BARBADOS AND THE GOOD LIFE

For all the pyrotechnics of the classic movie Apocalypse Now, the scene I remember most was the opening scene with the Martin Sheen character’s stream-of-consciousness… and that ceiling fan. Fans like that have followed me throughout my life, silent stalkers of the memory. That ceiling fan symbolizes more than tropical climes, hot and muggy, Spanish moss watching like dirty old men from Mississippi out beyond the window. Those ceiling fans symbolize something existential, flickering consciousness, thoughts and images struggling to maintain a speed of thirty frames per second so as to imply continuity. In these hot humid climes you’re lucky to maintain anything, including yourself erect. A short walk in the midday sun can mean a drenched shirt and a decreased will to live and an excuse for an unscheduled nap. A cloudy day might offer some cooling shade or it might offer something else. In the south Caribbean it doesn’t just rain… it precipitates. Expecting storms maybe? The air thickens until it reaches 100% humidity and then water just seems to ooze out from everywhere like someone squeezing a sponge. And that ceiling fan just keeps slapping air around as if to keep the mosquitoes honest. I lie here exhausted, finally succumbing to a higher power, that fan turning in my mind’s eye.

The book says the rainy season should be over by now and the dry season beginning. Tell it to the Equator, which is more than just some imaginary belt holding in the Earth’s midriff bulge. The same forces that widen the belly and flatten the poles also dump torrents of rain in the center and create desserts along the tropics, gravity and inertia and Coriolis forces spinning off. It’s no accident that the Amazon and Congo Rivers and the Sumatran rain forest lie smack on the line. Air currents suck humidity off the flanks and dump it on the center in a pattern that defines our existence, extending through the atmosphere almost to the stratosphere. Flight attendants will ask you to fasten your seat belts when flying over the Equator without even consulting Mr. Doppler. It comes with the territory. Talking about a ‘dry season’ along the equator is probably a whole lot like talking about a ‘rainy season’ in the desert. It’s all relative. That’s all behind me now anyway, the sweat and the constant rains and the swamps.

Barbados is the Caribbean proper again, a pleasant change after all the rough edges and inconsistencies of the Guyanas and Trinidad, itself geologically if not geographically part of the South American mainland. The beaches are sandy not muddy, and the air is fairly dry at this time of year. It seems fairly clean and serene, a bedroom community of mostly middle-class residents, without the grinding poverty and crushing crime of some of its ‘edgier’ neighbors. It’s also a country of religion, the Christian sort, though whether that’s cause or effect of its overall liveability I couldn’t say. Gospel music here rates equally with reggae and soca and hiphop in popularity and is commonly heard in places where you wouldn’t expect it in, say, Mississippi, arguably the home of such with its Malaco recording studios among others. There is a genuine friendliness in the people, not fawning like Jamaica or aggressive like Dakar, but just a genuine connectability that doesn’t necessarily include or exclude you on the basis of race. There’s even a standard line in Jamaica where the hustler approaches you because ‘you’re obviously not a racist’. This itself is racism of course, just like Thailand’s over-friendliness to ‘Farangs’, usually more meretricious than meritorious. The very existence of a slang term for a people is the best proof of racism towards them, however benign or even superficially friendly it might appear.

Barbados is prime Leeward Islands acreage, clear turquoise waters as far as the eye can see. You can take the bus from Black Rock to Speightstown and see nothing but sandy beach on one side and grassy lawns on the other. Much of the beach is public, too, but that seems endangered with luxury beach homes literally on the rise all over. They haven’t totally displaced the locals, however. Small gingerbread cottages line the other side of the road and locals congregate at a myriad of local pubs without resentment nor rancor towards the half million tourists that find their way to the island every year, notable considering the locals themselves only number a quarter million.

There are only a couple problems. For one thing Barbados is pricey, not just US pricey, but more like Manhattan pricey. Ironically I’ve got my best deal of the trip here- room with kitchenette for under $50. So regardless that meals are Buenos Aires café prices, I don’t care. I cook at home. Cable TV’s decent here too. Then there’s another problem- I don’t know if they want me here. Package tourists, yeah sure, I’m sure they’re welcome, as long as they’ve been bought and sold like slave-ship chattel being led to auction, but independent travelers like me, dropping in and hanging out, and then moving on as the mood strikes, well I’m not sure. Maybe they’re scared that if they let people in on their own, they just may not leave, as is a major problem in Thailand right now. Here’s the story:

On my walk through downtown Bridegetown, the capital, yesterday my first full day here, I just happened- quite accidentally btw- to pass by the office of Air Jamaica, the airline I return to Jamaica on. On a whim I decide to drop in.

“I’m flying to Montego Bay on the 12^th. Do I need to re-confirm?” I haven’t re-confirmed a flight in years, though frequently change return dates to Asia, so similar in effect.

“Yes you do,” the nice man said almost condescendingly. “The 12^th of this month?” He looks up at my dumb nodding stare. “That flight’s been cancelled. You’ve been put on the flight for the 11^th. They tried to contact you.”

“Not by e-mail they didn’t. I checked yesterday.” Isn’t it logical that a flight booked by Internet would notify of changes by e-mail? Where would they call anyway?

“Is the 11th okay?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Not unless you want to go on the 15^th.”

“No, that won’t work.” I’m supposed to be flying from Jamaica to Cuba on the 15^th, and anyway, I don’t know if Barbados Immigration gave me enough days for that. Later I decide to check. After searching for about an hour, I finally found the stamp. If I’m reading it correctly, they gave me one day. Huh? I had asked for five and had a pleasant enough chat with the nice lady, so assumed everything was fine. Did she make a mistake? I knew I only got one day coming through, but I only needed one day then, so didn’t think much about it. Maybe it’s a good thing my trip got cut a day shorter, since at worst, now I’ve just got a two-day overstay to account for, hardly the stuff of police action. Hell, for all the hassle Trinidad just gave me in transit- as if somehow they KNEW I was winging it (luckily I booked an onward flight by Internet the day before), checking my itinerary twice at la migra going and coming, once at the airline counter- at least they gave two days in the country JUST TO MAKE AN ONWARD CONNECTION THE SAME DAY. I remain optimistic, just like I was at the ferry crossing from Suriname to Guyana, what, some four days ago? It seems like four months. By analogy to Einstein’s theory, I guess time slows down when you travel at the speed of light.

So I sit in my room eating corn pone, I born in the Caribbean periphery some fifty-odd years ago and not even knowing it, eating the food and talking the talk. Annie’s soul food kitchen in downtown Brandon, MS would be right at home here, as would Big Daddy’s catfish parlor along San Pablo Avenue in Berkeley. Those old connections, however far-flung, are dying of course as Afro-Americans enter the mainstream more and more. No one talks about the ‘Ebonics’ language any more, nor should they. Though Northerners and Southerners, including Blacks, may still accuse each other of ‘talking funny’, any problems of mutual intelligibility are long gone. TV and rising education levels will do that to you.

Regardless of Immigration’s final disposition toward me I like Barbados and feel cheated at only getting a few days. It’s better for your visit to be a couple days too long like Guayana and Suriname was for me than too short like Barbados. That way there are no regrets. Maybe I’m right and they don’t want you to think of their azure waters as your waters. A country of a quarter million people could get overrun by foreign bozos quickly. The irony is that two of the three countries in the world where you can buy citizenship outright and legally are here in the Caribbean, Dominica and St. Kitts/Nevis. Can’t guess the other? How about Austria? Cambodia’s another story, subject to negotiation, and they’re probably not alone. As always it’s the people who make the place, and they seem genuinely nice here. It whets my appetite to see more of the Caribbean, especially the Leeward Islands, and see what I’m missing. Maybe I WILL buy citizenship somewhere. What’ll Immigration tell me then? Si se puede.

So I pass through Immigration bpam bpam bpam (that’s Thai) without a word, so who knows: do they not know that maybe I overstayed? Do they not care? I didn’t want to ask for fear of getting the wrong result, so the mystery will remain so, at least until the next time. Still it’s bothersome. The last thing a traveler wants to worry about is his Immigration stamp. But that’s okay, since otherwise I’d feel pampered. If I admit to having AC, can I still keep my street cred? Without it that ceiling fan would have to be a Havilland Dash-8 turboprop to keep the air moving, like the one that kept the air moving beneath me last Thursday on the flight back to Barbados. Hell, I haven’t been without AC since Christmas in Guyana. Most of the places have cold showers, though, I swear, at least not very hot anyway. The TV really sucked, honest. Sometimes I disgust myself.

SATORI IN PARAMARIBO- part 2, the Stranger's Nausea

So I blew off French Guyane all together, given the fact that it’s not a real country anyway- merely an overseas department of France- complete with French prices. Add to that the fact that every mile traveled out means another mile I must travel back- the motto after all IS ‘backpack, don’t backtrack’- since interior roads are few and far between in this undeveloped wilderness. So I decided I’d maybe just go to the border and make an unofficial crossing, withdraw enough Euros from the French ATM’s at a savings good enough to pay for the trip- I need Euros for Cuba- then come back. But that’s still extra miles and Lonely Planet says the best thing to do in the border town of Albina is leave, which is very uncharacteristic of the usually overly optimistic crew there. So when the US dollar suddenly gained against the Euro and I realized that I could withdraw fairly large amounts of local currency from the Paramaribo ATM’s and buy enough Euros right there in the local cambios, then why make a butt-busting trip just to save a few bucks and cover my future Kountry Kount in the unlikely event that Guyane Francaise might one day secede from the union? France is not likely to give up the Ariane launchpad at Kourou any time soon I don’t reckon, and more important than a slight exchange advantage is the fact that my E-trade bank- since it has no ATM’s of its own- charges you no service charge when you use those of others, even when they’re halfway around the world. Yes! You heard it here first. Don’t abuse it.

Actually if you have a multiple-entry Brazilian visa and don’t mind some travel uncertainties, you can now loop through the Guyanas overland without backtracking (too bad you don’t get five-year Brazil visas- like Suriname- along with your ‘reciprocity charge’). For now there’s a bridge from northeast Brazil into Guyane Francaise and after the overland route through Suriname you can exit (British) Guyana overland back into Brazil at Lethem going to Boa Vista on the road from Manaus. From there you could even enter Venezuela- impossible directly from Guyana itself- and continue on through the Venezuelan Amazon, maybe even finding the legendary waters which link the Orinoco with the Amazon River. Imagine the travel opportunities there for someone with a canoe and no life. Otherwise you’d have a long loop through Colombia or even further down the line to re-enter the Amazon and Brazil. Such are the things backpackers daydream of, not seeing every sight listed on the tourist brochures. For the traveler with more time than budget, the broad sweeps are more important than instant thrills and a list of ‘sights’. Traveling becomes a Zen-like experience full of the ‘suchness’ against which life occurs, an end in itself, rather than a thing to be consumed, digested, and… filed away.

While many backpackers may find their little epiphanies in encounters with other like-minded travelers, that’s not the only emotional sustenance available. While encounters with the local population may by definition be short, especially where language is an issue, that doesn’t mean they have to be shallow. We all speak the universal language of smiles after all, and that can go a long way sometimes. Even in large Muslim populations we’re all people of the Book, remember, and even with Hindus and Buddhists we’re all people of religion, even the so-called ‘atheists’ among us. Like a vaccination spreading in the surrounding population whether you actually got the jab, we’re all Christians whether baptized or not. If Jerry Garcia said nothing else prophetic (he didn’t write the lyrics remember), at least he said that. Still the market ladies probably felt a sigh of relief when I finally bought something this morning, proof that I wasn’t just up to no good, stalking them or something. Like the difference between wolves in the wild and dogs that have been tamed, we’ve all been transformed by the power of love, likely to trust a stranger in our midst until given a reason not to. It not only works emotionally, but it’s good for business, and crucial to an expanding universe. A universe reduced to contracting will eventually crash in upon itself.

Personally I like playing (carefully) with the dogs I find enroute, many of them homeless and living off market scraps. It’s not exactly ‘Dancing with Wolves’ or ‘Dog Whisperer”, but certainly better than ‘Sleeping with Dogs’, an unpublished screenplay I have yet to write. We’re a crucial part of their evolution. They need us. So I’m stuck in Nieuw Nickerie waiting for the ferry. Fortunately I allowed an extra day of snafu time so I should be okay. If I hadn’t stayed an extra day to change one last batch of SRD into Euros I might be there already, but that would mean three nights in Georgetown, hardly a thrill, and almost certainly costlier than where I am now. A hundred here and a hundred there can add up quickly, especially in a region that’s not especially cheap to begin with. All’s well that ends well, so I’m optimistic that there’ll be a ferry tomorrow as promised. If not, I’m royally f%$#@d, and hundreds of dollars of travel plans are at risk. I’m not surprised, having been stuck on the other side for three days- but that was Xmas and Boxing Day- still I might’ve planned differently had I even THOUGHT the ferry might take the day off. I persevere; it’s a Zen thing remember and this is a sesshin. The Chinese will build a bridge soon; mark my word.

Nieuw Nickerie is a nice enough place, but there’s not a lot to do here, just wander the market and nibble the local snacks and play with the dogs. The crappers here are the same as in Indonesia, presumably Dutch, but a strange design. They don’t drain from the rear, which seems logical, nor continually downward, but from the front with a shelf-like platform level for most of the area not so far under you. This means that as you take a crap the fruit of your labors is continually piling up under you, and when you finally flush, the water must actually lift the entire mess up and move it forward enough to plop it down the hole. Does that sound complicated enough? It’ll definitely leave enough of a smear to give my wife a hissie fit also. Maybe Europeans are stool watchers; I don’t know. If that’s the case, then Dutch toilets are just the thing for you. As you inspect the details of your internal life and digestion process you can even hum along the lyrics to the old 60’s dittie ‘I’m a Stool Watcher’ (“here comes one now, da dah da dah”). Anyone need a life besides me?

Then the bad news comes. The boat isn’t going tomorrow, and the next day… well, who knows? How can you really predict these things? I’m pissed, and I’m not even British… or drunk. Turns out the boat isn’t even the problem; it’s the road, a twenty-five mile stretch of pea gravel and sweat, a monument to uncertain ambitions and inherent reticence, as a bastard country enters the modern world walking backwards. How can a country be so lame and inefficient and incompetent that they can’t even keep a 40km. stretch of road- one of the country’s only two overland links to the outside world mind you- open and navigable? I could take one of the small boats that shuttle locals back and forth illegally, but there’s no guarantee I could get stamped into Guyana. The nice ladies at the Guyanese consulate suggest I get Suriname immigration to stamp me out and have them contact Guyana about stamping me in. I get a sick feeling like when a condom broke and shriveled up into a rubber band much faster than its over-zealous sponsor. It’s time to scramble, so I contact a travel agent and plan a tentative escape route. The best laid plans gang aft agley… sounds Dutch.

So that’s what I do, drop back and punt, changing travel plans as fast as I can. Fortunately the Christmas season is over or I’d be screwed. As it is I get my life back for under $300, so it could be worse. I go back to Paramaribo to catch a flight out, wanting nothing so much as to just leave, and never come back. I’ve seen some sloppy operations in my life but this is a cake-taker to be sure. To make it worse the mini-van driver has 80’s pop-schlock greatest hits playing at a full gigabel all the way back, over and over, grinning like some mongrel cretin from an Asian prison camp, eating noodles while barreling down the road at 130 clicks, dodging potholes the whole way. It figures, after watching the Indonesian crap MVDO’s that filter over here to nourish the Javanese diaspora. It’s not as bad as the bus driver in Tierra del Fuego a couple months ago, though. I swear he played some song by Marco Antonio Solis approximately twenty-seven times in succession until I almost memorized the words, though I still don’t know the title, something about ‘Poema de Amor’.

So I wake up in the middle of the night to go to piss and go to the airport, alternately angry and glad, check in and pass la migra like ringin’ a bell, then settle in here to check my e-mail. Then in a little while the damndest thing happens. The plane takes off a half hour early! And I thought I’d seen everything. So it’s not that the people are slow or uncaring; they’re just imprecise! Now I get it. I feel better.

SATORI IN PARAMARIBO- NAKED LUNCH AND AIR-CONDITIONED NIGHTMARES AS I LAY DYING, pt.1

When I’m speechless (fortunately that doesn’t happen very often now, does it?) I’m forced to borrow lines from my favorite writers, praying to the gods of plagiarism and all clichés to forgive my trespasses, as I forgive those who trespass against me (debts are another story). But Paramaribo is a traveler’s dream- one of those little unwashed gems tucked away in the farthest recesses of the globe’s folds and hidden faults. I stress the term ‘traveler’, as in ‘adventurer’, as opposed to the typical ‘tourist’, who might find Suriname’s offerings lacking in cache’. For all the world’s amazing cultural heritage sites and assorted architectonic treasures, most tourists are just looking for a sunny beach and some multi-colored cocktails at sunset, maybe a show or two to spice things up. True adventurers are looking for the ‘real thing’, life as lived by locals, though preferably in a state of exalted bliss. Suriname is one of those great unknowns, a question mark on the map, like Madagascar or Ethiopia or Cambodia or Yemen or maybe even Tunisia, awaiting discovery. With the exception of Tunisia, these places are not particularly easy to get to, nor necessarily easy even once you get there. Their pleasures are more subtle and you need some time.

I’ve been daydreaming about Suriname for years, enticed by the ethnic mix, but put off by the presence of a local dialect called ‘taki-taki’, which I assumed- wrongly, it turns out- to be some sort of pidgin (i.e. bad) English, destined to follow me around like some fart that just won’t go away. Mea culpa mea culpa mea culpa mea culpa hail Mary hail Mary hail Mary hail Mary. While Taki-taki, aka ‘Sranan Tongo’, is technically considered to be an English Creole, it goes back to the earliest days of colonialism and, unlike Jamaican or other Caribbean creoles which usually can be partially deciphered, is a complete mystery to me even when written. Unlike many other bilingual countries where languages fall within vertical lines separating different ethnic groups, the line between Dutch and Sranan Tongo is a horizontal one separating at least educational, if not social levels. In a country comprised of large percentages of Africans, Javanese, East Indians, and even some Amerindians, Taki-taki is the language of no single one, but of all. Still Dutch is the language of government, education and commerce, and educated native-born Guyanese, many of whom have been to the Netherlands, will speak it amongst themselves.

The big linguistic surprise in Suriname is that touts and hawkers will bark at me in Dutch and not English. This is especially surprising considering that English is widely studied and known, though outside of the rather small ‘tourist zone’ not likely to be used at you, unless you stand there at the cashier dumbfounded for more than about ten seconds. It’s also testament to the very low level of tourism here and the high percentage of those who are Dutch. I know this because for about the first three days I used nothing but the international lingua franca. That’s about my limit. Interestingly, though any counter help can take your money in English, those who actually speak it tend to speak fairly well, and this does NOT necessarily follow class lines. Now I’m studying Dutch, since I like the place and have a five-year visa. This is interesting, since I’ve never studied a Germanic language (except English) and, except for Frisian, it’s the major European language closest to English. The goal is to have a conversation in Dutch before the week is out. Whatever, I’ll survive. I can always try Bahasa with the warung people or Mandarin with the Chinese if I get desperate. Hunger speaks every language.

Oh yeah, then there’s the Chinese. Their presence here is out of all proportion to their numbers, as it is elsewhere also. I don’t remember the phenomenon of the ‘Chinese grocery’ in my early years of travel in Latin America, but that could be my fault of memory, or it could be that they’re multiplying in exponential proportion with China’s new economic clout. They were certainly mentioned in the book ‘The Mosquito Coast’ and they certainly like keeping business in the family as much as possible, so new realities ‘back home’ could have a huge ripple effect (interestingly Koreans will even go places that give the Chinese pause, like Guatemala City and South LA). But here the Chinese influence is even greater than normal. There’s a huge Chinese ‘Tong’ association occupying a prominent corner in town, as large as any in Thailand btw, and they seem to own almost ALL the businesses, not just the grocery stores and trinket shops. They may very well have come in originally with the Indonesians (though usually referred to as ‘Javanese’), given that rice and noodle dishes are universally known as ‘nasi’ and ‘bamie’, whether warung or Chinese or ‘roti shop’ and the steamed buns are ‘saw paw’, same as Indonesia if I remember correctly.

The old waterfront of Paramaribo has been declared a UN world heritage site and justifiably so. It’s strikingly beautiful and unique, truly one-of-a-kind, suggesting nothing so much as… maybe… grab a beer and have a seat… antebellum Mississippi? Huh? If the buildings had yards, they’d be almost identical. As it is they front the street in continental style. The tall white Greek columns are there. The red brick, white shiplap, and green shutters are there, like the tri-color flag for unrealistic expectations and broken dreams. The derelict ‘servants’ quarters are not far away, fallen into ruin, fallen into the footnotes of history. If this suggests a sleepy backwater, the modern reality is a bit different. Hotels and casinos dot the landscape like a little mini Las Vegas, presumably to amuse the Chinese, gamblers from way back who apparently invented playing cards as well as paper money, likely the same thing originally. I can’t imagine high-rollers rolling in here to get lucky. It’s still a backwater, even if not so sleepy anymore.

Then there’s New Year. New Year here is pretty wild. My first three days in Paramaribo I stayed in a great little place a half hour’s walk from downtown called Guest House Amice that had everything you could ever want for the price of a U$ Grant- Internet, full breakfast, AC, in–room coffee & tea, and as spic-and-span as my German grandmother would have it. If anything it was just TOO nice. I was afraid of losing street cred with you, my readers. You don’t want to hear about what’s happening ‘in there’; you want to hear what’s happening ‘out there’, right? So I reluctantly moved into the center of town yesterday 30 Jan., even lying to the inn keepers that I was going on to Guyane Francaise so as not to hurt their feelings. Can you believe that? But I was right. There was a huge street party last night and today was even crazier, crowds in the street by mid-morning drinking and dancing and partying to the local music, much of it quite good. Lyrics are all in taki-taki.

Then there’s the Chinese again. Somewhere sometime along the way they brought their fireworks with them, not elaborate sky-high displays mind you, but reams and reams of firecracker ‘rounds’, ready to unroll and be set off like gunfire in Palestine, leaving burnt red paper and a few near-deafened ears in the literal wake. You’d think they just invented gunpowder or something. The noise is deafening. Car alarms routinely go off from the percussion waves unleashed. Traffic stops mid-street like when the national anthem plays in Thailand. There you have to go to Chinese cemeteries on Ching Ming Day to see displays like this. But it’s moved way beyond the Chinese community in Suriname now, though they still profit from sales of the red devils in their stores. Everybody’s doing it now, from official functions on down. It seems as if everything must be blessed and christened by the purifying noise. It seems as if the mentality is ‘just one more’ or maybe ‘mine is bigger than yours’…

New Year’s Eve is actually an anti-climax. By sunset the party’s largely dissipated and has degenerated into roaming bands of teens indiscriminately lighting firecrackers. I go back to my crib. Outside the noise crescendos until what must be midnight, then finally dies out… until daybreak, when it starts up again. New Year’s Day is like death itself, nothing open but the biggest hotels and a few stalls that normally cater to tourists. So I sit and study Dutch while watching BBC and al-Jazeera in my cheap hotel, where I’ve got a fridge and a water kettle and even a kitchen sink complete with dishes, almost like home, except no wi-fi and no wifey. Fortunately I stocked up on groceries already, instant noodles and eggs and onions and papayas and mangoes and a couple of smoked fish at a buck each. You can do a lot with a water kettle. You should see me with a microwave. Finally Tang calls on my emergency world phone to wish me a Happy New Year while she waits for the Gold Line train to go to Pasadena. She and her immigrant Thai friends heard there’s a party there so decided to check it out, something about a football game. Life’s weird.

IT’S A WET WET CHRISTMAS IN THE CARIBBEAN

Then the rains came, and the skies weeped and wailed until they finally cried themselves to sleep. I was afraid that Trinidad would flood and I wouldn’t even be able to get TO the airport, much less out of it. Then I watched the weather in the US on TV and felt better, people sleeping in airports while blizzards raged outside. Things could be worse. Still it’s stifling. When it’s not raining it might as well be. At least I got the Suriname visa, multiple entry too, though I had to promise my first-born for it, seems a safe bet, over $100 in ‘reciprocity’ charges, but good for five years of in-and-out privileges. It’s probably raining there, too. That means I can go to French Guiana and return with no extra visa hassles. Who knows? That might turn out to be the highlight of the trip, what with the resident communities of Hmongs and Laos in addition to the Amerindians and ‘Maroons’ typical of the region. I can speak passable Lao and my French is certainly better than my Dutch or my Taki-taki.

Traveling is hard work. Yeah, yeah, I hear you, but it’s certainly not as easy as it used to be, just hop on the bus and wake up somewhere in Mexico. At least I’ve got a couple rooms booked down the line, so shouldn’t have to sleep on the streets. I used to never do that; in the Caribbean region it’s typically required. In Jamaica I had to book before they’d let me through immigration, then the lady from the Health Department actually called a few days later to see if I was OK after my previous stay in a malarial region, i.e. Argentina (?!). Internet makes it easier now, which is good though far from perfect, since these backwater countries can be a bit short on services and logic. I don’t know what a backpacker would do if he got into Port-of-Spain without a reservation. There are plenty of spaces, but how would he find them? This isn’t Gringotenango or Khao San or Freak Street with cheap hotels lining the streets as far as the eye can see. Where I stayed is as close to a hostel as there is, but no one’s there, just a few locals… and me. The prices double for Carnaval.

More and more I see other travelers less and less. That’s what happens when you go to hard-to-get-to locations. Everybody and his brother go to Thailand, Guatemala, Peru, and Nepal. On a regional hostel circuit you might even see the same travelers 2-3 times on a trip. It’s not like that here. Even a place as famous as Trinidad is practically vacant except on cruise ship day. Sure there’s a reputation for violence and crime, but circumstances like that can usually be mitigated with a modicum of effort. I really liked Trinidad until I read an ex-pat’s lambasting indictment of the people, then started seeing the aloofness-bordering-on-rudeness he was talking about. Now I’m not sure. The books say they’re the ‘friendliest people in the world’, but that’s surely an exaggeration. They’re certainly not the quintessential laid-back ‘ey mon’ Caribbean locals a la Jamaica. The place is heavily industrialized. There’s no pervasive skunk smell either; that shit’s very illegal here. What is it about ex-British island-city-states that makes them so uptight? Ahhh, it’s only the ones that dream of industry and capital… I get it now. At least they let it all out for Carnaval. They’re already building little makeshift huts out at the fairgrounds. It’s starting to look like the Neshoba County fair. So why am I so… almost… border-line… depressed?

Maybe it’s because everybody’s drinking and I’m not. There are no Tiki bars or Thai-style R&R joints here like Jamaica, but that doesn’t mean the people don’t drink. Bars are everywhere, but I’m not sure I’d be welcome. There’s nothing worse than drinking alone in a bar full of merry-makers, except maybe being harassed by shit-faced drunks. It’s hard to find a balance. But the taxi drivers seem nice enough. They probably want tips; yeah, right. Maybe it’s the inherent racism of the system here. I’m pretty sensitive to that even when it’s well-hidden, like here, even when it has little or nothing to do with me. You’d have to look pretty hard to even tell the difference between an African and a dark-skinned Dravidian, but they can, you can be sure. “You better get out of here,” a Trinidad Indian I’d previously met told me as I hung out in Congo Square. “They’ll kill you here.” ‘They’ is the key word. Racism is like conspiracy. There’s always a loosely defined ‘they’ and a ‘we’. They didn’t kill me at JSU. They didn’t kill me in Bamako. Why would they kill me here?

Still you gotta’ be careful. They say don’t walk the streets of Port-of-Spain at night. That makes it a little bit hard to drink unless I want to hire a cabbie to drink with me. I’m not THAT hard up, not yet anyway. At least I lucked out and accidentally got a room in the entertainment district. At least looking’s free, and so is music. Alcohol’s not quite the thrill it used to be anyway. The beer’s too strong now. Back when I first started experimenting we’re talking 3.2% THC- I mean alcohol- so plenty of time to build up a head of steam and a bladder full of piss before feeling much of a buzz. But now, with this 6… 8… 9% stuff you find in Amsterdam, it’s like the psychic reverse equivalent of a cheap Red Bull imitation. You gulp one down and by the time you realize what’s happening… it’s too late. You’re on the roof, ready to jump into the swimming pool below. When you finally wake up in ER you’ve still got visions of sugar plums dancing in your head.

Okay, I exaggerate, but you get the idea. I can’t exactly ‘hold my liquor’, though I never get shit-faced. I just stop. What’s so great about ‘holding’ it anyway? If you can ‘hold’ it, then why not just forego it? Getting a buzz is the idea, right? Actually all was fine until I got gout. That hurts like hell, believe me. Not coincidentally I believe, I started having bad reactions to beer, two-day hangovers and such; not wine or whiskey mind you, just beer. Since I decided to forego it, the gout attacks stopped. Problem is, I’m hesitant to drink anything now, and a good red wine is sometimes hard to find anyway in cheap bars. I’m still groping my way through the darkness. But that’s hardly depressing; that’s good news. If I were to drink a six-pack I’d probably be homicidal if not suicidal. I rarely got that far. So why the doom and gloom?

It’s Christmas time, that’s why. Christmas is like candy; it’s sweet but not necessarily good for you. Christmas is for kids, all the toys and free money and unrealistic expectations. I like the Christmastime shows on Nat Geo and the Hitler Channel searching for Jesus and the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Darwinci code- I even like the Christmas carols- but not all that other stuff. Strangely enough, the symbols are all the same here, Santa and snow and midnight madness at the mall. The Christmas carols are even all the same familiar ones, including John Lennon, like some vast American conspiracy to dominate. The rain lets up enough for the plane to take off finally. Good-by Trinidad. I liked your food at least, even the ‘black pudding’ you tricked me into eating. I was expecting some rich chocolatey local confection and got blood-sausage chitlins; serves me right I guess, being born in Mississippi and all.

Welcome to Guyana. It’s the last link in a circum-Caribbean semi-circle of British intrigue that starts in Jamaica and the Cayman islands. Though the largest of the lot and a full-fledge South American state, it’s probably the poorest also. Georgetown is the perfect picture of a colonial capital going down on itself. In memory of my Thai wife who can’t pronounce the English name ‘George’, I affectionately refer to it as ‘Joshtown’, anything but Jonestown, which happened not so many years nor kilometers away. It still makes the news here. For those of you too young to remember, thirty years ago some nine hundred US citizens committed mass suicide in Guyana under the influence of a bad Elvis impersonator.

At first glance after dark Georgetown reminds me of nothing so much as… Vientiane, c. 1995, though in the light of day I’d say maybe Dakar. Lonely Planet says the market is ‘edgy’; I’d say it’s psychotic. Imagine a bus terminal and a market sharing the same space, accompanied by the sounds of barkers barking and horns honking. Their accents are pretty thick here too. You could almost imagine you’re speaking Creole. You almost are. Sometimes it’s nice to get a decent hotel in a weird place, so I do, complete with wi-fi, though not much cable TV to be had, just some Bollywood stuff, al-Jazeera and some American leftovers. I check out the zoo by accident, but the market’s the real zoo. I walk long distances as is my habit, making notes of cultural anomalies. ATM’s are all the rage, lines stretching around corners, notable considering that as of the latest Lonely Planet there were none. I check out various types of food, similar to Trinidad’s, but coffee’s non-existent.

Two days of that and I push on, straight across the new Berbice River bridge at New Amsterdam on its first day open for business. It was big news, the ribbon-cutting and all. I was expecting some concrete engineering marvel along the wild northern coast of South America. Alas and alack, the damn thing’s made of aluminum, bolted together like a child’s erector set, probably bought from US army surplus, riding about five feet above the water’s surface. I hope it’s low tide. It took ‘em two years to complete; the US Army could’ve assembled it and been killing people on the other side in less than two months, if not two weeks. They seem proud of it, so I suppress all laughter and sarcastic comments. I wonder if it’ll hold until my return.

Looks like I’ll ride out Christmas Day here somewhere in Guyana unless I happen to find easy passage straight through to Paramaribo in Suriname. I only hope I don’t get shut down with nothing to eat or drink. The Chinese should take care of that. So I get stuck at the border with Suriname- Corriverton, Guyana- Christmas Eve… and the place is hopping. They don’t decorate silly trees here; they party. There’s a little carnival midway set up on the main drag through town, and disco speakers are stacked all up and down the sidewalk blasting away at ear-splitting decibel levels. Liquor or beer, choose your weapon. It could be a long night, but at least the place isn’t shut down. Dutch-language TV from Suriname may have all the standard Christmas carols, but the street is different. Borders are the weirdest places in the world; just look at TJ. They run right through a lonely place in your mind. All the world’s fumbling schemers are here, the Indians the Chinese the Muslims and me. I guess I’m home for Christmas. Pray for rain.

DREAMS OF CONGO SQUARE AND THE TACO THAT ATE TRINIDAD

So I went on to Barbados from Jamaica by Air Jamaica, spent the night, and then continued on to Trinidad by Liat Airlines. I’ll spend a week here total, getting a Suriname visa in the process, then continue on to Guyana for Christmas. I’ll case out Guyana, and then continue on to Suriname, which is a major variable for the trip. It sounds interesting. If I like it, I’ll stay a while. If not, and I get a multiple entry visa, I’ll head on to French Guyana, or back to (British) Guyana if only single-entry the Suriname visa. There are no air connections amongst the Guyanas. From there it’s back to Barbados for a few days, then back to Jamaica mid-January. After three more days there, I go on to Havana. I finally got the $250RT killer deal to Cuba. That’s about half the normal price. That’s what it should cost. That’s why I went to Jamaica. For $6-700 you can fly round trip straight to Cuba from TJ, no need to hip-hop the Caribbean. But that’s a slow way to reach 200 countries. It’s not easy connecting the Caribbean dots without a boat, but with my other killer $250RT from Jamaica-Barbados, I’m doing okay, and that’s a three-hour flight! Havana’s little more than an hour from Jamaica. Guyana’s the expensive leg. Are the hardest places to reach ultimately the most rewarding? We’ll soon find out. I’ve schemed on Suriname for years, even if their language IS called ‘Taki Taki’. I’m battle-hardened linguistically now, and more flexible to boot. Everything’s different now. At least I’m finally vindicated after losing my killer deal from Punta Arenas to Puerto Montt last month in Chile.

You can’t tell much about a country from a single night, but I can tell that Barbados is a pricey mother. If the Caribbean as a whole is on US/Europe price schemes with ‘budget’ hotels typically topping $50 and $100 on the horizon, then Barbados is setting the pace. Good luck finding a cheapie there. You don’t see many backpackers in the Caribbean and that’s why. Jumping puddles ain’t cheap and the pipe dream of hopping a boat just doesn’t happen unless you hang in those circles, and regularly… yachts and backpackers are generally mutually exclusive concepts… though not necessarily. More likely, though, you’ll be flying in circles, which wouldn’t be so bad, especially time-wise, if the lodging were more affordable. This is not an unreasonable expectation, given the wage differentials between the Third World and the Western World. Real estate prices are another story. If there’s a phenomenon of ‘island dwarfism’ in relation to body size of islanders, there seems to be an economic ‘island inflation’ operating in inverse proportion. The smaller the island, the more expensive it is, perfect for the Caribbean bedroom community. Welcome to Barbados. The bottom line is: the US is a pretty good deal, really. Costs in many, but not all, Third World countries, are similar. Wages aren’t.

Welcome to Trinidad. Super Burritos Gigantes, look out! You have competition brewing down in the southern Caribbean, down around where the islands meet South America meet India meet Africa. It’s called roti dhal puree. Imagine a Mexican burrito that has everything- no wait- that’s too easy. Imagine ordering Ethiopian food and taking that entire meal laid out on injera bread and fold the whole thing up into a giant four-cornered pie capable of being considered ‘takeout’ with at least enough structural integrity to stay together until you start nibbling away at it. There’s dhal, spinach, chickpeas, mango chutney, two kinds of chicken complete with bone, and of course ‘pepper’ (salsa); just tell them what to put in. Show me a burrito that can compete with that. This is what comes out of ‘roti’ shops in Trinidad, very similar to what goes on in curry kitchens, except ladled over bread instead of rice. ‘Roti’, of course, means ‘bread’ in Indo/Malay, but I’ve never heard the term used with Indian cuisine. The same word got carried to Thailand by the country’s Muslims to describe a sweet crepe-like street food concoction, so I’m guessing maybe some Commonwealth Malays introduced the concept here, too, though the components are unmistakably Indian. You can’t rule out the Chinese, though, considering they make Jamaican food in Jamaica and ‘Creole’ food here. Such are the mutations in the DNA of cuisine as handed down mouth to mouth over generations.

Following in the great tradition of Britain’s colonial island/city/states Singapore, Hong Kong, Penang, Zanzibar, Mumbai, and… oh yeah… New York, Trinidad has an ethnic mix that must be seen to be believed. Almost equal parts African and Indian, Trinidad also has significant proportions of Chinese, Arabs, and Hispanic Latinos. The Indians dominate the economy for sure, but Chinese run supermarkets and restaurants as they do everywhere, and the ‘Arabs’ are probably in fact Lebanese who have been trading (fabrics especially) world-wide even longer than the other two, even since they were Phoenicians and Carthaginians long before they were Arabs. Hanno the Navigator explored the west coast of Africa almost two thousand years before Prince Henry, Marco Polo, Ibn Battutah, Leo Africanus, Zheng He or any of the rest. This is the way the British liked it, ruling from the balance sheet by mercantile principles of economic control and hub-and-spoke monopolies. It worked far better than the French system of direct governmental control, which has spawned an overly dependent and costly colonial system which to this day doesn’t even WANT independence. It also allowed good food to flourish and supplant an otherwise dubious British cuisine, only pies making the transition. Pot of pie anyone?

I’ve often wondered what it was like in Congo Square in New Orleans back in the early 1800’s. At the point in time when Louisiana joined the USA, African practices had long been suppressed by the English and then American settlers with their families and religions and five-year plans, something the French and Spanish in Louisiana Territory had never bothered to do. So when the US headed ‘West’ in the early 1800’s and riverboats began docking in New Orleans, they were treated to an unparalleled spectacle at Congo Square on Sunday afternoons. Eye-witness reports tell of hundreds of slaves and free men of color (a large percentage of the population even then) taking the day off to perform age-old celebrations of music and dance in front of equally large numbers of spectators. This inspired more than a few Homies in the process. Thus almost all forms of American music had their origins right then and there. This golden age of cultural intercourse was as short-lived as the golden age of riverboat travel unfortunately, as trains soon passed them by and southern apartheid tightened its grip on all forms of African expression as a threat to its economic and political stranglehold. It would all be re-born and abstracted and sanitized post-War as minstrel shows, minus the animal skins and voodoo.

Trying to imagine something and actually seeing it are two different things. What goes down when the sun goes down in the pedestrian park of Port-of-Spain is the closest I’ve seen to what I imagine Congo Square to have been like. Mostly its just rival boom-boxes selling pirate CD’s and ensuring that no one will suffer in silence, but somehow it lives and moves and breathes like an organism of which the individuals are only body parts. Liquor lines tables and the brain cells of people dancing with their own ghosts, both aging retirees on the way out feeling it for the last time, and young bucks on the way in feeling it all for the first time. The music is primarily calypso-derived soca, with a thousand hyphens attached reflecting each new generation’s novel input. There’s a heavy admixture of modern American hip-hop of course, but with one important difference- I’m liking it. I think the problem with so much rap is that the music is lost in the background and the ‘poetry’ is so bad. Keep the music up front and good, and the stuff goes down easy, just a few lumps in the gravy. The live bands are even better of course. Even now, long before Carnaval, steel ‘pan’ bands are honing and licking their chops, hoping to win the Carnaval competitions. I wish I were here. I think I like Trinidad more than Brazil. Too bad they speak English.

Trinidad seems to overtly prize its African connection more than any place I’ve yet seen in the Caribbean. That may seem surprising, considering its less-than-absolute majority. Maybe that explains it. I’ve seen people wear true African dress here, but nowhere else in the Caribbean; rasta colors yes, but not real African. I’ve seen shops selling African goods here that would rival those of the US, not just cheap tourist schlock. I can watch the ‘Africa Channel’ on TV here. I’ve never seen it elsewhere, except maybe LinkTV in LA. The ‘Cowheel Soup’ may not be my favorite item on the menu, but there’s plenty else to choose from- oxtail, etc. Yes, there’s a real cowheel in there. Yes, it’s disgusting. Yes, the soup is tasty. But there’s plenty of Indian and Chinese food, and the bakeries aren’t half bad. Street food is second to none. If roti is the Trinidad burrito, then ‘doubles’ are the Trinidad taco. This is fast food par excellence, the same kind of curry thing but smaller and rolled over, ‘doubled’; get it? They come off the line about 5-6 per minute by a guy who resembles nothing more than a DJ wowing the crowd with his mixes. The trick is to eat them before the goop drips all over you and starts to get embarrassing- true fast food; eat it fast. It’s also fart food. Mexican food can’t hold a candle to this stuff. Don’t try that at home.

The music is good and the bars stay open all night on weekends. The food is good and there’s even a local home-grown Starbuck’s-style coffee chain called ‘Rituals’ (yes!) with little Aunt Jemimas cranking out as good of a macchiato as I’ve ever had, for prices at least no higher than US standards. Anything’s better than Nescafe (a menu in Guatemala once translated this as ‘Nescoffee’). It sounds like paradise. So what’s my problem? I’m afraid my trip my climax prematurely. I just started and there’s no return to Trinidad planned. Maybe it’ll just get better. Maybe this is nothing compared to Guyana, and Suriname will put them all to shame. Maybe the dollar will re-gain ground against the euro and I’ll go on to French Guiana also. Maybe ‘Good Morning America’ will invite me on the show to tell all about it. Maybe Trinidad is a revelation. Maybe it’ll be a Merry Christmas just five days from now. Maybe it’ll rain all day and I can just keep on dreaming…

MONTEGO BAY: FRIENDLY NATIVES, SOUL FOOD, AND THE QUEST FOR (WI) FI

The Caribbean ain’t cheap, but you probably already knew that. Why should a picture-postcard-perfect swimming-pool-to-the-gods only a half day from approximately one-billion North Americans and Europeans sell itself cheaply? If you’re okay with $50 ‘budget’ hotels, then you’re in. That’s the problem with Lonely Planet- ‘budget’ means different things in different countries. Of course if you want cheaper islands you can go to Indonesia. Everybody knows that. But you’d spend it all on the flight to get there, and that would mean missing some qualities peculiarly Jamaican- like reggae, Rastafarians, and rum, the ‘3R’s of Jamaican experience, to which another should probably now be added, i.e. running, as in Usain Bolt, who almost stole the Olympics from Michael Phelps and even broke records while mocking the losers, including his own teammates, a luxury not even Michael Phelps could afford. Given the success and lingering nostalgia for the ‘Cool Runnings’ of Jamaican bobsled and John Candy movie fame, I suspect there are already efforts underway to somehow connect all these runnings and capitalize on Jamaica’s other non-dreadlocked success.

For all its cache’ within my wildest imagination, the reality on the ground in Montego Bay is a bit different. By my standards I’d say that MoBay is a veritable cold bed of activity… which is good. Though it’s long been superseded by Negril as the hipper alternative and Ocho Rios as the slick uptown cousin, MoBay still manages to rock on weekends and cruise-ship days, and certainly functions as an airport terminus far more user-friendly than funky Trenchtown… I mean Kingston. Yet for me it’s still a bit lacking in services… like maybe supermarkets? Anybody here ever heard of those? If you don’t have traditional ‘green’ markets, then you’re supposed to have supermarkets; that’s the deal. Anything else is substandard. Thank God for the Chinese or there wouldn’t be anything in the stores to eat, as the take’s probably too low for a self-respecting Brit. They run the banks.

Put a dozen of the same thing in a box and offer a discount and voila!, wholesale was invented. Take them back out and stack them on a shelf and you’ve got a grocery store. Take that away and you’re back in Africa, people selling along the roadside and out of their trunks. It looks like a Dead show, or maybe Dimanche en Bamako. Chinese scour the world looking for places that need some basic mom-and-pop groceries, and seem to be doing quite well, thank you. This is not ‘yellow peril’ conspiracy mind you, just Xiao Jie Blou and her husband Zhou trying to take care of her family and put food on the table, everybody’s table. They even open on Sunday. They even learn patois. Their stores here look just like the old market districts of Thailand, a mangled tangle of shelves and boxes, whose owners now scream ‘foreign takeover’ as the big fancy European supermarkets move on to their prized turf. NIC citizens now hop in their cars and drive to the outskirts of town, in a world paradigm shift that probably still outranks E-commerce. Half the world didn’t even have telephones until cells took over recently, al-Qaeda and all the rest. My wife’s never written a check in her life, much less received one. No one in Thailand writes checks, because no one will take them, because they’ll bounce until the rubber wears out, because that imaginary stasis of a balanced budget is an abstract concept, something which eludes many people.

But the best thing about Montego Bay is that there’s a real town there, though a comfy mile from the Hip Strip here where all the hotels, bars and Margaritaville are. That’s enough to keep most of the riff-raff out and keep the restaurant prices up. A mile the other way and you’re at the airport. That’ll teach them to overcharge on airport taxis; I’ll just walk. A five minute taxi ride here costs the same as a thirty minute ride at BKK. So MoBay’s not Kingston, but once again, that’s good. At least it’s more of a city than Negril, which I haven’t been to, but I doubt I’ll like it. You can sense those things. If there’s one thing I hate worse than the choking air of dirty degenerate cities it’s the rarefied air of pristine pretentious resort areas. There’s got to be a balance. So MoBay ‘proper’ is okay, funky and frenetic, kinda’ like Jackson’s Farish Street up until the eighties (all that’s changed now), kinda’ like Port-au-Prince, or Dakar almost spitting images. How is that possible, since the African diaspora occurred before the age of modern cities and the commerce and consumption that the Industrial Revolution ushered in?

I finally even found something resembling a real supermarket, so I’m excited. Before that the most exciting thing so far was seeing a buck (butt?) naked woman walking down the street in the early morning as if that were the most normal thing in the world. Maybe for her it is. I wanted to stop her and get her story, but didn’t want to offend her sensibilities or violate any religious taboos. I wouldn’t want to change any of the local customs, no. You’ve got to be sensitive. The Interzone bozos almost got to me the first day with all their little dog-and-pony shows and psychological manips to get me into their shops and their houses and their pants to spend all my money before it’s all gone, stash for cash. They can sense fresh meat like a vulture at five thousand feet. Funny thing is that by day two or three that’s all over and I’m now like part of the landscape, twilight man, homo erectus Montegus, the guy who walks for miles looking for something nous ne savons pas, but never at midday nor midnight. That’s me. Roasting buns in the midday sun was never my vice, nor late late nights.

Most of the beaches are private, so long walks on the beach are not an option. It’s beyond me why anyone would do anything else there besides swim or have intercourse… I’m talking about SOCIAL intercourse, you dirty minds out there, talking and laughing and mutual masterminding, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t mind some myself, swimming that is, but it hardly seems worth all the extra protection for that one sublime moment when you surrender all to the warm wet wildness of nature’s vast womb. Where does the passport and money go? Such considerations are the bane of the independent traveler who long ago forewent the pleasures of tour guides and glossy brochures and pleasure palaces in favor of actually seeing some places, unedited and in the raw, if not le boeuf.

So I quickly get a daily routine together, going to the city in the morning while it’s cool to explore and eat Jamaican lunch for cheap, then head back to the ‘hip strip’ to beat the heat and send out these messages in bottles in the hopes that someone will rescue me. If I want sit-down supper, then I’ll go to the Chinese joint down the street close by. Given the lack of groceries, there’s not much need to bemoan the lack of a kitchen. Half the Chinese eateries in the world operate on that principle- ‘we can do it cheaper and better than you can do it yourself.’ The other half try to capitalize on their exotica Asiatica where the Homies ain’t never seen no slant-eyed stuff (“I wonder what else is slanted, yuk yuk?”) nor pineapples and peppers in the same dish. You get used to it.

The Jamaicans are genuinely friendly people, despite the hustlers, though like all such people they run the risk of running it into the ground and making genuine pests of themselves as has long been the case in Morocco and is arguably in process in Thailand. That friendliness usually carries a price; they’ve all got their hands out. Sometimes it’s nice just to blend in to the point of being ignored. Anything else is a subtle form of racism, however benign. But it CAN be fun, all the extra attention, especially if you’re a novice traveler looking for thrills. Me, I’m past all that; yeah, right. No, me, I’m just looking for a wi-fi signal. What was optional a year ago is no longer so. I’ll pay extra for a wi-fi signal and even go without cable TV. I just opted out of a place a few bucks cheaper WITH KITCHEN because there’s probably no wi-fi; MAYBE a rogue signal, but no guarantee. I’m borrowing it where I am now, and then I’ve only got it on the balcony, drifting in and out of consciousness. Step inside and it’s gone. Such is love. The Information Age is no longer a societal paradigm, but a personal way of life, to have info constantly at one’s fingertips, constantly up-dated and inter-active. I wonder if it’s not the same urge, interpolated and extrapolated, as the primordial quest to control fire, create language, and conquer continents. Outer space and inner space transect right here and right now.

Jamaica’s so-called ‘jerk cuisine’ is not bad, something of a cross between soul food and Indian cuisine, though I’m hardly an expert after only a week’s time and something of a weak stomach, cautious after decades of self-abuse with chiles and derivative products. That seems a little odd with only a handful of native Indians here, they one of the traditional merchant groups who, along with the Chinese and the original peripatetic Semitic Lebanese, keep Jamaica out of the jungle. As Chinese cooks increasingly take over cooking chores, Jamaican food itself may be taking on some Chinese qualities. Curries there are cooked from scratch and piping hot, not perpetual stews simply ladled over and out. The bakeries aren’t bad either, combining the chores of meaty British patties and sweet European pastries, with biscuits both British and American to boot. Too bad there are none of these on the ‘hip strip’. They’d probably do well, since street food is hard to find. Fancy restaurants aren’t. Neither are skunks, the smell of which pervades the atmosphere. I suppose you could eat them too, maybe mixed into brownies. But I’m past all that.