Easy Skankin’

I was headed back to the Third World, regardless, and my choice was either tropical Jamaica or equatorial Liberia.

If it was Liberia, I would be developing a plan to fix the shitholiest © of their roadways. If it was Liberia, I would need to find ready, ruthless and able bodyguards (because no one there under the age of twenty-five knows anything but killing, and this has caused (surprise!) a destabilizing effect across the country). Those “they” people say that good help is hard to find and, as I left the Cavalry in Baghdad, and would hesitate to trust my life to just any mercenary. If it was Liberia, there would be inconsistent electricity, questionable supplies of potable water, and no yacht club. If it was Liberia, it would be an adventure, but it would also be for six months. And at this point, I declined.

Fine, then. If the Company feels that it’s in the best interests of the stockholders (e.g. me) that I eat jerked pork and swill Red Stripe for a couple of weeks,… well, who am I to argue, with me? I did put up a little fuss, though, so they wouldn’t think I was a total pushover.

Corporate: “We need you in Jamaica.”
Corporate Shill: “Uh,… okay.”

You see. I said, “Uh,…” before agreeing to the trip. That well timed delay, or stall, was to make them think that I was thinking real hard about the accepting the assignment.

Pretty clever, huh?

I made sure that I got a right side window seat on the flight down, the better to see the western end of the island during the approach into MoBay. My row mates were a painfully out of tune couple who seemed ill-prepared for a week at Hedonism III. Perhaps they’ll be more comfortable together after they’re naked with the rest of the guests and stupid-sloppy on rum punch.

I don’t need the rum punch as much as I want the dark rum. Very dark, very smooth, very old rum. I suppose I could choke down the “Rude to Mama”, or White, rum, but choke I would, because my poor throat would involuntarily seize shut when the first drops seared my gullet. [Again, if it wasn’t clear before, no overproof for me, thanks, even if it is the official rum of Jamaican football.] Appleton does make a tasty 21-year old product that I can’t find in the States. It’s rare, but if I can find it, I’ll pad the ol’ expense account at the duty free shop and get a few bottles. Maybe some Rum Cream too, as you can’t find that north of the Cayman Trench.

I’ve been drinking my share of Red Stripe, of course, which reminds me that what they call Red Stripe in the States, ain’t. Here it is served by the 12 British ounce serving, which is a little smaller than what we’d call an ounce (by four percent or so) but, at 4.7% goodness, it is just the ticket for washing down slabs of jerk pork, which I have been doing at Scotchy’s, Jerky’s, Mackie’s and the Ultimate Jerk Center (a few of times at the Ultimate).

I also went to my favorite Rasta-rant, found a nice Ital place in Discovery Bay, dined at that great Indian place on the Strip, had a few meals at the Yacht Club, enjoyed a couple of whole wheat patties with veggie-chunks, bought the Companymen and their families a nice meal at Glistening Waters and, by and increasingly large, have been making this a gastronomic reunion, and me belly full.

What do they say? That you can’t eat cheese indoors?

No.

They say you can’t eat chowder again.

No, no. That’s not it. They say you can’t grow gnomes again.

Damn! Still not right. What is it they say? Not grow gnomes,… throw phones,… hoe Nome,… tow domes,… blow combs,…go home? Right! They say you can’t go home again. Again, they’re wrong. I _can_ go home again. Just as soon as I leave this place.

You see, although there are many of the same appealing aspects to this little country as before, all too many of the old frustrations wasted no time in springing out of the bush to whack my phyche like a goat whacks the bumper of a out of control route taxi. First off, the road’s still not done. Well, the piece to Negril is awfully close to finished, but I doubt that anything more will happen to it besides infrequent maintenance. Too bad, because the grasses and brush are advancing towards the shoulders, certain to rob strength from the pavement structure. The next piece, towards Ochi, lurches forward, only five and a half years (better make it six) into its original 30 month schedule. The Argentines building the thing speak English a little better in the office, but their field guys all too often communicate with grunts and whistles, all too similar to the Koreans on Segment One.

Apparently, the government didn’t learn from the last fiasco. Then, the Contractor’s bail out plan included twenty-three additional contracts for me to manage. The backlash from this that still raises a visual welt today is that the Bosung yard outside of Luceatown is still full of their equipment, which should have been sold three years ago to local contractors who would have put it to use. Instead, it sits idle and rusting, unable to move until Bosung’s legal wrangling with their various subcontractors and claimants is resolved.

On Segment Two, the bail out plan relieved the Contractor from his obligations on the twenty-three kilometers of roadway closest to MoBay. Coincidentally, this will be the most difficult section to build, and the work has yet to go out for bids. When it does go out, there will be at least three contracts, and maybe a few more for bad measure (better make it eight years to completion). In the words of an old Philippine engineer who was old when I sat next to him at the IDOT twenty years ago, “What can you do?”

Close to 100 persons were murdered here in the brief time I was on island. This could be a record setting year, as they’re sure to reach 1,500 by Christmas. And worst of all is that the West Indies cricket team has suffered a couple of embarrassing test match losses (the tie was as good as a loss) to South Africa this month.

On the “big up” side is that the popularity of Dancehall seems to have ebbed, replaced by a more classic form of Reggae, and a strong resurgence of Roots. This makes driving more tolerable, and me a little happier.

By the bye Darlene (and speaking of driving), I saw no dead cows during my 18 days driving over the Rock, only seven dead cats, three dead goats, one each of dead cattle egrets, mongeese, hawks, John Crows and rats, and five dead dogs (it would have been just four, but there was nowhere to swerve to, and hard breaking would have deposited a Lada in the trunk of my slow Corolla).

Irie (at worst),

a…..

=====

To finish, more Marley, from long ago.

Them belly full, but we hungry;
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.

You're gonna dance to Jah music, dance;
We're gonna dance to Jah music, dance, oh-ooh!

Forget your troubles and dance!
Forget your sorrows and dance!
Forget your sickness and dance!
Forget your weakness and dance!

Cost of livin' gets so high,
Rich and poor they start to cry:
Now the weak must get strong;
They say, "Oh, what a tribulation!"

Them belly full, but we hungry;
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.

We're gonna chuck to Jah music - chuckin';
We're chuckin' to Jah music - we're chuckin'.

A belly full, but them hungry;
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
A hungry man is a angry man;
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
A rain a-fall, but the dirt it tough.
A pot a-cook, but d' food no 'nough.
A hungry mob is a angry mob;
A hungry mob is a angry mob. Read More......