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.
