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......

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......