State of Things

How are you? I am fine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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