Yes, looking back on this thread, I should have know to stay away from beavers.
So, continuing from where I left off . . . . .
I’m headed for the beach to find JT. I walk by the parking lot abattoir and cross the road to the Chiny Man’s store. I pick out a cold walkin’ beer, a Red Stripe, naturally, from the stand-up window cooler. It’s hot and busy in the store. The Chiny Man’s wife keeps close watch on all proceedings from her raised dias overlooking the floor. I always feel like I’m walking into some kind of post-apocalyptic movie set when I enter that store. The way people are moving around. There are always some guys in the back, watching your every move. It’s just a weird feeling, but I like it.
I exit the store and make my way past the traffic circle and cross the bridge. Off to my right I see the egret tree. As they do every day at this time, the egrets are beginning to congregate at their night roost in the tree on the bank of the South Negril River. Several dozens of the big white birds have already staked out their nocturnal perches. Ahead, the roast-peanut man is making his way across the bridge, headed into town. The steam whistle on his rickety, rusted-out push-cart shrieks loudly as we pass on the bridge.
I want to cut down to the beach ASAP and walk along the sand, but there’s no way I’m going to cut through the craft market; made that mistake once, almost had my arm pulled off. So I walk past the craft market and cut down towards the beach via the public parking lot there. I hear loud dance hall music coming from off to my left. I glance over. A car is parked there; all the doors and the trunk are open. Two young women and a small child are at one side of the car. It looks like they have been at the beach and are drying off and changing, getting ready to leave. Music booms from inside the car – pounding out a catchy beat. One of the young women is dancing to the vibe; nothing unusual there - Jamaican’s dance at the drop of a hat – they’re always dancing.
I’m not a voyeur by nature, but the scene is compelling, so I continue to look in the direction of the car as I walk. The young lady drops down into a really, really low twerk and starts to gyrate and twist, her hands above her head. She’s slim and lithe. It’s an impressive athletic move. Think Flo Jo. She’s smiling and laughing. The other woman starts to dance too, not twerking though, she chooses to remain upright; shakin’, shuckin’ an’ jivin’. The child looks on. Then the twerking woman takes it up a notch, she starts to twirl, shimmy, pump, shake, wobble and jiggle and vibrate while twerkin’ all at the same time. I’m truly impressed. The moves she’s throwing down would make Miley Cyrus blush. The women notice me watching them, they laugh and wave. I move on.
My first beer has gone down quickly, it’s empty and I need another. I hit the beach and head north. The sand here at the town-end is deep and coarse and the beach has an acute slope to it. Hard to walk in. I doff my sandals and strip off my tank top.
I grab my second walkin’ Red Stripe at the first little stand I come across on the beach. I ask the guy behind the counter not to open it. “Yah, mon.” He hands it to me. I take off my brand new Red Stripe hat and use the bokkle opener that’s built into the bill to snap the cap off. There; the first beer opened by my new cap is a Red Stripe on the beach in Jamaica – it is therefore well christened. It should serve me well.
. . . . . . likkle more . . . . .
A different kind of Jamaican dog. Also well fed.
The view from this bar is hard to beat, don't cha t'ink?
These rules look reasonable, except this school only goes to grade six.
