Episode One Hippie Dread
During the golden age of Negril some years back, there was a gentle soul, a true Rastaman by nature and practice, well-schooled in the healing arts and folk medicines. Let's call him Hippie Dread. He was an expert masseuse and chemist (one trained in the making of roots drink concoctions). Hippie could name a hundred trees, bushes, and herbs, and their medicinal applications. I had the privilege of being under his tutelage for a time and could once recite a dozen uses for circe, soursop leaf, or sinkle bible, the foulest tasting but most effective cures I've ever used. Within his area of expertise the most famous of Jamaican green herbs also fell. He knew its every use and effect and the many means of consumption, having studied the subject vigorously on a daily basis.
Hippie was the ultimate free bird, a nomad who lived out of his red camper truck and moved from place to place within Jamaica as the Spirit led. Thinking of Hippie I am reminded of a biblical quote of Jesus of Nazareth, who told His followers that those in the Spirit are as unpredictable as the wind, and blow from place to place like a gentle breeze (paraphrased). Hippie had children throughout Jamaica that he spoke of often, and my impression was that he spent more time with them and supported them more dutifully than many fathers who work on Wall Street.
To that end, one of Hippie Dread's skills was the manufacture of premium oils for export. On one occasion I had the opportunity to learn and assist him, out in the deep bush, in this endeavor. It was a surprisingly skill-intensive technique requiring a dozen different densities of wire screens for the grating process and perfect timing for the cooking procedure. I've often found that whenever I learn something new in this world I am usually amazed at how little thought I'd put into the details of the matter beforehand. And how I wish on this Sunday afternoon as I sit here writing this story, that I had in my possession even half what I washed off my hands at the end of that day!
On this Training Day it happened to be summer in Jamaica and HOT, but there in the morass there was something so earthy and sensual about the heat that I was actually enjoying the experience. The warm Caribbean sun on our shoulders, the buzzing, clicking insects and chirp of tree frogs all around us, the rustling bushes as the breeze whispered across our backs, the smells of herb and field in our noses, and even the trickle of sweat along our temples all combined to make this one of the most memorable days of my life. Somewhere in the distance a radio tuned in to RJR and a child was playing at learning a conga along with the rhythms on the radio. The setting was perfect with every sense alive and a soundtrack to boot.
Perspiration dripped down our backs as we grated, grated, and grated some more, seemingly for endless hours. We reasoned on Jamaican issues like conservation and tourism, government-incited tribal war and the latest sound system clash. But after a time we fell into a most comfortable silence, and to this day, I have never spent such quality time in non-verbal communications with another soul. Without effort the ambience around us took control and we were lost in the work and the bush experience for hours until we "woke up" as if entranced, by the fact that the sun had set and we could not see what we were doing any longer. It was what a Trekkie would refer to as a Temporal Anomaly, I suppose.
When I returned to my nest that evening, I showered and my body tingled. I felt more completely alive than most of the days since. I won't discount the effect by osmosis of the oil upon my hands. Yet, all in all, this type of mental, spiritual, and physical experience is what I refer to as the real Jamaican All Inclusive and I warn is highly addictive. But this is the special quality of Jamaicans and Jamaica that so many of us love, that keeps us coming back year after year, and leads many to expatriate from the "first world" to find a sense of purpose Dunga Yard.
Episode Two Politricks inna Town
My first Jamaican experiences did not involve any coastal or tourism areas. During my time in the U. S. Air Force, I became friends with a fellow GI, from Barbados originally, who'd spent years in Jamaica, before going foreign and getting his green card. We were stationed at K. I. Sawyer Air Force Base near Marquette, Michigan, right on Lake Superior across from Canada. One of the Northernmost points in the U.S. and 60 Fahrenheit below zero with wind chill was not uncommon. Naturally, having grown up in the deserts of Arizona, his stories of Life Dunga Yard sounded all good to me as I walked in between the twelve foot snow tunnels that led between parking lots and building doors.
When I had the blind good luck to get out of the Air Force early and well-paid, due to having a Guaranteed Job for a field that was being replaced by civilians, I took the government booty and put my booty on a train through Mexico to Mexico City, where I caught a British Airways flight to Kingston. Eventually this site will contain the story of that train journey through Mexico, which was unique and unforgettable as well.
I'll always remember those first days, when I felt such a fool because I could not comprehend a word any Kingstonian said to me, though I just knew they were speaking English, of a sort. But somehow, as if by magic, I woke up one morning a couple weeks later and found I could understand what people were saying, and I hadn't even been playing any "14 Days to Understanding and Speaking Patois" on a cassette while I slept.
I spent a time living on Mountain View Boulevard down from the National Stadium. Those first weeks in Jamaica set the nation's hold on me for life. In the evenings I would eat my supper outside, looking up at the fabulous mansions on Beverly Hills above my nest or toward the most dire and violent slums of Wareika Hills just down the road. Jamaica is a land and a people of contrasts and extremities. I think it was this vibrancy and genuineness I first fell in love with.
Later on I relocated to the Barbican area of Kingston, where I became friends with my neighbor Conroy Cooper, previously of the Fab Five singing group in Kingston. Again, more of these stories at a later date. Conroy had a connection with an advertising agency in New Kingston run by a short little red dude we'll call Gerald. Lawd! Gerald had a mean disposition. Over-compensating for his stature, we all figured. Conroy arranged an interview for a position with the agency, and I met Gerald and acquired the position, thanks in no small part to Conroy's hypnosis. More on that later. It was also the fashion in Kingston then, among a certain crowd, to love all things American, so having an American writer on his staff was a status symbol for Gerald.
Well, as it was in the late 70's, the advertising agency I worked for held their biggest account with the political party that was not in power at that time. Most people in our circle knew this fact. One evening I attended a JMA function (that's the Jamaica Merchant's Association); a fashion show and dinner, at the Sheraton New Kingston hotel. I had by that time become fast friends with a co-worker at the agency, Lloyd Hamilton, God Bless His Soul, later the news director at JBC television, now no longer with us, much too soon departed. He, I, and Tino Geddes of RJR were standing around the pool out back when a gentleman from the "McDonald" ad agency, who represented the other political party, approached and tried to chat me up in a way that belied his assumption I was a tourist, and a green one at that. When Tino and Lloyd laughingly explained to the "McDonald" man that I was no tourist but a "Veteran Yardie" living and working in Kingston, the look of surprise on his face was comical. I suppose he hadn't seen a lot of young white American females living in Kingston then, except maybe for the Peace Corps active there then. Lloyd went a step farther then and told the man where I worked, which was a big mistake.
Unbeknownst to your average Jamaican in the street, the political parties both used writers from our ad agency and the other agency, McDonald, to write speeches, press releases, anonymous "Letters to the Editor," and, even, graffiti slogans to be handed out to the "tribes" to be spray-painted on walls and billboards all over town and, (if we came up with a REALLY good one) all over the island. Advertising agencies forming public opinion. Kinda clues you in to politricks, doesn't it?
Our big boss man Gerald had a major Napoleonic complex, often tearing through the building shouting and cursing at the slightest provocation. He never lost his temper with Chris Waldemar, though, for some reason. Probably because he was the most literate and sophisticated guy any of us had ever met, and one hell of a snappy dresser.
Well, imagine the bangarang when by the NEXT AFTERNOON after the JMA function, the new slogan "CIAga" started appearing on walls all over Town. Seaga never had any ties with the CIA that we ever heard about (and we would have known I think, we were all frequent visitors to his home and offices). But the McDonald guys sure must have gotten a brainstorm that night when they heard an American woman was working at Seaga's ad agency. Gerald went wild when he heard about it and threatened my job if we didn't come up with a killer slogan immediately! That night I was sitting in the board room getting drunk with Winston and Lloyd and saying my goodbyes as I was to be out of work the next day.
While whining about life and sipping at my Q of overproof, I was trying to blame someone for my bad luck and I said to Lloyd and Winston, "Yes, of course, once again the cap fits. Is Manley Fault, you no seet?"
Winston jumped to his feet a few seconds later, "Ya, Mon! Is Manley Fault! IMF!! You a go wuk here yet dawta!!"
To those of you who are not familiar with the fact, in the Sixties, the Jamaican dollar was actually of higher value than the U. S. dollar. $1 Jamaican bought $1.10 U.S., as I recall. Whatever your belief system, the clear cold fact is that Socialism cost Jamaica dearly in the Seventies, and dependence on loans from the International Monetary Fund caused constant devaluation of the Jamaican dollar, bringing with it a lot of woes upon the common man. That night in the board room, we knew that another major devaluation of the currency had just taken place and the IMF was wreaking havoc. The next day, "Is Manley Fault" began to appear around town, painted over CIAga, and my job was saved . . .
fe nyam!
