Les had a last, slightly nostalgic look around the condo and the old pushbike sitting out on the verandah. Well, he mused, looks like I made it, and we’re out of here. It’s certainly been a funny one. But at least I’m still alive. He rattled the keys in his hands for a second then dropped them on the bar next to the phone. ‘See you, Ricco. See you, Laverne. Say hello to Hank for me if you see him.’ Les picked up his overnight bag, closed the door quietly behind him and walked out the front.
The shuttle was an old, bulky-looking kind of brown and red minibus that seated about a dozen. So far Les was the only passenger. He climbed in the door, sat behind the driver and next thing they were on their way. Les didn’t say a great deal at first, content to sit back and uninterestedly let the suburbs and dead flat roads of southern Florida roll past as they headed north towards Tampa. The driver wasn’t saying much either; he just puffed on a cigarette while the old bus lurched and rolled along through the light, morning traffic. Eventually Les started to forget his tiredness and began to pick up at the thought that he was leaving Siestasota, so he got a bit of a mag on with the driver. He originally came from Austria and had migrated to Florida around forty years ago when he joined the circus as a strong man. The way he picked up Norton’s bag like it was a packet of Sao biscuits Les didn’t dispute that. The driver waffled on about how Florida had been developed to death over the last twenty years and soon they’d be in all sorts of trouble because the water plain couldn’t take the pressure of all the housing and high-rises. Now where have I heard that before? mused Les. Florida was still nice but nowhere near as nice as it used to be with nowhere near the wildlife and fish life. I think I’ve heard that one too, thought Les. They turned off the main road and onto some back streets near a small bridge and another expanse of water, the driver saying he had to pick up one more passenger. The driver checked the streets and began to slow down, then Les gave a double, triple blink. Just when he thought he’d left behind all the movie and TV scenes, he found himself in the cartoons. Standing on the corner, outside a small white house with a small white fence and with three small suitcases next to her was Minnie Mouse.
Minnie was a little over five feet tall with her dark hair stacked in two buns on either side of her head, and looked to be in her late sixties. She had on a dark grey, chalk- striped, dress suit, from which poked two skinny little legs in black stockings and a huge pair of white, high- heeled shoes. The best part, though was a pair of huge white glasses with these enormous heart shaped frames sitting on her chubby little face. The driver got out and took Minnie’s bags. Les helped her in the door and as she sat down behind him he looked over at the house, half expecting Pluto, Goofy and Mickey to start waving from the window. They didn’t however, and the driver got back behind the wheel and they proceeded on their way again.
Minnie intrigued Les in her monstrous white glasses so he got a bit of a mag going with her. It turned out her name was Mrs Conaghan, she was a sweet, chirpy old thing and when Les introduced himself Mrs Conaghan had a handshake as good as most men Les had met. She was a military widow and she was flying up to a naval base in Indianapolis for a ceremony where her son was to be made chief surgeon. She’d more or less been involved with the military all her life, at least since she married her officer husband when she was nineteen. She told Les about living and bringing up a family on army bases in Tokyo, Korea, West Germany and England, as well as America, and made it sound interesting as well as how much she enjoyed it. Her husband was older than her and died a few years back after he retired; she took a photo of him from her wallet and in his army uniform and neatly trimmed moustache he reminded Les of Robert Taylor in Waterloo Bridge. Christ, mused Les, as he handed Mrs Conaghan back her photo. I’ve got to stop equating everything I see over here with either the movies, TV or bloody cartoons. Les just said he was in America on a holiday and now he was on his way to Jamaica then back home. Like most Americans Mrs Conaghan knew bugger all about Australia but she was interested. The driver joined in the conversation and the trip up to Tampa was a regular beano, it wouldn’t have surprised Les if they’d have all got a singalong going. Before Norton knew it they were climbing up some massive, arched bridge over an equally massive expanse of water, which he suddenly remembered from the night Hank picked him up, and the next thing they were outside the terminals at Tampa airport. Les paid the driver, shook Minnie Mouse’s hand again, but she was that much of a sweetie he couldn’t help himself and gave her a kiss on the cheek which Minnie thought was lovely. She wished Les a happy holiday and a safe trip back to Australia, Les picked up his travel bag, slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked through the terminal doors up to the North West Airlines counter. Although the terminal was huge Les was the only customer at the counter. The brown-haired man who took his bag had a bit of a twinkle in his eye and of all things a fairly thick Scots accent.
‘So Aussie. Off to Jamaica are we, mon?’ he said, as he attached the luggage ticket.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘For a couple of weeks or so.’
‘Holiday?’
‘Yeah. Just another tourist.’
‘You ever been there before, laddie?’
Les shook his head. ‘No. Don’t even know much about the place.’
The clerk flicked across Norton’s ticket with his biro. ‘I suppose you’ll be having plenty of “how’s your father” with the local ladies?’
‘I dunno,’ shrugged Les. ‘If it’s on, why not?’
‘I’ll give you some advice, digger. If you do, make sure you wear enough rubber to bungee jump halfway back to Australia.’
Les stared at the clerk. ‘It’s that bad, is it?’
‘Haiti’s just down the road and you’re heading into the tropics. It’s just one big incubator for all sorts of things down there.’ The clerk dropped Norton’s bag on the conveyor belt and handed him his ticket. ‘So have a good holiday, Aussie. But just make sure your next one isn’t your last.’
‘Yeah righto. Thanks,’ replied Les blankly. He put his ticket in his bag and walked off.
Shit! How about that? thought Norton, as he stepped onto an escalator that took him upstairs to the terminal shuttles, the shopping area and the departure lounge. I remember Warren saying something to me before I left too. And when I come to think of it, I didn’t give a stuff one way or the other when I was pissed back in Seppo- sota. Les was half shaking his head when he stepped off the escalator. Though it’s not as if I was hanging out with any low molls in Sepposota. And I reckon that jock might have been taking the piss just a little. They’ve got a very dry sense of humour, the Scots. Norton stopped for a moment and got his bearings. Still, even though I doubt very much whether I’ll be sharing needles or hanging around any gay bars copping it up the Ford V8 while I’m in Jamaica, I don’t think I’ll be doing any bareback riding while I’m there either.
There were plenty of shops, restaurants and bars in the airport terminal, but Les couldn’t quite believe it when he found the duty-free shop and it was closed until 2 p.m. Which meant he’d have to buy another Walkman in Jamaica. They’d probably be cheaper there anyway. He had plenty of time before his flight left so he had a bit of a look around. He didn’t need any Tampa Bay Buccaneers T-shirts or souvenirs and he didn’t feel like getting on the piss. What he could do with was something else to read on the trip over and while he hung around. Les roamed around past gift shops, flower shops, coffee lounges till he found a bookshop along one of the walkways. He was browsing through the magazines and books when something caught his eye and brought a smile to his face. Hello, what’s this? Les chuckled to himself. Something for the mug tourists just like me. Two books with green, yellow and black covers. The How To Be a Jamaican handbook, and Understanding Jamaican Patois. The price was a typical airport rip-off, but Les bought both of them, walked back to a coffee lounge and ordered a coffee and a toasted ham-on-rye, then sat down and started boning up on a bit of Jamaican culture. P.J. O’Rourke didn’t help him all that much with Amer
ican culture and he doubted if these would either. However, by the time he was on to his second bottomless cup of coffee Norton was pleasantly surprised.
The first book, How To Be a Jamaican, was a bit of a send up and whoever wrote it didn’t mind taking the piss out of Jamaica and the Jamaicans. It explained about Boops and Boopsies, Rankins and Higglers. Everything from Hard Cards to Sunsplash. Rasta Queens to Drug Barons. The book then went on about other things, including running with the posse and how to look like a Rankin, which was a kind of Jamaican gang boss or hood. You wore a big, funny-looking leather cap, mirror sunglasses and a plain shirt hanging out over a pair of cammies, along with a lot of flashy jewellery, and you always looked cool. You don’t walk, you bop, and you never smile, except when you’re displaying your Uzi or AK-47 or are about to fire it. Another part said what kind of people drove what kinds of cars in Jamaica. Ganja barons and reggae stars drove Benzes or BMWs. BMWs were considered extra cool mon because the initials stood for Bob Marley and the Wailers. Rankins and ganja runners drove rentals. The book also stated that Jamaicans had their own standard of time. ‘I’ll be deh in a few minutes, mon’ meant about an hour to an hour and a half. ‘I’ll be deh soon, mon’ meant anything from five to ten hours.
The other book on Jamaican patois was a different thing altogther. Jamaica is an English-speaking country, but the natives have a lingo all of their own. A blend of Afro-Jamaican-English-Creole. A kind of Pidgin-English, except they drop letters, shorten words a lot then cross vowels with peculiar diphthongs while using the third person plural pronoun after the noun to indicate the plural. Which can all be very confusing. Especially if some Jamrite Rankin bops up to you and says, ‘Ire mon, respect. So no bada fas wid mi. Yai I nung. Ongle one dege dege piece dem gi mi. I’m say. Im gooda all tief dem.’ And you have to very diplomatically reply, ‘Cool runnin’ mon. He no tief dem. Dat deh a fi uno. Yu waan sum? No muss mon. No muss. So keep a cool head, mon.’ Which basically means, ‘Okay, mate, you know who I am so don’t stuff me around. He only gave me one lousy piece of that and I reckon he pinched the lot anyway.’ To which you say, ‘Everything’s okay. He didn’t nick anything. And that there’s for you anyway. You want some, don’t you? Of course you do. So take it easy, everything’s sweet.’ Les read on, avidly figuring out expressions like, ‘Im nen dwi.’ ‘A ja so dem deh?’ ‘No dunza no deh.’ He was getting into it and thinking maybe a knowledge of patois might help him solve this so-called buried treasure thing, when before Les knew it his second cup of coffee had gone cold and it was time to make a move.
He got on the shuttle with about five others; this brought them out onto a landing then down another escalator to where the plane waited, which was like most airline departure areas anywhere in the world. While he boarded, Les checked out the other punters and tourists around him; there weren’t all that many. Mostly business-looking types in shirts and ties, a few young college kids, some big blacks in their tracksuits with X all over them and a number of smaller, flashier blacks that Les tipped were Jamaicans going home. They filed onto the plane which was barely half full. Norton thought this a little odd, then remembered the girl at the tourist agency said this was the off-season. With the help of a toothy, American air hostess Les found his seat and sat down; the other two alongside were empty so Les had the row to himself. He spread himself around, stared vacantly out the window for a while, next thing he had his seat-belt on, the flight attendants were in the aisle giving escape procedures and they were on their way. Les didn’t know quite what to think as he watched Florida falling away while the plane climbed steadily into the clouds. It was a funny feeling of empty nostalgia and incredulity. Suddenly Les brightened up, he could feel some sort of a vibe in the air. Yeah. Jamaica was going to be alright. There was a good vibe. It be cool runnin’ all deh we tru. Yassah.
Les spread out all three books he had on Jamaica, plus the book of Blackmore’s poems. Shit, he chuckled to himself, I’ll be talking like a native after two weeks of this. He got into it, browsing mainly, but taking things in; and it was good even if he didn’t know what he was talking to himself about half the time. Les was still curious as to what a manse was though. Norton’s concentration was only broken twice on the journey. Once when he was served a feed of tuna salad slopped with mayonnaise and an orange juice, and a second time when the pilot said they were approaching the outer limits of Cuba and nobody was allowed to take photos. Which meant every tourist immediately jumped up and started firing away out the nearest window with their instamatic. Which also made Les think of something. He had a brand new camera in his bag, full of film, ready to go, and he hadn’t taken one photo in Florida. Maybe it’s just as well, he shrugged. Who’d want to be reminded of that rathouse? But I’ll be taking plenty in Jamaica. The pilot’s voice came on saying they were expecting some turbulence and to remain seated and put your seat-belt back on. Les buckled up as the plane began to buck and lurch about. Outside the window now was nothing but grey-brown clouds.
The clouds went all the way to Jamaica. Norton kept reading away till the pilot’s voice came on again to say they would soon be landing at Montego Bay. Still buckled up, Les put his books away and looked out the window as the plane began to bank. It was still very cloudy. There was a quick break in the clouds and Les got a glimpse of blue ocean, a low, brown mountain range dotted with greenery and a few houses. Then rain spattered against the window. Les checked his bag and made sure his passport and everything else was in order as the plane banked a couple more times. He placed his bag under the seat in front of him, the plane banked again, then, to the usual accompanying cheers of the American students to let everyone know it was an American pilot at the controls, the plane landed. Norton had made it. He was in Jamaica. He eased back in his seat and smiled. Two weeks of sun, sand and snorkeling. A bit of good tucker, a bit of whatever and look up a few dearly departed ancestors. Norton’s smile turned into a grin. Jamaica baby. Tuan Norton is back in town.
Everybody filed leisurely off the plane and Les was thinking what a breeze Sir Donald Sangster Airport was compared to the mad stampede at Los Angeles. They walked along a dusty, green wooden corridor, which looked like it needed a hit with a broom and a bit more paint on it, before arriving at the baggage claim. There wasn’t a great deal to look at while Les waited for his one bag — so he watched the other passengers, the Jamaican airport staff shuffling around in brown or blue uniforms, and a sprinkling of skinny, expressionless cops in their blue pants with a red trim, army shirts and red peaked caps with a wide red and blue checked band. The one thing Les did seem to notice was as well as looking pretty laid-back, the Jamaicans were about a third the size of the blacks in America.
Norton’s flight was the only one landing so the luggage didn’t take long to start coming round on the carousel; he picked up his bag and followed the others over to the customs area. There appeared to be four counters open, the lane was barely a third full and there was absolutely no crush at all. However, they seemed to be standing there for ages. Les looked ahead of him and noticed that the customs officers were giving everybody but the Jamaican nationals a good going over, opening up all their bags, making them pull just about everything out and taking their own sweet time while they went about it. They didn’t appear to be looking for anything, it was more like they had some sort of a chip on their shoulder and they enjoyed fucking people over; especially tourists arriving with pockets full of money to spend in their country. Christ, thought Les, as he watched the sourfaced customs officers ratting through everybody’s belongings. What the fuck would you smuggle into the place? According to those books I’ve been reading, nobody’s got any money in the joint anyway. He shook his head and shuffled in behind what looked like some kind of businessman wearing a white shirt and brown trousers. Where Norton’s face reflected a kind of curious disbelief, the businessman’s was a mask of sullen aversion. He turned round and caught Norton’s eye.
‘Jolly good fun, isn’t it?’ he said, in a polite Engl
ish accent that dripped sarcasm.
‘What was that, mate?’ replied Les.
‘Good fun, isn’t it? Standing around while the bastards sit on their black arses annoying you.’
‘Annoying you?’
‘Yes, the little shits. They love it.’
Les had another bit of a look around. ‘Yeah. I suppose they are a bit slow,’ he nodded.
‘Slow? Hah! Wait till you leave. They queue you up in the heat for a bloody eternity, till everybody’s half dead from dehydration.’
‘What are they looking for?’
The businessman gave a bit of a shrug. ‘Nothing really. They just like to annoy you. Let you know who’s boss. Or rip you off.’ He half smiled at the look on Norton’s face. ‘I suppose you’re here on holiday?’
‘Yeah. Couple of weeks.’
‘First time?’
Les nodded. ‘What about yourself?’
‘Work.’ The businessman shook his head. ‘I wish to God I wasn’t. They couldn’t have picked a worse time to send me either.’
Les was somewhat curious at the man’s last remark. ‘What kind of work do you do?’
‘I’m with an importing firm in London. We bring in Jamaican rum.’
‘Oh. So I suppose you come here a fair bit, do you?’
‘Yes,’ the businessman seemed to nod and sigh at the same time. ‘That’s one thing about the place. The rum here is absolutely superlative.’
‘I’ve heard that,’ said Les. ‘I’ll have to give it a go.’
They shuffled forward a bit in the queue. There was one woman in front of the Brit staring embarrassedly at her clothes and underwear spread out in front of her while the female customs officer dawdled through her passport.
‘Say, mate?’ said Les.
‘Yes?’ replied the Brit.
‘You wouldn’t happen to know what a manse is, would you?’
The Brit screwed up his face. ‘A manse?’
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