Lizard

One of my favorite Wailer tunes is “Maga Dog”, back when Bob was not yet Marley, but still just another Wailing Wailer with Peter and Bunny. The chorus being, “Fi sorry fe maga dog, turn roun’ bite you - arf, arf.” In a more standard English, this translates roughly to “do not feel compassion for nor show charity to the dregs of society, as they will not appreciate what you have done, and oftentimes scorn you for your efforts - arf, arf.”

This is an old Jamaican adage, which seems to express an intolerance of those who are poor. Strange in a place where most of the population is poor. Everyone is out for himself or herself, though. The communists still resident to the north, scattered through the island’s history, and inherent in the locally popular religious teachings must not have got their message to stick - at least the part about the redistribution according to need.

We have ample opportunities to demonstrate charity and compassion. There are beggars at the grocery store, at the market, and at the shops, who may get to eat today if you would only give them twenty dollars. There are the vendors in their rickety shacks, in town and along the country roads, who may get to send their pickneys to school if you would only buy something from them today. There are the people on the road begging rides to wherever, who may get to their jobs or interviews on time today, or may get to bring their goods to market, or get to the doctor in town, if you would only stop and give them a lift.

Unless you are staying at one of the all-inclusive resorts, where everything is provided for you and you never have to leave the compound, there is no escaping the poor realities of the Third World. People do live in shacks. People do dress in rags. Maga dog do eat garbage from piles on the street. Sometimes, this can get a bit thick. But what can you do?

First, try to become desensitized to the reality that folks are poor. Despite the fact that we are, without a doubt, comparatively fabulously wealthy, there is no way that we could help them all and single-handedly raise the standard of living of all Jamaicans. We are a very small drop in a very large bucket. I have neither the patience nor resources for this task.

Second, choose your battles. While we cannot lift up Jamaica, we can align ourselves with a few, and try to make a difference with those. We tip well our usual wait staff. We buy more fruits, vegetables and juices than we can comfortably consume from our usual vendors. We have the newspaper lady keep the change and buy a ticket for every fund raising organization that she hawks with the news. That sort of thing.

We have yet to be bitten, but perhaps because the maga dog is still ruminating on the scraps he has been given. Maybe he will get rabies and attack later. Maybe he will choke.

On that note,...

I was only a few chains from home when I glimpsed the tip of the lizard’s tail over the nose of the Dogwagon. It took me a few seconds to process the information, and by that time he was making his way along the ridge between bonnet and fender towards the cab. He was one of the scaly and mottled brown varieties, some 12-15 centimeters in length.

I have often times watched ants on my windscreen as I accelerate down the road, wondering when the combined forces working against them would overwhelm the natural stickum on their feet. Now, watching the lizard move towards me, I wondered when he would succumb to the hazards of this new environment and be thrown from his hitched ride. Would the fall cause him any degree of damage? Should I care about a lizard?

As he continued to move towards the cab, I was plucked from my detached reverie regarding the future of this beast by the realization that, as he was advancing along the fender, he was getting closer to me. His line of travel was one which would lead him in short order to my open window. I could not close this window, as my cup holder was lodged over the sill and to move it would cause me to spill my scalding morning tea.

As much as I appreciate, and even enjoy, the occasional company of lizards (for insect control, they are unsurpassed), extremely close company with them is not my usual preference. I can hear the pro-lizard factions complaining already - “Lizards are just misunderstood”, they will whine, “they make wonderful, loving pets, and eat very little, and they are so very cute.” Hey, I understand that they are lizards, and I also understand that I do not want them loose in my vehicle. “But, but, but,....”

Okay. I am driving. There is a lizard on the hood. The lizard wants to join me for the drive.

I had seconds to act and intercept, and closing the window did not seem to be a viable option. If the lizard were to enter the cab, he could interfere with my driving - I could smash him under the clutch pedal, he could demand to be taken to Flankers, he could slash furiously at my unprotected face and throat with his razor-sharp tail and talons, or perhaps just sniff at me with his forked tongue.

While any major disruption was unlikely, I still thought it best to pull over and somehow convince this reptile to take to the ground and walk the rest of the way. My hope was that this would result in the best solution for the both of us. Happy with my plan, I activated my indicator, veered to the verge, brought the Dogwagon to a halt, and got out to deal with my little problem.

A few nudges to his lizard butt and he jumped to the pavement, turned to the right, ran his slinky lizard run out to the roadway centerline, and was squished by a passing Mitsubishi.

Fi sorry fe maga dog, turn roun’ get mash up.

Arf. Arf. Read More......

Lambs Wool

Someone tried to kill a friend of mine two weeks ago. Actually, it was a group of someones, and they were originally trying to kill my friend’s son, when my friend intervened.

Jason is a fruit vendor and Rastafarian. I would see him a couple of times a week for banana, pineapple, or whatever strange and exotic plants he would foist upon my curious palette. Jason has a son, eighteen, who is a menace to society, has seen his share of the Jamaican reform system, and has a crack cocaine habit. Recently, the babymother decided that she had lived long enough with the hassle of Junior, so she sent him to live with the babyfather, Jason.

Shortly after his arrival, the police paid a courtesy call on Jason’s fruit stand/home, where they informed him that Junior was indeed a menace, and that they may have to kill him someday. The local constabularies cannot take it upon themselves to pursue simple traffic violations, but they can make death threats. It is this high level of professionalism which makes them feared and respected island wide,... or is it just feared.

Jason however was undeterred (as a Rasta, he is more accustomed to police harassment than the average Jamaican) and put his son to work - tending the orchards, harvesting, and selling the fruit. His is not a large scale operation by any stretch of the imagination. It may gross JA $500 on a good day. But expenses are low, and there is plenty of fruit to eat, so Jason took in Junior to give him some good (good and late) father-son quality time and one last ditch attempt at an education in ethics.

I am sure it is tough to play second banana to crack. More so to watch your glass-eyed son head across the road with every dollar he earns to be summarily wasted (pick your meaning) at the Dwarf Factory, (a.k.a. your friendly neighborhood crack house). Actually, it is more of a crack shack, disguised as a beer shack, but with a sign out front proclaiming it to be some type of little people manufactory. Methinks the sign does not lie.

I just cannot understand what the appeal of crack could possibly be, especially to a people living on a tropical island with huge amounts of some of the best marijuana in the world (they say), at Third World prices (to boot). Apparently, just having ready access to cheap, ample, and potent herb did not appeal to Junior, who had been rolling his spliffs spiked with crack. How nice,... mellow and the extreme opposite of mellow in one easy conveyance. Like a beer and espresso boilermaker, only a lot more psychotic.

Somehow, on a recent Wednesday evening, there developed a disagreement between the crack dealers or crack users and an increasingly paranoid Junior crackhead. Shortly thereafter, an argument ensued, and the machetes came out for the hacking.

In a poor country like Jamaica, the general population has no access to Turner Classic Movies. As such, these fighters had no proper education in the sort of swash buckling, epee wielding, clever witticism spewing sort of Errol Flynn type sword fighting to which we, as civilized (koff) personages, have become accustomed and in which we would no doubt engage if pushed to such an act. Instead, rusty machetes are used for close quarter hacking.

Hack is the operative word. A machete is foremost a gardening tool, crudely sharpened on a rock. A machete duel is more like clubbing your neighbor with a Garden Weasel than it is some epic battle from Savage Sword of Conan.

Seeing his son attacked and bloodied, and apparently unfazed by a similar incident years ago that cost him part of a foot, Jason armed himself and waded into the fray, only to be set upon by the attackers. They were rescued by a couple of passing Rastafari, who dragged Jason and son into their car and sped them to the hospital, both to be treated for severe head wounds. Of course, attempted murderers then turned successful thieves, and stole everything Jason owned, including his livelihood, as there is little hope that he will be able to safely resume business across the road from the Dwarf Factory.

I see Jamaica mostly in the light of day. At night, we stick to the main roads, and only visit locations that we know to be tourist friendly (i.e., safe). The tourists are very rarely killed. Probably less than half of a percent of the 900-1000 people who will be murdered here this year will be visitors. The other 99.5 percent will be shot or hacked or clubbed or stoned to death by their fellow man, out of view of the tourist, who would rather not know about such things.

It is expected that the longer I live here, and the closer I get to the place, the further I will venture, and the more I will associate with locals. This acclamation will actually make me less safe. I used to think that it was the naive tourists who would be the target, but that has changed. I guess it may be better to wear a loud flowered shirt with a waterproof disposable camera hanging around my neck than it is to try to live closer to the people who make this island their home.

The doctors patched Junior’s scull back together, but I doubt they gave him any more brains in the process, so maybe the police will eventually get their chance to kill him. As Jason does not have a home or business anymore, kicking Junior out of the house is moot, and about two weeks too late. Jason receive untold stitches to his noggin, may lose an eye, and could end up with one of those gnarly full-head vertical scars, provided that he survives his stay in the hospital. I am trying to watch more Errol Flynn, and will keep quite sharp the machetes kept at the front door and under the seat of the van.

In all, big trouble in a little paradise is unsurprising. Do the wolves lay with the lions? No. Just as snakes eat rodents, mongeese eat snakes, and eagles eat mongeese, wolves will eat lamb. Things eat. Things get eaten.

I doubt, though, that any Eden ever had crack smoking lambs consuming fraternal shish-kabob. Read More......

Ginnegogs

I am sure that somebody, at some time or another, prattled on about the evils of cynicism. That it was self defeating. That it did more harm than good. That it made people sad and cry. That it tends to bring into doubt the sincerity of others.
Case in point - the North Coast Highway.

As of today, it looks as if the project will continue for a while. It even appears as if the Contractor will remain as the contractor of record, and that the Company will remain as the Engineer’s Representative,... for a while. Unfortunately, the Jamaican project director has been replaced by a man who is in so tight with the contractor that it has squeezed all suitable similes right out of my head.

As the story goes, the Contractor was going to walk off of the job. He would abandon his camp, his equipment, his labor, and his project, collect his cache of Jamaican souvenirs and trinkets and hop a plane to the far corners of the earth, never to be seen again. But he had a second thought, prompted by his meetings with an American claims resolution expert. This claims expert convinced the contractor that there was probably money to be made, if they only were to pursue it in the right manner. The total shut down of operations two months ago was a good start. It worked like a rabbit punch to the heads of state, stunning them, forcing the government to realize their lack of a suitable defensive position, and setting the stage for the next round of the fight.

To rescue the project, the government quickly assembled what we jokingly call their “Dream Team”, as in, “nightmarish”. This team is definitely not a group of seasoned professionals against whom all challengers will be summarily dispersed. It consists instead of an attorney, an engineer, and a bureaucrat, none of whom has a history with the Works. At the risk of future lawsuits, I will not slander the attorney.

The engineer is an owner of one of the largest engineering consultancies on the island, who probably feels that he should be doing the construction management work that my firm is now doing, and may be pissed at us for Jah knows what other reasons.

The bureaucrat is a former permanent secretary to the Ministry, who (I hear) has been in the recent (and perhaps current) employ of one of the larger contractors on the island, a contractor who stands to receive much of the work to remain, and whose owner and namesake is currently a consultant to the Contractor. This bureaucrat is the new project director, and our new Client representative.

After enacting the above jobs program, the government (the Right Honourable P.J. Patterson, actually) demanded that the Contractor’s ginnegogs report to the island immediately to begin negotiations. The contractor ignored the mandate, and took his time to arrive. By the time the Korean wheels got to Kingston, they had set the tone and pace of what was to come. Soon thereafter, we received a call from our President, asking why we did not show up at the negotiations. The only response we could give him was the obvious one, that we were never invited. It seems way more than odd that an owner would enter into any negotiations with a wily or inept (maybe both) contractor without the benefit of bringing with him someone with experience on the project.

Someone (the current permanent secretary) may have begun to realize this, right before calling our president. Anyway, we called the bureaucrat to tell him we were coming for the second day of talks, and could only reach his secretary, who was slightly less than a fount of useful information. Assuming that we were still expected, we hopped a Jamaica Express flight the next morning and reported to Kingston, suitcases in tow, for these negotiations could take days. Not surprisingly, we had yet to be informed as to where the meetings would be held, or at what time, only that our president said that we should be there. In response, we went to a nice restaurant and had a long breakfast.

After we had washed down the ackee and saltfish, callaloo, yam and plantain with a couple of liters of coffee, we instructed our driver to take us to the Minister’s office in New Kingston. Sporting our clip-on visitor’s badges, we worked our way through the labyrinth of cubicles and desks piled high with unprocessed paperwork, until we stumbled across the bureaucrat, who directed us to an unused office. He returned with an American who turned out to be the Korean’s claim resolution expert.

We spoke for a half hour or so, in very general terms regarding project progress, problems, reasons for delays, and potential solutions. Then we were excused, and allowed to return to Montego Bay. We collected our bags and had our driver take us back to Tinson Pen, the tiny commuter aerodrome next to Kingston harbor.

Heavy rain had fallen for much of the morning. Rain still threatened, and dark storm clouds still clustered about in the mountains over Kingston. As soon as the thirty seat, top winged turbo-prop left the tarmac, I knew that I would not be enjoying the forthcoming flight. The pilot seemed to have little control over his rudder, and we yawed and yawed, back and forth, forth and back. Immediately after takeoff, we entered heavy turbulence, which continued through to Montego Bay. Beverage service was canceled. It was the worst air experience of my life.

Although the flight was only thirty-five minutes in duration, it felt much longer, and I deplaned soaked in a cold sweat and weak at the knees. It would take the rest of the day and a few stiff drinks, a couple of beers, a nice bottle of Chilean merlot, and a very tasty Italian meal to recover.

There is no analogy here. It was just an awful plane ride.

Later in the day, negotiations were completed, and the Government of Jamaica gave away the proverbial farm. They still need someone to manage the livestock, so to speak, so our positions are secure for the time being. Read More......

As So Much Cattle

The pillar of thick black smoke that rose above the highway camp, although completely unexpected, was unsurprising to me as I rounded one of the many bends between Tryall and the near side of Sandy Bay. At this point, I was still nine kilometers from the end of my morning commute, and at the first location where I could spy the thirty meter tall cement tower and the balance of the compound, on the point of land the maps designate simply as Pointe.

Sure, I was unsurprised (that is my island mantra, “I’m not surprised”), yet I was mildly disturbed. If the camp were to be burned to the ground, the day’s efforts would become more challenging. While the machines get backed up regularly, the paper records would certainly be damaged, and to recreate three years of project documentation would be just slightly more than annoying.

With each bend along the coast, I was a little nearer to the office, and I could get another brief glimpse of the goings on at Pointe. The plume of smoke was still rising, and my irk was turning to ire. Something like this was sure to be intentional, and I quickly ran down the list of suspects.

Top of the list,... the contractor. He would not be the first one to torch a poorly performing project. He certainly had unfettered access to the site. He was well aware of what would burn. He had little to gain by continuing his efforts here.
Of course, labor had to be disgruntled by the way they were let go, with little warning and no future prospects. They, too, knew what would burn, and site access was as easy as bribing one of the underpaid guards at the gate. Hell, storming the gates would not be far fetched, considering previous mob actions associated with this project.

Third on the list, the JLP (Jamaica Labour Party). If this project fails, they are one step closer to regaining control of the government, as the inability to construct the highway would be (and already is) a huge embarrassment to the current party in power, the PNP (Peoples National Party). Considering the level of ultra-violence that surrounds the national elections on their five year cycles, and the rapidly diminishing popularity of the JLP, I would not put it past the party irregulars to resort to such flamboyant tactics.

With each kilometer, the Dogwagon seemed to squeak and rattle with a greater sense of urgency. I have had projects go down in flames before, but it was always in a figurative sense. If this one were to go up in literal flames, I wanted pictures. I knew that, once I made it through the cut up the hill on the west side of Mosquito Cove, I would be able to see the entire compound, and could start planning my photo locations.

But when I got to that point, the angle of the smoke was not quite right. While still rising from the center of the compound, it seemed to be a little in front of where the flammables were supposed to be. The plume seemed too small as well; not nearly the magnitude of smoke that I imagined would be spewing from a Navy Surplus triple-wide engulfed in a tropical conflagration.

Less than half a klick from the gate, I located the object of such concern and imagination. Just another flaming cow. The second this month. I guess there would be a day’s work after all.

For a variety of reasons, local beef prices are depressed. I have heard that there is a(n unfounded) fear of mad cow disease pervasive here. While this may account for some of the lack of demand, the fact that there have been absolutely zero reported cases of angry cows makes me think that there are other factors involved.
If I had to speculate, I would say that the reason for the low demand for beef is that the local beef tastes really bad.

As there are no expansive grain farms on Jamaica, grain which could be fed to these cattle, many of the beasts are free range, living off whatever scrub they can forage. This results in a steak with little fat whatsoever, and with no difference in taste or texture from the inside of the cow to the outside. There are large ranches on the south coast, where cane waste is sometimes used as a feed supplement, but we do not see that beef on this side of the island.

On the north coast, free range is almost an understatement. Unpenned cattle are everywhere, crossing the roads in the country in small groups, cow/calf combinations on the shoulders, entire herds sleeping on the beach in Sandy Bay or in the middle of the Freeport roundabout. It is a wonderment that more of them do not meet their fates at the front ends of Ladas.

There are government pounds, where the aforementioned wayward bovines, once rounded up, are detained until such time as their owners come to bail them out. However, I have heard that a few weeks' charge of room and board for a cow quickly surpass its value, so farmers do not pay the ransom, the pounds stay full, and no further cows are detained.

The value of cattle is so low that it makes no economic sense to even repair the pasture fences. The cattle roam free, and eventually end up on the roads, where they spend the nights sleeping on the asphalt, which still radiates heat from the day before, and where they occasionally meet their demise as 500 kilo hood ornaments on the ubiquitous Russian sedans.

As in the States, it usually falls on the public works people to clean up the roadkill carcasses. With limited resources, the public works departments here are a bit more, how shall we say,... creative. Small beasts are usually left to the ravages of traffic and, once suitably tenderized, carrion. Mid-sized dead things are scooped up if in town, or tossed into the bush if in the country. Cows are big animals, and large equipment and disposal sites are scarce, so they usually get pushed to the shoulder, covered with four to six old radial tires, doused with diesel fuel, and set afire.

The column of smoke I had witnessed that morning was not caused by malice, but was performed as a public health service. On my commute the next day I saw only a scorched patch of earth, a big charred pelvis, and a twisted pile of steel belts where the barbeque had been.

The project was in the same state of uncertainty as it had been the morning before.

Not quite a large dead thing yet, but sleeping on the highway was a move in that direction. Better have a couple of tires around, just in case. Read More......

Project Status

Even with the project stalled, stopped on the shoulder, transmission in park, headlights dimmed, emergency brake engaged, the one working indicator flashing, bonnet raised, white rag tied to the car pole, left front tire nothing but scattered steel belts since he drove the damn thing for the last seventeen kilometers on a flat, rim destroyed, no spare, out of washer fluid, driver leaning on the fender sucking his last Marlboro down to the filter, pissed off passengers sitting on the right-of-way fence having spent the last two hours unsuccessfully trying to flag down a ride while continually deriding the jerk of an operator who swore he had a good spare in the boot, twenty-three kilometers from the nearest town, sun is going down and everybody is tired and hungry,... we are still hosting weekly progress meetings with the Contractor.

Of course, after a couple of months of idleness, there is no progress on which to report. We go through the motions, though, and the meetings give us regular opportunities to admonish what is left of the Korean project staff.

They kept a few employees here, to tidy up particularly messy areas, and to perform some remedial work. I have noticed that one of the Mr. Lees (“Bridge Lee”) is starting to look particularly shaggy, so I imagine that one of the Koreans to leave the island for home was the man who doubled as the barber. Besides Lee, there are three Indians and one more Korean, two Jamaicans in the office, and two Jamaicans as domestic help. Hardly enough to construct a seventy-one kilometer roadway project.

Not even enough to explain why they have stopped work.

Through this period, we have been trying to keep our staff busy with what little work we can invent, so that we do not have to lay them off and rehire them later. As such, they do very little, never quite completing an assigned task. To complete your work could make you redundant, so the fear of losing one’s job actually slows down the output. This is so anti-Capitalist.

Meanwhile, the government refuses to terminate the contractor. Sure, such action would be an annoyance, even politically unpopular, but I see no way that the Koreans will complete the work, even if we succumb to their ludicrous demands. Their first offer was to complete one quarter of the project length for a sum equal to the contracted amount to complete the entire project. In addition, they want immediate payment for all claims (real and imagined, documented or not) against the project equal to five times what any reasonable person could justify. Plus, they want half of this before they will even come to the negotiating table. As a result, we have a frustration surplus here of ample quantity to supply the needs of the entire Caricom.
Solution? We spent Sunday at an all-inclusive in Negril, adding shots of dark rum to the children’s drink menu while relaxing at the swim-up bar. Try the Boo Boo Special - orange juice, pineapple juice, strawberry syrup. Then add rum and a lime. Yum. Actually, I was already making these at home. Who would have thought that the pickneys would be drinking them too, sans rum and lime?

Now that you are beveraged,...

Dave has been down here for a spell. He has decided to call Jamaica the “Land of the Unfinished Concrete Shell”. And why not?

As you drive around the island, you notice numerous houses apparently under construction. Typically, the site will have been cleared, and the shell of the building will be erected and roofed. The exterior and interior walls of these houses are made of concrete block, occasionally reinforced and filled with concrete, then plastered with a cement grout. Utility services and conduits, all of thin walled PVC, are cast into the blockwork, to be sheared by any future differential settlement to which the house may someday be subjected. Once a concrete roof is in place, construction stops. The unfinished concrete shell can remain in place for years, until such time as the owner saves enough money to complete the project.
Jamaica is a poor country. Plagued by massive unemployment of the unemployable and fiscally irresponsible leadership. Any money that is available to lend is sold at usurious interest rates. To secure a mortgage when the cost of money is high and little likelihood that you will be employed next year is foolish anywhere, so Jamaicans build what they can when they can. It appears to me that the commitment to finish the project, er,.. house will not be made until the homeowner has the funds in pocket to complete the work.

If he were to come back with money enough to install just the fixtures, they would be stolen. Maybe just the windows? They would be stolen. Iron bars? Stolen. To secure the building, the homeowner must install fixtures, windows, iron bars, and whatever else is required to make the place livable, so that he can move in and guard his castle from the inside. I suppose he could hire someone to guard fixtures, windows, and iron bars, but what is to stop the guard from going halvsies with the t’iefs?

These half completed houses are everywhere. Combine them with the shells of structures abandoned after Gilbert hit in ‘88, and Dave may have stumbled across this month’s analogy. Let us beat on this dead horse and see who salutes. M’kay?
Lessee. The houses are the roadway, right? The houses are not done, and the road is not done either. In the end, nobody will care. Was it Dick Van Patton or Robert Fripp who said, “In the way that that it is that way that it is the way that it is.” Probably Fripp. This is Jamaica. Everyt’ing is everyt’ing. Analogy complete.
The glass half empty side of me agrees that nobody will care. Nobody will act.

There will be much talk, high level meetings, maybe some public demonstrations, but little direct action. To complete the project with the current contractor requires a contractor who wants to complete the project. We do not have that. They are bankrupt. Everybody knows that they are bankrupt, yet talks continue as if, somehow, the Contractor will find the capital to continue with the works. Ain’t gonna happen. At least, not that simply.

Option two - retender. This would involve finding someone else to complete the work. This would involve funding someone else to complete the work. This island will never see The Contractor’s low low crazy Earl prices again, nor can they extend their Japanese loan forever. Hence, the Jamaicans would need another boatload of cash. Ain’t gonna happen. At least, not that easily.

This road could be another unfinished concrete shell.

The glass half full guy knows that this will all change tomorrow. Read More......

Entrance

ENTRANCE INSTRUCTIONS (Clip and Save)

The airport authority dudes are trying to do some work at the Sangster International Airport, so the following could change without notice. A former employee of ours, who never mastered the need to develop project documentation, is now a consultant to this work. We wish them all the best. As a further disclaimer, I do not perform this actual procedure very often, so the text below is written based upon an increasingly distant memory.

Your plane will make a sweeping left turn as it approaches the north side of the island. Along the coast, you may see the scar to the landscape which is the North Coast Highway. This is why we are here, and how you get to visit at such reduced rates. You will see the road up close during the next week or so. Be on the lookout for the project camp site where I spend my days, with its jumble of buildings, trailers, materials stockpiles and concrete plants. Wave to the cows, who spend their days obstructing traffic.

Just prior to landing, you will pass over Montego Bay. There is a large hook shaped peninsula in its midst. There may even be a cruise ship docked at the pier there. At the end of the peninsula, there are twin, ten story, concrete towers. This is Sunset Beach, one of the overabundance of all-inclusive (all-exclusive) resorts, our neighbor and, for the purposes of this treatise, just a landmark. On the other side of the road, and at the end of the street, is the complex where we live, a group of five, two and three story apartments, with shake roofs, green awnings, and a couple of swimming pools. Do not bother waving, as we will already be at the airport.

During the final approach, you will pass the Hip Strip, boasting the town’s tourist restaurants and primary beaches, and fly directly over the reef where we often dive. Look for a white, ten meter craft with a blue canvas top, and wave to Rastafari Captain Wilbert, who takes us out to the dive sites.

Twenty seconds later (give or take a few), you will be on the ground. The terminal will be to your right (as are all the sites, so get seats on that side of the plane if you can) and the sea to your left. We will probably be up in the “Waving Gallery”, atop the main terminal, sucking down a morning Red Stripe, munching on a meat patty and taking in the sites and vistas. Once we see your plane, we will mosey down to the arrival area for our next wait, and probably another beer.

A short taxi later and you should be at the terminal itself. Eventually, the airport will have a half dozen sky bridges, to connect the planes to the terminal at the same elevation, but for now, a set of steps will be wheeled up to your plane and you can make your departure in the style of the politician, waving (or tripping, if President Ford was your mental image) your way down to the tarmac. This is one of those uniquely Third World experiences, so enjoy yourself. Try not to dawdle, or stop to take pictures from here, as the people behind you are in a hurry to get to where you should be going to in a hurry as well.

Lugging your carry-on, you will follow the crowd (make cattle sounds, just for fun) to a door leading into the terminal proper. In you go, then up a set of stairs, lugging your carry-on. As you walk down the corridor, you may be serenaded by some colorfully dressed “native” singers. They are generally under appreciated, especially since you and your fellow travelers spied the beach on the approach, and are probably in a hurry to get out of the airport and get baked, by both the rum and the sun.

First stop - the Immigration Hall. HALL (hol) n. [OE. heall] 3. A large room for gatherings, exhibits, etc. And gather you will, with everyone from your plane as well as every passenger from three or four other planes which seem to have arrived at the very same time as your flight.

This I cannot understand, as much as I rack my tiny brain. At most, there is a score of international flights into Montego Bay each day, yet they all seem to land during two or three small blocks of time. The result is almost interminable delays in processing the passengers. Well, that is your problem now, and something you can ponder as you wait with the others. You can also reflect on why baggage is called luggage, interchangeably.

Hopefully, you will not share a line with the drunks or worse, the forgetful or worst, those who did not fill out their forms while on the plane. My advice is to fill them out as soon as they are distributed by the sky waitress, then store them with your other travel documents for ease in retrieval. Be honest with the immigration forms, cheat a little on the customs forms.

As you approach the official, watch the other successful travelers, and do what they do. Wait behind the yellow line until it is your turn, then smile and greet him as you present your papers. Wait patiently and answer all of his questions until such time as you get a rubber stamp with its associated flourishes, signifying the end to this official transaction. Nothing is official in Jamaica without a rubber stamp, applied with all due authority.

Welcome to Jamaica.

With traveling companions in tow, head down the steps to the baggage retrieval carrousels and find your luggage. Do not bother with a cart, as the airport is about as large as Palwaukee. Next, head to the Customs booths to the left as you face them, the ones marked “Nothing to Declare”, and wait a wee bit more with the rest of the tourists. Once you get to the front of the line, approach, smile, present, and greet the official as before. Do not joke with this woman, however, as she can delay your entry, make your life miserable, and ultimately cause you to pay exorbitant duties on everything that you have been so kind as to mule into the country for us.

She will want a completed form, including the address of where you will be staying. If she asks, “What is in the bags”, tell her, “Clothing, toiletries, and personal items”. If she persists, offer “a few small gifts for our hosts”.

The worst that can happen is that you will have to change lines and pay the appropriate duties on the new stuff (or you could spend the night in a Jamaican prison, but it is one OR the other). For this reason, pack your bags in such a way that anything for us looks used. Not to say you need to beat up the Oatmeal Cream Pies (Jah forbid!), but excess packaging should be removed from whatever is on our list. If they question the food, it might be for certain “dietary restrictions” you have. There must be someone out there who needs large cans of green chiles to survive a vacation. Why not you?

Assuming the worst (the good worst, not that Jamaican prison worst), you can pay the fines, duties, and taxes with your Visa card. Under no circumstances should you pay this fee in local currency, for to do so would require that you visit the airport cambio, or currency exchange. They give rates sometimes 10-15% lower than what you can receive on the street. The best plan for the acquisition of spending cash is to use your Visa at one of the convenient Ugly Tellers (ABM/ATM’s) or to buy local cash from me, as I can usually get a very favorable rate through a money laundering scheme that I frequent.

Once through Customs, head for the double doors to the left. When you are through them, head to the double doors to the right which lead outside. Tell anyone who asks that you have already arranged for transportation. Most tourists turn left instead after the first set of doors and to the fleets of resort busses which park in a separate area adjacent to the terminal.

Scamper out the doors to the out-of-doors. Turn to the left. We will be the white people behind the red gate.

“How was the flight? Irie?”

“To Hi Lites, then, for beer.” Read More......

Longines

07:18 on a Tuesday.

Most of the traffic took the B8 up Long Hill Road to Anchovy and to the citrus plantations and Savannah La Mar beyond. The road is mostly empty now, and it opens up past Reading, and Don Topping starts another “Doo Wop Shopping” show on Radio Two (“your music and sports lifestyle station”). For the balance of the commute, as the tinny sounds of my underpowered radio blare the best of the Doo Woppers from decades past, I find it too easy to imagine that the music comes to me as new releases.

And the Dell-Vikings continue with their “...dum bee doo bee dum, wah wah wah waah”.
In the country, there is little to remind you of the year. Most rural buildings are of a typical zinc roofed construct, as they have been forever. Building materials have been recycled so much, I doubt if anyone really knows when that rusted roof or pitted wooden siding was first used. I suppose after the hurricane hits, you just rebuild with whatever has been blown onto your yard. Paint runs JA $250 a liter, so you do not see much of it being used. There are still a number of buildings with damage left over from Gilbert, the last hurricane. Unoccupied, they are like relics in a ghost town, or a town soon to be ghosted.

The people that I pass along the roadside, waiting for a lift or just waiting, are without period. A khaki schoolboy uniform (standard white blouse and school colored skirt for the girls) looks as modern today as it did in 1930. Even the working folks seem to be dressed out of time. The style is not quite now or then. The vendor’s pushcart has not seen a redesign in seventy years. Rasta hair is Rasta hair, whenever – dreads be dreads (or, more locally, “locks be locks”).

The road is still empty on Thursday morning, as it opens up again past Reading, and Don Topping starts another “Strike Up the Band” show on Radio Two (still “your music and sports lifestyle station”).

The Dogwagon spews thick, black, diesel fumes as it churns up the grade from Great River, and the view back across and towards Montego Bay looks exactly as it did when Ellington wrote the tune that is playing right now. From this distance, I cannot make out the individual buildings. I can only see a mass of structures trying their best to hold onto the steep slopes of the hills above town.

The road is without time. Generally constructed prior to the departure of the British and inadequately maintained, it reflects a standard long ago deemed inappropriate in the United States. No doubt, the time of construction was before the advent of excessive liability settlements, when you really did not need to have substantial clear zones, appropriate stopping sight distances, adequate guardrail, pavement marking or signage.

I share the road with the Ladas. Singularly, a car out of time. They are as abundant as the goats. Developed shortly after the development of the box, a design which appears unchanged over eons, Ladas somehow keep on going, despite the ravages of time and this highway. Old cars, old trucks, old bicycles are all cobbled together, and their owners try to get one more day out of them. Anything that looks new is an anomaly.

On this road, there is no regulatory information in the way of road furniture, and no traffic enforcement either. As such, there is a level of indiscipline and lawlessness on the highway that is reminiscent of some of the old biker flicks.
And it is not just the biker flicks, I suppose, but the total feel of this drive is like most any road film made in the fifties or sixties, and probably lots of war movies set in the Asian and Pacific theatres. With the right background music, Jamaica is a land without time. Sometimes, the high levels of dust during this current drought make the place look like it was filmed in black and white, or perhaps the Technicolor has just faded.

And I continue my commute, and try to tweak a little more thunder out of the Woody Herman tune.

A few weeks ago, I borrowed a friend's copy of the first 007 movie, Dr. No. The major part of it was filmed on the island in 19-long ago, as were many of the early Bonds. It seems that it could have been filmed here yesterday; so much looks and feels the same.

Jamaica has only been independent since 1962, and there is a strong colonial influence which remains here. As the wealthy foreigners, we are easily isolated from the daily life and scrapping existence of everyday Jamaicans. We spend our money at places too posh for the vast majority of the people who live here, and then we lock ourselves into our gated compounds at night, secure in the fact that the guards at the gate will keep the undesirables at bay..... just like it has always been.

Saturday morning, and Radio Two plays a mix of Motown and Disco. I can tell that today is going to be one of those get down boogie fever kind of days.

We play tennis on most weekends now, in a round robin format that, reduced of competition, is much more civilized. An ideal sport for the expatriate crowd. Tennis whites, gin and tonics, huzzahs all around, sophisticated humours with the embassy crowd. Well, not quite, but there is that air about the activity. Expatriates have been playing tennis here forever.

Despite the civility, it is still tennis in the Tropics, and the final game stalled on deuce for a quarter hour it seems, and I am hot and tired and leave a trail of sweat all the way home, where I crank the most recent Filter, brought back from the States the last time I was there.

And I look at my watch in that brief instance when the second hand is between ticks, and time has stopped altogether. Read More......