Angry Woman, Part III: Sorry I don’t own a yacht or I’m not on the cruise ship, assholes

So, I go to this restaurant called Norma’s at the Port Antonio Marina at least once a week. It is my pick-me-up spot. It is a pleasant spot in Port Antonio that is quiet and calm. You can get good food at Norma’s, though a little on the expensive side, and you can get a glass of wine and feel like everything is fine with the world. That is unless there is a cruise ship there. Port Antonio is not really considered a bustling tourist spot, which I love. It is a haven for the backpacker, but you will very rarely see the normal “tourist” (i.e., middle-aged white people) wondering around the town. Today, I got into town and notice that there are way too many white people, and I knew automatically, there was a cruise ship. I met up with a friend in town and asked if he wanted to go to the marina to eat at Norma’s, because it would be a nice, relaxed lunch. We go and I see the booths with Jamaican paraphernalia set up next to the marina and the people waiting around to try to hustle the dumbasses coming off the ship. We walk into the marina…everything is fine. We walk past the gift shop, past the pool…no problem. We get to the gate that eventually leads to Normas, as well as to the ginormous cruise ship that has made port there, and a guy asks for our passes. I looked at him like he had lost his goddamn mind. The conversation went something like the following:

Me: “Excuse me?”

Security Guard 1: “Are you on a yacht or a cruise ship? If you are from a yacht or the cruise ship, you can’t come in. “

My Friend: ” Well…we are…” (thinking that if we just say yes, they may let us in, which really might have been true)

Me: “Hell no, I am not lying. We aren’t on either. And, what is the issue? I don’t understand. I am just trying to go to Norma’s. which I go to almost every other day (a little exaggerated, but I do go at least once a week).”

Security Guard 1: “Yes, but it is different when a cruise ship is here.”

Me: “What the fuck (yes…this is where I begin to curse). That is fucking ridiculous. Are you joking me? This is a public area. Norma’s is a fucking restaurant, and I have never heard anyone say that you can’t go to it if there is a cruise ship.”

Security Guard 1: “Well..I…(this is where it is obvious that he is a little freaked out and knows that he is trying to reason with a crazy woman)..I am just following policy.”

Me: “Well, tell me who the fuck made this policy. I know what this fucking policy is about. Keep the locals out when the rich, white people are here (mind you, my friend is as white as snow, but it isn’t the same…he is in the same position I am, not being allowed into Norma’s because he isn’t on the ship or owns a damn yacht, in other words, someone with money). This is fucking ridiculous (I couldn’t stress the ridiculous part enough, obviously).”

At this point, the security guard is trying to say something, but I’m going on such a tirade, I couldn’t tell you what the hell he said to me and my friend literally had pull my arm to let me know that the security guard was letting us in. At this point, I’m being pulled into the marina, cursing at the fact that that even happened, when another security guard approaches us. This is how this conversation went:

Security Guard 2: “Do you have your passes?”

Me: “No, because why would I need one?”

Security Guard 2: “If you are not on a yacht or the cruise ship, you cannot come in.”

Me: “If it is about security for the ship, I get it, but you can fucking put security right in front of the ship. You are keeping all locals out of the marina because you don’t want them to be here. This is a shame. I want to talk to the person who is in charge.”

Security Guard 2 then calls over security guard 3…and I know the same conversation is going to happen, which it did, so I will refrain from writing the same shit again.

Finally, after much cursing and declarations of the ridiculousness of this “policy” (can I see this shit in writing? Policy my ass), my friend pulls me away. We both can see that this will get nowhere, especially with this crazy American screaming profanities at people, but that wasn’t stopping me. I wanted to curse loudly and let all the protected cruise ship riders know how messed up it was that THEY got to walk around on PUBLIC JAMAICAN land, but the local JAMAICAN people could not.

I will not lie. I am angry because I was rejected from a free, public place because I am not rich and I am not a tourist on a . I am taking it personally, hell yeah. But the brunt of my anger comes from the fact that I know why this bullshit policy was put into place. Have a nice spot in Port Antonio, let the tourists from cruise ships come onto it, but no one else because they don’t want to let the locals on it. This is the first time I have seen the tourism industry at work here in Portland, and it is a fucked up system. Jamaica is beautiful, I get it…but it fucking belongs to Jamaicans. It doesn’t fucking belong to random ass tourists on a self-contained boat that want to get off for a fucking day to experience “the natives.” The MARINA IS A PUBLIC ACCESS AREA…anyone who so pleases should be allowed to go onto this area. However, in Jamaica, if you are not rich, white, and/or on a cruise ship, sorry, your assed out.

OK, I’m going to publish this right now, because I am so pissed and I want other people to read about this, and then I will come back later and make edits.

Angry Woman, Part II

Personal space seems to be a concept Jamaicans don’t really understand. Or maybe better put, being in other’s personal space is a concept I don’t understand. It has come to my attention recently that a lot of the issues I am having here have to do with the fact that people don’t “respect” my space…which, I have realized, is a totally American and a bit of a self-centered concept. I am used to standing in lines and having no one near me, and I am used to people standing at least a foot away from me at all times. Each culture’s understanding of personal space is different. I get it. It isn’t about respect, it is just about how you grow up. If you grow up thinking that it is perfectly ok to touch someone while standing in a line at a grocery store, then that makes sense, just as it makes sense to think that you shouldn’t be anywhere near someone else unless they want you to be.

So, unfortunately, this understanding was not with me the other day when, once again, I cursed someone out. I decided that since I will soon be going home and I have no insurance at home, I need to get as much medicine as I can here. I went to visit the wonderful Dr. Terry, who I am forever indebted to. She helped me out and prescribed me medicine for my allergies and my asthma. I was paying for my medicine at the counter at the hospital, which is a counter made for ONE person…me, myself and I were the only people that had space at this counter.

So, I am standing at this counter, built for one person, when one dude gets on the right side of me. OK, too close for comfort, but he isn’t touching me, and like I said, I am trying to respect another culture’s understanding of personal space. He most likely doesn’t know that he is making me uncomfortable, and he isn’t touching me, so I leave it alone. Then, another homeboy gets on my LEFT side making me a nice little Stephanie Surprise sandwich at this counter built for one person. The difference between homeboy on my left side and dude on my right side is that homeboy on my left is touching me. Not just grazing my skin, not just brushing up against my arm…he is TOUCHING ME…like we are friends or buddies or pals or comrades…in other words, like HE KNOWS ME. So, I’m standing there, the Stephanie meat in the Stephanie and two random-ass-men sandwich, and I grumble beneath my breath, “Some space would be nice.” The woman behind the counter laughs and asks, “You aren’t from here, are you?” I laugh at the fact that someone recognizes my discomfort and displeasure at the situation and say, “How could you tell?” The woman makes me feel better by saying that she completely agrees with me, and then says to the homeboy on my left, “There is a line!” Between the two men, I hear a few grumbles, but no one moves. They stand there. Homeboy on left is still TOUCHING ME. So, I say more loudly this time, “There is a thing called PERSONAL SPACE.” Homeboy on the left says some mess in patois to me…couldn’t tell you what the hell he said, but all I know is that it sounded rude as shit. So, I turned to look up at him, because, yes, he was a foot taller than I am. And I just stare at him. I stare long and hard, waiting for him to at least look back at me since he is still TOUCHING ME. He looks over my head, obviously not happy that a little girl was challenging him. I finally turn back to the woman behind the counter, thank her, and squeeze myself out of the Stephanie Surprise sandwich. As I leave, the homeboy from my left sucks his teeth loudly, and in response I tell him, “You can kiss my ass.” At this point, I leave to a tirade of anger-induced patois.

I go back to Dr. Terry’s office, and she offers to drive me into town. I first say no, because it felt silly to get a ride when the main part of town was a 5 minute walk away. Then I thought about the man who I told to kiss my ass and thought, maybe I should have an escort…for his safety.

 

Brown-skinned Girl

So, in Jamaica, there appear to be different ways to categorize people according to their race/color. There is the “white-man” and then there is the “china-man” (who, by the way, is anyone with Asian features….they could be Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Thai…doesn’t matter, because to a Jamaican, they are China-Man…love the use of political correctness here), “black-man,” and then there is me…”brown-skinned girl.” At first, I was quite excited to be considered “brown-skinned” and not orange, redbone, or just plan light-skinned. Although I will tell you that I am caramel or milk chocolate (sorry, think I’m pmsing a bit and really would like something sweet right now), most people tend to think that I am light-skinned to the point that they believe one of my parents HAS to be white. So when I heard I was “brown-skinned” here, I felt like people were finally recognizing my blackness. Not really. I have had so many people ask me if one of my parents were white here, I almost wanted to start saying yes so they would stop looking at me like I was denying part of my heritage. I had one woman simply ask “Is your mom or dad white?” At that point, I answered “neither.” The look of pure disbelief on her face was actually quite comical. “But no, seriously. Which one?” She asked again. Ama tried to explain to her that neither parent was white and that in America, black people come in all shades. “But no, look at her hair and her eyes. Seriously, which parent?” I have a few pictures of my family on my computer, so I showed her my dad. My dad is fair skinned, but looked black enough for her approval. Of course I didn’t have a picture of my mom, so that just helped her theory that she was the white one and for some reason, I was ashamed of it and didn’t want to admit to it. I sighed and decided it was a battle not worth fighting right then.

In addition to having a white parent that I didn’t know about, because I am light-skinned and have curly hair and light brown eyes, according to a few Jamaicans, I am “soft” or not “strong” enough and my asthma has been, in a round about way, attributed to the fact that I am not black enough. On two different occasions, I was speaking to Jamaican men about the cloud of ganja smoke surrounding their heads and how I would prefer if that smoke didn’t reach my lungs. The first man told me that weed would in fact help my asthma. He proceeded to explain how to make ganja water and that I should drink that throughout the day. Then my asthma would be cured. I told him thank you, but I have my albuteral and my oral steriod inhaler and I am quite content with that. He became agitated with me and told me I needed to listen to him. He looked at Ama and said that I wasn’t like her, that I was “soft.” My soft ass got really close to socking him in the eye. Instead I said, “Ok, that’s enough for me,” and I walked away. The second time happened yesterday in a taxi. The driver was smoking in the car to the point that I felt like we were in a huge bong. Ama told him I had asthma and he asked why I didn’t tell him. I told him it wasn’t that big of a deal, but if he could refrain from smoking the whole damn thing right then, I would appreciate it. He turned to Ama and said that I wasn’t like her, that Ama was a real black woman and so she could handle the weed smoke.  Ama stated to him that I was black as well, and he said, “oh of course, but she isn’t like you…you are a real black woman.”

Ama is darker than I am, and since we have been here, her skin has become a rich chocolaty color. I, on the other hand, haven’t gotten much darker. While she is becoming an African Queen, I am becoming Domincan. Men are constantly telling her that she is a beautiful African woman and they get excited to find out that her father is from Ghana. She is a strong black woman, an African Princess, a woman to be reckoned with, to be appreciated, to be feared. I, on the other hand, get the feeling they see me as some half-breed, which subsequently makes me weaker.

So, as you can tell, my issues with color is not being helped here.  Still, brown-skinned sounds better than high-yellow…I’ll take what I can get.

So, I got my toes did, and I’m hoping I don’t get gangrene

Yeah, my toes were a hot mess, and I couldn’t function looking at the crustiness anymore. So I bit the bullet and decided to go to a salon in Port Antonio to get them done. Getting your toes done in a developing country is a scary thing, especially if the city you are in is not as cosmopolitan as maybe some other cities in that country. If I had tried to get my toes done in Negril or Montego Bay or Ocho Rios, I am almost positive there would be some fancy nail salon place for all the tourists who don’t do anything beyond “all-inclusive” vacations (“Interact with the locals? My word, who would want to do such a thing?!?!”). However, Port Antonio is not that place, and so Ama and I went to a salon a few people had suggested. Long story short, there were no incubators to sanitize anything. Everything was just chilling out in a bucket. Just chilling. I mean, she didn’t even get a torch and try to burn the shit before she applied it to our feet. So, I couldn’t tell you what is going to happen to my toes. However, see the attached picture and see how ghettofabulous they are! Only in Jamaica would I, 1) go to such a place and 2) get some damn designs on my toes. Oh well, let me go enjoy them before they turn black and blue.

What to do in Portland, Jamaica- Port Antonio

Things to do in Portland, Jamaica

I have read over my previous blog entries and notice that there is a theme…I am a pitiful, yet angry bitch. So, I decided to take a break from my pity/anger fueled tirades. I am going to try to present my own little traveler’s guide to where I have been staying, because everything I have read, including Lonely Planet, is just not up to speed…it is like they are on Jamaica time and have decided to wait a few years to actually update anything. So, since I am uber-anal about things being clear and updated, I have just decided to take it into my own hands and present to you the FIRST installment, my faithful readers, of my own up-to-date things-to-see-and-do in Portland, Jamaica!

Port Antonio: This is a decent sized town, the only one like it, in Portland. I probably go to Port Antonio 3-5 times a week. If I need money, this is the only place that I have found in the whole damn area that actually has ATMs and cambios. This makes it a challenge for the days I have no money and need money to actually get into town. A bit of a conundrum, right? Kind of like the chicken and the egg problem…I need money, can only get it from Port Antonio, can’t get it from there because I can’t get afford to get there. Yeah, sometimes this really sucks, and I have to start begging some of the staff at Great Huts for 80 JMD. Oh, wait, I said I was going to refrain from complaining, right? OK…so back to Port Antonio. Wait, let me finish my gripe with the ATMs. So, I have Citibank, a pretty internationally recognized bank. Only one of the ATMs in Port Antonio seem to want to acknowledge my bank card. So once I actually get into town, I have to find a specific bank in order to get money. OK, I’m done discussing my issues with lack of ATMs and ones that actually work with my card now.

Port Antonio…settled by some Spanish dudes a few hundred years ago. They left for whatever reason and some other dudes from some other countries came and settled here. Portie, as locals and lazy people alike like to call it, is supposedly the birthplace of tourism in Jamaica. One of the first hotels was here (and has since been burned down, unfortunately). But what Portie is best known for is Errol Flynn’s obsession with the place. There are stories galore about how this man came here and made this place his stomping grounds. He seemed to be a big ho. They credit this ho with coming up with rafting down the Rio Grande (more on that later) because he decided a good date for his multiple women was to take them on a long, secluded river by moonlight so no one could see him being sketchy. By the way, he was married and his widow is some spinster chilling still in Jamaica. He obviously ruined her with his ho-bag ways and she can’t seem to move on from the traumatic shit he put her through. Poor woman. Once again, I digress.

So, Errol Flynn managed to put this place on the map. The Marina is named after him. Let’s talk about this Marina. Port Antonio is not the neatest, cleanest city. Yes, it is quaint, it is even cute. But clean and spacious, no. There are homeless people on the street and mangy dogs surrounding them. The stores are crowded and the main market is squashed into a relatively small space. Space is limited, and when there is some, it is normally covered in some litter and dirt. However, upon entering Mr. Errol Flynn’s Marina, you enter a different world. I walked in with my friend, Ama, and we freaked out at first, thinking we had stumbled onto some resort by accident. We were just waiting to get kicked out. But we didn’t get stopped at the entrance, which did have a person sitting there, manning it. The place was meticulously clean. The grass was well kept and lush, the trees and flowers showing the same amount of care and love. The buildings were freshly painted and had that tropical, yet not gaudy look. There was an awesome little gift shop called “Things Jamaican.” The store was cool and clean and had beautiful trinkets, gift cards, candles, shirts, and other numerous “things Jamaican.” After spending time (which I have a lot of here) and money (which I have none of here) at the store, Ama and I went to another building at the end of a pier. This pier is where the few cruise ships that come to Port Antonio stop. The building at the end of this pier houses Norma’s Restaurant. A well-dressed host comes to greet you immediately, guiding you to either a table or to the bar, depending on your preference. There is a small, yet beautiful beach (warning: Do Not Get in the Water! Supposedly the E-Coli count is off the hook here. Pretty and blue does not necessarily equal safe and harmless). The bathrooms are tidy and clean. The drinks and food are expensive, naturally, because all the tourists that do end up coming into Port Antonio normally come through this area, so they jack up the prices. The food is good, though, and you can actually get a glass of wine here (which appears to be a harder thing than one would think in a place where everyone either drinks or smokes up). I would recommend the mozzarella and tomato salad (if they have it…when a cruise ship comes in, the bastards seem to eat all the damn cheese in the place) and the Teriyaki steak.

Beyond Norma’s, there aren’t many other restaurants I would suggest. Shadows, which guide books like to recommend, wasn’t so hot. They had no rice when I went there. Really? How does a “mid-range” restaurant in JAMAICA not have some rice? And why is it so hard to get Curry Chicken ANYWHERE? There is stewed chicken, there is jerk chicken, there is curry goat…but no curry chicken. Another restaurant, which is a little outside of Portie, is Anna Banana’s. Anna Banana’s is a cute little restaurant on the water that doesn’t seem to like to serve a variety of food (they only had oxtail and fried chicken) or drinks (they had no wine and one Ting, which is a REALLY POPULAR grapefruit soft drink here…there should be NO EXCUSE for a restaurant to not have this). My suggestion is, avoid the trip to this place. Not worth it.

There are a couple of Chinese Restaurants, one of which I have tried. I can’t remember the name right now, but it is not on the main road. I will figure out the name later and edit this accordingly. This restaurant was actually pretty decent, although my stomach disagreed with this sentiment a few hours after I ate their chicken fried rice. Didn’t stop me for going back another time, though . It is cute and the walls are painted different colors, giving it a bit of a spastic, yet colorful look. This restaurant has the coolest chairs, though, which are made out of big ole barrels. If I could steal one, I would have, but the fact that it weighed about a ton would have made that a bit of a difficult task.

Then there is a place called Nix Nax on the main road. This place is decent because it might be the only place you can get a ham and cheese sandwich. They also have fries and burgers, along with beef and veggie patties. Speaking of patties, the best place to get a beef patty in town is a place called Juici Beef. This is also not on the main road, but on a side road of town. Just ask someone on the street where Juici Beef is and they will guide you to the right place. You can get a tasty beef, vegi, or chicken patty for 60 JMD. Tasty, filling and cheap…that’s how I like my food!

You can get fresh fruits and vegetables at the market. Since eating healthy is not my thing, I will just guide you there and you can figure out the rest. The market, however, also offers other things…toward the back of the market, you will find all the souvenirs. In the middle, you will find a gazillion stalls that all seem to sell slightly used shoes, which I find a bit odd, but hey, to each his own. In the front, you can find some kick-ass leather sandals. I bought a pair for 1000 JMD (about $14 US) that I simply ADORE! They are cute and say Jamaica on them. And they also say that I wear a size 7, which is a total lie, but it is nice to think my feet are not the boats they actually are. You can also find a lot of randomness in the market, but the aforementioned items seem to be the most common things.

For partying at night, there seem to be two main clubs. La Best is one and the other is the Roof Top Club. I haven’t been to La Best, but I have been to the Roof Top Club. By the way, Roof Top doesn’t mean it is on a roof. Nope, it just means, club on the second floor of a building. Was a little disappointed by that. It was ok, nothing to write home about. I think we were there a little early. I am still used to D.C. time, which means clubs close at 2 AM, not get started then, like they do here. For those of you who are more adventurous, there is a place called Godzilla in town as well. A few of us went to Godzilla, thinking it was a club. Well, technically, it is a club. Just a club with naked women sliding down poles and collecting dollars in their boobies. I was especially impressed by a woman who was hanging upside down on the pole just by her THIGHS! I had to give her 100 JMD for that (yeah, just a little over a US dollar, but 100 JMDs sounds so much better, doesn’t it?).

Well, that seems to be Port Antonio in a nutshell. I am going to go ahead and publish this, but I will probably be back to edit a few things (like actually give you street names and all that…I mean, I can’t just make a half-ass guide…some of y’all might really come out here and use this). Guides to other places in Portland are coming soon!

Sun, Beach, Water…I shouldn’t be so angry anymore (warning- includes curse words galore)

You would think living in paradise would cool my anger down a bit. Unfortunately, the opposite seems to be happening. In the last 24 hours, I have managed to literally curse out 3 different MEN. Not young adults, not even women…MEN. Three grown ass men. The first two took place at a block party late Saturday night. It was late, I was tired. The men seemed to not like being interrupted by a young woman, especially someone not from here. I thought I should join in the conversation they were having, since it included how I was going to get home. These guys were taxi drivers/wannabe taxi occupants/taxi owners, hell if I know exactly what their connection was, and the guys Ama and I were with (friends who work at Great Huts, where we are staying) were trying to talk to them about an arrangement we had supposedly made with the actual taxi driver of one particular taxi. Since I was going to be an occupant in the taxi, if it ever left, I foolishly thought I could speak up and tell them what I thought about the situation (which was, we were just standing there and the taxi driver was sleeping while these dumbasses talked about who was supposed to get the taxi). As soon as I tried to speak, one of the men told me to “cool down.” Excusez-moi? Who the HELL do you think you are talking to? At that point, I proceeded to tell him to fucking kiss my ass and that he was a motherfucker. Unfortunately, this tactic did not help us in getting the taxi we needed, and one of the guys from Great Huts had to gently pull me away from this man, because he saw in my eyes that I was ready to start swinging.

Five minutes later, the taxi driver decides to wake up, and tells Ama and I that he can take us. So, I naturally get into the taxi and sit and wait. Another guy starts to yell at the taxi driver about taking us. So, once again, thinking, well, I’m in the taxi, I am trying to leave, I should have a say in this conversation, I speak up. Jackass turns to me and tells me that he isn’t talking to me. Once again, I explode. I want to say, my explosion went something like this:

“Excuse me? What the fuck did you just say to me? Who the fuck are you? You need to fucking back the fuck up. You are fucking with the wrong fucking person, you fucking fucker.” OK, maybe a few of those “fucks” weren’t said, but most of them were. Then dude proceeded to tell me to be quiet, and a slew of curse words flowed from my mouth once more. By this time, everyone around just stopped and watched the spectacle taking place. Finally, tired of the verbal abuse, dude walked away, and then the taxi driver proceeded to hit on me (even though I told him I was dating one of the guys who was there with us).

Luckily, none of these men were crazy enough to pull out their machete and cut me.

Last night, I completely lost it. Like, crazy, pmsing, borderline psychotic lost it. Below is an excerpt from an email I sent this morning to the owner of Great Huts in a preemptive move, just in case the bastard who I cursed out tried to tell on me AGAIN (and yes, this little girly bitch tattle-told on me last night, running to the manager with his tail between his legs).

” [Asshole] (of course I didn’t call him this in the email, but I don’t want to use his name and this name seems more appropriate anyway) has been an annoyance from the first day I met him. I think he is an arrogant opportunist who literally jumps on any and every guest that walks through the door so he can get his “story” out and see how they can help him further his needs. I understand people’s need to network…it is how many of us get ahead in life. However, I do not agree with how he does it. Beyond that, he has taken advantage of my personal property and did not return it in to me its original condition. There are three things that are of the utmost importance to me. My gucci and coach purses, my turtle Dutchess (who means the world to me…she is the reason I made it through the last few months), and my USB key, which pretty much has my life on it, resume, cover letters, and my most dear possession, the book I am trying to write. I allowed him to use it and he returned it with a few dozen pictures, many of them with half naked women posing for them. I approached him and said that he needed to take these pictures off. He was, of course, bothering some other guests with his videos and pretty much brushed me off, saying he would do it eventually. I decided at that point that I needed to never talk to him. He left for a few weeks, and it was heaven.

When he came back, he was up to his old tricks again. What is his purpose anyway? The most work I have seen him do is roll a wheel barrow back and forth (mind you, with flip flops on, so I don’t know what actual work he could be doing). Sorry, I digress. I haven’t spoken to him since he has been back. Last night, he had the music up really loud in the lobby. I needed to make a phone call, so I turned it down. After the phone call, I left it down, at what, I believe, was a decent, normal decibel. Tony, Carl, Ama and a friend of hers were in the lobby. David came over to me and proceeded to talk, very condescendingly, to me about turning the radio down and leaving it down without asking him. He proceeded to equate it to playing music at the Turkle Bar (which we do, but we do it at the levels the guests request, not how we feel the music should be). At that point, I just exploded. I literally cursed him out. It had more to do with my built up dislike of him than anything else, but I did not appreciate the way he approached me at all. After my tongue lashing, he promptly called Peter and told on me. Peter talked to me and calmed me down (by the way, Peter is the most awesome person ever..he deserves a raise ).

I am apologizing to you, and I will apologize to Tony, Carl and Ama’s guest for what I did. I should not have let my anger get to me like I did. This is your place and even though there were no guests in the lobby at the time, I should not have let my anger get to the point of making this environment hostile in anyway. I truly apologize for this. I obviously have some pent up anger issues that I need to deal with constructively. As for [Asshole], I will not talk to him anytime soon…I know I should be a bigger person and apologize to him, but at this moment in time, the mere fact that he TOLD on me like we were 5 years old is keeping me from acting like the adult here. I am sorry for this as well. I will promise you that this type of outburst will NEVER happen again here.“

Mind you, I left out the part about me telling Asshole that I would, “Cut him.” I didn’t think it was necessary to show the owner how crazy I truly am. And yes, I said, “If you don’t fucking leave me alone, I will cut you,” and I think I said it a few times. Even upon saying these things, however, the people that were in the lobby with us didn’t come running to hold me back…I feel almost validated by their lack of interference because I feel they enjoyed seeing this asshole get reamed by a 128 lb woman. And then GO AND TELL ON ME! The last time I tattle-told on someone was when I was like 5. Who fucking tattle-tells? In all honesty, I think I scared the shit out of this dude. Granted, I went to my room and cried about the intensity of such anger I could habour…it is really quite scary. I thought I was going to come to Jamaica and become some meditative guru…yeah, not happening right now. Sun, beach, water…hello? Can you help me out here?? Make me less psychotic please…especially before the next time this Asshole approaches me, because I might have a machete by that time and it will be ugly. (HAHA…just kidding, no need to call the police, I promise).

I just saw the biggest f__king lizard ever

OK, I understand the concept of an eco-tourist resort. I have been living at one for over a month now. I get it…everything is outside. There are no walls. We are one with nature. But hell if I want to be chilling with a damn mutant lizard. Here I am, minding my own business, trying to give myself a pedicure (since I have been broke and can’t afford to have someone else give me pedicures anymore…and hell, I don’t even know if there is a place to actually get one ANYWHERE in a 60 mile radius) when the BIGGEST DAMN LIZARD starts crawling up the bamboo wall next to me. And then just sits there. And chills. Like it is ok. No, mutant, you need to be moving along. However, the monster did not seem to agree with me and proceeded to just hang on the side of the wall.

Some of you may know that I have a turtle. She is the cutest thing ever. I pick her up and take her on walks and everything! Some of you may know that I love snakes and had begged my mother for awhile to get a corn snake, to which she answered, HELL NO. Some of you may also know that when I was smaller, I used to play with the lizards that got stuck in between the window and the screen. No one else would even come close to them, but I would get them out, play with them for a bit, and then set them free. I am a reptile lover. Reptiles are awesome. So it surprised me when I realized that I was completely freaked out by the beast glaring down on me. I mean, it wouldn’t move! It just sat there, and I attempted to scare it off by throwing stuff at it and by yelling at it. It just hung there, big and scary, daring me to come any closer. This thing wasn’t going to budge and then I realized, it was going to be a showdown. Who would win, the super-advanced homosapien with the super-advanced brain in one corner or the ancient small-brained reptile hanging off the side of the other corner? Five minutes passed as the glare-down continued. It wasn’t moving and neither was I. This was a battle to the end.

Oh, wait..oh hell, it’s moving…and dammit if it isn’t creeping in my direction. Really? This thing is coming right at me! Does it not know who I am? Does it not realize how much bigger and stronger and more advanced I am than it is? How dare it??

I respond the only way I felt was appropriate…I ran. Oh well, I’m not as scary as I thought I was.

So, I have become the car seat for other people’s children

In Jamaica, the easiest and most economical way to travel is through the use of a route taxi. You can tell a true route taxi by looking at the license plate, which should be red. Honestly, I take whatever car stops for me. I know that sounds sketchy, but it appears to be what everyone else does. I try to blend in as much as my light-skinned, big curly-haired self will allow, and that means following local customs, one of which includes, it appears, holding other people’s children while riding in these route taxis.

I have been handed small children, all girls, on several occasions. The first time this happened, I was a bit weirded out. I know in the unlikely event I ever have children, I would not be so happy just handing over my child to sit in some grown-ass stranger’s lap. By the third time, it seemed like the natural thing to do. Fortunately, these little people always smelled like baby lotion and were the most well-behaved children I have ever seen. They sat quietly in my lap, weathering the bumpy road and my bony chicken legs like pros.

I was riding in a van, packed beyond capacity, of course, and the woman next to me was forced to move to a back seat to illegally accommodate more people. This woman, who had a little girl in her lap, was a bit thick, and they expected her to squeeze into an amazingly small space. I offered my car seat services to her little girl and she wordlessly handed her over and went to the other seat. As time went on, people got off and space freed up. I turned to see her nicely situated in her newly-acquired space and I expected her to say, “Thank you” and to take her child back. She didn’t meet my eyes and continued to sit, not making even a slightest movement that would suggest she wanted her child back. So, I kept her in my lap until the end of the ride, at which point, she took her back…without a thank you. Which is fine…but I’m just saying…

I think I’m going to start charging for my car seat services.

12 Person Occupancy really means 20 Person Occupancy

I kid you not. I was in a taxi-van the other day, and as they continued to pack in patrons like fucking sardines, I had to turn around and count the number of heads in this van. This van, which was made to hold 12, maybe 13 people, was at that very moment home to 20 people. TWENTY.

Now, let’s all take a moment. I haven’t had math since I was in 12th grade, but I do believe 20 is actually 8 more than 12. 8 more PEOPLE…this is not like we are talking about 8 pieces of luggage or shit, even 8 more babies…this is 8 more GROWN ASS PEOPLE, thick Jamaican men and women, all piled into a van, on top of each other. Safety, of course, used to be the first thing that would come to my mind when I was scrunched in with a whole village into a van like this. Seatbelts are a luxury here. How the hell do I get to my seatbelt when 3 other people’s asses on top of it? Oh, by the way, that is only if the damn car HAS any back seatbelts. Jamaicans aren’t so worried about the people in the back. They probably believe that because so many of us are all smushed so close together, there will be no room for us to move, let alone to be thrown against the windshield.

Like I said, safety was my biggest concern in the beginning. Now, whenever I get into a van that is already past capacity and we still continue to wait for more people to stuff in, I find myself getting pissed. I will admit, I habor some prissy tendencies. But, I do believe I am a trooper. I can endure discomfort if I need to…this, however, is beyond simple discomfort. I don’t know how many people have had a chance to get a cheap feel from me because my boob was lodged into their back. I have been closer to these people than I have on second and third dates with a dude I was trying to get ass from!

And why is the rasta dude next to me always trying to carry on a conversation…even though I have to repeatedly ask him what the hell he said due to my sheer lack of understanding of Patois and the roar of the engine struggling to carry a load it was really never designed for. Does my look of “what the fuck” not mean anything to you? Does my turning the other direction and looking into the head of the woman RIGHT next to me not give you damn clue that I rather be counting the number of braids she has than talking to YOU?

So, this 20 person van I was riding in was definitely having a hard time navigating the roads. We had to travel 20 mph at some points because the van would have most likely come completely undone if we had traveled any quicker than that on these horrid, pot-filled roads.

And god, WHY is the person who has to get out first ALWAYS shoved into the back seat in the spot that is the farthest from any type of exit (by the way, there is only one exit for us people in the back, normally a door that has to be held while driving so that none of us go flying out when it does a surprise thing like slide open all of a sudden)? 10 of the 20 people have to get out just so this poor person can make any kind of attempt to climb out and above and around the leftover 10 people.

So, those of you who have ridden in mini-vans know that normally, there are spaces where there are no seats. This is probably done so people will not over-occupy the van. You would think this would deter people from trying to do so. Not Jamaicans. They have come up with some interesting make-shift seats. If there is a little aisle between two seats, they have this cushioned board the put in between those two seats over that little aisle, and, presto-chango, you have a new seat! Then there are seats that I swear were stolen from a plane junkyard, and these are somehow “secured” into the leftover spaces in the van, normally right next to the sliding door that never really closes.

Luckily, I have yet to be in a van next to a really smelly person. It always surprises me how hot it is here and how good the people still manage to smell. I know, my sweaty ass starts to get a little rank, especially on the 20 minute drive from Port Antonio to Boston Bay, where I stay. By the time 10 people get out of the van so that I can crawl out, I am usually drenched and stinky. Can I get the soap you guys are using?? Damn.

So, moral of the story…just because there is a big ass sign that says “Occupancy, 12 people” doesn’t mean that here in Jamaica they won’t try to double that number.

OK, Jerk chicken was cool the first 10 times

So, I have to admit, I’m fucking tired of chicken and brown rice and peas. Where is my vodka pasta? Where is my Tibs Watt? Hell, where is my chicken that is anything but Jerked? How about green curry with chicken, red curry with chicken, Fried chicken? How about white rice? Yellow rice? Black and white sticky rice? Can I have a bowl of cereal? Frosted mini-wheats, honey nut cheerios, cap’n crunch…where oh where are you?

Yeah, I’m kind of hungry right now. Not kind of…I am really hungry. I have been so hungry lately, hungry for other things besides jerk and rice and peas, that I ate vegetables today and enjoyed them! I hate vegetables. But hell, it wasn’t jerk chicken, and I found myself relishing in that thought.

My friend Ama and I have a restaurant that we frequent often. It is called the Chill-Out Restaurant, and the waitress knows us well. She brings us the same dishes every time. I get the stewed chicken with rice and peas and Ama gets the fish with rice and peas. Every time. No fail. That is what we get. Because we don’t know what else we can eat without getting sick. So, stick to what we know. Chicken and Fish. And rice and peas.

All I want is a ham and cheese subway sandwich with lettuce and oil and vinegar. Is that too much to ask? It appears so, because there are only three subway sandwich stores in all of Jamaica, and those are in Kingston, which is 4 hours away (and yes, I looked up on the subway website where their stores were).

Maybe I will go to Kingston tomorrow…