The
smell of the jungle was instantaneous, the moment they stepped out of the
plane. The air was thick and
green. The young girl with her
long blonde hair, the same color as the hair on her legs, and her boyfriend who
also had a lion’s mane of golden curls, looked around the airport for the boy’s
father. He was nowhere to be
seen. Their hearts were beating
together in anticipation of their adventure and in fear of the absence of the
father; so they strolled through the airport in Jamaica with their backpacks
slung over their shoulders looking for him. He was supposed to be here to pick them up, to guide them
through their first trip to a strange land- but they were alone. They decided
to go to where the father was staying, and they stepped out onto the busy
street with all of the dark faces speaking an unknown language, and began the
walk to the hotel.
The
streets of Montego Bay were a swarm of people. The whites of their eyes and teeth stood in sharp contrast
to the rest of their bodies.
Everyone wanted to speak to them, to touch them. People were smiling through veiled eyes
as they tied tiny bracelets around the girl’s wrists and offered to smoke
marijuana with them. When she
politely declined, the people became sullen; their eyes no longer veiled, they
demanded money for the trinkets tied to her. Their walk to the father’s hotel was a string of
unfamiliar faces and lines with a pleading undertone, “Rasta… I’m farmer Joe, I
have the best shit on this island.”
“Lady, I have a beautiful necklace here for you.” “Psst…” The girl looked at the
boy. “I need a cigarette. This is too crazy.”
They
walked up to the hotel and stepped inside. A blast of air conditioning reminded them of home, and when
the glass doors closed the smell of the jungle disappeared. “Can I help you?” A tall, dark man with a thick accent
stood there. “We are looking for
my father, he should be staying here,” the boy replied. He gave the man his father’s name. The tall, dark man looked at the
ancient computer in front of him.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t
have anyone with that name staying here.”
The
girl sucked her breath inside a little too quickly. They didn’t have much money, and this hotel was powerful and
made of glass. The trip was a gift
to them from the boy’s father for their graduation from college, he with an
English degree, and she with her degree in Cultural Anthropology. “How much would a room cost for the
night?” she asked, doing a poor job of hiding her sudden distress from the
tall, dark man. “It is 150 United
States dollars a night.” The girl
had tears welling in her eyes, and she was fighting to keep them in. She stared
at the ring on her toe. They only
had about two hundred dollars.
“I need a cigarette,” she said.
The boy asked the tall, dark man if he knew where he could buy any. “I’ll sell you some.” He held out a pack of Marlboro Reds
that was already open. There were
around 15 cigarettes in the box, and something green poking out of the
top. “Fifteen dollars.”
The
boy, gentle and romantic, and not yet aware of the haggling that was common in
Jamaica, bought the cigarettes and the weed inside for the fifteen
dollars. His sweet girlfriend was
scared, he was nervous himself, and felt he needed to keep her from
crumbling. He believed that a cigarette,
a little piece of home, might hold her together until they found his
father. They each lit one, and
when the nicotine entered their bodies and took the edge off of their nerves,
they walked down the busy road; back into the throng of people and goats and
bicycles and cars, so they could decide what to do.
In
the street the Jamaicans did all they could to get the couple to buy something
from them. Their desperate eyes
and growling bellies made them brazen and intimidating to the boy and girl, and
the young couple felt as though they were passing from hand to hand in a mosh
pit. Their American Southern
sensibility told them to be polite and smile, but their hearts were drumming
with the desire to run away.
The
girl spotted a man who seemed to glow in the throng of people. He was a man with unveiled eyes,
sitting next to a taxicab. He
locked eyes with the girl, and appoached the confused couple, so white, so lost,
and offered to help. His smile was
genuine, his eyes bright, and his voice deep and melodic. He was a large man, who hovered
powerfully above everyone else in the crowd. Despite his girth, he was an immediately calming presence. Once he spoke to them, the other people
on the street slunk away. He
got the couple into his taxi, where an effigy of Jesus on the cross hung on the
rearview mirror. It clinked
against the glass rhythmically as he drove them to his friend’s hotel on the
outskirts of the city. His voice
was mesmerizing, and he told them beautiful things about his homeland, that
seemed to be in sharp contrast to the den of covetousness that they had
experienced thus far. They
pulled up to the hotel, a place they could afford on the top of a hill, where
the paint was peeling and goats roamed.
Their guardian took them inside, and talked to the people who owned the
haven. As he was departing, he gave them a genuine smile and a business card
with his name, Percy, on it. The
card was simple and white with blue ink.
There was an image of Jesus in the background. When he drove away, the girl read the Bible verse on the
card. “I am going to send an angel
in front of you, to guard you on the way and to bring you to the place that I
have prepared.” The young couple
smoked some of the aromatic herb on the balcony, and talked about the
strangeness of this place, and the blessing of Percy. They let the uncertainty of the situation drain out of
them, as they fell into the soft bed under the mosquito net and drifted into a
sweet sleep. They would find
the boy’s father tomorrow. They
had to.
The
boy and girl awoke to a magical land.
The wetness of the air had lifted, and the sun streaming through the
coconut trees was full of promise.
The hotel had a little café, so they went downstairs and ordered a
Jamaican breakfast of salt fish and fried plantains. They drank the pungent Blue Mountain coffee and watched the
goats eating the grass and tin cans. They stared at the sprawling city of
Montego Bay down the hill. They
could see the blue ocean stretching out beyond the ramshackle buildings and
concrete, never ending. They were
ready for an adventure. They had
enough money to keep their room for the night, so they left their belongings,
taking only a few dollars, and walked down the dusty road dodging cars and
cattle towards the city. The sun
beat down on their pale flesh as they walked past people speaking patois on
bicycles and sitting on top of their old German cars. The natives glared at the boy and girl as they
strolled past, they were marked as outsiders here. They passed goats and cows,
which were as thin as the people tending them. They came into the city and went to the diner that the
father had told them about in the hopes that he would be there. They each drank a glass of water, and
ate stale chips and salsa. The couple
waited for hours in the hopes that the father would arrive, and then decided
they would go explore the city, and come back later.
The
streets were again full of people and the young couple’s wide eyes must have
given them away, for people began trying to hustle them immediately. “Come here, come look at my art work,”
beckoned a boney woman with ebony skin and dreadlocks. Curious, being art
lovers, they went into the darkened doorway. They found themselves again being passed hand over
hand from one person to the next, and when they tried to find the exit, they
realized they were in a darkened labyrinth of Jamaican wares. They were
completely lost in a nightmare of red, yellow, and green beach towels, Bob
Marley posters, fake dreadlocks, and T-shirts. One woman had a table of dolls carved out of Mahogany. She relentlessly placed the dolls into
the girl’s hands and blocked her from putting them down. The boy and girl saw a light in the
distance, and in the haze of the enclosed maze deliberately headed toward what
they perceived to be the sun. As
they got closer to the light, the drug dealers caught them in their web.
“Rasta… I’m farmer Ted, you should see what I grow.” “Rasta, I’m farmer Bill, come here.” “Cocaine? Ecstasy?”
The
boy and girl burst out of the snarl and into the blinding sunlight and salty
air. They were less frightened in
the daylight, and began again to grow confident. They walked to the end of the beach, where they spent
their last few dollars on a plate of Jerk chicken and a beer. The chicken was red and searing, with
bones peeking out from every angle.
It seemed like there were more bones than chicken. They shared a Red Stripe beer and
listened to the ocean. Three young
men, their age, approached them.
“Rasta… you want to come smoke with us? We love America!”
The
girl shook her head no, but the boy smiled up at the young men, bravely in his
innocence, and said yes. They
walked with the dark-skinned young men to the very end of the beach where the
sand ended and the rocks began, near the airstrip where their plane had landed
the night before. The young men
rolled a joint that was shaped like a cone, and mixed tobacco on the
inside. They shared it with the
boy and the girl who were drunk with this new idea of friendship and sun and
the pungent Jamaican weed. When
their heads were cloudy and the sun started to scald the girl’s delicate skin,
the boys tried to sell them some cocaine.
The powerful airplanes shook the ground and blew them with a hot wind as
they came in on the runway that they were sitting by. Unnerved by the intensity of planes overhead and the shift
of the conversation to cocaine, she suggested they walk back. The young men stepped in front of
them, as if to block them from leaving.
“What
are you going to do for us, since we shared our ganja?” Asked the tallest of the young men.
“What
do you mean?” The girl replied. She
noticed their isolation, and considered the scent of greed on the young men’s
faces.
“You
are Americans, you are rich. You
should share some of your money with us.”
“We
don’t have any money.” The boy
pulled out his pockets like a Hoover flag, showing them that they were
broke. He told the story about his
father and how they could not find him, how he was their source of income while
they were there. One of the
dark-skinned young men touched the young girl’s golden hair, curling it around
his finger. “There are other
ways you could pay us,” he said, as he moved his finger to her chin and lifted
it up toward him suggestively. He flashed his white teeth at her, his eyes
betraying his smile, and her stomach fell into the sand. She noticed the knife tethered to his
belt. Emboldened in her fear, she grabbed her boyfriend’s hand, managed an
uneasy smile and a wink toward the young man who was the leader, and said, “Let
us talk about it.” The couple walked about ten feet away and the young men
closed themselves into a circle.
The boys began whispering to each other in Patois. “There is nothing else to do but
run.” She said to her love.
So
they did. They held tightly to one
another and ran as fast as they could on the sandy beach until they reached the
roadside restaurant where they had eaten the spicy chicken bones. They turned around, breathless, fearing
pursuit, but the young men were nowhere to be seen. “I was going to have to hurt someone.” Said the boy, with his gentle blue
eyes. “Of course, my love,” said
the girl, knowing that his romantic and peaceful nature would never allow such
a turn of events.
Finally
guarded, they walked back into town.
When they were approached, the girl started speaking German, which she
had learned in college, and it seemed to work. The Jamaicans didn’t want Deutschmarks. Her heart was heavy with the
realization that the people of Jamaica didn’t care about them, didn’t welcome
them, they only wanted their American dollar bills. She began to observe the people more, and noticed their thin
frames, their gaunt angry eyes, and the smell of desperation. She took in their thrift store clothing
with American slogans, and their shoes with more holes than material, if they
even had shoes at all. She began
to understand why they were so relentless. The couple decided to go back to the
hotel that the father was supposed to be at, just in case he was there.
They
walked in and saw the tall, dark, man.
“Can I help you?” He asked,
with no recognition in his eyes. “We are looking for my father, he should be
staying here,” the boy replied. He
gave the man his father’s name again.
The tall dark man looked at the ancient computer in front of him. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have anyone with that name
staying here.” The girl was again
holding back tears in her eyes.
The tall dark man looked at her coldly, and then noticing the sadness in
her eyes, he softened. “He did
come by here last night though, minutes after you left. He asked if you came back to give you
this.” He slid a piece of paper
toward them, careful not to touch their hands, as if their white flesh were a
disease.
The
paper had a phone number and an address on it. “Would you like for me to get you a cab?”
When
they arrived at the small hotel with the blue paint and wooden seagulls, and
knocked on the door, the boy’s father appeared and embraced them. He was a tall man, with a nearly
baldhead, and a kind smile. His
eyes had dark circles underneath them from his night worrying about his lost
children. He took them out to
dinner at an American place on the beach.
They ate cheeseburgers and french-fries, and drank margaritas. They told him of their adventures and
their frights. He explained to
them that he had been at the airport, just in a different section and that they
had barely missed one another. He
told them about how he had rushed to the hotel where he had originally planned
to stay, arriving just after they left.
He dashed out to the streets, but had not seen them, and had wandered
Montego Bay looking for them ever since.
He took them back to their hotel at the top of the hill, and paid the
bill for the two nights. He made
arrangements for them to join him at his hotel the next day, and kissed them
goodnight. The boy and girl sat on
the balcony, smoked a joint, and breathed in the thick jungle air.
The
boy’s father had spent a lot of time in Jamaica. He was working on his PhD on the Jamaican health care
system. He knew a lot of people,
and he knew how to get around. The
next morning, the father and his friend, Percy, picked up the young couple in
his taxicab. Percy met them with a
hug; “I didn’t know that you were the lost children when I found you the other
night.” Percy told the boy and
girl that he was going to take them away from the filth of the city. They packed their backpacks in his
trunk, and began the drive out into the bush. The drivers in Jamaica were madmen. They drove quickly, as thought they
were under some deadline. They
yelled at each other, and blared on their horns. There seemed to be no rules.
When the troupe left the city, the boy and the girl did not look back, for all
they saw in front of them was beautiful.
The jungle was compact and bursting with life, like a love that could
not be contained. They stopped and
ate kiwi and pineapple, and Percy climbed a tree and cut open a coconut. “Drink. It is good for your heart.” The couple drank the thick sweet milk of the coconut, and
they got back in the car and drove for another hour. They passed more churches than the girl had ever seen in the
south, and here and there a Vodun temple as well. The taxi snaked up a mountain
on a winding dirt road that was little more than a hiking trail. They stopped finally in front of a
small, whitewashed house that was nearly engulfed by the greenery. “Welcome to my home,” Percy said.
There
were lots of people sitting outside and speaking in a blend of English and
Patois. The boy and girl were
introduced to Percy’s large family, who embraced the visitors and offered them
water, beer or lemonade. A goat that looked like it had only been dead a few
hours was tied to a stick over a fire in the earth. The smell of its burning flesh and hair filled the girl’s
nose, as well as the sweet smell of coconut and salt.
“My
Uncle’s funeral is today,” stated Percy, “we must go pay our respects. You are with family, come. It is a terrible thing to die during
the holidays. No one cares.”
Percy
took them through a path in the jungle; it was a paradise where you could reach
out an arm and pick a pineapple, a coconut or a banana. The food was bursting out of the
ground, and the greenery blocked the sun from their view. They walked for a long time, through
the maze of life. Then, the girl
could see that there was a clearing up ahead. She heard the honeyed voices of people joined together in
song, and they came out of the trees and into the most beautiful burial ground
she had ever seen. The pristine
white rocks and tombstones jutted out of the ground surrounded by lush
foliage. There were people
everywhere, sitting on the gravestones, dancing, laughing, and singing. Again, tears welled up the girl’s eyes
as her fantasy about their pilgrimage came to life. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Everyone turned to look at them,
curious of the white visitors, but their eyes were welcoming. The young couple respectfully stood in
quiet as the man’s wooden coffin was placed in the ground. After a final prayer and a final song,
the people began to approach the couple, introducing themselves with hugs and
kisses on the cheek. At first, the
young girl stiffened when the ebony men and women drew near, but when she saw
the sunlight and honey in their eyes, she relaxed and returned their embraces.
One face in particular stood out.
His eyes registering recognition, he walked to the young couple. “I saw you two days ago, and you were
lost. I treated you like you were
just another American couple, but I see you now with my family. I have treated you wrong.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out
fifteen dollars. The tall, dark
man smiled, and insisted they take their money back. He enveloped the couple in
his arms, and kissed them.
The
boy and girl smoked pungent sweet marijuana on the gravestones, forgot their
skin color, and abandoned themselves to this Garden. As the flock began to
dissipate, the tall, dark man, the boy, his father, the girl, and Percy walked
back through the labyrinth of green to the whitewashed house that held back the
jungle. They feasted on rum goat
soup and fresh fruit that the children had picked in the primeval forest. They drank tepid water and
Heineken. The family treated them
as though they were one of their own.
When
the sun went down, the girl was in a daze from the food, the friendship, and
the pot. She had been startled at
first by the children who approached her. They touched her hair and skin and ran away from her
falling to the earth in fits of giggles.
A little boy who had played this game with her for a long time finally
crawled in her lap, and stared into her blue eyes, and twisted a golden curl in
his finger.
In
the darkness of the jungle night the girl listened to the warble and twee of a
songbird hiding in the trees. Down the dirt road came entire families. They
came with food and offered their smiles to the boy and the girl. Speakers as
tall as the house materialized out of the vegetation, ripely, as though they
were fruit. Percy’s family pushed
the straw mattresses in the front bedroom against the wall. Quick green lizards scampered into the
night air as the tall, dark, man pulled out milk crates full of vinyl records-
Some Jamaican Reggae, some American disco. and set up two turntables. The tall, dark man began spinning
records in the newly formed DJ booth. The dirt street became a dance floor
where the generations of locals and the young couple danced and writhed in
merriment. The soil on their bare
feet mingled with their sweat, black flesh merged with white, until the stars
in the sky and the smell of salt and coconuts lulled them to sleep on the
jungle floor.
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