The Funeral Procession
Even though we talk a couple of times a day on the phone and Skype, I was getting a bit bored and lonely without Bea here. But I’m OK now because a young, slim good looking Jamaican female has moved in with me. So, I’m good. Here’s a photo of her.
What do you think I should call her?
This afternoon I’m off on the One Love pub crawl with my buddy and his GF. It’s a bit cool today and the water has churned up again, so it will be a good day for a crawl.
I was walking the beach road and saw a funeral procession approaching. Rather, I heard it approaching. It was led by a big flatbed truck, headlights on, chock full with musicians on the back, playing music amplified to an ear-splitting volume. Following in an unorganized pack was a large squadron of motorbikes, maybe fifty or so, all of them with the headlights on. I watched it approach. It was not moving along at a stately pace, like funeral processions back home, rather it was barreling along at a good rate; some would say fast.
The procession roared by, like a huge wave travelling down the road. Sound from the flatbed, fury from the horde of bikes. The bike riders were all young men. Some bikes had young female passengers on the rear. In the middle of the pack one of the bikes was rigged with a small flat trailer. Tied on top of the trailer was a wrecked motor-bike, its front wheel jutting heavenward. This, I assume, was the instrument of demise for the departed soul – a young man I assume. Maybe he was to be buried with his wrecked bike. Maybe I have a macabre imagination.
Then it was travelling away from me. There were some cars in trail as well, but it was difficult to say if they were part of the procession of just speeding along behind the procession to take advantage of its momentum.
The whole procession rounded a bend in the road, the music faded in the distance. And it was over.
I caught these birds at the cement pier at the mouth of the South Negril river. They were watching a fisherman clean a bucket full of small reef fish.
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