Jamaican Gem E-Book

Alexis Debary

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The main attraction on the tour is however Leroy, who’s smile floats through the air, in and out of the shadows on the yellowish water but the further down stream we get the more the magic dies till he is suddenly no more than a boy half my age who gets horny easily. Later he lapses into Pidgin English and asks me if “I wud gi ih mi phon nuba an see ih lata?” It takes some time for me to understand him properly but my decision has long been taken. I have no interest in giving him my phone number. “Nu tanks an god luk toya,” I say and hurry off. The road beckons. She is my foremost passion in life.

Leseprobe

Alexis Debary

Jamaican Gem

Traveling Light where it grows Dark early

For my Jamaican friendsBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Jamaica Gem

 By the time the plane touches down in Kingston, on Jamaica, at 6.45 pm the sun has been sucked from the sky. Bod Marley’s voice lures us through the airport and the natives next to me sway their heads to the rhythm while they pull out their passports. Some look Chinese, others are half-white, some feature hispanic traces but most are a multitude of shades of black. The air of the USA still clings to them and although they have only travelled 150 miles they are again in a country that could just as well be situated on the other side of the planet. Maybe the music that fills the arrival hall serves the aim of reconciling them with the fact that their’s is an underdeveloped island that’ constantly bombarded with images of life in luxury just out of reach.

By the time I step into the open, the Caribbean island is plunged in darkness and I can barely make out the enormous hulk of the Blue PeakMountains that stand guard over the capital and wouldn’t hundreds of tiny lights flare to life to form their own crazy constellations on the slopes one would only see gaping pitch black nothingness. The potholes that litter the streets are no less fearsome. Filled with murky water they look endlessly deep and suddenly I know why everybody has told me not to venture out alone at night over here. The streets are badly lit and deserted and danger seems to lurk around every corner. It looks like one could either fall into one of the potholes or disappears around the bend of a street to never to be seen again. Everything seems possible because nobody would know. At least, that’s the first impression I get but apart from that it’s always wise to listen to locals and the insiders have warned me. Beware of Kingston, they’ve said. But it’s terribly boring to be stuck in the beautifully artistic guesthouse called Mikuzi (I’m Cosy), by the Bob Marley Heritage Centre, where I check in, so Valerie, the owner, invites me to join her at a jazz club downtown and I’m delighted to hit the night life scene and see what’ll happen next.

The streets are longer in New Kingston, the new city centre, but no less forbidding. However, I have already learnt that taxi drivers are very responsible and always wait to see one safely to one’s destination. Due to the early sun set it’s not as late as it feels when I arrive and the club is still filling up. On a seedy couch, against the wall, an old legend of Jamaica’s music world leans propped-up against his eighty year old buddies, his bandana discreetly masking his closed eyes – pirate style. A Cuban musician plays the saxophone and his groupies cheer. They are all well past their seventies. The son of the club’s Chinese owner runs a club next door, the Asylum. That is where the young people go.

The next day, I head straight to Downtown Kingston, the place I was told to make sure I never set foot in. For some reason I love going exactly where I’m told not to go and once again the cab driver patiently waits till I am securely seated in the Route taxi, a form of community transport consisting of 18 passengers squeezed into a mini van or eight into a normal five seater. Once the vehicle is full the motor flares to life and we start on out way. Paper litter sweeps the streets to collect around the motionless shapes of the homeless who lie curled in the street gutters. We leave the ancient Railway Station and the spanish style Sr. William Grant Park, with the old City Hall at one end and the Post Office at the other, behind and cruise out of town. One can easily image how in better days the British bourgeoise strolled here on Sundays. Now the layers of white-washed stucco on the buildings is flaking off in the early morning heat. It is 8 am. Eagerness to explore is kicking to life within me. I have always dreamt of coming here and it is not at all how I expected it to be.