LL-2001 Day 1, Part 2

[Mark Walker]

All Roads Lead to Mandeville - December 7th, 2001

On the south side of Cockpit Country I found many good lep spots.
Unfortunately, it was already too late in the day for serious lepping.  I
made a note of several spots, and started keeping track of each fork in the
road.  There are a lot of forks on Jamaican roads, and no roads in Jamaica
form a straight line.  There are also precious few road signs on Jamaican
country roads.  Even with a good road map (which I didn't have), maintaining
direction can be a very difficult thing to do.  Which is precisely how I got
so desperately lost in Cockpit Country.  There are worse places to get lost,
incidentally.  It's quite beautiful, but it became clear after left turn
after right turn that I may be getting into trouble.  After an hour or so,
and some earnest but not so helpful directions, I finally emerged from
Cockpit Country onto the main highway to Mandeville.  I was about 40 miles
from where I thought I was headed (which was to a remote resort by the name
of Treasure Beach - how can you go wrong with a name like that?), and not
having any reservations of any kind, I decided to head to Mandeville.

Mandeville is a sizeable town in the central highlands of southern Jamaica
(Manchester Parish).  In fact, the whole Manchester parish itself is at
significant altitude (it is known as the highest parish, although the Blue
Mountains to the east are much higher).  Jamaicans from beach towns consider
Mandeville too cold.  I found it divine.  I decided to find a place to stay
for the night, but panicked when none could be found that accept American
Express.  After considerable exploring and the fall of the sun, I pouted and
decided it was best to head instead to either Kingston (to the east) or to
Negril (to the west).  One was a capitol, the other a popular resort.  In
either I was sure to find an accommodating hotel.

Indecision - the cancer of spontaneity.  Which way should I go, George?  Not
to fret.  As is commonly the case in my life, I was liberated from the
burden of indecision, and instead found myself stuck on the side of the road
(remember - there IS no side of the road) with two flat tires.  Apparently,
while trying to avoid the relentless and erratic oncoming traffic, I must
have driven over too much of the non-existent shoulder.  This no-man zone is
where can be found nails, screws, and all sorts of discarded, road-hardened,
tire slashing hardware.  Lesson #7 and #8:  Tires are a consumable item on
Jamaican roads, and they should be checked often and expected to fail.  And
don't drive on the non-existent shoulder (see Lesson #3).  What was that the
rental car guy said about using the jack?  I guess I should have paid more
attention to him.

I found the jack and started lifting up the car.  The rear left tire still
had some air in it, and perhaps I could put on the spare in the front and
get to a well lit gas station (surprisingly, there actually was one within
driving distance).  Unfortunately, the jack was missing it's handle, and I
was limited to turning it 180 degrees at a time.  It was long and tedious,
especially given my condition, and it was dark.  Very dark.  Except for the
headlights, which I intelligently left on to provide more light.

"Hey, mon!", I heard from underneath my car - with my lily white thighs
protruding from underneath, illuminated by the ever dimming headlights.

I emerged to find two homeless, intoxicated, and wandering gentlemen
crossing from locations unseen on the other side of the road.  I explained
my predicament, though I found their native Patois difficult to understand -
making sense out of roughly 50% of what they were saying.  The exchange -
and many others to follow - was rather comical, given that they could
understand me perfectly.  As they assessed the situation, I could see
opportunity shaping itself in their minds, but to my relief their overall
motives remained surprisingly kind and compassionate.  Before long, they
were under the car and helping me to get the tire changed.  One (Robert) was
quite helpful, the other (unnamed) quite stoned.  They expected payment, but
never demanded it, and at least had no immediate plans of taking advantage
of me or the situation.

It was when the spare was finally on that I first noticed the battery had
been drained.  They attempted to help me push start the jeep out onto the
dangerous and busy highway, but the left rear tire was now hopelessly flat.
I was really screwed, now.  Robert and his stoned friend exchanged words,
and before I know it they had flagged over another driver driving a pickup.
We jacked up the rear, took off the flat, and the next thing I know I'm
flying down the road with a stranger to destinations unknown.  Robert hit
the road, taking my payment of $500 Jamaican with him, and his stoned friend
accompanied me.  I shall call him Veg.

Veg had the driver take me to Mandeville, where he dropped us off at an
unlit corner shack-of-a tire shop run by local Rastafarians.  "Go talk to
the Rasta Mon", Veg told me, "he take care of you".  Veg was pointing to a
hard working man with his dreads bundled up and looking very mean.  He
looked at me with amazement, but gave me a nod of assurance.  I would come
to cherish this nod, and sought it out wherever I wandered in Jamaica.  He
would repair the tire - either a patch or a vulcanized job.  I chose the
latter, and he charged me $200 Jamaican (this is about $4.50 US).  While I
waited, absorbing the stares from the folks who congregated at this special
place, Veg chatted incomprehensibly about how he wasn't begging and how he
was a good man, etc.  I thanked him repeatedly, but didn't pick up on this
request for more money.  I was too busy worrying about my predicament,
wondering how long Veg would stay with me (I was lost without him), and
wondering where in the world I would end up for the night.  "You buy me a
ROOOM", Veg finally said to me.

"A Room?" I asked.  "You'd like a room?  Me too!".  I was desperate, and
decided that I'd even share a room with Veg, if it meant I would have a
place to sleep.  Well, Veg then stepped up to a small counter and proceeded
to order two cups of RUM.  You see, it's pronounced ROOOM.  While I don't
often drink alcohol, I obliged - only to find that this was not the rum I
remembered from my adolescence.  This is moonshine!  They all got quite a
laugh, as I choked it down.  The girl behind the counter yelled at Veg for
not suggesting that I dilute it with the jug of water that remains on the
counter throughout the day strictly for this purpose.  Now I know what was
killing Veg.  He was a ROOOM-aholic.

I looked around and noticed that surrounding the little tire shop was a
thriving community of it's own.  A counter for purchasing beverages, a
little old man who fried and sold salted fish, a young 11 year old
apprentice learning the trade of tire repair, and a countless number of
thoughtful men, sitting, talking, and slowly burning their Ganja.
Regardless of what anybody says, and in the spirit of the sort of variation
found in the likes of Phyciodes and Speyeria, may I be so bold as to make
the following generalization:  Jamaican people are a wise people.  Never
before have I experienced such a phenomenal wisdom - in spite of the fact
that it is often confounded by drug and alcohol abuse.  As an example,
Jamaicans have a keen way of detecting context - they pick up on what you
really mean when you say something, even when you're sure they are
disinterested.  They were curious of my feelings of the ongoing war - and
often spoke of "Taliban" and "bombs on Taliban".  While the Rastafarian view
of mostly white America is not entirely favorable, there was general
agreement that killing innocent people out of hatred is evil and wrong -
regardless of any justification.  We agreed.

After some time (things do not move fast in Jamaica), the tire was repaired,
and my nameless wandering friend (Veg) managed to flag down a local taxi
driver named Mikey (MY-keh).  Most of my friends had names that ended in
"eh".  There was LAIR-eh, WEED-eh, EYE-deh, HURB-eh, and MY-keh.  Mikey and
I would become close friends over the course of the next few days, as he
provided key transportation.  It was he who finally found me a place to stay
in Mandeville, which turned out to be quite a destination.  Mikey drove me
back to my roadside abandoned vehicle, helped me replace the tire, and gave
me a jump start.  It was late when we arrived at the Astra Hotel in town, a
reasonable and hospitable accommodation.  It included a delicious Jamaican
breakfast for only $60 US.  No American Express, but somehow my maxed out
MasterCard went through.  Phew!  Mikey then drove me down to the city centre
for some roadside vendor jerk chicken, my only food all day.  Jerk chicken
is Jamaican BBQ, and while I never actually saw any hens, it is highly
recommended.

It was a long day, to be sure, and one with much anxiety.  In the end all
would be well, and I would get a much needed night of sleep.  I had managed
to spend $60 of my $100, uncertain of anything except that I was glad to be
alive, glad to be in a bed, and glad that my God answers the prayers of a
foolish and undeserving man.  I was also on the verge of touching the very
heart of Jamaica, an experience that no well thought out plan of any kind
could have hoped to deliver.

Shalom,

Mark Walker
Oceanside, CA

Praise be to Jesus Christ, the Lion of Judah



 
 ------------------------------------------------------------ 

   For subscription and related information about LEPS-L visit:

   http://www.peabody.yale.edu/other/lepsl