CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE
2001 – ‘Til I’m Laid To Rest
As the plane approached Kingston, I felt a strong sense of dread and anticipation. I stared out the window as the plane began its rapid descent.
Blue ocean, blue mountains, brightly colored buildings, afternoon traffic, tarmac- everything came into focus. We hit land with a sharp thud. Applause broke out in the back of the plane. People cheered.
Norman Manley Airport had undergone significant upgrades in the fifteen years since I’d left and there were rumblings that they were going to completely modernize the entire thing.
A modern Jamaica.
It was early evening by the time I sorted out my rental car and navigated the drive to the Courtleigh Hotel. I’d decided to start out there, because I needed to approach Jamaica from my current existence. Like Prentiss had pointed out, I was a businessman used to taking meetings in Panama City. And I had zero interest in finding out what it felt like to be a colonialist downpressor.
“Are you here for Independence Day?” the woman at the front desk asked.
I laughed to myself. Independence Day was in three days. I couldn’t escape that rasclot holiday even in my own country. I decided on the spot that I’d rather spend it in Content Gap, with my family. As soon as I reached my suite, I dug out a phone number my sister had given me.
The voice that answered was rough and male.
“Yow!”
“Donovan," I said, sounding extra Jamaican to my ears.
“A who dat?” Donovan asked.
“Hopeton Silva,” I replied.
“Hopeton! It a long time me nuh hear your voice.”
My cousin Donovan was a few years older than me- the one I hung out with the most when my parents would send me to spend my summers up in Content Gap, back when I was an awkward Cuban kid. And when I fled back up there from Kingston during my post-UK drift, Donovan took me under his wing and helped me get back on track. He was the one who introduced me to cricket.
Donovan worked at the coffee factory over in Mavis Bank. He was one of the only one of our generation who’d stayed up in the mountains and had no intent of ever leaving. Everyone else had dispersed- Kingston, MoBay, Canada, Miami. My aunt would not let anyone live with her and refused to live anywhere but her own house. Donovan had his own place very close by, so he could keep an eye on her.
“Weh yuh deh?"
“Kingston,” I told him.
“Hetty told me to expect you.”
Of course she did. She wanted to smooth the way for me, even if she had to do it behind my back.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” Donovan said. “When did you get in?”
“I just landed today. I'm at the hotel.”
“A wha hotel yuh at?” my cousin asked.
“I’m in Kingston,” I repeated, unhelpfully. “Mi wan come check yuh Monday.”
“You need me fi send a driver come collect you?” Donovan offered.
“I have my own ride,” I said. “A rental.”
“You driving yourself up here?” Donovan asked, dubiously.
“Never you worry about my driving skills,” I told him. “Just do me a favor and let Aunt Pauline know I’d like to stay with her. Does she even have a phone?”
“Yeah, man,” my cousin laughed. “She have a phone, but she never pick up, so don’t bother. When you come up you can ask fi she number.”
That made me laugh.
I gave my cousin an ETA for Monday.
“Drive to the Mavis Bank police station,” he told me. “When you reach pull over and call my cell.” I’ll meet you there and guide you up to the house.”
Securing plans with my family left me with two days to spend in Kingston. I went and got myself the best cellphone Digicel had on offer and signed up for the deluxe pre-paid package with maximum minutes that could be topped up if need be. I checked in with everyone Stateside, who I felt should have my number, then I let Lloydie know that I was officially in country.
After those basic errands were out of the way, I gave myself an assignment to do as Prentiss directed- try to figure out what it would be like to be in Jamaica as a man with time on his hands and money to spend. I had to find some leisure activities. Music and the ocean came to mind.
Listening to the radio, I caught the name of an entertainment complex located directly off of Knutsford Boulevard. Christopher’s was an upscale jazz lounge on the ground floor a wildly popular nightclub called The Quad. I highly doubted that I could handle a Saturday night bashment, but a few drinks at Christopher’s sounded within the realm of possibility. It was a five-minute walk from the hotel, so I headed over on foot. I gave myself a one hour, two drink mandate and carried only a credit card and minimal cash. I may have been a Jamaican national but a quick look in the mirror showed me man come fram farrin. I assumed that would all change once I made my way up to Content Gap.
As soon as I entered the lounge it was immediately apparent that I’d arrived too early. But that was fine- I was just testing the waters. I took a seat at a little cocktail table by the bar. A pretty waitress came and took my drink order. I asked for a glass of the best cognac they had on offer, neat. Then I sat back and took a moment to absorb the atmosphere. The room was white leather, dark brown wood and brass accents. The music was clubby-sounding jazz. The handful of patrons were all extremely well-dressed and obviously expecting to be noticed. I felt like a ghost. But I stuck it out through my two drinks, settled up the bill with an extra-large tip and walked myself back to the hotel.
I was showered and in bed by 11:30 p.m.
The next day was my last full day in Kingston. I decided to drive my car over to Hellshire and spend Sunday at the beach. It took me about forty-five minutes to drive out there. I waited until early afternoon- I wanted to see it crowded and busy, so I figured that would be some time after church got out. And this time, I left the credit card at home and pocketed a knot of cash instead. Hellshire was cash only, and its main attraction was an endless line of food and drink stalls. I was anticipating a well-fried red snapper, a side of festival and a cold Heineken.
The beach was packed when I arrived- I’d timed it perfectly. I looked around and all I could see were laughing, happy people turning their faces to the sun. I wanted to be a part of it but wasn’t sure how to make that happen.
On the positive side, I was dressed appropriately, in a new outfit my niece had sent me off with.
Once she’d found out I was heading back a yaad, Yasmin strong-armed me into letting her take me to Macy’s down in the Fulton Mall.
“You can’t go home for the first time in fifteen years dressed like an old man,” she’d teased. “I’m going to make sure you go back looking like a movie star.”
So, there I was, alone at the beach, wearing a loose blue linen shirt unbuttoned over a white tank-shirt and a pair of khaki colored swim trunks. A pair of Bolo-style Ray Bans shaded my eyes and brown leather sandals with wide, criss-cross straps protected my freshly pedicured feet.
I felt like an extra in a movie. But what could I do, other than soldier on through my day of leisure?
To that end, I trudged across the sand to the edge of the ocean, removed my sandals and dipped my feet in the warm, clear water. Then I reached down, scooped some water into my cupped hands and wet my face. I took off my linen shirt and tucked it under my arm.
Then I walked back to find some fried fish and a beer.
