Brasi Trip Report #4
Singing with Tyrone Lee and Anonymous Lady
(trip was in april 2011)
I took a left out of Mariner’s, away from town, looking for a cambio to cash in some traveler’s checks. It was an ill-advised decision to bring my money in this old and outdated format, as I was bound to “cambio time” for my solo vacation/financial well-being. In Jamaica cash is king.
Traveler’s checks, blah.
“Next I’ll know better,” I thought. “This is what ATMs are for. “
Just then: “Hey mon, hey mon, jerk chicken..”
An unshaven and altogether unkempt man was yelling at me from across Norman Manley Boulevard. I could smell his chicken on his barrel-grill. Wow. I crossed the street.
“How are you mon,” said the vendor. “Jerk chicken, best chicken in Negril.”
“I’m great. I’ll pass for now, but I’ll be back,” I said. I meant it. That smell was too good to pass up!
After the cambio, I did go back. I got a generous piece of jerk fish with rice and a fresh-squeezed OJ…total? 900J. Not dirt cheap but well worth it. There were 15 oranges in the OJ he squeezed for me! He drained it from a bowl into an old (but very clean) rum bottle and capped it. I put the OJ in my fridge for the next morning. It may have been the best thing I have ever tasted…
This simple introduction and purchase, as common as it was, led me to befriend both Dave and his friend Tyrone Lee. Or did they befriend ME? Who knows. But when I was on vacation, I noticed they’d set up their merchandise table and painting nearly almost every day across from Mariner’s. Dave told me he was saving for a new barrel for Reggae Fest. I wonder if he ever got one? In any case, I became a good customer.
By the end of my 12-day stay, I had a routine down. Each day, I’d walk past Dave and stop in to place my OJ and jerk chicken or fish order. I sat and talked with them about things—Jamaican politics, music, Tyrone’s paintings, or the “best way” to buy certain items that may or may not be mentioned in this post.
During one of my visits, a Jamaican woman, whose name is not in my notes, stopped my and asked me if I’d like a massage. I declined. She sat with us for a bit, and as Tyrone and Dave got up to serve hungry visitors or to speak with potential customers, she and began a discussion that remains with me. It was honest, and it was real. Or at least felt that way.
“How much money must an American make to live there?” she asked me.
I thought for a minute.
“I’d say that, bottom line, a U.S. citizen must make at least about $500 a week to be able to live alone in an apartment and have a car, and pay their bills,” I said. “And they’d be almost poor by our standards.”
“Wooohoo, I’d be the richest woman in Jamaica,” she said, flapping her hands, laughing, yet shaking her head in disbelief at the same time. “Dat’s so crazy!”
“But you know what?” she asked me, a more serious tone in her voice now. “I wouldn’t change. I am a strong Jamaican woman, and I came here the same way I will go out in that box. With nothing,” she said. “And that is true for everyone, no matter what car you drive, what you eat, or what you wear while you’re here. Yeh, that is true.” Another Jamaican revelation.
I thought about my job in New York, which I need to have so I can pay for my car, because I need a car to get me to my job, because I need a job to pay for my mortgage in a house I bought because it is near my job. Get me? MOST Jamaicans I know in Negril don’t live this cycle of foolishness. They work, day-by-day…usually making enough to eat that day and letting the chips fall where they may…so where did we go wrong? Where did I go wrong?
A second or two later, Tyrone broke my wandering thoughts. He came back to our little circle of chairs in the shade under the breezy trees. I was feeling good after a nice cigarette.
“Sing with me mon,” he said, standing slightly behind me, patting his hand on my shoulder.
Tyrone and the woman taught me something that day. I know more about the outlook many Jamaicans have. As if to confirm this forever in my memory, my two newest friends broke into “Lean on Me” by Bill Withers. I joined in, happy for these times, happy for my new friends, and blissfully unaware of the clouds brewing back home in NY that would change my life forever.
Next up:
Two Canadians in Negril: A Love Story
