Portia vs Michelle
I was considering renting a scooter but decided against it. In the last two weeks I’ve seen four people (tourists) who’ve been mashed up while riding scooters. They all claim that they were riding safely and it was through no fault of their own. Three of them had bad cases of road-rash, while another had his arm in a sling with a cast up to and around his shoulder.
When I told a local guy that I was thinking of getting a scooter he grimaced and said, “Very dangerous, mon, me ‘ave lost so many friends who rode dem an’ many, many people get damaged. De car-men ‘ave no respect for bikes. Dem is killing machines. Get a car, safer.”
After having seen the injured people this came as no surprise to me, so no scooter for me this trip.
My time is short so early last night I decided to get back up that horse and venture into Redground. I took my mini MagLite with me and went up to Renkie’s Bar, which I’ve also referred to as The Dominoes Bar. It was busy as usual. When I asked him when he closed Renkie told me he stays there until the last game is completed, whenever that may be. Often, he said, the games continue until dawn.
It’s an hour after sunset. I’m leaning on Renkie’s worn linoleum bar top studying the checkerboard pattern and sipping on a JB and pipe wata, A.K.A. ‘buzzard’s ass’; the Jamaican-style rum drink. Like they say, When in Rome . . . Renkie is behind the bar rolling yet another cigarette in what seems to be a long, seemingly endless series. He rolls his cigarettes deftly, using extra-large papers and short strips of whole-leaf tobacco.
Outside the bar, under the corrugated zinc stoop, several energetically executed games of dominoes are under way. At a longer table four players are engaged in a card game of undetermined nature. A small pile of rumpled bills occupies the center of the playing surface.
The old-school TV that sits on the bar top is turned on. It’s two feet away from my elbow. The picture is fuzzy, the sound is muted. I assume it’s tuned to an American channel because a long drawn-out puff-piece on the Obamas is being aired. On screen, Michelle is being featured. It’s a close up head shot. Michelle smiles into the camera and says something; her lips are moving but there is no sound.
I’m aware that Jamaicans, in general, dearly love the Obamas – and I totally understand why. (As a Canuck, I’m agnostic on them.) Knowing how much the locals adore the 1st Family, I decide to have some fun.
“Hey, Renkie,” I say, “who do you think is better looking, Michele Obama or Portia?” The latter, of course, being the current and first female Prime Minister of Jamaica.
Renkie regards me as if I’m several coconuts short of a cart load. “Michelle or Portia?” he asks, disbelievingly. Another guy at the bar and a petite, thin woman called Slim who is drinking JB and Redbull, turn to look at me. “Are you serious, mon?” Renkie says.
“Yeah, I was just looking at Michelle,” I nod at the TV, “and I think Portia is much prettier.”
“No, mon! Michele is prettier, trust me!” he retorts.
The other guy at the bar joins in. “Yah, mon, Michelle is way nicer - an’ Portia, she mash up de economy,” he adds forcefully. He glances over at Renkie who slowly nods his head in agreement. “Fe true,” he says, then gives his just-completed cigarette a thorough licking.
Slim pipes up, “An’ look at Michelle’s hair.” She raises a thin arm and points at the TV. “It is always so nice an’ always in diff’rent style. Portia’s hair, it always de same.” She flicks her hands around her own head, miming Portia’s hair style – a page boyish look with mid-forehead bangs. “Always de same,” she says again, shaking her head sadly as if wearing one’s hair in the same style from day to day was a major transgression. Although, given the amount of work that Jamaican women put into making their hair look good, I get her point.
“I don’t know,” I said, “that Portia is a fine lookin’ woman.”
“Mon, yuh wanta nuther drink?” Renkie says, thereby officially ending the Michelle vs Portia conversation gambit.
POWER STRAP! and two of the Minnesota Triplets
