Lambs Wool

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ginnegogs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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