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Published: November 29th 2007
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Quintessential Jamaica
Our room key and a bit of local culture. We could not have paid for this view of Kingston harbor that we have right now (see picture). Atop a dilapidated building in the throes of a city we've been repeatedly "warned" about, I can't help but reflect on the first few days of our stay here in Jamaica. I am amazed to the point of speechlessness at how much culture is in this city, when all I expected were resorts.
Getting around in Jamaica is an adventure in and of itself. Our accommodations have placed us smack dab in the middle of nothing. Too far from Kingston to "wander", too far from the Blue Mountains to "hike" we surrounded by a very pretty ocean of banality—and sharks swim the waters between us and Kingston. We are hungry, but all the hostel has are bananas and beer. We enlist the services of the hostel’s driver, a nice elderly old Jamaican whose patois is so thick that the hostel's "security" (who doesn’t look a day over 15) has to translate every time. $500 Jamaican to get to New Kingston doesn’t seem like a bad price.
New Kingston
New Kingston is standard. Plenty of banks and fast food restaurants are within walking distance. This allows two weary travelers to easily find the basics while "breaking in" to the new locale. Two fried chicken dinners from Tastee's and we're ready to explore--unfortunately we're in New Kingston, a bland, featureless expanse of banks and American fast-food chains.
Jamaica does not have much of an infrastructure. Things happen almost entirely through the forces of coincidence and negotiation. Thus, as we begin walking the 5 kilometers or so to Kingston, we are accosted by what we can only assume is a bus. $50J a piece and we're on the super-crowded downtown express. It was only later that we would find that
enterprising Jamaicans operate this "private" bus service. When people arrive at a bus station, they may get a real, "City of Kingston" bus. More often, however, minibusses will pull up to the stops and shuffle people on. I imagine the city bus is cheaper, but at $0.75 USD, I can't complain. In the cramped quarters, I'm glad to learn that Jamaicans are very hygienic.
The landscape of Kingston is fascinating. Any square inch of street that can accommodate commerce, will. In some instances, old railcars serve as barbershops. Plywood, corrugated tin, and spraypaint alight the downtown scene like a ghetto version of "Times Square". Traffic is like a mobile game of musical chairs, with always one too many vehicles than there are lanes. Thankfully the minibus drivers are tenacious, not only navigating this twisted mess but also finding time to pull over and cram more people into the overcrowded bus. In no time we finally see a few tall buildings--the only indication yet that we're in some kind of downtown.
The first bar we found was interesting. A few drinks was all it took for me to ask about the throng of people gathered around a man sitting and shuffling papers. "When people need pa'pers signed, 'de come to 'im," the bartender says, "you know… b'rt cert'ifi'cates, b'ank papers..." I was so appreciative of her answer that I didn't have the heart to tell the truth: no, I don't know why people come to a bar to get official documents "signed". I can only imagine that "signed" meant "notarized" but it didn't explain why his office was in a bar. We enjoyed $100 (1.50) Red Stripes and $60 rum shots while a desperate crowd waited--drinkless--to get all manner of paperwork reviewed.
With good food in our bellies and a decent buzz in our skulls, we were ready to explore. We wanted to see the water and we wanted to get another drink, but Kingston didn't seem to be designed with an easy-to-use cultural-exploration interface so often pictured in "Sandals" ads. We picked up beers from a street vendor. "Buy one for me?" the vendor asked. It seemed so audacious that I obliged, under the assumption that it was a cultural thing. We wandered down the shores of the harbor, taking only light notice of the storm that was rolling in. A bum says something to us, and we ignore him. The harbor is clearing, and we begin to capture pictures of the storm rolling in. Another homeless looking man approaches us, but instead of begging for money he asks a question. "Was that guy bothering you?" As the rain rolls in, he introduces himself as “Paul”. Thus began our exploration into Jamaican culture.
The means by which we found our way atop this rundown restaurant can be counted among the echelon of our "best" stories. It is a locked building, owned by the city--these VIP accommodations come courtesy of this Jamaican deportee and "gardener" of the park along Kingston Harbor. He lived in New York, but was deported 15 years ago for trying to help smuggle 20 pounds of Marijuana from Mexico. I don't want to believe him when he says the city has him taking care of the grass and shrubs, in exchange for the keys to some abandoned buildings. It seems implausible, until he unlocks the door to the run-down restaurant. He shows us the small, abandoned room where he sleeps, then leads us upstairs to the roof.
We spent well over two hours with Paul. The whole time I was waiting for the meal line, the point where they all finally say, "so, can you help me out?" He responded to my queries about Jamaica, about why there's all this violence we were warned about. He talked about the prices of things, how weed was $50J for a dimebag ($0.75 USD) around here, but the locals travel to Westmoreland to get theirs. He told us about how he hopes to go back to the States again soon; he's been good for 15 years and usually--he says--they Jamaican government will reward good behavior after 10. We sat and had a beer with him and enjoyed a gray afternoon. My skepticism would not be dignified with a validation. When we parted ways, I forced a couple hundred bucks on him--enough for one more beer.
As we stepped away, I was aghast. My wallet was still in place, no money had been stolen, and I have been given the great gift of Jamaica for what amounted to about $2 USD. I lamented to my wife that there had to be some ruse, something that we had managed to foil and in her eternal wisdom she said something that put it all into perspective: "He just seemed lonely to me. I mean, your father helps out tourists in New Orleans free of charge." For all that I had learned about Jamaica, perhaps what I'd learned most was how far gone I was from believing in my fellow man.
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