Why do Jamaicans think Americans always need something?

[brasi]

I have a game I play with some of them...this is a daytime-only deal though....and was in fact suggested to me by someone on this board...it kind of sets higglers off balance...and evens the playing field!

Ex:
Higgler
"Hey mon, they yell, hey mon come here!...smoke/etc?"

Me:
"Nah, I'm set but...heyyy! Remember me?"

Higgler:
"Yeh mon! Yeh mon!"

Me:
"What's my name?

Higgler:
pregnant pause/
"Uhhh..Bob/etc?"

Me:
"Ha..gothca! We never met bro!"

This inevitably sets them off guard, gets a laugh, and then I chat and say "respect" with perhaps a fist-bump. I also let them know I'll be sure to let THEM know if I want anything, for sure, no need to ask me, I'm set. Saves the whole routine next time.

Back to the whole "the beach walk is an experience" idea.

Oh: and I come to Negril a lot, like 5-6 times a year and I've been here two weeks, leaving in a month etc. (Anything but the truth)....

[Ti2m]

It really TICKS ME OFF...
when the patty man is late!!!!

LOL ain't it the truth. The jerk pork guy is the one I become impatient with.

[Kahuna3]

This is my take on beach vendors – from nine years ago. Things haven`t changed that much!!

Cigarrrreeeeeettts!

I was up early this morning. I can’t say for sure what time it was, probably around 6:00 o'clock; the sun had just risen. The roosters were heralding the new day and I was watching the morning colors fill the sky. I had wandered down to the beach, which was totally deserted, and then back through the hotel parking lot to the road. At that hour of the morning there is virtually no traffic. I was standing in the hotel driveway beside the road when I heard the rising scream of a kamikaze bike approaching at full throttle. I looked in the direction of town and saw it coming, a rapidly growing blue and white blob of color. Within moments the apparition was upon me,
“EEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWWW”, it blasted by creating a sharp gust of wind in the still morning air. It was moving FAST, how fast, I cannot say, but the Doppler Effect on the shriek of the engine was very pronounced, and I swear the color of the bike as it flashed by me seemed to shift from blue to red.
I caught a blurred glimpse of the helmet-less driver as he streaked by; bent over the gas tank, teeth bared in a wide grin, his shorts and T-shirt slapping in the slipstream. A moment later the bike was out of sight around a slight bend in the road, the sound of its engine rapidly fading. Soon all traces of its passage were gone and the tranquility of the early morning reclaimed its rightful place. It's odd, but standing in that cool calmness, I began to question if the bike really had gone by, or if the whole thing was a fanciful flight of my imagination, or perhaps a lingering dream. Or maybe I had just seen a ghost? As I knew from my experience with Danny and Keith, some Jamaicans believe in phantoms. Had I seen the duppy of a young man who had met an early demise on his fast motorcycle, condemned to ride the Jamaican roads in the chill of the early mornings to atone for his sins?
I know not, but I do know that in Negril, the line that divides reality and fantasy is narrow, fuzzy and meandering.
Later in the morning, after my obligatory jaunt, I trek up to a quiet section of beach a little beyond The Negril Tree House resort. I walk along in the surf, kicking my bare feet in the warm, clear water, squinting into the bursts of reflected sunlight dancing off its surface. At this precise moment, I don’t have a care in the world. I’m slowly making my way toward the north end of the beach. Ahead, at the far end of the long crescent of surf and sand that stretch enticingly before me, I see Booby Cay, my Treasure Island, sitting just off shore.
I walk for what feels to be about twenty minutes, not that I care, as time has become fluid and I’ve totally lost track of the hours and minutes. I know that it’s mid-morning, and that’s good enough. The sun is pounding on my back and right side. I’m plastered with sunscreen and I have a T-shirt draped over my shoulders, but there is no shade on this stretch and I feel the sun slowly gaining the upper hand.
On a previous visit, I was caught out here in the middle of a blistering afternoon without a T-shirt on a cloudless day and it was brutal. That day, I made my way back to the hotel in hundred-yard bursts across the parched sand from one shady refuge to the next. Only mad dogs and sun-starved Canadians go out in the noonday sun, and there are plenty of both in Negril. I have no idea how far I’m going to go this morning, but since my agenda is clear today (like every other day), I’ll go until I turn around, wherever and whenever that may be.
I’m walking one of the last undeveloped section of beach in Negril (excluding Bloody Bay) and although I dearly hope it stays undeveloped, it probably will not. Along this five hundred-yard stretch the beach is wide and the sand is white and clean and has a fresh look to it. It massages the bottom of my feet as I walk. The fact that this portion of the beach is undeveloped hasn’t stopped vendors from setting up here, because there is still a lot of walking traffic that passes by. All along the edge of the beach, where the sand gives way to the grass and trees, vendors have set up shop. There are no permanent stands or stores, everything on display is set up early in the morning and torn down just before sunset. For a couple of hundred yards along the beach, lines have been strung from tree branches to poles stuck into the sand and hung from them are sarongs, wraps, towels and T-shirts in a dazzling array of colors and prints. They flap and wave in the breeze, creating a phantasmagoric, ever changing kaleidoscope that summons passersby, ‘Come on over! . . . Look at me!’ they beckon. On the sand, laid out on tarps and planks in and amongst the flapping fabrics, are rows of seashells and woodcarvings, and liberally interspersed throughout are makeshift display stands with the inevitable collection of bracelets, necklaces and earrings.
I’d visited these stands before and had no particular interest in looking at them again, but as I pass a bright flash of color teases at the edge of my vision. I make the fatal mistake of glancing, just for a microsecond, in its direction. This brings the sharp-eyed vendor, who until this moment was hidden in the shade of a tree, abruptly to her feet. Any passerby with white skin will draw the attention of the vendors, and newcomers whose skin is still pallid or is showing tones of pink or red are especially attention grabbing, akin to waving a red flag in front of a bull.
“Suh! come heah. . . over heah suh!” she calls out, walking out a bit toward me, raising her arm high above her head and making the ‘come over here’ motion with her fingers.
I shake my head, wave and keep on moving. “Suh! Come an’ see what I have, you can jus’ look, no problem.” The ‘come over here’ motion now involves her whole hand and lower arm. I do a mental shrug, remind myself that I’m in no hurry and walk over to her, reasoning that it’s the courteous thing to do.
“Hello, suh, how are you today?” she says, smiling and holding the magazine that she was reading up to her brow, shading the strong sun.
“Oh, I’m great today!” I reply. “What more could one ask for? The sun is shining, the weather is sweet . . .”
I examine what she has on display. Hanging from a line strung between the curved trunk of a coconut tree and a length of weathered 4x4 lumber stuck deep into the sand, are several large multi-colored beach towels. One of them is decorated with the Jamaican flag, a large yellow ‘X’ with green triangular patches above and below and black triangles to the sides. The yellow is emblematic of the sunshine that blesses the island, the green represents the verdant vegetation, agriculture and hope for the future and the black is symbolic for past hard times, oppression and burdens borne by the people. I’ve also heard some say that the black is representative of the skin color of the majority of the Jamaican people. The flag, adopted on Jamaican Independence Day, August 6, 1962, also has a motto;
‘Burdens and hardships there may be, but the land is green and the sun shineth.’
I grasp the edge of the flag-towel and stroke it, considering its symbolism.
“Dat’s our national flag,” the vendor says.
“Oh yes! I know, and a very beautiful flag it is,” I say. And I mean it. I don’t know why, but whenever I see the Jamaican flag, I get a warm, comfy feeling, more so than when I see my own Canadian flag. I’m somewhat baffled by this. My wife says it’s because I think I’m Jamaican. She jokingly calls me ‘white Rasta’. When we have company and they see my collection of Jamaican memorabilia and note that reggae is my music of choice, Amy says, by way of explanation, “Oh, he thinks he’s Jamaican.” Maybe there is something to it. Someday I’ll visit a hypnotist and get regressed; I have a suspicion that I may have lived a past life in Jamaica.
I briefly check the other beach towels, one is decorated with large multi-colored parrots perching in green foliage, there are several with varying hibiscus flower patterns and one is adorned with starfishes and sea horses on an aqua background.
“Do you like dat one?” the vendor asks, pointing to the starfish-patterned towel. “I give you special price today.”
“I don’t’ think so,” I reply, “I’m all fixed up for towels.” I move over to her little display stand. Among the trinkets I spot an interesting looking pipe in the shape of a horn. I pick it up.
“Dat’s made from de cow’s horn,” the vendor says.
The pipe is polished to a high sheen. It has a bowl mounted in it for smoking material, a mouthpiece and there’s a plug that can be removed, I pull it out.
“You put water in dere, dat’s a water pipe,” she explains.
“Oh, very nice,” I say, admiring the workmanship.
“You can have it for twenty dollars,” the vendor offers.
I put it down, “No thanks,” I say, “it’s very nice but I don’t need a pipe.”
“I’ll let you have it for fifteen dollars,” she counters.
“Naw, I really don’t need it . . . thanks anyhow,” I turn to leave.
“Ten dollars,” she says.
Aha! That’s it, the ‘walk away’ price, always the lowest! Some vendors refer to it as the ‘Italian’ price.

[Kahuna3]

I move a short distance down the beach and spread my mat on the sand, settling in to catch a few rays on my still pale body. I’m flat on my stomach, eyes level with the beach, when I notice a quick movement directly ahead of me. A tiny sand crab is busy working on his burrow. With mighty little heaves he flings divots of sand from the opening of his lair. He disappears back down the hole and re-emerges about ten seconds later with another clump, which he adds to the growing fan shaped drift of darker colored sand at his doorstep. Occasionally, he exits the burrow completely and goes on a jerky, sideways scuttling expedition across the sand. The purpose of these outings is not apparent to me. The coloring of his carapace is so effective that when he stops moving he blends completely into the beach and I’m not able to detect him until he moves again. His movements are swift and darting. With remarkable navigation skills he unerringly finds the portal of his home, hidden in the tumbled landscape of the beach, after each excursion. Each trip ends with a final frantic diving dash into the shaft. Shortly thereafter he pokes his pivoting stalk eyes above the rim of the entry and carefully examines the environs. Satisfied that it’s safe, even with my gargantuan body beached nearby, he hurls a lump of sand and then continues with his excavations.
Thus I peacefully passed the time, watching the little sand crab carry out his business, periodically flipping from my stomach to my back, and dozing. During one of my naps I dreamt that legions of sand crabs had tied me down with hundreds of tiny ropes fashioned from strands of seaweed. Then, with great difficulty, they carted me away to their capital city to be interrogated. Their leader, a huge blue crab with dreadlocks, crawled up on my face and stared at me with his beady eyes. To my great relief, when I awoke, I was unencumbered and my industrious little friend was the only crab in sight.
“Cigarrrreeeeeettts!
A loud, gravely, rasping voice calls out.
“Cigarrrreeeeeettts!”
Closer this time. I look up from my prone position on the mat, squinting into the brilliant sun. I see the silhouette of a tall, skinny, gawky looking figure wearing a tall wide brimmed hat striding toward me. ‘Oh my God!’ I think, ‘It’s The Cat in The Hat!’ Am I having another beach-mare? I sit up to get a better look at the apparition. Now clear of the sun’s glare I’m relieved to see that it’s only a beach vendor, not the grinning, creepy character from the Dr. Suess book. To make sure I check his shoes. Pheww! He’s wearing a tattered pair of sneakers, not the bell tipped slippers that The Cat wears. I most of the Dr. Suess books to my girls when they were little, but I never did like that Cat in The Hat dude. He gave me the creeps.
But the more I look at this guy the more he does look like The Cat, he’s even got the grin. That and the tall, wide brimmed, color banded top hat. If he had a big tail and the red bow tie, he would be a dead ringer for his namesake. Into the brim of his hat are tucked numerous packages of cigarettes, matches and other smoking paraphernalia. In addition to the wares stuffed in his hat, he’s carrying a large, clear plastic bag that’s filled with stuff. In the bag I see several brands of smokes, rolling papers (for your ganja, mon) along with matches and lighters. Under his arm are a couple of boxes of different types of cigars and God only knows what else. The Cat in The Hat is a fully equipped, ambulatory smoke shop.
“Do you need cigarettes mi frien’?” he asks.
“No, but what kind if cigars do you have?”
“Cubans – Monte Criscos, Cohibas…”
“Do you have any Romeo Y Julliettas?” I ask, thinking I might want an after-dinner cigar.
“Yeah mon.”
“Number ones?”
“Yeah mon.”
We complete the transaction and The Cat saunters on down the beach. I can imagine the Pavlovian effect that his unusual trademark call must have on the nicotine addicted. You can hear him coming long before you can see him and there is no doubt as to what he is selling. One loud raspy - “Cigarreeetttttsss!” – and any needy smoker within hearing distance will begin to pant and foam at the mouth.
Many visitors to Negril, and other Caribbean islands in general for that matter, complain about the hustlers on the beach. Some hustlers refer to themselves as ‘Beach Boys’, another common term is ‘higglers’, but this mostly applies to the women. Call them what you may, but as far as I’m concerned, the hustlers are one of the most interesting characteristics of the beach.
In Negril there are all manner of hustlers. There are placard carrying people, a guy that rides a bicycle on the hard packed strip of beach between the surf and the loose sand selling ice cream from a dry ice packed cardboard box. Younger boys rush around with plastic bags filled with chunks of pineapple and coconut. Others sell small bags of peanuts that have been attached to lengths of rigid wire, which in turn have been fashioned into impressive necklaces or bandoleers worn by the vendors. In the early morning, merchants move quickly up and down the beach, offering rum bottles filled with fresh-squeezed orange juice. Later in the morning, fishermen carrying stringers of fish and lobster ply the beach in front of the resorts that are equipped with kitchen facilities. When you get right down to it, the beach hustlers are simply entrepreneurs, trying to make a few bucks. In Jamaica, unemployment is high and wages are very low, and a good hustler can make a better-than-average wage working the beach.
Each of the roving hustlers has his own ‘beat’, a two to three hundred yard stretch of beach that he sticks to. Within his domain, he has an agreed-to quasi-monopoly on the particular product that he’s selling.
I’m not sure what the legal status of the hustler is, but they do keep an eye out for Babylon, and sharply curtail their activities when the police beach patrol is around. Yesterday, in front of the hotel, I was in the process of buying a little bag of cut-up pineapple from a beach boy. I was reaching for some cash when he suddenly thrust the baggie into my hand, said, “I gotta go, pay me later,” and split. I looked up and saw a pair of beach patrol police approaching. When I looked back to see where the beach boy was, he had disappeared. Later, after the police had gone, he re-appeared and I paid him for the pineapple. I asked him if selling on the beach was illegal. He said it wasn’t but sometimes the cops demanded money from the beach vendors and he preferred to keep his business expenses down by avoiding them as much as possible.
I think one’s opinion of hustlers is directly related to how one deals with them. I personally see them as a form of entertainment. These guys and girls, aside from adding a lot of character to the beach, are bountiful founts of information. I’ve visited Cuba, once when vendors were allowed on the beach and once again after Castro had decreed ‘no contact’ between tourists and Cuban citizens. The second time was much less interesting, the beaches seemed dead, sterile and boring. I can’t image what the Negril beach would be like without hustlers; just a bunch of tourists milling aimlessly about. No, in my opinion, the hustlers are the lifeblood of the beach.
For male tourists, it’s not unusual to be offered the services of a woman, either directly from the young lady or by her ‘promotional agent’. However, this year a new and interesting marketing angle is being exploited. Yesterday, after visiting with Big Joe, a hustler dressed in a shiny red football jersey and wearing a cell phone headset over his kerchief approached me as I walked onto his beat. I’d never seen him before.
“Hey mon,” he said, approaching me with his fist up for the tap, “how t’ings today?”
“Just fine,” I said. I brought my fist up and tapped his. He looked around, checking for the beach patrol.
“Yu want a black woman?” he asked, lowering his voice a little. “Me can get yu a ‘small panty woman’, ‘cause me know dat yu white guys like women wid small ass.” With that, a broad knowing smile spread across his face.
“No thanks,” I said, “I have enough women in my life right now.”
“Yu sure mon? Me can give yu some Viagra wid dat,” he added.
“Viagra?” I repeated - louder than I had intended. A couple of tourist guys standing nearby, who had probably been offered the same package deal, heard me and started to laugh.
“Yeah mon, no problem,” the hustler replied, glancing around.
“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you,” I said, “but I think I'll pass. Thanks anyway.” I walked away shaking my head, amazed once again at the entrepreneurial spirit.
My SPF 30 seems to be losing its sun-blocking efficiency so I seek the refuge of a shady spot, a bar perhaps. My stomach lets out a small growl to remind me that breakfast was a long time ago. As if on cue, approaching me I see a man pushing a bicycle with a big cooler placed in a basket at the front of the bike. A hand painted sign, - “Patties” is affixed to the front of the cooler. Occasionally he squeezes an ‘Aaooggaaahh!’ horn mounted on the handlebars. I recognize the vendor as a Negril regular, it’s Neville, The Patty Man.
“Hello Neville, what do you have today?” I ask him.
“Veggie patties and cocobread, is all dat’s left.” he says. With that he opens the cooler and my nostrils fill with the delicious aroma of the cooked pastries.
“Mmmmmm, that’s blackmail Neville.” He grins at me.
“Is the cocobread still warm?” I ask, reverently hoping that it would be.
“Yea mon, it still hot.”
“Neville, you are the Most High,” I say, meaning it. He hands me a small brown paper bag, its outside blotched with stains from the butter leaching out of the cocobread. I open the top of the bag and look inside, the cocobread, a squat wedge shape about 5 inches to the side and 1½ inches thick, is nestled inside. I plunge my nose deep in the bag and take a big hit of the heavenly aroma.

[Negrilmom]

I am working at plaza in westend and surprisingly venders come into my shop to sell fruit and patties and peanuts punch, conch soup... and etc while I am taking customers. Off course, my foreigner customers get scared when they come in.

First I thought they are rude to sell stuff in my shop! but I understand thats how they make living. Actually they even go to claro store, dentist and each shop in my plaza. This is jamaican way. Wherever money or people is they visit to try to sell their stuff to make money. It is not really tourist thing to me... I am in local plaza and dentist even buys food from venders.

I buy their food and fruit when they come in always. That's one of the ways to communicate with them. I love Food venders here!! I don't need to go anywhere to pick up for lunch.They come to YOU! Your just 1 or 2 USD will give them a smile and respect and help their life here.

I always explain my customers that they(venders) are not scarey. I even introduce venders to my customers if they like to try fresh fruit cut up for them.

I know there are scammers out here but don't mix up with food venders. I think they(venders) work really hard...


(I am talking about food venders here*)

[Manda81]

THANK YOU!!!

Finally get a Jamaican opinion on a Jamaican thing.

[Rob]

Manda,

NegrilMom is an expat -she has a great nail salon, Negril de Nail located in King's Plaza. Here is the link to her business!

http://negrildenail.com/

[Manda81]

Ooooh my bad .. I assumed. Very cool business though and great website!

[Negrilmom]

sorry I am not Jamaican I am still learning how to live like or with Jamaican

[gerryg123]

i tell 'em i live in Kingston. Always raises eyebrows ....