Ain’t gonna happen. At least, not that easily.
This road could be another unfinished concrete shell.
The glass half full guy knows that this will all change tomorrow. Read More......
Of course, after a couple of months of idleness, there is no progress on which to report. We go through the motions, though, and the meetings give us regular opportunities to admonish what is left of the Korean project staff.
They kept a few employees here, to tidy up particularly messy areas, and to perform some remedial work. I have noticed that one of the Mr. Lees (“Bridge Lee”) is starting to look particularly shaggy, so I imagine that one of the Koreans to leave the island for home was the man who doubled as the barber. Besides Lee, there are three Indians and one more Korean, two Jamaicans in the office, and two Jamaicans as domestic help. Hardly enough to construct a seventy-one kilometer roadway project.
Not even enough to explain why they have stopped work.
Through this period, we have been trying to keep our staff busy with what little work we can invent, so that we do not have to lay them off and rehire them later. As such, they do very little, never quite completing an assigned task. To complete your work could make you redundant, so the fear of losing one’s job actually slows down the output. This is so anti-Capitalist.
Meanwhile, the government refuses to terminate the contractor. Sure, such action would be an annoyance, even politically unpopular, but I see no way that the Koreans will complete the work, even if we succumb to their ludicrous demands. Their first offer was to complete one quarter of the project length for a sum equal to the contracted amount to complete the entire project. In addition, they want immediate payment for all claims (real and imagined, documented or not) against the project equal to five times what any reasonable person could justify. Plus, they want half of this before they will even come to the negotiating table. As a result, we have a frustration surplus here of ample quantity to supply the needs of the entire Caricom.
Solution? We spent Sunday at an all-inclusive in Negril, adding shots of dark rum to the children’s drink menu while relaxing at the swim-up bar. Try the Boo Boo Special - orange juice, pineapple juice, strawberry syrup. Then add rum and a lime. Yum. Actually, I was already making these at home. Who would have thought that the pickneys would be drinking them too, sans rum and lime?
Now that you are beveraged,...
Dave has been down here for a spell. He has decided to call Jamaica the “Land of the Unfinished Concrete Shell”. And why not?
As you drive around the island, you notice numerous houses apparently under construction. Typically, the site will have been cleared, and the shell of the building will be erected and roofed. The exterior and interior walls of these houses are made of concrete block, occasionally reinforced and filled with concrete, then plastered with a cement grout. Utility services and conduits, all of thin walled PVC, are cast into the blockwork, to be sheared by any future differential settlement to which the house may someday be subjected. Once a concrete roof is in place, construction stops. The unfinished concrete shell can remain in place for years, until such time as the owner saves enough money to complete the project.
Jamaica is a poor country. Plagued by massive unemployment of the unemployable and fiscally irresponsible leadership. Any money that is available to lend is sold at usurious interest rates. To secure a mortgage when the cost of money is high and little likelihood that you will be employed next year is foolish anywhere, so Jamaicans build what they can when they can. It appears to me that the commitment to finish the project, er,.. house will not be made until the homeowner has the funds in pocket to complete the work.
If he were to come back with money enough to install just the fixtures, they would be stolen. Maybe just the windows? They would be stolen. Iron bars? Stolen. To secure the building, the homeowner must install fixtures, windows, iron bars, and whatever else is required to make the place livable, so that he can move in and guard his castle from the inside. I suppose he could hire someone to guard fixtures, windows, and iron bars, but what is to stop the guard from going halvsies with the t’iefs?
These half completed houses are everywhere. Combine them with the shells of structures abandoned after Gilbert hit in ‘88, and Dave may have stumbled across this month’s analogy. Let us beat on this dead horse and see who salutes. M’kay?
Lessee. The houses are the roadway, right? The houses are not done, and the road is not done either. In the end, nobody will care. Was it Dick Van Patton or Robert Fripp who said, “In the way that that it is that way that it is the way that it is.” Probably Fripp. This is Jamaica. Everyt’ing is everyt’ing. Analogy complete.
The glass half empty side of me agrees that nobody will care. Nobody will act.
There will be much talk, high level meetings, maybe some public demonstrations, but little direct action. To complete the project with the current contractor requires a contractor who wants to complete the project. We do not have that. They are bankrupt. Everybody knows that they are bankrupt, yet talks continue as if, somehow, the Contractor will find the capital to continue with the works. Ain’t gonna happen. At least, not that simply.
Option two - retender. This would involve finding someone else to complete the work. This would involve funding someone else to complete the work. This island will never see The Contractor’s low low crazy Earl prices again, nor can they extend their Japanese loan forever. Hence, the Jamaicans would need another boatload of cash. Ain’t gonna happen. At least, not that easily.
This road could be another unfinished concrete shell.
The glass half full guy knows that this will all change tomorrow. Read More......
2000-05-25
Entrance
ENTRANCE INSTRUCTIONS (Clip and Save)
The airport authority dudes are trying to do some work at the Sangster International Airport, so the following could change without notice. A former employee of ours, who never mastered the need to develop project documentation, is now a consultant to this work. We wish them all the best. As a further disclaimer, I do not perform this actual procedure very often, so the text below is written based upon an increasingly distant memory.
Your plane will make a sweeping left turn as it approaches the north side of the island. Along the coast, you may see the scar to the landscape which is the North Coast Highway. This is why we are here, and how you get to visit at such reduced rates. You will see the road up close during the next week or so. Be on the lookout for the project camp site where I spend my days, with its jumble of buildings, trailers, materials stockpiles and concrete plants. Wave to the cows, who spend their days obstructing traffic.
Just prior to landing, you will pass over Montego Bay. There is a large hook shaped peninsula in its midst. There may even be a cruise ship docked at the pier there. At the end of the peninsula, there are twin, ten story, concrete towers. This is Sunset Beach, one of the overabundance of all-inclusive (all-exclusive) resorts, our neighbor and, for the purposes of this treatise, just a landmark. On the other side of the road, and at the end of the street, is the complex where we live, a group of five, two and three story apartments, with shake roofs, green awnings, and a couple of swimming pools. Do not bother waving, as we will already be at the airport.
During the final approach, you will pass the Hip Strip, boasting the town’s tourist restaurants and primary beaches, and fly directly over the reef where we often dive. Look for a white, ten meter craft with a blue canvas top, and wave to Rastafari Captain Wilbert, who takes us out to the dive sites.
Twenty seconds later (give or take a few), you will be on the ground. The terminal will be to your right (as are all the sites, so get seats on that side of the plane if you can) and the sea to your left. We will probably be up in the “Waving Gallery”, atop the main terminal, sucking down a morning Red Stripe, munching on a meat patty and taking in the sites and vistas. Once we see your plane, we will mosey down to the arrival area for our next wait, and probably another beer.
A short taxi later and you should be at the terminal itself. Eventually, the airport will have a half dozen sky bridges, to connect the planes to the terminal at the same elevation, but for now, a set of steps will be wheeled up to your plane and you can make your departure in the style of the politician, waving (or tripping, if President Ford was your mental image) your way down to the tarmac. This is one of those uniquely Third World experiences, so enjoy yourself. Try not to dawdle, or stop to take pictures from here, as the people behind you are in a hurry to get to where you should be going to in a hurry as well.
Lugging your carry-on, you will follow the crowd (make cattle sounds, just for fun) to a door leading into the terminal proper. In you go, then up a set of stairs, lugging your carry-on. As you walk down the corridor, you may be serenaded by some colorfully dressed “native” singers. They are generally under appreciated, especially since you and your fellow travelers spied the beach on the approach, and are probably in a hurry to get out of the airport and get baked, by both the rum and the sun.
First stop - the Immigration Hall. HALL (hol) n. [OE. heall] 3. A large room for gatherings, exhibits, etc. And gather you will, with everyone from your plane as well as every passenger from three or four other planes which seem to have arrived at the very same time as your flight.
This I cannot understand, as much as I rack my tiny brain. At most, there is a score of international flights into Montego Bay each day, yet they all seem to land during two or three small blocks of time. The result is almost interminable delays in processing the passengers. Well, that is your problem now, and something you can ponder as you wait with the others. You can also reflect on why baggage is called luggage, interchangeably.
Hopefully, you will not share a line with the drunks or worse, the forgetful or worst, those who did not fill out their forms while on the plane. My advice is to fill them out as soon as they are distributed by the sky waitress, then store them with your other travel documents for ease in retrieval. Be honest with the immigration forms, cheat a little on the customs forms.
As you approach the official, watch the other successful travelers, and do what they do. Wait behind the yellow line until it is your turn, then smile and greet him as you present your papers. Wait patiently and answer all of his questions until such time as you get a rubber stamp with its associated flourishes, signifying the end to this official transaction. Nothing is official in Jamaica without a rubber stamp, applied with all due authority.
Welcome to Jamaica.
With traveling companions in tow, head down the steps to the baggage retrieval carrousels and find your luggage. Do not bother with a cart, as the airport is about as large as Palwaukee. Next, head to the Customs booths to the left as you face them, the ones marked “Nothing to Declare”, and wait a wee bit more with the rest of the tourists. Once you get to the front of the line, approach, smile, present, and greet the official as before. Do not joke with this woman, however, as she can delay your entry, make your life miserable, and ultimately cause you to pay exorbitant duties on everything that you have been so kind as to mule into the country for us.
She will want a completed form, including the address of where you will be staying. If she asks, “What is in the bags”, tell her, “Clothing, toiletries, and personal items”. If she persists, offer “a few small gifts for our hosts”.
The worst that can happen is that you will have to change lines and pay the appropriate duties on the new stuff (or you could spend the night in a Jamaican prison, but it is one OR the other). For this reason, pack your bags in such a way that anything for us looks used. Not to say you need to beat up the Oatmeal Cream Pies (Jah forbid!), but excess packaging should be removed from whatever is on our list. If they question the food, it might be for certain “dietary restrictions” you have. There must be someone out there who needs large cans of green chiles to survive a vacation. Why not you?
Assuming the worst (the good worst, not that Jamaican prison worst), you can pay the fines, duties, and taxes with your Visa card. Under no circumstances should you pay this fee in local currency, for to do so would require that you visit the airport cambio, or currency exchange. They give rates sometimes 10-15% lower than what you can receive on the street. The best plan for the acquisition of spending cash is to use your Visa at one of the convenient Ugly Tellers (ABM/ATM’s) or to buy local cash from me, as I can usually get a very favorable rate through a money laundering scheme that I frequent.
Once through Customs, head for the double doors to the left. When you are through them, head to the double doors to the right which lead outside. Tell anyone who asks that you have already arranged for transportation. Most tourists turn left instead after the first set of doors and to the fleets of resort busses which park in a separate area adjacent to the terminal.
Scamper out the doors to the out-of-doors. Turn to the left. We will be the white people behind the red gate.
“How was the flight? Irie?”
“To Hi Lites, then, for beer.” Read More......
The airport authority dudes are trying to do some work at the Sangster International Airport, so the following could change without notice. A former employee of ours, who never mastered the need to develop project documentation, is now a consultant to this work. We wish them all the best. As a further disclaimer, I do not perform this actual procedure very often, so the text below is written based upon an increasingly distant memory.
Your plane will make a sweeping left turn as it approaches the north side of the island. Along the coast, you may see the scar to the landscape which is the North Coast Highway. This is why we are here, and how you get to visit at such reduced rates. You will see the road up close during the next week or so. Be on the lookout for the project camp site where I spend my days, with its jumble of buildings, trailers, materials stockpiles and concrete plants. Wave to the cows, who spend their days obstructing traffic.
Just prior to landing, you will pass over Montego Bay. There is a large hook shaped peninsula in its midst. There may even be a cruise ship docked at the pier there. At the end of the peninsula, there are twin, ten story, concrete towers. This is Sunset Beach, one of the overabundance of all-inclusive (all-exclusive) resorts, our neighbor and, for the purposes of this treatise, just a landmark. On the other side of the road, and at the end of the street, is the complex where we live, a group of five, two and three story apartments, with shake roofs, green awnings, and a couple of swimming pools. Do not bother waving, as we will already be at the airport.
During the final approach, you will pass the Hip Strip, boasting the town’s tourist restaurants and primary beaches, and fly directly over the reef where we often dive. Look for a white, ten meter craft with a blue canvas top, and wave to Rastafari Captain Wilbert, who takes us out to the dive sites.
Twenty seconds later (give or take a few), you will be on the ground. The terminal will be to your right (as are all the sites, so get seats on that side of the plane if you can) and the sea to your left. We will probably be up in the “Waving Gallery”, atop the main terminal, sucking down a morning Red Stripe, munching on a meat patty and taking in the sites and vistas. Once we see your plane, we will mosey down to the arrival area for our next wait, and probably another beer.
A short taxi later and you should be at the terminal itself. Eventually, the airport will have a half dozen sky bridges, to connect the planes to the terminal at the same elevation, but for now, a set of steps will be wheeled up to your plane and you can make your departure in the style of the politician, waving (or tripping, if President Ford was your mental image) your way down to the tarmac. This is one of those uniquely Third World experiences, so enjoy yourself. Try not to dawdle, or stop to take pictures from here, as the people behind you are in a hurry to get to where you should be going to in a hurry as well.
Lugging your carry-on, you will follow the crowd (make cattle sounds, just for fun) to a door leading into the terminal proper. In you go, then up a set of stairs, lugging your carry-on. As you walk down the corridor, you may be serenaded by some colorfully dressed “native” singers. They are generally under appreciated, especially since you and your fellow travelers spied the beach on the approach, and are probably in a hurry to get out of the airport and get baked, by both the rum and the sun.
First stop - the Immigration Hall. HALL (hol) n. [OE. heall] 3. A large room for gatherings, exhibits, etc. And gather you will, with everyone from your plane as well as every passenger from three or four other planes which seem to have arrived at the very same time as your flight.
This I cannot understand, as much as I rack my tiny brain. At most, there is a score of international flights into Montego Bay each day, yet they all seem to land during two or three small blocks of time. The result is almost interminable delays in processing the passengers. Well, that is your problem now, and something you can ponder as you wait with the others. You can also reflect on why baggage is called luggage, interchangeably.
Hopefully, you will not share a line with the drunks or worse, the forgetful or worst, those who did not fill out their forms while on the plane. My advice is to fill them out as soon as they are distributed by the sky waitress, then store them with your other travel documents for ease in retrieval. Be honest with the immigration forms, cheat a little on the customs forms.
As you approach the official, watch the other successful travelers, and do what they do. Wait behind the yellow line until it is your turn, then smile and greet him as you present your papers. Wait patiently and answer all of his questions until such time as you get a rubber stamp with its associated flourishes, signifying the end to this official transaction. Nothing is official in Jamaica without a rubber stamp, applied with all due authority.
Welcome to Jamaica.
With traveling companions in tow, head down the steps to the baggage retrieval carrousels and find your luggage. Do not bother with a cart, as the airport is about as large as Palwaukee. Next, head to the Customs booths to the left as you face them, the ones marked “Nothing to Declare”, and wait a wee bit more with the rest of the tourists. Once you get to the front of the line, approach, smile, present, and greet the official as before. Do not joke with this woman, however, as she can delay your entry, make your life miserable, and ultimately cause you to pay exorbitant duties on everything that you have been so kind as to mule into the country for us.
She will want a completed form, including the address of where you will be staying. If she asks, “What is in the bags”, tell her, “Clothing, toiletries, and personal items”. If she persists, offer “a few small gifts for our hosts”.
The worst that can happen is that you will have to change lines and pay the appropriate duties on the new stuff (or you could spend the night in a Jamaican prison, but it is one OR the other). For this reason, pack your bags in such a way that anything for us looks used. Not to say you need to beat up the Oatmeal Cream Pies (Jah forbid!), but excess packaging should be removed from whatever is on our list. If they question the food, it might be for certain “dietary restrictions” you have. There must be someone out there who needs large cans of green chiles to survive a vacation. Why not you?
Assuming the worst (the good worst, not that Jamaican prison worst), you can pay the fines, duties, and taxes with your Visa card. Under no circumstances should you pay this fee in local currency, for to do so would require that you visit the airport cambio, or currency exchange. They give rates sometimes 10-15% lower than what you can receive on the street. The best plan for the acquisition of spending cash is to use your Visa at one of the convenient Ugly Tellers (ABM/ATM’s) or to buy local cash from me, as I can usually get a very favorable rate through a money laundering scheme that I frequent.
Once through Customs, head for the double doors to the left. When you are through them, head to the double doors to the right which lead outside. Tell anyone who asks that you have already arranged for transportation. Most tourists turn left instead after the first set of doors and to the fleets of resort busses which park in a separate area adjacent to the terminal.
Scamper out the doors to the out-of-doors. Turn to the left. We will be the white people behind the red gate.
“How was the flight? Irie?”
“To Hi Lites, then, for beer.” Read More......
2000-05-19
Longines
07:18 on a Tuesday.
Most of the traffic took the B8 up Long Hill Road to Anchovy and to the citrus plantations and Savannah La Mar beyond. The road is mostly empty now, and it opens up past Reading, and Don Topping starts another “Doo Wop Shopping” show on Radio Two (“your music and sports lifestyle station”). For the balance of the commute, as the tinny sounds of my underpowered radio blare the best of the Doo Woppers from decades past, I find it too easy to imagine that the music comes to me as new releases.
And the Dell-Vikings continue with their “...dum bee doo bee dum, wah wah wah waah”.
In the country, there is little to remind you of the year. Most rural buildings are of a typical zinc roofed construct, as they have been forever. Building materials have been recycled so much, I doubt if anyone really knows when that rusted roof or pitted wooden siding was first used. I suppose after the hurricane hits, you just rebuild with whatever has been blown onto your yard. Paint runs JA $250 a liter, so you do not see much of it being used. There are still a number of buildings with damage left over from Gilbert, the last hurricane. Unoccupied, they are like relics in a ghost town, or a town soon to be ghosted.
The people that I pass along the roadside, waiting for a lift or just waiting, are without period. A khaki schoolboy uniform (standard white blouse and school colored skirt for the girls) looks as modern today as it did in 1930. Even the working folks seem to be dressed out of time. The style is not quite now or then. The vendor’s pushcart has not seen a redesign in seventy years. Rasta hair is Rasta hair, whenever – dreads be dreads (or, more locally, “locks be locks”).
The road is still empty on Thursday morning, as it opens up again past Reading, and Don Topping starts another “Strike Up the Band” show on Radio Two (still “your music and sports lifestyle station”).
The Dogwagon spews thick, black, diesel fumes as it churns up the grade from Great River, and the view back across and towards Montego Bay looks exactly as it did when Ellington wrote the tune that is playing right now. From this distance, I cannot make out the individual buildings. I can only see a mass of structures trying their best to hold onto the steep slopes of the hills above town.
The road is without time. Generally constructed prior to the departure of the British and inadequately maintained, it reflects a standard long ago deemed inappropriate in the United States. No doubt, the time of construction was before the advent of excessive liability settlements, when you really did not need to have substantial clear zones, appropriate stopping sight distances, adequate guardrail, pavement marking or signage.
I share the road with the Ladas. Singularly, a car out of time. They are as abundant as the goats. Developed shortly after the development of the box, a design which appears unchanged over eons, Ladas somehow keep on going, despite the ravages of time and this highway. Old cars, old trucks, old bicycles are all cobbled together, and their owners try to get one more day out of them. Anything that looks new is an anomaly.
On this road, there is no regulatory information in the way of road furniture, and no traffic enforcement either. As such, there is a level of indiscipline and lawlessness on the highway that is reminiscent of some of the old biker flicks.
And it is not just the biker flicks, I suppose, but the total feel of this drive is like most any road film made in the fifties or sixties, and probably lots of war movies set in the Asian and Pacific theatres. With the right background music, Jamaica is a land without time. Sometimes, the high levels of dust during this current drought make the place look like it was filmed in black and white, or perhaps the Technicolor has just faded.
And I continue my commute, and try to tweak a little more thunder out of the Woody Herman tune.
A few weeks ago, I borrowed a friend's copy of the first 007 movie, Dr. No. The major part of it was filmed on the island in 19-long ago, as were many of the early Bonds. It seems that it could have been filmed here yesterday; so much looks and feels the same.
Jamaica has only been independent since 1962, and there is a strong colonial influence which remains here. As the wealthy foreigners, we are easily isolated from the daily life and scrapping existence of everyday Jamaicans. We spend our money at places too posh for the vast majority of the people who live here, and then we lock ourselves into our gated compounds at night, secure in the fact that the guards at the gate will keep the undesirables at bay..... just like it has always been.
Saturday morning, and Radio Two plays a mix of Motown and Disco. I can tell that today is going to be one of those get down boogie fever kind of days.
We play tennis on most weekends now, in a round robin format that, reduced of competition, is much more civilized. An ideal sport for the expatriate crowd. Tennis whites, gin and tonics, huzzahs all around, sophisticated humours with the embassy crowd. Well, not quite, but there is that air about the activity. Expatriates have been playing tennis here forever.
Despite the civility, it is still tennis in the Tropics, and the final game stalled on deuce for a quarter hour it seems, and I am hot and tired and leave a trail of sweat all the way home, where I crank the most recent Filter, brought back from the States the last time I was there.
And I look at my watch in that brief instance when the second hand is between ticks, and time has stopped altogether. Read More......
Most of the traffic took the B8 up Long Hill Road to Anchovy and to the citrus plantations and Savannah La Mar beyond. The road is mostly empty now, and it opens up past Reading, and Don Topping starts another “Doo Wop Shopping” show on Radio Two (“your music and sports lifestyle station”). For the balance of the commute, as the tinny sounds of my underpowered radio blare the best of the Doo Woppers from decades past, I find it too easy to imagine that the music comes to me as new releases.
And the Dell-Vikings continue with their “...dum bee doo bee dum, wah wah wah waah”.
In the country, there is little to remind you of the year. Most rural buildings are of a typical zinc roofed construct, as they have been forever. Building materials have been recycled so much, I doubt if anyone really knows when that rusted roof or pitted wooden siding was first used. I suppose after the hurricane hits, you just rebuild with whatever has been blown onto your yard. Paint runs JA $250 a liter, so you do not see much of it being used. There are still a number of buildings with damage left over from Gilbert, the last hurricane. Unoccupied, they are like relics in a ghost town, or a town soon to be ghosted.
The people that I pass along the roadside, waiting for a lift or just waiting, are without period. A khaki schoolboy uniform (standard white blouse and school colored skirt for the girls) looks as modern today as it did in 1930. Even the working folks seem to be dressed out of time. The style is not quite now or then. The vendor’s pushcart has not seen a redesign in seventy years. Rasta hair is Rasta hair, whenever – dreads be dreads (or, more locally, “locks be locks”).
The road is still empty on Thursday morning, as it opens up again past Reading, and Don Topping starts another “Strike Up the Band” show on Radio Two (still “your music and sports lifestyle station”).
The Dogwagon spews thick, black, diesel fumes as it churns up the grade from Great River, and the view back across and towards Montego Bay looks exactly as it did when Ellington wrote the tune that is playing right now. From this distance, I cannot make out the individual buildings. I can only see a mass of structures trying their best to hold onto the steep slopes of the hills above town.
The road is without time. Generally constructed prior to the departure of the British and inadequately maintained, it reflects a standard long ago deemed inappropriate in the United States. No doubt, the time of construction was before the advent of excessive liability settlements, when you really did not need to have substantial clear zones, appropriate stopping sight distances, adequate guardrail, pavement marking or signage.
I share the road with the Ladas. Singularly, a car out of time. They are as abundant as the goats. Developed shortly after the development of the box, a design which appears unchanged over eons, Ladas somehow keep on going, despite the ravages of time and this highway. Old cars, old trucks, old bicycles are all cobbled together, and their owners try to get one more day out of them. Anything that looks new is an anomaly.
On this road, there is no regulatory information in the way of road furniture, and no traffic enforcement either. As such, there is a level of indiscipline and lawlessness on the highway that is reminiscent of some of the old biker flicks.
And it is not just the biker flicks, I suppose, but the total feel of this drive is like most any road film made in the fifties or sixties, and probably lots of war movies set in the Asian and Pacific theatres. With the right background music, Jamaica is a land without time. Sometimes, the high levels of dust during this current drought make the place look like it was filmed in black and white, or perhaps the Technicolor has just faded.
And I continue my commute, and try to tweak a little more thunder out of the Woody Herman tune.
A few weeks ago, I borrowed a friend's copy of the first 007 movie, Dr. No. The major part of it was filmed on the island in 19-long ago, as were many of the early Bonds. It seems that it could have been filmed here yesterday; so much looks and feels the same.
Jamaica has only been independent since 1962, and there is a strong colonial influence which remains here. As the wealthy foreigners, we are easily isolated from the daily life and scrapping existence of everyday Jamaicans. We spend our money at places too posh for the vast majority of the people who live here, and then we lock ourselves into our gated compounds at night, secure in the fact that the guards at the gate will keep the undesirables at bay..... just like it has always been.
Saturday morning, and Radio Two plays a mix of Motown and Disco. I can tell that today is going to be one of those get down boogie fever kind of days.
We play tennis on most weekends now, in a round robin format that, reduced of competition, is much more civilized. An ideal sport for the expatriate crowd. Tennis whites, gin and tonics, huzzahs all around, sophisticated humours with the embassy crowd. Well, not quite, but there is that air about the activity. Expatriates have been playing tennis here forever.
Despite the civility, it is still tennis in the Tropics, and the final game stalled on deuce for a quarter hour it seems, and I am hot and tired and leave a trail of sweat all the way home, where I crank the most recent Filter, brought back from the States the last time I was there.
And I look at my watch in that brief instance when the second hand is between ticks, and time has stopped altogether. Read More......
2000-04-27
Bun and Cheese
“Don miss mi a bun an cheese”, was the reminder from the woman who sells me a newspaper each morning.
With a nod and a wave and a Gleaner, I eased the Dogwagon back into my own lane and continued the drive to work, adding this new task to the scores of others that fill my to-do spreadsheet. This was a short week and I had enough on my plate as it is.
Easter weekend was fast approaching, and you could sense that special something in the air, that special kind of chocolate rabbit, plastic egg, stale peeps, and bun and cheese something. It moved towards me like a sheet of chocolate glaze on a frosting line in a doughnut factory. Unavoidable, saturating, sugar coated and made with real lard.
The Jamaicans love this holiday.
The Jamaicans love the religious aspect, although the predominantly Christian population never appears more than dutifully pious. There are more churches per capita here than anywhere else on the planet. If I was out in the church districts that Sunday morning, I may have seen them packed to overflowing with believers, anxious to renew their faith on their holiest of days.
I was instead worshiping the gods of fish and coral, rejoicing in the miracle of the sponge. I was witnessing the annual rebirth of the tens of thousands of thimble jellyfish which cover the reef this time of year as I contemplated another Earth Day past.
The Jamaicans love Carnival, which begins on Easter. This is an annual festival liberated from the Trinidadians. It is one big Socapalooza, with parades and bands, skimpy costumes and wriggling dancers, steel drums and lawlessness for an entire week. We do not see much of Carnival on the north side of the island, as most of the celebrations are in the urban areas around Kingston, where it provides a week of release from the dictates and traditions of Lent.
The Jamaicans love the fact that Easter is a four day weekend, with Good Friday and Easter Monday designated National Holidays. It also heralds the start of spring break for the schoolchildren, who will spend the next week doing what school kids always do when given time off from school – they forget everything they were to have retained since the term began.
And, for reasons unexplained, Jamaicans love the bun and cheese, the national Easter dish.
Bun is the Jamaican equivalent of fruitcake. It is a quick bread, barely leaven with either baking powder or baking soda, made with flour and fruits, flavored with allspice, molasses and sugar. This time of year, the Easter Bun appears in the bakery aisle, augmenting the everyday styles of bun that usually reside there. The Easter variety bun usually has more fruit, but otherwise tastes exactly the same as the pedestrian bun.
At other times of the year, bun and cheese is a poor man’s lunch. At about the same cost as a meat patty, you can get a little protein and some carbohydrates at any bakery and at many of the snack vendors. The wealthy Jamaicans never eat bun and cheese for lunch though, as it is a poor man’s food, not suitable for the working man fully able to afford the noontime purchase of curried goat, chicken foot soup, ox tail, or cow skin.
Of course, this changes at Easter, when everyone will eat the bun and the cheese. Mostly because it is free, provided by your employer by tradition. On Wednesday evening, my grateful and generous boss provided me with the largest of the Easter buns, weighing in at some kilo and a half, having the density of wet laundry. With the bun came a quarter wheel of mystery cheese. “Now, what am I to do with a kilo of cheese and a lead brick of a bun”, I said to no one in particular.
Then I heard a voice in my head. “Don miss mi a bun an cheese”, it said. Was it a memory of the newspaper woman, or was it just a convenient and well timed literary vehicle? Regardless, I gave my bun and cheese to the newspaper woman at first light the next day. Not unlike how I may treat a gifted fruitcake, should I ever be so fortunate as to receive one.
Working in my own space later in the day, I missed the day-before-the-holiday bun and cheese spectacular in the Contractor’s office. Apparently, they had for distribution ample buns and cheeses for each of their two hundred fifty staff and employees, packaged with their glad tidings, good will and redundancy payments.
For those with little time spent in the Commonwealth, you get redundancy payments when you are made redundant, and being made redundant is the British equivalent of being laid off,... all two hundred fifty of them,... effective immediately. Have a happy Easter.
The weekend was exceptionally quiet. Driving to work on Tuesday was unbelievably quiet, with none of the Contractor’s vehicles on the road, and none of the usual throngs of children standing on the verge, waiting for rides or for school to start. I had the feeling that, when the Contractor had abandoned the project, they sucked all life out of the project limits. I could already see the cobwebs collect on their materials and machinery. Failure appeared across the wide expanses of uncompleted highway.
“Anywhere but Muscatine”, I wailed to no one in particular.
There is never much snow here, as Jamaica is an island in the Tropics, yet there were flurries on Tuesday. Flurries of phone calls, a flurry or two of activity, and flurries of mood swings amongst the local staff. The Ministry needed answers, as did the press. We listened to the Ministry. We ignored the press, barring their entrance to the camp. We tried to be supportively non-committal to our local staff, who each saw their jobs going the way of the Contractor. We found some finalization tasks to keep them working for a week or two, but then our staff may be unavoidably unemployed.
Redundant.
There is a possibility that the Contractor will be able to successfully renegotiate the balance of the work on the project, in an effort to not lose any more money and to stay on the job, but this possibility is slim. A more likely possibility is that what remains of the contract will be retendered, in which case our expatriate staff will need to process the new and revised Contract Documents and ultimately manage the new Contract. This could stretch into months or years of work. Another possibility is that the entire project will be abandoned in place, and we will all be sent packing. The next few weeks will be a challenge.
In the early 1980's, there did exist a somewhat entertaining Midwestern punk band. With Joey Destroi on guitar, Bif Blammo on bass, Retch Gurgle on throat, and some character named Joel as the percussionist. I believe that their name was No Future For Me. I was just thinking about them, humming a few of the old tunes, wondering why they never recorded anything called “Effigy Jello Head”. Anyway,...
Pops once told me that international work was never assured until you actually stepped off of the plane and onto the tarmac at your destination.
Hmm. Almost. Only change is assured.
BA often tells me that challenge equals opportunity.
Yeah, mon. Read More......
With a nod and a wave and a Gleaner, I eased the Dogwagon back into my own lane and continued the drive to work, adding this new task to the scores of others that fill my to-do spreadsheet. This was a short week and I had enough on my plate as it is.
Easter weekend was fast approaching, and you could sense that special something in the air, that special kind of chocolate rabbit, plastic egg, stale peeps, and bun and cheese something. It moved towards me like a sheet of chocolate glaze on a frosting line in a doughnut factory. Unavoidable, saturating, sugar coated and made with real lard.
The Jamaicans love this holiday.
The Jamaicans love the religious aspect, although the predominantly Christian population never appears more than dutifully pious. There are more churches per capita here than anywhere else on the planet. If I was out in the church districts that Sunday morning, I may have seen them packed to overflowing with believers, anxious to renew their faith on their holiest of days.
I was instead worshiping the gods of fish and coral, rejoicing in the miracle of the sponge. I was witnessing the annual rebirth of the tens of thousands of thimble jellyfish which cover the reef this time of year as I contemplated another Earth Day past.
The Jamaicans love Carnival, which begins on Easter. This is an annual festival liberated from the Trinidadians. It is one big Socapalooza, with parades and bands, skimpy costumes and wriggling dancers, steel drums and lawlessness for an entire week. We do not see much of Carnival on the north side of the island, as most of the celebrations are in the urban areas around Kingston, where it provides a week of release from the dictates and traditions of Lent.
The Jamaicans love the fact that Easter is a four day weekend, with Good Friday and Easter Monday designated National Holidays. It also heralds the start of spring break for the schoolchildren, who will spend the next week doing what school kids always do when given time off from school – they forget everything they were to have retained since the term began.
And, for reasons unexplained, Jamaicans love the bun and cheese, the national Easter dish.
Bun is the Jamaican equivalent of fruitcake. It is a quick bread, barely leaven with either baking powder or baking soda, made with flour and fruits, flavored with allspice, molasses and sugar. This time of year, the Easter Bun appears in the bakery aisle, augmenting the everyday styles of bun that usually reside there. The Easter variety bun usually has more fruit, but otherwise tastes exactly the same as the pedestrian bun.
At other times of the year, bun and cheese is a poor man’s lunch. At about the same cost as a meat patty, you can get a little protein and some carbohydrates at any bakery and at many of the snack vendors. The wealthy Jamaicans never eat bun and cheese for lunch though, as it is a poor man’s food, not suitable for the working man fully able to afford the noontime purchase of curried goat, chicken foot soup, ox tail, or cow skin.
Of course, this changes at Easter, when everyone will eat the bun and the cheese. Mostly because it is free, provided by your employer by tradition. On Wednesday evening, my grateful and generous boss provided me with the largest of the Easter buns, weighing in at some kilo and a half, having the density of wet laundry. With the bun came a quarter wheel of mystery cheese. “Now, what am I to do with a kilo of cheese and a lead brick of a bun”, I said to no one in particular.
Then I heard a voice in my head. “Don miss mi a bun an cheese”, it said. Was it a memory of the newspaper woman, or was it just a convenient and well timed literary vehicle? Regardless, I gave my bun and cheese to the newspaper woman at first light the next day. Not unlike how I may treat a gifted fruitcake, should I ever be so fortunate as to receive one.
Working in my own space later in the day, I missed the day-before-the-holiday bun and cheese spectacular in the Contractor’s office. Apparently, they had for distribution ample buns and cheeses for each of their two hundred fifty staff and employees, packaged with their glad tidings, good will and redundancy payments.
For those with little time spent in the Commonwealth, you get redundancy payments when you are made redundant, and being made redundant is the British equivalent of being laid off,... all two hundred fifty of them,... effective immediately. Have a happy Easter.
The weekend was exceptionally quiet. Driving to work on Tuesday was unbelievably quiet, with none of the Contractor’s vehicles on the road, and none of the usual throngs of children standing on the verge, waiting for rides or for school to start. I had the feeling that, when the Contractor had abandoned the project, they sucked all life out of the project limits. I could already see the cobwebs collect on their materials and machinery. Failure appeared across the wide expanses of uncompleted highway.
“Anywhere but Muscatine”, I wailed to no one in particular.
There is never much snow here, as Jamaica is an island in the Tropics, yet there were flurries on Tuesday. Flurries of phone calls, a flurry or two of activity, and flurries of mood swings amongst the local staff. The Ministry needed answers, as did the press. We listened to the Ministry. We ignored the press, barring their entrance to the camp. We tried to be supportively non-committal to our local staff, who each saw their jobs going the way of the Contractor. We found some finalization tasks to keep them working for a week or two, but then our staff may be unavoidably unemployed.
Redundant.
There is a possibility that the Contractor will be able to successfully renegotiate the balance of the work on the project, in an effort to not lose any more money and to stay on the job, but this possibility is slim. A more likely possibility is that what remains of the contract will be retendered, in which case our expatriate staff will need to process the new and revised Contract Documents and ultimately manage the new Contract. This could stretch into months or years of work. Another possibility is that the entire project will be abandoned in place, and we will all be sent packing. The next few weeks will be a challenge.
In the early 1980's, there did exist a somewhat entertaining Midwestern punk band. With Joey Destroi on guitar, Bif Blammo on bass, Retch Gurgle on throat, and some character named Joel as the percussionist. I believe that their name was No Future For Me. I was just thinking about them, humming a few of the old tunes, wondering why they never recorded anything called “Effigy Jello Head”. Anyway,...
Pops once told me that international work was never assured until you actually stepped off of the plane and onto the tarmac at your destination.
Hmm. Almost. Only change is assured.
BA often tells me that challenge equals opportunity.
Yeah, mon. Read More......
2000-04-09
Face
The arguable fact that our Contractor is the worst contractor in the world is a mixed blessing. Had they been any good, this project would have been completed at the end of the original contract period, and I would not have had the opportunity to bear witness to their dismal performances. Nor would you, gentle reader, have had the opportunity to be amused, bemused, confused, or simply annoyed by these occasional reports.
I know little of The Contractor as a Korean corporation, except that they had intentions of charging their way into the Caribbean construction market in 1996/1997, only to be decimated by the Asian financial crises in 1997/1998. Unfortunately, by the time the fiscal crisis hit, the Contract was signed. There would be much looking back, but no going back.
The engineer’s estimate for this project, as it went to tender late in 1996, was for a total construction cost of a bit over forty million dollars. Improvements of like ilk in the States could cost 50-100% more, in large part due to the almost incredibly low labor cost in the Third World.
A unionized laborer on this project is currently rewarded with the princely sum of JA $450.51 per eight hour day. Add to this JA $30.00 per day as a laundry allowance and the basic laborer earns about US $1.43 an hour. Once Income Tax (25%), National Insurance (5%), National Housing Trust Contribution (2%), and Education Tax (2%) are deducted, our laborer takes home less than a dollar an hour (of which he is expected to pay an additional 15% General Consumption Tax on whatever he buys in an honest retail store). By comparison, the most highly compensated worker, the Crane Operator, brings home about US $1.85 an hour. Of course, there are additional monies for overtime, height, depth, in water, over water, away from home or at night, yada, yada, yada, but these emoluments are paid in similarly low quantities.
In disbelief, you may now be asking, “Who in their right mind would labor for less than one Yankee dollar each hour?” With a little bit more than a trace of sarcasm, I would reply, “No one on this project. At least, not the 250 local workers currently employed here.”
I believe that the reason for this is directly related to the fact that there is a great supply of marginally skilled labor on the island, but there is little in the way of demand for marginally skilled labor. As a result, jobs are scarce and wages are low. To secure their jobs, the labor tends towards the slack side of the production scale. As hourly wage slaves with few to zero future employment prospects, it is in labors best interest to stretch this project out for as long as possible. This is the real skill, probably imported and imparted by vacationing Department of Transportation employees.
Gary calls Jamaica a “worker’s paradise”.
Opposite the labor is a score of field supervisors. Typically, this man is a Korean national, between thirty and thirty-five, college educated, detail oriented, a day and a half from home, without family, frustrated at the lack of measurable progress, and unable to communicate effectively in the English language.
These factors, combined with a tragic lack of people skills, leads to a clash of cultures not unlike the slow motion part of the film right before the train wreck - you know it is going to be loud and destructive, but there is nothing you can do about it except watch in horror,... or anticipation.
Over the last couple of years, some of the field supervisors have developed a workable rapport with the locals, (more often than not) communicating through grunts, whistles, and hand signals. If it were not so sad, it would be more amusing.
To augment the Korean staff, the Contractor has imported a dozen Indian nationals. Generally, these are the surveyors, skilled operators, maintenance dudes, and lab guys. Their English skills are superior to that of the Koreans, and they seem dedicated, as they should be. Why, many of them earn almost US $1,200 a month (plus room and board) so, after a two year (or longer) stint here, they can return to their homeland as wealthy men.
Unfortunately, there is little support for an expatriate Indian at the camp. They live in the same trailers as the Koreans, and eat the same Korean food prepared by the Jamaican cooks. Not at all surprising is that there are no Indian women, or Indian radio stations and theaters, or Hindu, Buddhist, or Muslim temples nearby (I suppose the Christian, agnostic, and atheist elements are served well enough). There is a large Indian population maintaining their historic presence on the island, as shopkeepers and business people mostly, but I think societal factors keep them from fraternizing with the Contractors personnel.
The final member of the Contractor’s dysfunctional family is their planning and office staff. This is another group of a dozen or so lonely engineers, who profess to specialize in project management, scheduling, procurement, claims, payments, accounting, and the various and sundry administrative tasks associated with the project. They are supported by a small team of Jamaican women as accountants, clerks and secretaries.
Some of the Koreans are probably not so lonely, as a select few of them have been privileged to bring their families along. This privilege is currently granted to only the project manager, planning manager, and procurement manager. These families live at the camp with the rest of the personnel, only they get to live in super-deluxe metal roofed, concrete block “homes”, located no more than ten meters from my office window. Their children commute into Montego Bay to attend one of the private schools. I have no idea what the wives do all day. Perhaps they pine for their homeland as they watch the sea in the distance through the dust kicked up by the equipment running through the camp. I rarely see them.
Of course, and just like in the States, no field office would be complete without a mess of goats, a couple of cows, a bunch of chickens, and a cat or two to liven things up. I think the chickens and maybe the cats are intentional, but the balance of the livestock wanders through the always open east gate and proceeds to browse amongst the buildings, offices, and sheds which make up the camp, crapping everywhere.
The camp site is located on a steepening hill, rising up from the highway, and provides a good view of the sea (except from my office, which faces the other way). At the top are the water storage tanks, residences and dormitories, the latter of which are constructed of large shipping containers with a few windows and doors added. Next down the hill are the kitchen, the mess hall, and the recreation rooms (table tennis, television, and a weight room). Below that, the block office of The Contractor adjacent to the triple-sized mobile home which is our office. Further below, the asphalt and Portland cement concrete plants, the precast yard, septic tanks, stockpiles, equipment yard, storeroom, steel bending yards, vehicle shop, parts warehouse, generator shack, materials lab, and guardhouse. This dense collection of structures and such is located on a fenced parcel of some twenty to thirty hectares.
The site gets fairly busy at times, but fair just do not cut it.
As above, the project was estimated to cost over forty million dollars. The Contractor’s bid was twenty five. He loses money on every thing he does. This would have been fine, and was actually the plan, back when he had the funds and the desire to construct a project at a deficit in order to establish a foothold in this region of the world. There is no more money, though. The corporate gods in Seoul appear to have left this project to fend for itself, a task to which it is ill suited.
Every month, there are a few less Jamaicans on the payroll, and a little less gets accomplished. It appears as if the Contractor feels he can cut his losses by doing less money-losing work. What he fails to include in his calculations is his US $10,000 daily overhead costs required to maintain his people and site plus the US $5,000 daily liquidated damages, accumulating since the original completion date last September.
It is obvious that the Contractor is in serious trouble, and rumor and speculation runs rampant. The latest is that the Contractor has drafted a letter whereby he quits the project, loses face, and returns to his own peninsula, never to work internationally again. Should that occur, there would still be months of study and documentation on our part to determine final payments, plus someone would need to stick around to either re-tender the project, or to coordinate the completion of the portions of the work that are close to completion.
My money is on the need for the Contractor to save face. If he sticks it out, and maintains his current rate of progress, he will be working at this project and accumulating losses for another three years. He just needs to squeeze the operating funds out of the corporate turnip.
The saving face scenario is best for me too, as a project of long duration means more time to live in Jamaica, and enjoy its sun, sand, and Red Stripes. Read More......
I know little of The Contractor as a Korean corporation, except that they had intentions of charging their way into the Caribbean construction market in 1996/1997, only to be decimated by the Asian financial crises in 1997/1998. Unfortunately, by the time the fiscal crisis hit, the Contract was signed. There would be much looking back, but no going back.
The engineer’s estimate for this project, as it went to tender late in 1996, was for a total construction cost of a bit over forty million dollars. Improvements of like ilk in the States could cost 50-100% more, in large part due to the almost incredibly low labor cost in the Third World.
A unionized laborer on this project is currently rewarded with the princely sum of JA $450.51 per eight hour day. Add to this JA $30.00 per day as a laundry allowance and the basic laborer earns about US $1.43 an hour. Once Income Tax (25%), National Insurance (5%), National Housing Trust Contribution (2%), and Education Tax (2%) are deducted, our laborer takes home less than a dollar an hour (of which he is expected to pay an additional 15% General Consumption Tax on whatever he buys in an honest retail store). By comparison, the most highly compensated worker, the Crane Operator, brings home about US $1.85 an hour. Of course, there are additional monies for overtime, height, depth, in water, over water, away from home or at night, yada, yada, yada, but these emoluments are paid in similarly low quantities.
In disbelief, you may now be asking, “Who in their right mind would labor for less than one Yankee dollar each hour?” With a little bit more than a trace of sarcasm, I would reply, “No one on this project. At least, not the 250 local workers currently employed here.”
I believe that the reason for this is directly related to the fact that there is a great supply of marginally skilled labor on the island, but there is little in the way of demand for marginally skilled labor. As a result, jobs are scarce and wages are low. To secure their jobs, the labor tends towards the slack side of the production scale. As hourly wage slaves with few to zero future employment prospects, it is in labors best interest to stretch this project out for as long as possible. This is the real skill, probably imported and imparted by vacationing Department of Transportation employees.
Gary calls Jamaica a “worker’s paradise”.
Opposite the labor is a score of field supervisors. Typically, this man is a Korean national, between thirty and thirty-five, college educated, detail oriented, a day and a half from home, without family, frustrated at the lack of measurable progress, and unable to communicate effectively in the English language.
These factors, combined with a tragic lack of people skills, leads to a clash of cultures not unlike the slow motion part of the film right before the train wreck - you know it is going to be loud and destructive, but there is nothing you can do about it except watch in horror,... or anticipation.
Over the last couple of years, some of the field supervisors have developed a workable rapport with the locals, (more often than not) communicating through grunts, whistles, and hand signals. If it were not so sad, it would be more amusing.
To augment the Korean staff, the Contractor has imported a dozen Indian nationals. Generally, these are the surveyors, skilled operators, maintenance dudes, and lab guys. Their English skills are superior to that of the Koreans, and they seem dedicated, as they should be. Why, many of them earn almost US $1,200 a month (plus room and board) so, after a two year (or longer) stint here, they can return to their homeland as wealthy men.
Unfortunately, there is little support for an expatriate Indian at the camp. They live in the same trailers as the Koreans, and eat the same Korean food prepared by the Jamaican cooks. Not at all surprising is that there are no Indian women, or Indian radio stations and theaters, or Hindu, Buddhist, or Muslim temples nearby (I suppose the Christian, agnostic, and atheist elements are served well enough). There is a large Indian population maintaining their historic presence on the island, as shopkeepers and business people mostly, but I think societal factors keep them from fraternizing with the Contractors personnel.
The final member of the Contractor’s dysfunctional family is their planning and office staff. This is another group of a dozen or so lonely engineers, who profess to specialize in project management, scheduling, procurement, claims, payments, accounting, and the various and sundry administrative tasks associated with the project. They are supported by a small team of Jamaican women as accountants, clerks and secretaries.
Some of the Koreans are probably not so lonely, as a select few of them have been privileged to bring their families along. This privilege is currently granted to only the project manager, planning manager, and procurement manager. These families live at the camp with the rest of the personnel, only they get to live in super-deluxe metal roofed, concrete block “homes”, located no more than ten meters from my office window. Their children commute into Montego Bay to attend one of the private schools. I have no idea what the wives do all day. Perhaps they pine for their homeland as they watch the sea in the distance through the dust kicked up by the equipment running through the camp. I rarely see them.
Of course, and just like in the States, no field office would be complete without a mess of goats, a couple of cows, a bunch of chickens, and a cat or two to liven things up. I think the chickens and maybe the cats are intentional, but the balance of the livestock wanders through the always open east gate and proceeds to browse amongst the buildings, offices, and sheds which make up the camp, crapping everywhere.
The camp site is located on a steepening hill, rising up from the highway, and provides a good view of the sea (except from my office, which faces the other way). At the top are the water storage tanks, residences and dormitories, the latter of which are constructed of large shipping containers with a few windows and doors added. Next down the hill are the kitchen, the mess hall, and the recreation rooms (table tennis, television, and a weight room). Below that, the block office of The Contractor adjacent to the triple-sized mobile home which is our office. Further below, the asphalt and Portland cement concrete plants, the precast yard, septic tanks, stockpiles, equipment yard, storeroom, steel bending yards, vehicle shop, parts warehouse, generator shack, materials lab, and guardhouse. This dense collection of structures and such is located on a fenced parcel of some twenty to thirty hectares.
The site gets fairly busy at times, but fair just do not cut it.
As above, the project was estimated to cost over forty million dollars. The Contractor’s bid was twenty five. He loses money on every thing he does. This would have been fine, and was actually the plan, back when he had the funds and the desire to construct a project at a deficit in order to establish a foothold in this region of the world. There is no more money, though. The corporate gods in Seoul appear to have left this project to fend for itself, a task to which it is ill suited.
Every month, there are a few less Jamaicans on the payroll, and a little less gets accomplished. It appears as if the Contractor feels he can cut his losses by doing less money-losing work. What he fails to include in his calculations is his US $10,000 daily overhead costs required to maintain his people and site plus the US $5,000 daily liquidated damages, accumulating since the original completion date last September.
It is obvious that the Contractor is in serious trouble, and rumor and speculation runs rampant. The latest is that the Contractor has drafted a letter whereby he quits the project, loses face, and returns to his own peninsula, never to work internationally again. Should that occur, there would still be months of study and documentation on our part to determine final payments, plus someone would need to stick around to either re-tender the project, or to coordinate the completion of the portions of the work that are close to completion.
My money is on the need for the Contractor to save face. If he sticks it out, and maintains his current rate of progress, he will be working at this project and accumulating losses for another three years. He just needs to squeeze the operating funds out of the corporate turnip.
The saving face scenario is best for me too, as a project of long duration means more time to live in Jamaica, and enjoy its sun, sand, and Red Stripes. Read More......
2000-02-08
Fishy Fishy Fishy Fish
Occasionally, we will interact with the tourists. Most often, this is because the tourists end up going to a place that we are already at. This is tough to avoid, as the nice restaurants are frequented by both visitor and local alike. The same is true with the beaches. Negril has a beach of fine sand twelve kilometers long, lined with restaurants, beer shacks, and resorts. It is very popular with both sets, and we cannot help but be inundated by folks on holiday.
We were in Negril over the weekend, mostly behaving like tourists. From my limited experience, it appears that diving is not a sport popular with young, hip Jamaicans. As such, we have no choice but to act as tourists. Anyway, we were looking for a different dive location, so we packed up the gear and headed west. It was raining as we left the compound but, typically, the rain was a very localized event, and we were dry again before we got as far as Reading. It was sure to be another beautiful day in the Tropics.
When we got to Negril (shaken, not stirred), we had yet to decide where to go to dive. On Kris’s advice, we went to one of the huge bars and asked the random attendees for the location of a good dive shop. Based upon the answer to this query, we headed a couple of chains down the road to the Negril Beach Club, where we negotiated for tanks and passage to the reef.
As simple as this may seem, it was more complicated than my normal dive routine. Usually, I will call Peter in Montego Bay, and tell him that I want to dive. I will drive across town to Jack Tar, leave my van with Whiskey, the parking lot attendant, and greet Wilbert, the Rastafari Captain, as I hop on the boat. The simple, stable routine is nice, as it tends to unclutter the mind, and frees it for the underwater experience.
The boat usually is nowhere near capacity. Two weeks ago, I dove with just Dive Master Dwayne and some Brit, who tries to dive on his yearly holiday, and whose last dives were off of Sri Lanka. We dove what they call Sergeant Major Reef, half a klick offshore in 10-15 meters of water. The reef is named after the abundance of sergeant major fish which reside thereabouts.
Some 15-20 centimeter long, the bright yellow and black striped fish have little fear of man here, as they are rarely the targets of fishermen, and usually are the target of tourists trying to feed them. When the dive master located the school, he produced a small package of water crackers, which he proceeded to feed to the fish. They are relatively tame, and will eat out of your hand.
When one comes to feed, though, the rest follow. Within moments, the entire school was on top of us, hoping to snag a bit of a snack. The swarm was intense. For minutes, I was completely encompassed by the fish. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands of them, swimming within centimeters. Nibbling on my outstretched fingers. I could not see through the mass of fish in any direction, and was enveloped by the shadow of the school, as they blocked the light of the sun. It was like nothing else.
I went diving the next day.
Drove across town, left the van with Whiskey, greeted the Rasta captain as I got on board, and was joined this time by Dive Master David, an experienced German, and a couple of cheeseheads. The cheeseheads had little experience, but worse was the fact that they had not been in the water for over a year. The mouthpiece fell off of his regulator as he hit the water. Mis-weighted, he had buoyancy troubles the entire time we were down. She had a panic attack on the surface, which delayed our decent, then another towards the end of the dive, which accelerated our accent.
Despite that, we spent some 33 minutes on the Arches portion of the Airport Reef. Here, the reef is a wall, a vertical reef extending from a plateau at 15 meters, to another flat area some 40 meters below. While on this wall, you cannot see the sea floor, so I hold the impression that, should something go terribly wrong, the body will just sink slowly and forever, giving the fish plenty of time to consume it prior to it reaching the bottom of the Cayman Trench.
Of course, that did not happen. Things went wrong for the Wisconsonians, but not terribly wrong. As is the norm, everyone made it back to the boat alive.
I went diving the next week, too.
This time with just Hank and Rita and Dive Master David, who suffers from an intense chill even in the 27 degree water. We dove the Widowmaker Wall portion of the reef. Rita had a new camera, so she took some pictures, including a few of a large green Moray eel, with large gnashing teeth. We all gave her a wide berth (the fish with the teeth, not Rita). There was a strong current once we got to the wall, which tended to simultaneously push us into the wall and up towards the surface. We all needed quite a bit of effort to control our relative positions, both to the wall and to each other.
The second to last thing you want to do while diving is to damage the reef. Damage comes easily, through something as simple as light touch with a flipper or any other part of a wayward diver, knocking off coral that took years to construct. Of course, the last thing you want to do while diving is fail to surface. With the strong current, we were working hard to maintain separation, but I still took a couple of flippers in the face which, had I not been aware, could have knocked loose my mask or regulator. Again, nothing terribly wrong.
In Negril, conditions were a little different. As expected, there were few participants (the captain, his mermaid, we, the Dive Master, and a university employee from Chicago’s South Side). Since there was a beach instead of a pier, we had to wade out to the boat with our equipment. Once on board, we motored a couple of kilometers out to sea to the dive site du jour. The waves were barely lapping the beach when we left, but were rolling at a height close to two meters once we were at sea, which rocked the seven meter craft to the point where it’s propeller would leave the water and breakfast considered jumping ship.
Once tied to the buoy, we performed my favorite, the back roll entry, and floated 20 meters to the sea floor. I love the decent. Like a slow motion free fall, I drop spread eagle, watching the fish and the reef approach.
The particular section of reef was called Tugboat, as there is a tugboat (duh) sunk in 30 meters of water. It is not quite a pirate ship, but it is a start. I never was told the history of the boat, but it could have been down there twenty years, maybe fifty years, maybe a hundred. My skill in recognizing growth rates of the various corals is limited.
An optional part of the adventure was to swim through the boat, in through a hole in the stern deck, and out through another at the bow. The wife took this option, but I opted instead to examine the hull and perimeter. As I was rounding the bow of the tug, I found myself nose to nose, not four meters distant, with a Cubera snapper, almost two meters long. I immediately let a few expletives make their way out the exhaust ports of my regulator.
This huge grey fish had a mouth into which my head would have easily fit. I stopped quite rapidly, remaining motionless and making some adjustments to my breathing while the fish slowly swam away. I might be tempted to describe the sight as breathtaking but, when you are sucking air out of a tank strapped to your back in order to live, the entire sport is breathtaking.
The wife missed the fish entirely. The others just saw its departure. I saw the beast size me up.
Once we were back on land, there were many Red Stripes to be consumed. We spent the rest of the day on the beach in Negril, sunning our way from beer shack to beer shack, speculating as to why the Jamaican Constabulary has no laws regulating the abuse of thong bikinis. Read More......
We were in Negril over the weekend, mostly behaving like tourists. From my limited experience, it appears that diving is not a sport popular with young, hip Jamaicans. As such, we have no choice but to act as tourists. Anyway, we were looking for a different dive location, so we packed up the gear and headed west. It was raining as we left the compound but, typically, the rain was a very localized event, and we were dry again before we got as far as Reading. It was sure to be another beautiful day in the Tropics.
When we got to Negril (shaken, not stirred), we had yet to decide where to go to dive. On Kris’s advice, we went to one of the huge bars and asked the random attendees for the location of a good dive shop. Based upon the answer to this query, we headed a couple of chains down the road to the Negril Beach Club, where we negotiated for tanks and passage to the reef.
As simple as this may seem, it was more complicated than my normal dive routine. Usually, I will call Peter in Montego Bay, and tell him that I want to dive. I will drive across town to Jack Tar, leave my van with Whiskey, the parking lot attendant, and greet Wilbert, the Rastafari Captain, as I hop on the boat. The simple, stable routine is nice, as it tends to unclutter the mind, and frees it for the underwater experience.
The boat usually is nowhere near capacity. Two weeks ago, I dove with just Dive Master Dwayne and some Brit, who tries to dive on his yearly holiday, and whose last dives were off of Sri Lanka. We dove what they call Sergeant Major Reef, half a klick offshore in 10-15 meters of water. The reef is named after the abundance of sergeant major fish which reside thereabouts.
Some 15-20 centimeter long, the bright yellow and black striped fish have little fear of man here, as they are rarely the targets of fishermen, and usually are the target of tourists trying to feed them. When the dive master located the school, he produced a small package of water crackers, which he proceeded to feed to the fish. They are relatively tame, and will eat out of your hand.
When one comes to feed, though, the rest follow. Within moments, the entire school was on top of us, hoping to snag a bit of a snack. The swarm was intense. For minutes, I was completely encompassed by the fish. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands of them, swimming within centimeters. Nibbling on my outstretched fingers. I could not see through the mass of fish in any direction, and was enveloped by the shadow of the school, as they blocked the light of the sun. It was like nothing else.
I went diving the next day.
Drove across town, left the van with Whiskey, greeted the Rasta captain as I got on board, and was joined this time by Dive Master David, an experienced German, and a couple of cheeseheads. The cheeseheads had little experience, but worse was the fact that they had not been in the water for over a year. The mouthpiece fell off of his regulator as he hit the water. Mis-weighted, he had buoyancy troubles the entire time we were down. She had a panic attack on the surface, which delayed our decent, then another towards the end of the dive, which accelerated our accent.
Despite that, we spent some 33 minutes on the Arches portion of the Airport Reef. Here, the reef is a wall, a vertical reef extending from a plateau at 15 meters, to another flat area some 40 meters below. While on this wall, you cannot see the sea floor, so I hold the impression that, should something go terribly wrong, the body will just sink slowly and forever, giving the fish plenty of time to consume it prior to it reaching the bottom of the Cayman Trench.
Of course, that did not happen. Things went wrong for the Wisconsonians, but not terribly wrong. As is the norm, everyone made it back to the boat alive.
I went diving the next week, too.
This time with just Hank and Rita and Dive Master David, who suffers from an intense chill even in the 27 degree water. We dove the Widowmaker Wall portion of the reef. Rita had a new camera, so she took some pictures, including a few of a large green Moray eel, with large gnashing teeth. We all gave her a wide berth (the fish with the teeth, not Rita). There was a strong current once we got to the wall, which tended to simultaneously push us into the wall and up towards the surface. We all needed quite a bit of effort to control our relative positions, both to the wall and to each other.
The second to last thing you want to do while diving is to damage the reef. Damage comes easily, through something as simple as light touch with a flipper or any other part of a wayward diver, knocking off coral that took years to construct. Of course, the last thing you want to do while diving is fail to surface. With the strong current, we were working hard to maintain separation, but I still took a couple of flippers in the face which, had I not been aware, could have knocked loose my mask or regulator. Again, nothing terribly wrong.
In Negril, conditions were a little different. As expected, there were few participants (the captain, his mermaid, we, the Dive Master, and a university employee from Chicago’s South Side). Since there was a beach instead of a pier, we had to wade out to the boat with our equipment. Once on board, we motored a couple of kilometers out to sea to the dive site du jour. The waves were barely lapping the beach when we left, but were rolling at a height close to two meters once we were at sea, which rocked the seven meter craft to the point where it’s propeller would leave the water and breakfast considered jumping ship.
Once tied to the buoy, we performed my favorite, the back roll entry, and floated 20 meters to the sea floor. I love the decent. Like a slow motion free fall, I drop spread eagle, watching the fish and the reef approach.
The particular section of reef was called Tugboat, as there is a tugboat (duh) sunk in 30 meters of water. It is not quite a pirate ship, but it is a start. I never was told the history of the boat, but it could have been down there twenty years, maybe fifty years, maybe a hundred. My skill in recognizing growth rates of the various corals is limited.
An optional part of the adventure was to swim through the boat, in through a hole in the stern deck, and out through another at the bow. The wife took this option, but I opted instead to examine the hull and perimeter. As I was rounding the bow of the tug, I found myself nose to nose, not four meters distant, with a Cubera snapper, almost two meters long. I immediately let a few expletives make their way out the exhaust ports of my regulator.
This huge grey fish had a mouth into which my head would have easily fit. I stopped quite rapidly, remaining motionless and making some adjustments to my breathing while the fish slowly swam away. I might be tempted to describe the sight as breathtaking but, when you are sucking air out of a tank strapped to your back in order to live, the entire sport is breathtaking.
The wife missed the fish entirely. The others just saw its departure. I saw the beast size me up.
Once we were back on land, there were many Red Stripes to be consumed. We spent the rest of the day on the beach in Negril, sunning our way from beer shack to beer shack, speculating as to why the Jamaican Constabulary has no laws regulating the abuse of thong bikinis. Read More......
2000-01-19
Miss Liberty
===============================
WARNING - Beware the champagne flights on Air Jamaica.
===============================
We are all tourists.
Who is not from somewhere else? We share a space for a time, as we move from locale to locale. We may set for quite a spell at one particular location, but are we really a resident? Really a native? What makes us so?
I left “The Rock” for the holidays, anticipating a few weeks of Italian Beef and Doctor Jeremiah Weed. Tastes I know and love (at least the beef) from another time zone - a place not the same as when I left it months ago. Presumably, I was going home.
But what makes Chicagoland any more our home than Montego Freeport? What draws us to either place? Is it the food? Perhaps that, and the other comfortable surroundings which help us to paint the picture of a place, so that we can look back upon it with a sense of longing. It is the feeling that makes us glad to be home in the evening, happy to be surrounded by familiar stuff, faces, sounds, smells and tastes.
Montego Bay is fast becoming that place for me,... the smell of jerk as I drive hither and yon,... the look of the sunrise across the harbor in the morning, as Ra appears above the hills of town.
I watched him arrive the morning we departed, chasing the clouds over the horizon. Later we went to the beach, where our newly coded response to the smell and taste of the veg patties drew us to the stand where we always get our veg patties. When we left, traffic was as sucky as normal, yet beckoned me to join the fray. There was nowhere to park at the grocery, and they had not the food item which I was sure they would have. It was all so typical, so expected, so comforting.
A few hours later and I was in Chicagoland. Home of the cheesy beef and sausage combo, with fries and a large Coke (“you wanna tamale wit dat?”). Home to a different style of traffic snarl. Home to our folks and many friends. The place where I became aware. In a few days we would trek north to the cabin, or Taj Mahal, if you will, where we would consume Leinienkugels to excess, and sing songs of drunken mice around the wood burning stove. “Have a pull on the Weed”, Two-J will yell,... and we will be home yet again.
Home is where I am, it seems. It is a mobile home.
Is this just a facet of life overseas, a calling to numerous locations, each with their own familiar faces and familiar confines? I suppose that these comfortable and familiar surroundings do not become that way all at once, nor do they come to everyone, expatriates or not. There are those I have met who never acclimate to new surroundings. Their home must be a tiny place.
I wander, but I am not a wanderer. My desire to travel is a need to get somewhere else, to discover some new destination, to position myself in it and make the most it. To arrive however, I need to be going. I am going now, while writing the draft for this missive, sitting in a plane over who knows where, flying back and forth between homes.
Later, in Chicagoland, I read a familiar plaque in my ma’s kitchen, “No matter where I serve my guests, it seems they like my kitchen best”. Sure, “Home is where the hearth is”.
There is another which reads, “The time to be happy is now. The place to be happy is here.” This is a fine sentiment, unless you are about to broadside a wayward bovine.
Enter the third,... “Some people come into our lives - leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never, ever the same”. Ouch! Wish I had not read that one.
Perhaps the next treatise will be on the quality and variations in locally available cane based sweeteners, instead of this campy, misty-eyed, happy post-holiday variety.
Peace and Love. Read More......
WARNING - Beware the champagne flights on Air Jamaica.
===============================
We are all tourists.
Who is not from somewhere else? We share a space for a time, as we move from locale to locale. We may set for quite a spell at one particular location, but are we really a resident? Really a native? What makes us so?
I left “The Rock” for the holidays, anticipating a few weeks of Italian Beef and Doctor Jeremiah Weed. Tastes I know and love (at least the beef) from another time zone - a place not the same as when I left it months ago. Presumably, I was going home.
But what makes Chicagoland any more our home than Montego Freeport? What draws us to either place? Is it the food? Perhaps that, and the other comfortable surroundings which help us to paint the picture of a place, so that we can look back upon it with a sense of longing. It is the feeling that makes us glad to be home in the evening, happy to be surrounded by familiar stuff, faces, sounds, smells and tastes.
Montego Bay is fast becoming that place for me,... the smell of jerk as I drive hither and yon,... the look of the sunrise across the harbor in the morning, as Ra appears above the hills of town.
I watched him arrive the morning we departed, chasing the clouds over the horizon. Later we went to the beach, where our newly coded response to the smell and taste of the veg patties drew us to the stand where we always get our veg patties. When we left, traffic was as sucky as normal, yet beckoned me to join the fray. There was nowhere to park at the grocery, and they had not the food item which I was sure they would have. It was all so typical, so expected, so comforting.
A few hours later and I was in Chicagoland. Home of the cheesy beef and sausage combo, with fries and a large Coke (“you wanna tamale wit dat?”). Home to a different style of traffic snarl. Home to our folks and many friends. The place where I became aware. In a few days we would trek north to the cabin, or Taj Mahal, if you will, where we would consume Leinienkugels to excess, and sing songs of drunken mice around the wood burning stove. “Have a pull on the Weed”, Two-J will yell,... and we will be home yet again.
Home is where I am, it seems. It is a mobile home.
Is this just a facet of life overseas, a calling to numerous locations, each with their own familiar faces and familiar confines? I suppose that these comfortable and familiar surroundings do not become that way all at once, nor do they come to everyone, expatriates or not. There are those I have met who never acclimate to new surroundings. Their home must be a tiny place.
I wander, but I am not a wanderer. My desire to travel is a need to get somewhere else, to discover some new destination, to position myself in it and make the most it. To arrive however, I need to be going. I am going now, while writing the draft for this missive, sitting in a plane over who knows where, flying back and forth between homes.
Later, in Chicagoland, I read a familiar plaque in my ma’s kitchen, “No matter where I serve my guests, it seems they like my kitchen best”. Sure, “Home is where the hearth is”.
There is another which reads, “The time to be happy is now. The place to be happy is here.” This is a fine sentiment, unless you are about to broadside a wayward bovine.
Enter the third,... “Some people come into our lives - leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never, ever the same”. Ouch! Wish I had not read that one.
Perhaps the next treatise will be on the quality and variations in locally available cane based sweeteners, instead of this campy, misty-eyed, happy post-holiday variety.
Peace and Love. Read More......
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