Jamaica

December 12, 2013

The songs about Jamaica that we have stuck in our heads since childhood paint a picture of a romantic, faraway tropical island. The people there smoke marijuana and sing reggae; everyone dances, wears knitted caps with the colors of the flag, drinks cocktails and swims in the ocean.

Kingston

It’s hard to find a bigger hole than Kingston.

Jamaica is Haiti’s sibling. It’s the same kind of mess, chaos, madness and mayhem here.

There’s a thermal power plant and a cement factory on the shore.

And a jail. Why would anyone put a jail on the seashore, you ask? It’s not like they have rooms with a view. The thing is, Jamaicans don’t give a crap about the sea, so they built the jail in the lousiest location. (It reminds me of the sandy beaches of Liberia.)

Those who want to live don’t go out into the streets at night. During the day, they do so cautiously.

There are no sights or architecture here. Just ordinary American-style rectangular developments.

The icing on the cake was witnessing the following scene: some bum rolling a completely dilapidated hot dog cart with sketchy wheels down the street while a passerby was fleeing in terror from rabid stray dogs. He finally managed to find a rock and scare them off.

A fire hydrant.

A trash can. They all have legs. Probably so that they don’t mess up the sidewalk when they burn.

One-way traffic.

A yield sign.

Slow down.

Do not enter.

Children.

Are you a good driver?

Road fatalities by year. The statistics for past years don’t really help you to guess this year’s number.

The favorite pastime of Jamaican men is to sit on a wide fence and do nothing.

When the fence is too tall to hoist his butt up onto, the Jamaican man simply leans against the fence. And also does nothing.

* * *

Of course, somewhere on the other side of the island, there are a few hotels, golf courses and beaches. But I’ll never understand people who come specifically to Jamaica for a hotel, golf and beaches.