We moved to a house across the street for the final days of our stay here. We're on the ocean side now, our backyard being only a gate away from the beach. The gate is held to the posts with wraps of electrical wire, so use care when operating. This place is owned by a couple of Indian descent that live here in Jamaica. He works for a hugely popular Jamaican fruit beverage concern and she spends her time, evidently, decorating their vacation beach home as if it were the set of a 1967 Bollywood film. Brocade curtains block the light that gleams off the shiny floor tiles and threatens to bleach the crimson out of the vevleteen living room set. Any thing wood is lacquered and polished to a sheen typically reserved for mirrors. The overstuffed chair in our bedroom actually has one of those little cylinder shaped pillows, I call it a bunting pillow for some reason, with braided satiny ropes dangling off the welts. Somewhere along the way someone fell out of touch with the island vibe.
See that cool stairway going up to the rooftop deck? It's a deathtrap. You heard. In keeping with Jamaican custom, the top step, the "wow" step, the one you never look at because you're focusing on whatever you're about to see on the deck, is a full three inches taller than any of the others (with the possible exception of the third step from the bottom, but let's not confuse the issue). The reason for this custom is that math is hard. A skilled mason will size up a job by eye, decide he's going to create a certain number of steps, and then never deviate from that initial assessment until, when it's time for the last step, it may be as small a rise as 2 inches say, or a toe stubbingly tall 113/4 inches.
Sarah and I have definitely played the tourist role on this trip. I've always agonized over not wanting to feel like a tourist. To somehow display behavior that belies a savvy so undeniable as to fool the locals into thinking I am one of them. So what if I don't know the language. My tattered shorts and studied swagger should prove that I am worthy of acceptance into the tribe. As a result, I end up coming off like a visitor from mars that's just learning how to deal with things like clothing and gravity for the very first time. How liberating, then, to cast off any desire to be considered "cool" with the locals. It's a risk that exists only in my own neurotic brain. After all, we're not in one of the huge all-inclusives in Negril or Ochi. Our hosts have been very helpful in keeping us (me -I'm really the one at risk) out of danger, and I've done my best to heed their warnings. I haven't tried to mix with the crowd hanging around the bars in town, I haven't wandered aimlessly looking for adventure, I haven't sought a "genuine" island experience by spending hours out looking for the "magic" photo or shunning other white folks. I've been content to just let the time pass me by. I'm a white man who, in the countries which I can afford to travel, is well off by local standards. I'm also a polite guy who cares about other people. If I dwell on the latter, hopefully the people I meet along the way will as well.
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BarryG and the Robes of Power |
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