Parade

Despite the island’s small size, I still do a lot of driving. This year, I expect to put another 30,000 kilometers on the Dogwagon, about ten percent more than last year. To do so requires that I spend a couple hours a day navigating the potholes, veering around the cows and goats, minding my speed and road manners, and paying attention just enough to stay out of trouble.

As a curious human, my attention was caught by the sounds of sirens on the road the other day. I checked the mirrors and saw one of the local cycle cops mounted astride one of the few remaining KZ1000 Police Specials, circa 1980-something, sirens a-blaring and blue lights a-flashing, pacing me no more than 20 meters to aft. “Holy increasing consternation”, I mouthed as I saw, slightly behind the Kawasaki, another cycle cop, this one on the common 450 Nighthawk (a Honda product more often used to transport traffic cops from intersection to stationhouse than for patrol duties), also a-blaring and a-flashing.

I quickly ran through my options - flight, fight, submit - then decided on the only thing I could do - eyes simultaneously forward and to the mirrors, hands at ten and two, seat belt securely fastened, one last look to the mirrors, I depressed the accelerator and increased the separation.

The bikes followed relentlessly, and were on my tail for the next three hours as I maneuvered a borrowed Mitsubishi on and off of the embankment under construction, through little used portions of the project site, from Bogue to Lances Eve and back.

Not that I could ever lose a couple of experienced riders. But, you never know, all machines are subject to failure when over stressed.

The cops were not always situated directly behind me. Sometimes they would be on either side of me, sometimes just ahead, and, whenever we were approaching a populated area or a narrow bridge or one of the culvert halves under construction, one or the other would race ahead to clear traffic, scattering cars, goats and pedestrians just prior to my swift arrival.

It did not take long for others to join the chase. Behind the cycle cops and me was a police Land Cruiser, lights a-flashing, then the Prime Minister’s Land Cruiser, then a police Corolla, then two unmarked police Corollas, then the Minister of Transportation and Works’ Land Cruiser, then another police Corolla, then two vans from the Jamaica Information Service, then two or three dozen cars and vans filled with assorted fans and flunkies and political hacks.

As it turns out, this was a parade of sorts, and I was the lead vehicle. The Grand Marshall, if you will, in this grand march, but only because I won it fair and square (the other clowns had nothing on my flashing orange lights).

Sure, the build up was unfair, but cops rarely chase me these days. The last time was just before we went abroad. I was in the middle of one last ride, to move my cycle from the Heartland to a shed in the suburbs, where it would wait patiently for my return.

I was taking one of my favorite excursions, tooling down a winding Route 64 through Jones and Jackson Counties in eastern Iowa, tucked behind the fairing, feet on the rear pegs, scanning the pastures and their securely fenced-in cattle at 150 kph or so, when what should appear in the mirrors but one of Jackson County’s finest.

I have no idea how long he was back there but, since I did see him eventually (who checks mirrors at that speed?), I flashed the brakes, rolled off the throttle and lifted my chest into the wind, at which point the sheriff passed my slow ass, accelerating as he cruised by. I guess he had faster fish to fry and, since this was the last county before the state line, he had to be the only law enforcement officer until the bridge at Savannah.

Warp ten, Mr. Sulu.

Anyway, I got to lead the parade because Hank was in the PM’s van, giving him the low down on the current status of the project. I was assigned the monster chromium baton, and had the entourage follow me onto and about the project site so we could produce the bestest tour ever -

See the marl pile up slowly!
Thrill as workers secure deck forms!!
Be amazed by incredibly small stretches of new asphalt pavement!!!
Wonder at the miracle of the excavator!!!!

Of course, I should have been working productively, but sometimes, those dang Clients,...

Every once in a while they seem to want to know where their money is being spent or, in this case, they want to see where the money they hope to get is being spent. Of course, there is no money. The deferred financing arrangement through which this project is continuing (after the collapse of the Koreans) is barely constitutional, and probably will not provide the level of funding required to complete the Works. Money or no, we continue. There may be money tomorrow.

Hand to mouth. An entire government.

Two million people. Hand to mouth.

It is tough to miss seeing the poor on this island. Zinc shacks litter the hillsides and inner cities. Litter litters the roadways, alleyways and drainageways. Children beg on street corners.

There are others less poverty stricken, but only the rich have much of anything from a western consumerist point of view. Even the nice looking homes, when approached, show rot and rust and dirt. But how do you improve this situation when there is barely enough to put food on the table or send the pickneys to public school? Or, with the government, to import food for the people or to build and staff the public schools?

Sadly, what I see as a dominant attitude is one where living hand to mouth becomes routine. After so many years of some how, some way, finding some thing that will get you through to the next day, people seem to believe that tomorrow there will be enough presented to get you to the day after. Look at the little birds; they do not toil and work, but their malevolent little bird goddesses provide for them.

And look at them; they are still birds, eating bugs and worms and getting buffeted by whatever ill wind happens to blow through the woods.

At least the bird has no aspirations of building a highway.

The lesson then is this. Birds should not build highways. Small regional airports, perhaps, or even package power plants, but not highways.

We have thumbs for a reason I believe, not only does it help us bring food to mouth, but also they allow us to rise above hand to mouth. If I was not having such a good time, this whole Third World poverty cycle might depress me.

But I digress.

The point was this,... I think. Every once in a while, the P.M. would stop the his van, thereby stopping the entire entourage in the middle of whatever stretch of road we happened to be on at the time, blocking all traffic, in both directions, just so he could get out and press the flesh. This, presumably, was to demonstrate that he is a man of the people,... at one with the common folk,... in tune wid’ de riddims’ of de country,... in conflict with and contrary to his actions, that of someone with so little time to spare that he must speed maniacally through the cities, towns, and countryside, supported by a raft of toadies.

I hope he loses in the coming election. Read More......

Fly By

While boarding the 09:00 flight to Tinsen Pen in Kingston, I could not help but wonder.

“Why”, I wondered, sure that this was a correct way to begin a statement expressing wonder, “why?” Why do I ever have to fly, let alone the fact that this flight will be on another Shorts (ooh, and on the big forty seater this time!)?

I really hate this flight, in part, because I hate to fly. Oh, sure, it is tolerable on most occasions, but to me, the experience is too much like a bus ride, not those super deluxe monsters full of crying babies and boredom that ply the intercity routes, but the smoky, rattly, crowded and musty contraptions that assail the intracity routes, full of elbows and stinky humans. That is what I hate about flying (besides the projectile hurling), and it is the same thing I hate about crowds,... the people.

Today, I was joined in transit by just less than a dozen only slightly stinky German tourists and their Jamaican guide (just enough for a cricket team). All of them armed with cameras and the latest in digital video gear. Then there were a couple of Asian couples, also on vacation it appeared, as they were very casually dressed and had that tourist look to them (after a couple of years here, you can begin to pick them out). Besides me, only a half dozen business types.

As is the norm, the flight was delayed, first for fifteen minutes, then for another twenty, then for an additional twenty. In the beginning, the airline claimed the mysterious “mechanical problems”, and later explained that they were changing the tyres on the plane. First they changed one, then decided they had better have a matched set, so they scrounged up a spare for the other side, then decided that they really should replace the nose wheel as well, so they had to do the scrounging act again. In the end, we were an hour late for a half hour flight.
The tourists did not seem to mind.

I spent some of the time waiting with the executive chef for one of the all-inclusives. He is also a neighbour. Magic Johnson walked through the commuter terminal on his way from the flight line to somewhere else. Some of the contractor’s people were there as well, waiting for others of the contractor’s people to fly in from Kingston. Eventually, Chef bummed a ride on a four-seater prop plane that a passing friend was taking to the First City and I was left with my Gleaner and it’s too easy crossword.

I got to Kingston an hour late, but still an hour early for my meeting, so there was no rush, and I found a rogue Company guy to catch up with as I passed some of the time, filling the rest with some work that was prepackaged on the machine, my friend and constant companion.

Meetings over, I made it back to Tinsen Pen again later in the afternoon, with time enough to spare to suck down a barley pop, conveniently purchased at the awful airport restaurant. I consumed the refreshing domestic lager at my most favorite departure lounge in the whole world. Outside the ticketing counter, it lies on the same asphalt slab as the planes. The seating consists of two rows of five or six tiers totaling fifty or sixty not altogether uncomfortable plastic chairs bolted to the pavement, where we wait under an expanse of corrugated metal roofing. A one meter chain link fence is all that secures and separates me from the aircraft parked around the tarmac. Under the tin, there is shade and a little breeze, and a rapidly emptying bottle of Red Stripe, outside the tin is a hot and dusty aerodrome, with the typical afternoon Kingston haze settling in from all sides.

Again, the tourists abound. There is a new team of Germans, with a German tour guide this time. The Asians seem to be returning on this flight as well, although only half of them I remember from this morning. Again, only a few business types and, more typically, no celebrities, unless you count the Minister of Education as a celebrity. I note in the baggage being loaded that there is a new set of airplane tyres, no doubt to replace those taken out of the Sangster inventory this morning.

Tinsen Pen is a small airport. When you land there, you hit the ground hard, and in my mind’s eye, I can see both pilot and co- standing with both feet on the brakes, doing their best to stop the plane before we run off into the cane field beyond the terminus of the runway. When they make the turn at the end, we are usually less than fifty meters from vegetation.

Takeoff from Tinsen Pen is less frightening, but more uncomfortable. Kingston is hot in the late afternoon. The air is thick. Thick with city stench and tropical humidity. The plane must plow through this to get airborne. Also working against the plane is the short runway, new sticky tyres, and a really huge guy in the first row. To allow for these factors, the crew turns off all of the interior ventilation, saving everything for acceleration. Again, the boys stand on the brakes, while they ramp up the throttle to 110% percent, or at least to the point where the whole plane is shaking, accompanied by the scream of the turboprops and an uncomfortable and heavy buzzing sound radiating from the right nacelle, located just next to my head.

Then we are off and running, then off the ground and flying into the late afternoon thermals which give the plane a little shake and shimmy which does not go away until we rise to 1000 meters or so, on our way to 2500 meters, at which point we begin our descent.

“Champaign?” asks the sky waitress, clutching the half empty bottle from the last flight and a handful of quarter dram plastic cups.

“Flat sparkling wine?” I am tempted to reply, but am really in no mood to deal with such trivialities.

Once more back in Montego Bay, feet on the ground, my only loss to a day wasted in meetings and flying, and the drive back through town to home ain’t too bad. And in all, it all irie. Read More......

Money for Nothing

The trouble with paradise is that you still need a roof over your head, beer in the gullet, and cat food in the pantry. Otherwise, you will get wet, get thirsty, and get a headache from the incessant whinings of the cat. To satisfy these needs, most folks try to earn something somehow, money being a common medium of exchange.
That is our plan. It involves secure employment, and relies upon earning more than we spend, so that there will be something in the mattress for the hard times and the, reportedly, golden years.

Locally (for the locals), this plan is not always applicable. Jobs are hard enough to come by, and they are usually all but secure employment. The currency is not the most stable in the hemisphere, so prices go up and up. What to do, what to do? If only there was a way to quickly turn an unbelievable and completely outrageous profit on the few dollars you do have. If you could roll these profits over a couple of times and earn even more on the spoils, why, there would be enough to pull you out of the hole you are in, and get you back on your feet.

Enter the Partner Plan.

Partner plans have been active on Jamaica for a long time. Classically, they involve a group of people, usually less than a score, who pool their resources for the betterment of the group. As a member of such a plan, you would make a regular payment into the pool. For each period, the total assets of the pool are dispersed to each of the partners in turn. To run such a plan, you get ten of your friends, and have each of them pitch in JA $10,000 a month. Each month, one of the partners draws the entire plan’s sum total of JA $100,000 to spend as he or she sees fit. This partner continues to support the plan until every partner has had the chance to get the big payoff.

It is really a zero interest savings plan, as each partner gets no more or less than they put into the plan. In a land with limited access to banking (or trust of banks), this is probably not a bad way to secure your money, provided that you trust your partners.

As an investment however, Partner Plan Classic leaves much to be desired. Why buy the security of bonds when the NASDAQ might be gaining ten percent a week? Why buy into a zero interest scheme, when there is a more lucrative scheme being promised across town.

Reenter the Partner Plan.

For the last year or so, more evil partner plans have been working the North Coast. This they tend to do every twenty years or so. Essentially a pyramid scheme, they bring in “investors” (one a minute) with promises of 100% return in just a couple of months.

It works like this - the operator prints some flyers, people line up to give him money, he squanders it, and the people lose. Usually, a minimum deposit is on the order of JA $4,000. In three or four weeks, the depositor is promised a draw of JA $3,000, with a second draw of JA $5,000 three weeks later. Of course, the wise and educated investors will be encouraged to rollover their profits, and the plans often keep some, if not most or all, of the initial deposit.

If this were to work, a JA $4,000 initial investment would yield JA $8,000 in six weeks, JA $16,000 in twelve and, by the end of a year, about two million. Not a bad promise considering that there is no product. Unfortunately, the success of the plan is rooted in the need to bring in more suckers, and the harsh reality that there is not much law enforced against these operations, and the unfortunate fact that the media had been giving favorable press to such nonsense.

There were three or four of these plans operating out of Montego Bay through the last half year or so, each operating “for the needy, not the greedy” out of a city storefront. Much more than half of our local staff had money in one or more of them. “How can they lose?” was the most common response to my statements that “they will lose”.

Then I would try to explain how there could never be enough people to support such a scheme, to which I was generally met with blank stares. “How can they lose?”

Of course, they did lose. The amount of new suckers eventually dwindled, and the Plans had increasingly difficult times making payments. The news would spread like the greasy wake of an oil tanker, and then the mobs would gather. Mobs, of course, meaning hundreds and hundreds of unruly citizens - blocking streets, breaking glass, setting a few fires - general mob type stuff.

The operators would then promise to make payments to everyone at a different venue, as the storefront was obviously too small to accommodate the crowds. Everyone then would then shift to the Strand Theatre, where they would do some more mobbing, as the operator would not show. The rumors would then circulate that payments would be made at the Constabulary. Everyone then shifts to the Constabulary, where the mobbing turned into impatient waiting.

Three times the same. Imminent collapse, then the mob, then the Strand, then the cop shop.

At this point, the operators are either off island or in protective custody. One might think that running a pyramid scheme was against the law, but I would not ask any of the investing cops for their opinion on this. The occasional loser did file fraud complaints in some instances, although most did not for fear that, should they file charges, they would lose any chance they might have had to recover their lost savings.

The last one to fail was in Lucea, just west of the office, where the mob looted some local businesses, stoned the courthouse, and set fire to a pair of containers filled with relief supplies for the indigent. The operator claimed that the plan was going well, but people started spreading nasty insolvency rumors, causing a run on the plan. In his defense, he had fully expected monster returns, having invested his entrusted funds in one of the Montego Bay plans.

Money for nothing,... and your chicks for free. Read More......