Kansas

On occasion, we behave like tourists. -- Hang a camera around the neck. Wear some gaudy clothes. Speak real loud. Act real rude. Pay too much. Visit McDonalds. Get sunburned.

We are not very good at it, though. The best we can do is to wear the camera. We have yet to visit McD’s (not to be confused with Mack D’s, the auto reseller). The suntan guru makes sure that I wear plenty of sunscreen.

Ok, I am rude. But I am an asshole, too, so it sort of makes sense.

It is hard to avoid the tourist spots on Jamaica. Negril has the best beach on the island. The tour guides know it. The locals know it. We know it. So we go there and enjoy the beach. Similarly, the nice restaurants in town are bound to be tourist spots, since they are the nice restaurants in town. I guess there is really no tourist grocery in town, but if there was, it would probably have a better selection of overpriced food, and we would shop there.

Even so, whenever we are in a situation wherein we might be confused with the tourists, we try to quickly establish ourselves as locals. Driving the Dogwagon helps, as the yellow license tags clearly show it to be a government van, something a tourist would not have access to. A prominently displayed cellular phone is a great asset too, especially if accompanied by a tirade about how the new supplier, Digicel, is vastly superior to the crap that Cable and Worthless was trying to pawn off as “service”. And, of course, a working knowledge of local greetings, news, politics, and Patois goes a long way to demonstrate that we are not here for a week of getting stoned and sunburned.

Sometimes I am forced to be less subtle. At lunch at Walter’s last Sunday, a pair of hustlers approached us in the restaurant. “Welcome to Jamaica, mon!” came the greeting with the handshake. “Welcome to Sumfest!” Now, what could they be selling? Drugs? Guide services? Trinkets?

No matter. It probably involved a scheme whereby they get my money.

“We live here”, was my curt response.

Theirs was to immediately leave the restaurant.

If they were just non-hustling locals, the usual response would be more friendly and chatty, and would establish everyone’s role on the island - then I would ask for the local rate. The hustle works both ways.

We just got back from Europe, where the wife played tourist for a month and I for the final two weeks. I could not even try to pretend we were otherwise, as the language differences were so vast. My typical conversations started in one of three ways, “Buono giorno, tu parlate Inglese?”, “Bon jour, parlez vous Anglais?”, or “Ello guv’nor, do you speak English?” This clearly established me someone from another land. If they needed further proof, all they had to do was answer the English proficiency question with a “no”,... and let the language fun begin!
If it became clear that my best attempts at communications were for naught, I would just mumble an apologetic phrase like, “mon aéroglisseur est plein des anguilles”, and try to find a more cooperative native.

As is the case with tourists to the Antilles, we flocked to the major tourist destinations, stood in line for the particularly cool and/or over hyped attractions, took hundreds of digital images, and consumed vast quantities. I particularly gorged on the Italian’s pizzas (although the crusts were almost nonexistent in their total thinnatiousness) and large slabs of tasty Euro-beef, both of which cannot be found here. Well, there is beef here, but there are plenty of other local items I would rather consume before the local beef, and that well marbled and fully aged Charolais,... grilled to perfection with the little mushrooms, some au gratin pommes and a bottle of rouge, mmmmm.

I could not help but to compare my experience as a tourist to the First World to what any American might think of similar systems here in the Third. Most notably the foreign transportation systems (read: geek). What was most foreign to me was the total lack of potholes in Italy. Kilometer after kilometer of smooth asphalt, well marked with bright white paint. Such a sight always gets me a little weepy-eyed, just ask the wife.

During any trip back to the First World, I have to relearn western driving skills - how to share the road with others, how to stay in one gear for more than two minutes, how to feel comforted by the knowledge that the taxi three meters ahead will not stop without working break lights immediately in front of you with zero warning, how to lay off the horn. It is always such a hassle.

In just two unbelievably short weeks though, I found it rather ordinary to make my way into the city on a timely, clean, and comfortable public bus. It seemed the usual state of things to safely drive at 150 kph down the Autostrada, with plenty of room to pass and be passed. There was no wonder at all as the train we were on ran at well over 200 kph through the French countryside en route to a faultless thirty kilometer tunnel under the English Channel.

Life in the Tropics emerged again at Heathrow, just prior to our return flight to Montego Bay. We had finished our drinks in United’s spacious and very well appointed Admiral Club (we had weaseled our way in because the phone at Air Jamaica’s ticket counter was not being answered, so who is to say we were not invited?) and strolled down to the gate just as it was announced that they were boarding the first third of the aircraft.

Why then, was every person in the departure lounge crushed en masse against the two overwhelmed ticket takers? It was so typically Jamaican, where the word queue has far too many vowels to be fully understood.

In the parking lot back at Sangster was a truck with four punctured tires, a victim of driving the wrong way through the tire shredders. The traffic signals at Pye River were completely dark, and had been for days. The new development down the way has placed their storm sewer in the roadway ditch, pipe crown above roadway centerline. Public Works diverted traffic at Round Hill without the necessary and required submittals, nor any traffic control signs or devices, for that matter. The rest of the contractors are still their traditional whiny selves.
Business as usual. There is no place like home. Read More......