Sitting on the bus in Montego Bay, a young man walked up to my window and washed it with his squeegee and dirty bucket full of water. He held out his hand and looked at me for payment. I just looked back. The driver said, “Ha! That’s not his window. So you see. Not everything is good in Jamaica.”
One of the bigger “no shit” statements I’ve heard.
Driving to our resort reminded me of when I was briefly in Palestine (during one of the rare peaceful times in the late 90s). Ramshackle houses and bars lined the road. Dogs ran wild. People ran wild, brushing their teeth in the ocean or riding their bikes in the middle of the road in traffic at night. However, drivers didn’t mind at all. They drive crazy but considerate, and it is hard to believe that Jamaicans are that nice. Time after time, they proved hard to make mad at anything.
My brother’s wedding was beautiful. It was right on the beach with sun settting and a steel drum band playing; it had the whole nine yards. There were 24 people in the entire group, and everyone got along swimmingly.
It was hot, and my mother and I had it the roughest. We wilt fast in heat like that. My days were spent reading books outside in the shade with cigars and maybe a rum drink. By mid-afternoon, I would be so exhausted just from sitting that I went to the room to take a nap. The Chief was very active however, and I cursed my genetics for not being able to tolerate heat better. I don’t think I stopped sweating profusely the entire time spent outside.
I also had my first massage ever – more on that hilarity later.
Would I go back? Probably not. There were a few nights where I felt a bit nauseous from the heat. Did I have a good time? Absolutely. It was a good chance to stretch my legs and have some fun.
And boy was I happy to walk into a cool 70 degree Omaha evening. I was the happiest boy on the planet right then.
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