Posts
To compensate for the poor quality of our Internet service provider, and the equally poor quality of our telephone service provider (not surprisingly, the same outfit), I usually find myself on line in the morning. Early in the day, there tends to be less traffic on both sides, and download times are about as good as you are going to get. I use this half hour opportunity most mornings to process the electro-mail, check the headlines at CNN and at the Onion, and check out a few old Mr. Boffos from the archives.
On cue, My Yahoo lets me know that I am still warmer than you. In fact, I have only noticed two days this summer (winter comparisons being moot) when I was not, local temperatures being surpassed by those in the Twin Cities on those rare occasions.
It is August in the Tropics, however, and our recent typical temperature range has been remaining steady with a low of 28 and a high of 35 (82 to 95 for those Fahrenheit-ites out there), every day for a couple of weeks. These high averages tend to heat the sea around us and the ocean to the east of us and, for a variety of mostly unfathomable meteorological reasons, the atmosphere becomes unstable, and I figure that it is time for a visit to the National Hurricane Center’s (NHC’s) web site.
Well, I suppose that the reasons behind the weather are not all that unfathomable. Regardless, unfathomable is a fairly cool word. Unlike the vast majority of the others, it mixes both comprehension and seafaring.
“Arrgh! The waters, Cap’n, they be unfathomable.”
“Abast! Shiver me timbers and shut yer blow hole, ya swab!”
For most of the year, the NHC site (www.nhc.noaa.gov) is good for infrared satellite images of the Caribbean and Gulf basins, looking north well past Raleigh, south to Panama City, west to Brownsville and east to almost Africa. From this, you can see the larger cloud formations, and the blacks, whites and grays make nice wallpaper, changing every day, yet with the same basis.
The other day, though, the change to this image was obvious, as a dense circular mass had appeared and was looming just east of the Windward Islands. Obviously, something afoul was afoot - perhaps just a mass of rain, or perhaps something stronger.
Oh, yes, perhaps something much stronger.
I flash to another page at the same site, where I see that the NHC has given the cloud a name, “Tropical Depression Four”, the fourth such named occurrence this season. The season,... of course,... of the hurricane.
[Cue lightening flashes, thunder and scary storm music]
Early that afternoon, the wife called to tell me that she was going to the grocerama. Typically, not so odd an event, and completely expected once she informs me that the androgynous cloud formally known as “Tropical Depression Four” is now a somewhat butch tropical storm named “Chantal”, heading ever more rapidly towards the Windward Islands and then, most notably per the current predictions, towards our little island paradise.
“Buy some bottled water”, I recommend.
One large difference between hurricanes and other heavy weather is that the Federal Government gives plenty of notice (what the local government gives us is a second hand report on the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration report). Rare is the hurricane, nee tropical storm, nee tropical depression, that is not predicted three or more days before landfall. This is quite unlike my experience with tornados, where you can learn to recognize the conditions favorable for their formation, but then they pop out of the front at random, giving the population scant minutes to grab the cats and the radio and hustle down to the storm cellar.
Growing up in the Midwest, school was often interrupted by tornado drills, where we learned our lesson as to how we duck and cover and hope it hits someone else. As an adult in the Midwest, I came to expect the late afternoon wail of the warning siren and knew what to do when it sounded - grab the cats, head for the cellar, duck and cover and hope it hits someone else.
Things are less uptight here, or just less organized. The last hurricane to impact the island hit in 1988, when Gilbert stopped by to rearrange the furniture, relocate some utilities and harvest the banana crop. Last year, there was not even a tropical storm watch, and no threat of local destruction (by the weather only, self-destruction in Tivoli Gardens in West Kingston is a different matter). Needless to say, the shopping excursion was undoubtedly premature by local standards, but it did help us avoid any last minute rush, and we got rice and peas to last a month or two.
Now, if only there was a hurricane.
Chantal, it turns out, was just a sissy little tropical storm, who lost her bluster once she hit the Windward Islands, and was quickly downgraded to big cloud status. The season is young, though, and there are normally seven to ten named storms each year, so we may still get pummeled.
Until then, we will keep our mouse balls clean, our eyes on the maps, and eat rice and peas.
That is, unless she happens to get riled and get herself upgraded again to tropical storm in the last twelve hours, on her way to a class two hurricane, which should hit the island this evening sometime.
Time to batten, land lubbers.
That is, unless she changes course again and misses the island altogether.
Read More......
2001-08-18
2001-07-24
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......
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......
2001-06-15
Accommodations
If you are planning a visit to our fair island, I am sure you will want to know what you are getting yourself into. That may be why you read these, or you may want to see what we have gotten ourselves into. Regardless, today’s rant regards housing.
If we cannot meet you at the airport, you may have to take a taxi or rent a car. Not that anyone has yet had to do this. With a big international airport like Sangster, we would hate you to get lost between the nine gates and three (one working) baggage carousels, so we try to pick everyone up eventually. In the off chance that we cannot, we drive on the left here, so be careful. As you leave the airport, you will enter the first of many roundabouts (the word will make you out and out). Enter to the left, of course, and get off at the first left. Drive west until you are almost past the airport, but not quite. You will pass the jerk stand that is never open, and pass the Ministry maintenance yard with their hectare of rust. Just past the broken water main that is never fixed, and opposite the football field there is a turn to the right up the hill. Do not make this turn. In fact, these directions are wrong. Go back to the roundabout at the airport and try again.
Had you turned, you would have ended up in a neighborhood called Flankers. I know very little about this place except that we were told explicitly to never go there. These are the slums of Montego Bay. Potentially as bad as a West Kingston Garrison, it is controlled by rude bwoys. The residents do not take kindly to strangers, or so I hear. For all I know, it could be nirvana up that hill, just a nirvana camouflaged with tin shacks, stick shacks, blue tarped shacks, and scattered herds of rambling goats.
Better to head into town for now.
So instead, take the high road, upper road, or Queen’s Drive out of the airport roundabout. It is all the same road, anyway. At the next roundabout, turn on Sir Howard Cooke, then through two roundabouts down to Alice Eldermire, then to the roundabout at Southern Cross, then turn on Sunset and proceed to the last complex on the right. In the last klick and a half, there are a dozen sleeping policemen for your driving pleasure. A dozen in,... a dozen out.
One of the benefits of living on the tip of a peninsula is that there is little through traffic. Yet, when the peninsula is largely landfill, it may end up as flat as ours, which leads to excessive speeders on the lightly traveled roadway, and the eventual placement of, what we call in the industry, “traffic calming devices”. The speed bumps do quite the opposite, annoying the hell into me, and I curse them daily. The Dogwagon has a stiff and poorly refined suspension, so I must cross each bump in first or second gear. Some of the neighbours though, with their Rovers, Lexi, and gold plated SUV’s, can afford to run the bumps at 80 kph and not feel a thing.
The resultant speed differential would be hazard enough, except that the road is also well used by the local driving schools. With their large red “L(ame)” mounted on the rear bumper, the instructors do not allow the students to exceed a forward velocity above idle. Three abreast is not uncommon, as I pass the learners and get passed simultaneously. The oncoming traffic may notice and pull left at the very least.
The bumps are a hassle, but one which will soon be eased. Only eased, mind you, as we are only moving four speed bumps down the road. Yet four speed bumps each way every day yields an almost three kilobump reduction in the next year.
We like our current apartment. For one, we live there now. As well, there is a great view of the marina and the hills between Bogue and Reading. Two pools, well landscaped, good security and quiet neighbors have great appeal. However, our landlord has not owned the place for six months, so it is probably time we stopped paying him and move on.
He told us seven or eight months ago, one month prior to lease renewal, that we would not be renewed. “Fine”, we said, “just give us six more months”. So, six months later, and we had yet to find a new place to house our guests. Our plan is to move to the complex next door. It is only a three bump reduction, but the apartment is nice.
We will still take it eventually, but only after the second segment of this project is underway. At that time, the current occupant, one of my coworkers, will move on to the next phase and a new place to live closer to the nexus. In typical Jamaican fashion, the start-up of Segment Two has been delayed,... again. Originally, it was to have started two years after Segment One started, and Segment Three two years after that. Since each project was to have had a two year duration, the Segment One staff was to have followed the work across the island, leaving dust and pristine asphalt in their wake.
But that was not to be. By the original schedule, this segment was to have been completed eighty days after the wife and I got to the island, and will probably take five years to complete. It is no surprise that further segments are also delayed. For the most part, the foreign funding folks saw the problems we had here with relocations and utilities and threatened to withhold the money until the problems were resolved. In addition, the apparent low bidder for Segment Two was declared naughty, so there was much last minute contract wrangling.
So we wait and wait for an apartment which fails to materialize and we get left inside a thirty cubit lurch. We had looked for housing out of the neighborhood, but the downside of those residences was that they were out of the neighborhood, and the Freeport peninsula really is the most western place to live in Montego Bay. ...and twelve speed bumps and three gatehouses go far in reducing the general riff raff quotient.
So, with just a couple weeks until we would be out on the street, our penultimate plans failing, and I resolve myself to find a place to live for the next quarter by nightfall, and we do, and we move in two days. This will give me little time to repair the major damage in the current place and to steal the fixtures.
Oh, our current contract with the Company has expired, but we will re-up.
How could we not? It be life in the tropics, mon.
Cazart! Read More......
If we cannot meet you at the airport, you may have to take a taxi or rent a car. Not that anyone has yet had to do this. With a big international airport like Sangster, we would hate you to get lost between the nine gates and three (one working) baggage carousels, so we try to pick everyone up eventually. In the off chance that we cannot, we drive on the left here, so be careful. As you leave the airport, you will enter the first of many roundabouts (the word will make you out and out). Enter to the left, of course, and get off at the first left. Drive west until you are almost past the airport, but not quite. You will pass the jerk stand that is never open, and pass the Ministry maintenance yard with their hectare of rust. Just past the broken water main that is never fixed, and opposite the football field there is a turn to the right up the hill. Do not make this turn. In fact, these directions are wrong. Go back to the roundabout at the airport and try again.
Had you turned, you would have ended up in a neighborhood called Flankers. I know very little about this place except that we were told explicitly to never go there. These are the slums of Montego Bay. Potentially as bad as a West Kingston Garrison, it is controlled by rude bwoys. The residents do not take kindly to strangers, or so I hear. For all I know, it could be nirvana up that hill, just a nirvana camouflaged with tin shacks, stick shacks, blue tarped shacks, and scattered herds of rambling goats.
Better to head into town for now.
So instead, take the high road, upper road, or Queen’s Drive out of the airport roundabout. It is all the same road, anyway. At the next roundabout, turn on Sir Howard Cooke, then through two roundabouts down to Alice Eldermire, then to the roundabout at Southern Cross, then turn on Sunset and proceed to the last complex on the right. In the last klick and a half, there are a dozen sleeping policemen for your driving pleasure. A dozen in,... a dozen out.
One of the benefits of living on the tip of a peninsula is that there is little through traffic. Yet, when the peninsula is largely landfill, it may end up as flat as ours, which leads to excessive speeders on the lightly traveled roadway, and the eventual placement of, what we call in the industry, “traffic calming devices”. The speed bumps do quite the opposite, annoying the hell into me, and I curse them daily. The Dogwagon has a stiff and poorly refined suspension, so I must cross each bump in first or second gear. Some of the neighbours though, with their Rovers, Lexi, and gold plated SUV’s, can afford to run the bumps at 80 kph and not feel a thing.
The resultant speed differential would be hazard enough, except that the road is also well used by the local driving schools. With their large red “L(ame)” mounted on the rear bumper, the instructors do not allow the students to exceed a forward velocity above idle. Three abreast is not uncommon, as I pass the learners and get passed simultaneously. The oncoming traffic may notice and pull left at the very least.
The bumps are a hassle, but one which will soon be eased. Only eased, mind you, as we are only moving four speed bumps down the road. Yet four speed bumps each way every day yields an almost three kilobump reduction in the next year.
We like our current apartment. For one, we live there now. As well, there is a great view of the marina and the hills between Bogue and Reading. Two pools, well landscaped, good security and quiet neighbors have great appeal. However, our landlord has not owned the place for six months, so it is probably time we stopped paying him and move on.
He told us seven or eight months ago, one month prior to lease renewal, that we would not be renewed. “Fine”, we said, “just give us six more months”. So, six months later, and we had yet to find a new place to house our guests. Our plan is to move to the complex next door. It is only a three bump reduction, but the apartment is nice.
We will still take it eventually, but only after the second segment of this project is underway. At that time, the current occupant, one of my coworkers, will move on to the next phase and a new place to live closer to the nexus. In typical Jamaican fashion, the start-up of Segment Two has been delayed,... again. Originally, it was to have started two years after Segment One started, and Segment Three two years after that. Since each project was to have had a two year duration, the Segment One staff was to have followed the work across the island, leaving dust and pristine asphalt in their wake.
But that was not to be. By the original schedule, this segment was to have been completed eighty days after the wife and I got to the island, and will probably take five years to complete. It is no surprise that further segments are also delayed. For the most part, the foreign funding folks saw the problems we had here with relocations and utilities and threatened to withhold the money until the problems were resolved. In addition, the apparent low bidder for Segment Two was declared naughty, so there was much last minute contract wrangling.
So we wait and wait for an apartment which fails to materialize and we get left inside a thirty cubit lurch. We had looked for housing out of the neighborhood, but the downside of those residences was that they were out of the neighborhood, and the Freeport peninsula really is the most western place to live in Montego Bay. ...and twelve speed bumps and three gatehouses go far in reducing the general riff raff quotient.
So, with just a couple weeks until we would be out on the street, our penultimate plans failing, and I resolve myself to find a place to live for the next quarter by nightfall, and we do, and we move in two days. This will give me little time to repair the major damage in the current place and to steal the fixtures.
Oh, our current contract with the Company has expired, but we will re-up.
How could we not? It be life in the tropics, mon.
Cazart! Read More......
2001-05-23
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......
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......
2001-05-09
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......
“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......
2001-05-02
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......
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......
2001-04-08
It’s Read - It Reaches
As in the States, I try to read a newspaper every day, just to keep up with things. In a new (or foreign, if you will) place, it is a good way to learn what issues are important there, in both a local and global sense. Politics, of course, are very important here, and the papers each have their own opinions on the subject.
My daily read is the Gleaner, one of the oldest English dailies in the hemisphere (from 1834) and the preeminent national newspaper. Preeminent in their eye, at least. Full page ads with progressively larger cartoon newspapers routinely inform me that Gleaner readership far surpasses the readership of the other national daily, the Observer. The Observer, then, responds that they are the best read tabloid on the island, using the same data and lame cartoon newspaper graphics as the Gleaner ads. Both are correct, as the Observer is in tabloid format and the Gleaner is in the,... uh,... non-tabloid format.
Somewhat like the Tribune and the Sun Times, but only in that one is in the tabloid format and the other is in the,... uh,... non-tabloid format. I guess they are all English language dailies, as well,... sort of. The local rags oftentimes print statements made by locals in Patois.
Imagine if your local paper did the same with thick-accented eastern Europeans, or even thick accented-eastern United State-ians, in an attempt to express, in type, every lisp and slur and dropped consonant and deeply guttural G. Sometimes, I just assume that whatever statement was being made was pithy and appropriate and move on to the cricket scores.
And of course, the local papers are a great way to read about the latest match, to whit: “... and was caught by Jacobs for a well played 35. That was 120 for four, and when the left-handed Lance Kluesner went back, attempted to pull McGarrell and was leg before wicket at 126 for five, when Mark Boucher swung at McGarrell and was caught by Christopher Gayle at mid-on at 136 for six and when Gibbs, sweeping at offspinner Hooper, was brilliantly caught by Jacobs for 85 at 148 for seven after smashing two sixes and stroking 12 fours, South Africa were again in trouble.”
Then again, if Cricket is not your game, there is always netball.
Each of the two major papers has their own style; the Gleaner is a bit stodgier, with adequate doses of international and regional news. It rips on German men with impudence. The Observer is more flash, and keeps more of its focus on local events. Both cover the sensational - police murdered, police murders, large drug arrests, failed pyramid schemes, the latest in cassava based products - the usual. Both cover the darker aspects of Jamaican life as well. For example, a few recent Gleaner headlines:
• “More power cuts - JPSCo’s reserve margin eroded”
• “Fire sparks power cuts - Old Harbour Bay generator damaged”
• “Illegal wires down - JPSCo disconnects unregistered users” “No arrests were reported and some residents mounted new connections as soon as the JPSCo team left the area.”
• “Power cuts wreak havoc - Manufacturers said hardest hit” They say that the manufacturers were hit the hardest.
• “More dark times ahead”
Unfortunately, there is rarely a day when there is not a crisis of some sort. The power outages and rolling blackouts is just one of the current problems. A looming and increasingly larger problem at that.
Before we came down, we were informed that the power supply was less than stable. At home in Montego Bay, the power used to flash every day or so. You reset the microwave clock. So what.
At the highway camp, we got used to the power flashing a couple of times a week. Every few weeks, the power would be down for a few minutes or more. Rare was the time when outages would exceed an hour, and those occurrences were usually caused by the contractor’s jury-rigged internal distribution system, implemented by his poorly trained electricians.
We were at an agricultural show a few weeks ago (more on the order of the Lucas County Fair than the Iowa State Fair). It was mid-day or so, and an electrician was installing additional lighting over one of the green spaces. The additional lighting was a single halogen bulb, screwed into the most rudimentary of sockets, and attached to two loose wires. Up the shaky ladder he scrambled, propped against the power pole, then made the connections direct to the exposed feed wires, and left the bulb hanging. Since the light went on, and the electrician was not thrown to the ground in a shower of sparks, the installation was a success.
Sure, the electricians are saying, this is a common technique for temporary lighting. Sure, I am saying, but this was probably not temporary. Bare wires are everywhere, twisted connections left exposed to the elements, twelve gauge interior cable running hundreds and hundreds of meters up into the hills to feed a half dozen houses. Once, a shade tree mechanic tried to jump start the Dogwagon with a ratty old length of lamp cord.
It really comes as no surprise that there are occasional outages.
The first blackout we experienced happened months ago, just as we were finishing a meal at one of the restaurants on the Strip. We paid our bill in the dark, found the van, and joined the largest traffic jam I have ever seen here, as everyone else in Montego Bay left wherever dark place they were at simultaneously. Aggravating the situation was a disabled truck blocking half of the bridge over the Montego River. We had power at home by the time we got there. No problem.
This current spate of rolling blackouts, “power shedding” to the power company, are more of an annoyance. They occur a couple of times a week for a couple of hours and would not be necessary if only the equipment would have been maintained. Not surprising, as maintenance is the first to go when budgets are tight.
Unfortunately, budgets in all sectors have been tight here for decades.
Without upkeep, things fall apart. Some days, you can almost see it happening.
Unless there is a blackout. Read More......
My daily read is the Gleaner, one of the oldest English dailies in the hemisphere (from 1834) and the preeminent national newspaper. Preeminent in their eye, at least. Full page ads with progressively larger cartoon newspapers routinely inform me that Gleaner readership far surpasses the readership of the other national daily, the Observer. The Observer, then, responds that they are the best read tabloid on the island, using the same data and lame cartoon newspaper graphics as the Gleaner ads. Both are correct, as the Observer is in tabloid format and the Gleaner is in the,... uh,... non-tabloid format.
Somewhat like the Tribune and the Sun Times, but only in that one is in the tabloid format and the other is in the,... uh,... non-tabloid format. I guess they are all English language dailies, as well,... sort of. The local rags oftentimes print statements made by locals in Patois.
Imagine if your local paper did the same with thick-accented eastern Europeans, or even thick accented-eastern United State-ians, in an attempt to express, in type, every lisp and slur and dropped consonant and deeply guttural G. Sometimes, I just assume that whatever statement was being made was pithy and appropriate and move on to the cricket scores.
And of course, the local papers are a great way to read about the latest match, to whit: “... and was caught by Jacobs for a well played 35. That was 120 for four, and when the left-handed Lance Kluesner went back, attempted to pull McGarrell and was leg before wicket at 126 for five, when Mark Boucher swung at McGarrell and was caught by Christopher Gayle at mid-on at 136 for six and when Gibbs, sweeping at offspinner Hooper, was brilliantly caught by Jacobs for 85 at 148 for seven after smashing two sixes and stroking 12 fours, South Africa were again in trouble.”
Then again, if Cricket is not your game, there is always netball.
Each of the two major papers has their own style; the Gleaner is a bit stodgier, with adequate doses of international and regional news. It rips on German men with impudence. The Observer is more flash, and keeps more of its focus on local events. Both cover the sensational - police murdered, police murders, large drug arrests, failed pyramid schemes, the latest in cassava based products - the usual. Both cover the darker aspects of Jamaican life as well. For example, a few recent Gleaner headlines:
• “More power cuts - JPSCo’s reserve margin eroded”
• “Fire sparks power cuts - Old Harbour Bay generator damaged”
• “Illegal wires down - JPSCo disconnects unregistered users” “No arrests were reported and some residents mounted new connections as soon as the JPSCo team left the area.”
• “Power cuts wreak havoc - Manufacturers said hardest hit” They say that the manufacturers were hit the hardest.
• “More dark times ahead”
Unfortunately, there is rarely a day when there is not a crisis of some sort. The power outages and rolling blackouts is just one of the current problems. A looming and increasingly larger problem at that.
Before we came down, we were informed that the power supply was less than stable. At home in Montego Bay, the power used to flash every day or so. You reset the microwave clock. So what.
At the highway camp, we got used to the power flashing a couple of times a week. Every few weeks, the power would be down for a few minutes or more. Rare was the time when outages would exceed an hour, and those occurrences were usually caused by the contractor’s jury-rigged internal distribution system, implemented by his poorly trained electricians.
We were at an agricultural show a few weeks ago (more on the order of the Lucas County Fair than the Iowa State Fair). It was mid-day or so, and an electrician was installing additional lighting over one of the green spaces. The additional lighting was a single halogen bulb, screwed into the most rudimentary of sockets, and attached to two loose wires. Up the shaky ladder he scrambled, propped against the power pole, then made the connections direct to the exposed feed wires, and left the bulb hanging. Since the light went on, and the electrician was not thrown to the ground in a shower of sparks, the installation was a success.
Sure, the electricians are saying, this is a common technique for temporary lighting. Sure, I am saying, but this was probably not temporary. Bare wires are everywhere, twisted connections left exposed to the elements, twelve gauge interior cable running hundreds and hundreds of meters up into the hills to feed a half dozen houses. Once, a shade tree mechanic tried to jump start the Dogwagon with a ratty old length of lamp cord.
It really comes as no surprise that there are occasional outages.
The first blackout we experienced happened months ago, just as we were finishing a meal at one of the restaurants on the Strip. We paid our bill in the dark, found the van, and joined the largest traffic jam I have ever seen here, as everyone else in Montego Bay left wherever dark place they were at simultaneously. Aggravating the situation was a disabled truck blocking half of the bridge over the Montego River. We had power at home by the time we got there. No problem.
This current spate of rolling blackouts, “power shedding” to the power company, are more of an annoyance. They occur a couple of times a week for a couple of hours and would not be necessary if only the equipment would have been maintained. Not surprising, as maintenance is the first to go when budgets are tight.
Unfortunately, budgets in all sectors have been tight here for decades.
Without upkeep, things fall apart. Some days, you can almost see it happening.
Unless there is a blackout. Read More......
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