In the summer of 1983, I found myself sorting through my music albums. Amid the stacks, I stumbled on some that I hadn't played for awhile but reached for a favorite; a double set packed in gold cardboard; it's artwork featured an unemployment benefit attendance card with a red stamp on it.
I was a loyal shopper of Aron's Records, a hip independent shop on La Brea Avenue in Los Angeles where I purchased the album with student loan monies the year prior. It was my first encounter with reggae music, the artist was an English band, UB40. Their “Signing Off” album was sooo cool- a loose groove, with a jazzy sax, a breezy instrumental, and was lyrically and politically charged with social consciousness. I began immersing myself in a Jamaican smorgasbord- a grip that had me frequent a dance club in Santa Monica with my then boyfriend and, influenced me to visit the country.
Back in those days, I went to Chatterton's bookstore on Vermont and thumbed through all the guidebooks taking meticulous notes. I read about Jamaica's unique character and inherent ‘African-ness’ of its population. Nowhere else in the Caribbean is the connection to Africa as keenly felt as in Jamaica. It promised a curious traveler, great aromatic coffee, world class reefs for diving, stretches of sugary sands of beaches, offbeat hiking tours, pristine waterfalls, wetlands harboring endangered crocodiles and unforgettable sunsets. In short, enough variety to comprise many utterly distinct vacations. Traveling alone and seeking an exotic beach scene. I'm happy- I was sold.
Hailing a cab from the airport, it didn't have air-conditioning and I couldn't roll down either window because they're broken. The exterior smell of urine mixed with ganja is a gagging stench, anyway. The driver, has one finger on the horn, the other firmly rooted up his nose. I'm optimistic- I'll look the other way.
Jamaica was a man's world. On the streets of Kingston, men were out on full force, strutting and swaggering, sneering with bravado. Encircling the cab, I was stared at by giggling idiots and silent stoned faces. It seemed many Jamaican men had urinary tract infections-- relieving themselves beside the road and up against buildings. I'm hopeful- it's plain as sight this will be one trip where I'll have to ignore quite a bit.
Alongside the road there were scrawny and sickly looking cows, who could pass for dalmatians, except they are humpbacked. I'm in denial- I guess I won't be drinking any milk.
Once out of the cab, I am embraced by the humidity, and Jamaica's slow pace lethargy is catching. I quickly get bite by mosquitoes walking in slow motion like a zombie with a blank eyed stare. I'm disgruntled- starting to sink.
I duck into the fly-infested hotel where I am ignored by humans. I ring the bell. I wait. I ring the bell again. And wait, and wait. I'm irritated- frustration begins to mount.
My throat dry as dust, I eyeball a bowl of passion fruit behind the counter, the hotel manager comes out with “Ma lady, du yuh need anyting?” Before I can respond he scratches his head and rubs his butt, and with the same hand passes me a fruit and says, “Welcome to Jamaica”.
I was a loyal shopper of Aron's Records, a hip independent shop on La Brea Avenue in Los Angeles where I purchased the album with student loan monies the year prior. It was my first encounter with reggae music, the artist was an English band, UB40. Their “Signing Off” album was sooo cool- a loose groove, with a jazzy sax, a breezy instrumental, and was lyrically and politically charged with social consciousness. I began immersing myself in a Jamaican smorgasbord- a grip that had me frequent a dance club in Santa Monica with my then boyfriend and, influenced me to visit the country.
Back in those days, I went to Chatterton's bookstore on Vermont and thumbed through all the guidebooks taking meticulous notes. I read about Jamaica's unique character and inherent ‘African-ness’ of its population. Nowhere else in the Caribbean is the connection to Africa as keenly felt as in Jamaica. It promised a curious traveler, great aromatic coffee, world class reefs for diving, stretches of sugary sands of beaches, offbeat hiking tours, pristine waterfalls, wetlands harboring endangered crocodiles and unforgettable sunsets. In short, enough variety to comprise many utterly distinct vacations. Traveling alone and seeking an exotic beach scene. I'm happy- I was sold.
Hailing a cab from the airport, it didn't have air-conditioning and I couldn't roll down either window because they're broken. The exterior smell of urine mixed with ganja is a gagging stench, anyway. The driver, has one finger on the horn, the other firmly rooted up his nose. I'm optimistic- I'll look the other way.
Jamaica was a man's world. On the streets of Kingston, men were out on full force, strutting and swaggering, sneering with bravado. Encircling the cab, I was stared at by giggling idiots and silent stoned faces. It seemed many Jamaican men had urinary tract infections-- relieving themselves beside the road and up against buildings. I'm hopeful- it's plain as sight this will be one trip where I'll have to ignore quite a bit.
Alongside the road there were scrawny and sickly looking cows, who could pass for dalmatians, except they are humpbacked. I'm in denial- I guess I won't be drinking any milk.
Once out of the cab, I am embraced by the humidity, and Jamaica's slow pace lethargy is catching. I quickly get bite by mosquitoes walking in slow motion like a zombie with a blank eyed stare. I'm disgruntled- starting to sink.
I duck into the fly-infested hotel where I am ignored by humans. I ring the bell. I wait. I ring the bell again. And wait, and wait. I'm irritated- frustration begins to mount.
My throat dry as dust, I eyeball a bowl of passion fruit behind the counter, the hotel manager comes out with “Ma lady, du yuh need anyting?” Before I can respond he scratches his head and rubs his butt, and with the same hand passes me a fruit and says, “Welcome to Jamaica”.
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