By The Campfire

June 13, 2008

I heard that verbiage a lot. I actually counted how many times I heard it in the span of 7 hours in Jamaica: 68 times. It didn’t matter. I loved the place. It was, indeed, no problem.

If you are looking for the definition of the space between North America and South America, Jamaica is it. This island west of Haiti and east of Grand Cayman and south of Fidelville is the heart of the Caribbean and not just geographically. Jamaica owns the mental landscape top to bottom, side to side, inside and out.

This stretch of lyrical terrain has the dreds, the attitude, the music, the jerk spice and the herbs, Mon. People are investing down here. Resorts are going up over there. Mick Jagger’s palatial spread sits on the top of the hill overlooking Ocho Rios. Hand-carved, wooden statues point their giant phalluses up at him and at tourist buses winding through Fern Gully. I don’t think these carvings are anatomically correct, unless Jamaganja has that effect. It didn’t in Alabama. But that is Wiregrass, Mon.

We pulled up in a 14-story floating city and got off, burned and pink, into a world of familiar yet exotic sights, sounds, smells and feelings. The water ripples aqua, the sky shines porcelain blue and the people have the best accent in the world.

“Wanna buy some Bob Marley, Mon?” asked the grinning dude at the corner of the shopping center out beyond security. He smiled like he knew the secret to everything Dick Cheney and Karl Rove have ever done. It was a joyous, toothy burst of well-jeweled dental work, shaded by locks of thick hair cinched in colorful beads. He winked and dipped his head to some internal, iPodless beat.

“Thanks, Mon, but the band on that ship over there has been playing Bob Marley for three days straight now,” I said, pointing to our massive cruise ship in the harbor. “If you have any Led Zeppelin or Sting, I might go for it.”

I knew he didn’t mean music but my humor was lost on him. He looked at me like I was reefered already and walked backwards, eyeing me the whole way into the duty free liquor store next to the other duty free liquor story next to the duty free jewelry store beside the big duty free liquor store on the corner. There is a theme here.

We visited a jerk-seasoning factory up in the mountains. They were not jerks at all, but lovely people. We ate jerk chicken, had the art of jerking a chicken explained to us in great detail, and we headed back to Ocho Rios, past the wooden erections.

In town, the Harley Davidson Jamaica store sits next to the Jamaica Hard Rock Café. I seem to recall this combo on every island except Haiti. Oh and there’s a Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville in almost every port as well. I heard a seriously inebriated tourist talking loudly, looking up at the big sign with Jimmy’s signature.

“He izz tha riccchest maan in tha wuurl,” he slurred through his rum-thickened tongue. I think he meant Warren Buffett instead of Jimmy, but I smiled and nodded in agreement. When Americans are that drunk in a foreign country, it serves no constructive purpose to disagree with them. So I didn’t.

“Arrrr yuuu havin a affar wi tha guy who fols ar towl into aminal shapes?” burped another surly tourist while trying to stay conscious and accuse his new bride of infidelity at the same time.

She smiled and nodded. So did I. In fact, my whole family nodded. It worked. He quieted down and looked like someone had peed in his fru-fru drink.

I roamed through several businesses and picked up some local reading. I read about Bob Marley and the Wailers. On the wall was a big poster of Bob Marley. I picked up another paper at a cafe. It was about Bob Marley, wait, maybe it was Peter Tosh, or was it Bunny Wailer. It wasn’t Chris Blackwell, I know that. I heard a lot of Marley music playing from every store, restaurant and bar. There was some talk about the Jamaican Bobsled team by a group on a corner gathered around a tour guide. Then there was more Bob Marley music.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Bob Marley and the Wailers. Reggae is cool and hot all at the same time, which is no problem, Mon. It fits the islands like rum and whatever – and let me tell you, these islanders can rum and whatever like nobody’s business. Every island has its own special rum (readily available at the duty free liquor store located about every 12.5 feet). It’s just that when you hear that familiar Wailer beat nonstop for about four or five straight days, from Haiti to Jamaica to Grand Cayman, it makes you want to run a big bar tab at Senor Frogs and miss the boat. Some did.

“Pass the amber liquid and Coke, Mon. Can you play “One Love, again?”

“No problem, Mon. Just as soon as we finish playing “Jamming.”

Here’s the truth: Jamaica has a hook, like a like a Bob Marley song. It carves a little niche in the corner of that tropical real estate between the ears and lights up a bowl and hangs out forever with its dreds and jerk chicken and giant carved appendages. It is unique and eccentric. I saw a rastadog next to a corrugated metal building with a dirt floor. It was barking with a Jamaican accent. I kid you not.

“Arf, arf, arrrrfin, Mon!” The dog was smiling too, like the Jack Russell in that VW commercial.

If we all had a Jamaican accent, the world would not be so turbulent. I have no proof of this theory. But after a day in Jamaica, everyone on the boat was trying to talk Jamaican.

That is a powerful brand.

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