Heene's Helium

I love controversy, of almost any kind. Controversy thrives in the court of public opinion, and makes great fodder for epigrammatic headlines, late night comedians, You Tube sensations, blogging, twittering, and all the rainbow of beliefs that shine down to the pot of gold at the end of these stories. Most of you have probably stopped caring about "Balloon Boy", and frankly, I don't blame you. The story's been repeated to near obsession, but I had to take peek at the Larry King moment when the innocent, young lass opens the door to the family sauna; the moment in which his father's story, as diaphanous and rickety as his weather balloon, came crashing down on live TV. "Why didn't you come out when they were calling your name?" the host asked. "I thought you said it was for the TV show," the boy responded. The Dad didn't really answer the question, deferring instead to mumbles and fractured statements about his son hiding. 

Knowing the truth now, it's easier to see all the fault lines in their story, but the science and reasoning behind his Jiffy Pop balloon was a barrel full of monkeys. Listening to his specifications, there is no way you can create a steering mechanism for a balloon - or a Tyco truck for that matter - using Reynolds Wrap and a kitchen timer. "I had wrapped the balloon in foil and used a kitchen timer for a power supply...Every 5 minutes it would send a million volts through the craft and you could steer, with subtle changes, where it was going." *A quick geek alert for anyone reading* A million volts would be roughly the equivalent of a stun gun. Remember "Don't tase me bro!"? As a general rule, it's said that 1 volt generates 1 cm of spark. Multiply that by a million and you would have enough volts to send 1 meter long sparks shooting around the thing. Don't expect the foil to insulate that many volts, nor can you expect that kind of charge from even your best kitchen timer. It just ain't happening. Judging by all the pauses and holes in the Heene's story, it was not a well thought out plan. And probably not a performance you'd expect from people schooled at a top Hollywood performing arts school. In the end, their story was just like their weather balloon "experiment". It dazzled and delighted us for a little bit, then came crashing down in a field of dust. The Heene's may not have gotten the pot of gold they were expecting, but I think the public did. Too bad their wasn't any popcorn in the balloon.

Astra Kelly / Tim De Martin | KUSI News - Good Morning San Diego

Sunday, April 26 at KUSI's Good Morning San Diego show.

Astra Kelly KUSI - News, Weather and Sports - San Diego, CA Good Morning San Diego

The Late Night Valdez

Last night I slept terrible. 

I returned late from playing cajon with Astra Kelly and had missed the last landing at the airport by a good twenty minutes. Sleep came on rather quickly. But a late night Valdez came screaming through the night hauling in all the last-minute, Fed-Ex shipments. I had bought earplugs a few hours earlier, but I didn't put 'em in. Why bother? I didn't expect any 20-ton beasts to come howling through my windows tonight. Maybe the stripper that lives up the stairs from me, but no need to put the earplugs in for that. I slept like a horse after that, standing up, which meant that the next day I would be wired with a strange and neurotic energy. Call it a cocktail of deracinate roots. Or a bevy of Indian spices. I would even consider potpourri, but only if contained excesses of cinnamon in the mix. Of course, the most important part of any of this, was that I was in the middle of a terrible craving for Ben and Jerry's ice cream. It may very well have been one of those quirky stress cravings, but sometimes it's the simple things that can bring us back on solid ground. Which is where my story began this day.

The air was brisk, and as I stepped out into the evening, the city sounds were oddly hushed in momentary silence. Only a steady hiss of the interstate traffic wedged its way down this grisly uptown boulevard. In the distance, I can see the San Diego skyline hanging like proud little league trophies against the clear, dark sky. The thought occurs to me of walking there and riling up some homeless people, but that would most likely get me hurt. And I was in no mood for injury. Besides, anybody who's ever walked the Vegas strip knows that objects are farther than what they appear. What I really knew, was that the hunger pains in my gut would soon cripple me before I reached halfway. 

I headed West into Little Italy. A short five-minute walk puts you on the doorstop of a 7-11 that I'm pretty sure is padded with ice cream. I immediately wanted to go inside, but a bulbous man with a crack in his Liberty Bell was blocking the entrance bending over to grab his dropped nickel. I waited for him to stand up before sliding around him. Once I managed to get through the door, I discovered the store was empty. Nobody and nothing was happening, just my own quiet breathing.  

I immediately drifted towards the chillers, momentarily passing the beer, when the door chimed. A woman enters the store and screams, "I can't believe this fuckin' city!" I turn around and see her walking towards the pain killers. She looked visibly disturbed and rabid in the face. "It'll kick ya in the balls...if I had any!" she added, as if wanting someone to agree with her. I looked around, but the place was still empty. The clerk most likely shot down the street for a quick refill on his whiskey sour at the Waterfront bar, leaving me here to throw the water on this flaming hot-iron ready and willing to brand whoever stepped near her. I really didn't know what to make of this woman. Her yelling seemed over-implied and had jolted me from the smiling cows and picket fences on the cookie dough label. The woman appeared as if she had snapped and was just beginning to dig herself up out of some distinct and terrible catastrophe. She clearly needed the ice cream more than I did. I thought of suggesting Sudafed and a bottle of cheap red wine, but she knelt out of view before I could say anything. 

But none of that mattered anymore. 7-11's selection of Ben and Jerry's ice cream hovered just above tolerable. They had the modern classics like Phish Food and Cherry Garcia, but lacked that one, salient flavor, which had pulled me down her to begin with, Whirled Peace. And its absence meant either going without or choosing the one with flying toffee chunks over a river of dark chocolate flowing beside the rooster den. My timing was off. The ice cream had mostly likely been plundered in a midnight, panic-driven purge before the start of lent. I decided to go without. All or nothing, that's what I say. 

The beer shelves, on the other hand, were fully stocked in pre-Mardi Graus statute, with all of the brews you've come to expect from your local mart. By the time I agreed upon New Belgium and settled in behind the counter, the store clerk was ringing up the crazy-eyed killer, who was paying for a box of smokes and asking for a bottle of Jack. I felt compelled by the morose shadows hanging around her. It was the kind of heaviness that fills the deepest, bluest cavities inside us. I could tell she was in preparation for a long and grueling night ahead, sipping Jack Daniels in the candlelight of her dark, onerous gloom.  

Maybe it had something to do with the headline on the paper next to me: "Dow tumbles to '97 level as stocks plunge globally." A picture of a stockbroker on the floors of the New York Stock Exchange head in hands, confirmed it. The story went on.

Fears that the world economies are even weaker than had been thought ricocheted around 

the globe yesterday as investors from Hong Kong to New York bailed out of stocks. Losses 

cascaded from one market to the next as concern spread that governmental efforts have not 

been enough to stabilize troubled financial institutions or broader economies. The Dow Jones 

industrial average fell below 7,000 for the first time since 1997 as investors reacted to reports 

that construction and industrial activity has continued to decline and to a $61.7 billion loss pos-

ted by American International Group. It was the largest quarterly loss ever for a company. 

All this constant hammering about defaulted loans, bankrupt banks, and government take-over tells me just one thing, we're fucked. I mean, if you don't know by now that you don't actually have to own a collateralized debt obligation to hedge against it with a credit-default swap, well, it's not the media's fault. And, of course, the oceanic span of our financial canals used in International trade and lending, means that much of the world is treading water with us. "The losses were especially severe in Europe," the article reads, "where an emergency weekend summit ended in bickering and the rejection of a bailout plea from Hungary."  Everyone else seems to be in the same frantic, helpless, confused mode of "Where the HELL did all my money go?" I can't say for sure, but I think the woman had it right after all. We've got some long, grueling nights ahead of us. 

Where the Hobbits Roam...

My new studio apartment is tiny. There's room to sleep, but everything else is pretty much left to chance - including food. Unless I sit in the chair, which is sorta the living room area, I can choose to eat my dinner either on the bed, which I guess is the bedroom - or also the family room, and the lounge chair. But eating in the chair runs a choking hazard while leaning in for the salt. And dinner in bed feels too relaxed and subordinate for any typical dinner etiquette - table top dining, with a fat tire to your left and remote toggling Jon Stewart's face to your right. Then there's the kitchen, which is where I kinda feel the dinner happens. But when your standing here, pulling food out of a Jello bowl in the crunched corner of this dollhouse, everything becomes immediate and urgent. Why yes, I would like another glass of milk. What's that, you want my to wash my dinner plate before I'm done eating? You bet I will. Anything to get me out of this corner.

Of course, when it takes only one good stride to step from the bedroom to the kitchen, it makes hippies look not only incredibly simple-minded, but incredibly lazy too. I mean, where else can you watch the noodles boil from the comfort of your own bed? Where a bathroom break merely requires standing up? And where, at any moment, a cool, frothy beer can be found at arms reach? Nothing without sacrifice, of course. Washing your hair requires first bumping your elbows multiple times lathering the shampoo, then bending over so your hair can reach the waist-high fire hydrants rushing out to stab your body. There's no forgetting the 747s either. They're a constant in this ghetto. You either thicken your skin, or get fettered by an irritating rash that will never go away. My injury count consists of two cuts on the leg, one bruise on the shin, three stubbed toes, and one red, swollen burn on my left index finger. This is a total compression of life, in every sense of the word.

Good Vibrations

I live on a quiet street of hard-working

suburbanites, homes huddled between the entrenched ghettos of Vietnamese fish markets, Latino body shops, and windowless pawn shops advertising, "Last Chance Cash". The normal, subcutanian routines apply here, lending sugar to the neighbor's cake and shrugging away Mormons offering weekend redemption. I was surprised by how much the noises of the city had crept up on me. All of the shouts, cars, footsteps...nothing really when you drown out the sounds with the local news of a car chase in Los Angles and HBO movies.

The Burbs have made me soft. Dulled some of the nerves the streets of Detroit threaded into my childhood. Can't go back...you can barely look back. Not when there's an enormous city full of the greatest carnival act passing since the creation of the fire-blower.

I checked my pocket and discovered a chunk of the purple potable still wrapped tight. I had no luggage, which proved to be a committable asset when checking out of the Caribic House. A fresh set of tourists were checking in their steady haul of luggage, ready to bunker down in one of Jamaica's finest.

I dropped off the key and hurried around into the day. It reminded me of pleasant summer weather on the island where I grew up. A day to soak up all that's good in this life. Gloucester Avenue was still asleep from the late night party that kept it up till dawn. The street was calm, and relatively peaceful. The women outside the shops wore bright, comfortable clothing. The men walked in flip-flops and loose fitting shorts...no shirt. They looked purposeful and sober, pleasantly strolling to their destinations. I took their stride and began to feed the hunger that had brought me here on a last minute ticket. Their easy, carefree nature hemmed the seams of my previous day into the fold of this great and tireless sun. I loved it.

My hand was empty, and as I was passing by the Jamaican Bobsled Cafe, I decided a Red Stripe would look perfect in it. The place looked open, a man sits idly at the bar smoking a cigar. The bartender paces the lap behind the counter, warming up for the day ahead. I stroll up, take off my shades slowly, and shoot the bartender a definite expression of interest in the products he was selling. The bartender recognizes my thirst and slides over a freshly peeled bottle of Red Stripe.

"Dammit, what day is it, Tuesday?", somebody yells from inside.

"Wednesday," the bartender says. "It could be Friday," he laughs, "but it wouldn't make one difference."

"Wise words," I say. "You sound like a Nobel Laureate already."

"Ya know, we have a saying here in Jamaica," the bartender says to me. "A man in a hurry gets there fast, but gets there tired." I've been takin' it slow my whole life."

"That's interesting. What do your bobsled friends over there think about that..." I say, pointing him to the TV with John Candy's movie Cool Runnings playing on a continuous loop, everyday, for 24 hours.

He laughs again and slaps his hand on the bar.

"Ah mon, we never would have thought we'd go that far, but we never lost hope, either."

"I'll drink to that," I say holding up my glass. "Never thought I'd make it to 21, but I never lost hope, either."

I wondered what my reaction would have been if, right then, I saw a man, naked as the day he was born, running down the street in a quick jog. I point my thumb back and the bartender tells me it's Nico and he's out for a morning run. He does it every now and then. About once a month, remove all his clothing and go jogging through the morning streets unfazed by the extreme conditions in which he exercises. The Police have never bothered to catch him. It's a gutless, and perhaps humiliating, challenge chasing after a naked man. Probably best not to bust the chums of this peaceful, health-minded runner and just let this one slip through. And so it was. By the time he rounded the corner and left the last fleeting drops of his sweat on the ground, it was as if he never passed by this way at all.

I decided to cash in my chips before things got any weirder. I took my beer and walked up the road. I needed to find a new room to stay, a potentially challenging task the Eve before Christmas. The customs agent at the airport refused to stamp my passport when I told him I didn't have a reservation. He let me through on the one condition that I switch my bookings only after I had secured another reservation. It's a holiday weekend, he told me. But I'm sure even he would understand that the terrible noise I heard screaming outside my window all night, ensured a quick and sudden checkout the next morning.

Just up the road, I saw signs for a Bed & Breakfast advertising clean sheets and ocean breezes. The ocean breezes implied a vital proximity to the ocean, while the emphasis on clean sheets sounded refreshing. I walked south in pursuit of these important traits.

I was instantly struck by everything, equally as familiar as it was new and exciting. A vendor in a cast-iron cart was steaming something that smelled sweet and robust. Reggae music pours down from a rooftop bar painted vibrantly in Jamaica's national colors. An elegant, Victorian hotel marked a coquettish display of fine architecture between dance halls, casinos, and venues all drawing in tourists with a loose wallet. I stop outside Dally's Variety Store, a charming shop offering up tours to see Bob Marley's former home. I'm greeted by a lovely lady who seemed to carry, by her whim alone, all history and hospitality in the city.

"You having a good day so far?" she asks me as I read over the display of available tours.

I tell her I am and that I'm interested in seeing Bob Marley's house. It was one of only two things I really wanted to do on this trip. That, and travel down to the 7-mile strip of ocean in Negril, the handle of all good reggae music in Jamaica. She invites me into her shop and I ask if it's okay to drink inside.

"Of course you can," she says. "This is Jamaica. I'm Auntie. Let me just get Junior on the phone."

I walk around the tidy aisles, drinking my Red Stripe, admiring her artful collection of wall carvings, leisurely tropical clothing, and travel size bottles of rum. Store hands polish the glass cabinets containing fine jewelry and rare indigenous collectibles. I liked the appeal to the storeroom. It felt nurtured and cared for. Nothing was out of place, and everything seemed stocked in moderation. Just then Auntie walks up and hands me the phone.

"Junior wants to talk to you," she tells me.

I take the phone and start talking to a man who spoke in a thick island dialect. I sift through his language, claiming the pieces of words I understand. He says something about this being my first time to Jamaica and giving me a good tour.

"Any day would work with me," I tell him.

He continues on about being busy until after Christmas, and I tell him that's fine. Until my luggage arrived from the airport, I was stuck into Montego Bay. A thought that made the vibrations of my body rattle desperately with anticipation. It wasn't the city itself, just my own ambitions of staking a plot of land in the warm sand for a few days. I hand the phone back to Auntie and she asks where I'm staying. I tell her I'm walking up to investigate the quality of ocean breezes from the other hotels.

"Well I have rooms upstairs if you want to see those."

Auntie leads me to the rear of the store and introduces me to her young, fresh-faced assistant, wearing a dazzlingly pink shirt with reflective sequins forming a heart across her chest. She was an eager apprentice filled with ample enthusiasm, ready to impress the world.

"This is Princess, and she can show you the rooms," Auntie says.

Princess leads me up the stairs onto the top floor and points out the communal kitchen and living room area. She points to the occupied rooms and walks to a narrow door in the causeway. She skillfully negotiates the set of keys before jamming one of them into the heavy lock. It was a small room, with a single bed covered by sheets and a window for ventilation. The walls were painted white and the shower and toilet were separated by a thin blue curtain. A fan set atop a whicker table kept the oxygen flowing. The room was tiny, but this place was an entire microcosm of good vibe and possibility.

"I'll take it," I said to Princess.

Polar Opposites

Whiskey to the Rescue

Simply awesome! I love this world. All I can say is, Bear Grylls I hope you're watching...not a bad 15 minutes of fame.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/7854046.stm

What they do to make adults take their vitamins

Between searching out new homes, polishing up a children's story, and transitioning into my new job at the lab, this has been a cluttered week of responsibility. I haven't had as much time as I'd like to continue writing about my travels. I will update this as soon as I can. In the meantime, here's a fairly recent poem I wrote last year. I hope you like it. 

What they do to make adults take their vitamins

11/21/08

I'm trying one of those

nutritional 

dietary fruit drinks 

they claim is better than

gold. 

The postman delivers it 

into your 

diabetic grip

promptly

every month, 

which comes with a

convenient

and portable

2 ounce 

cup.

It tastes like 

mercury

and glows like 

neon lights. 

Every morning,

while the children eat their

Sponge Bob vitamins, 

I force down my 

crooked

drink

like it were a

warm up lap

around the track. 

I used to be a 

runner. 

I used to be 

a child too,

and maybe I still am. 

Inside I know I'm that

same runner 

sprinting, 

panting, 

sweating,

only in different 

ways now...

one clothespin memory, 

one rooftop dream, and

one neon drink 

at a time.

One Voice, One Love

"What is this place?" I nudge out.

"This is a shipyard for the fishermen," the man with big eyes explains. I saw one tattered boat floating on a miracle, but saw no reasonable indication this was a place fishermen come to dock their boats. This was a graveyard. Broken lobster traps and discarded fish lie rotting on the shore. Treadless tires hold in the Caribbean Sea like demented tidepools. Empty beer bottles and used tampons at my feet. This was a place beyond the powers of imagination. This was a hell salvaged only by the blushing of a winter's sunset.

We walked in silence through the empty shipyard. I can feel my knees buckling. I could have passed out into a peaceful sleep, but I choke down the temptation and stuff it deep inside.

"You like you're tour today?" the man with big eyes asks.

"I loved it," I answered, and it was true. The city was beautiful. The countryside was wild and exhilarating. Seaside cabanas stretch into the warm waters below. The colors were bold. I heard music from every passing car. I saw more smiles on these crowded streets than any other place I know.  

Yet I was a little unnerved by all the scheming on the streets. I couldn't understand their island language. I knew only bits about their customs and their culture. And I was standing on some unknown, abandoned shore in a foreign country, with two questionable men - two days before Christmas. 

But I was in Jamaica, away from the daily routines that can strangle the vision of who we are, and what it is we desire. My time here would be like slipping the gears into neutral for the next mile, and giving the engine a rest.   

"And the plantations? You like those?" the man with big eyes asks.

I nod my head approvingly and kid, "But not what I would expect from Jamaica."

I thought the comment would lighten the mood. They look at the ground, silent. 

"Well, ya know this is how we make a little money for the family," the man with big eyes explains. "We do this everyday."

"I understand," I say.

"How much money did you bring on your trip to Jamaica?"

"Enough," I blurt, quickly. His gaze was steady like rain.

"How much were you guys thinking?", I say. 

"$14,000," the man with big eyes says.

"What?! That's absurd!"

"It's $300 American."

"$300?!"

The number was bone-breaking. It was all the money that I had packed with me on this trip.

"How much were you gonna pay us?" the tall man says.

I tell them a $1000 Jamaican and they tell me it's only $18 American. He explains how they have to pay for the driver, pay the Rasta, pay for the weed, pay for the gas, and have money left over to pay them. The list was exhausting and made me wonder if I should mention the cigarette I bummed off the driver walking up to the fields. 

"Alright," I say. "But I'm not paying that much."

The man with big eyes walks within a breath of me and asks how much I'm going to give them. I tell him I'm not feeling comfortable anymore, and walk away. They both shouted something about not being able to leave. But I kept moving. I didn't want to find out how they intended to stop me. I reach the wagon and the driver gets out. The two other men close in behind me, cornering me against the car. Their postures were unfriendly, hostile. I knew I had only one sentence separating me from unknown bodily harm. This had better be good.

"We're going back," I say, looking into his fire. The man with big eyes had an insolent stare that burned straight through the heart of gullibility. The sound of death cracked in his knuckles, causing my nerves to flee in quiet panic to the hollow canal running down my back. I expected the fist to come from the left. He was right handed, and he would surely lead with his strongest hand. I thought of how this would end. What the newspaper headline would be on tomorrow's paper. If I would have money left to drink off this dark moment. But he didn't strike. He just nodded his head and climbed into the car. I thought of running, but I was still a good 15 minute drive from my hotel. I got back in the car.

The engine starts and we drive up to the road and stop. The car idles patiently.

"So how much you gonna give us mon?" the man with big eyes asks, more gently this time.

"I can give you $40."

"Each?"

"No, for the tour."

"Shit, mon! This guy is an idiot!"

He tears the glasses off my face and I see a terrible slur of shapes and colors. I felt I was standing on the thread of some great threshold separating a man between honor and disgrace. I thought at any moment everything could turn dark and I would wake up a bloody mess on the streets of Montego Bay, broke and alone, without luggage or identification. I sit quietly, waiting, wondering. I was confused. What was I doing here? Why did I agree to get in the car with them? "I don't understand why you guys are doing this?" Wait. Did I just say that? Nothings happening. What's going on? Should I say it again? 

Suddenly, the car pulls out into traffic and starts driving in the direction of my hotel. The man with big eyes shifts his weight towards me and I feel a gentle tap on my leg. It's my glasses. I put them on and see the bustle of downtown shops filled with crowds of smiling people. 

"Just give us $100," the tall man said to me.

My thoughts were operating at thirty times the speed of light, but I couldn't settle on a proper answer. "I tell you what," I eventually say. "I can give you $60, but that's all I can do. $20 for each of you." 

I unzip my bag and watch as the man with big eyes watches me count out $60. I place it in his hungry grip and say "One love?". The car pulls aside and stops across the street from my hotel.

A quick jump between cars and a few steps up the dark, mossy stairs, I was standing in front of my room at the Caribic House fumbling with the key to the door. I was feeling confused and depraved, as if I'd just been rescued from sea. It's a type of liberation that leaves a carbon copy of the word "Lucky" on your chest. I crashed onto the hard bed and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling. My muscles were tense, but I had an incredible sense of peace, one that can only come from a ruling chaos. 

Field of Greens

Jamaica is not what you'd expect during Christmas. A few bits of Christmas lights dangling from the doorways and an occasional Black Santa is about all you'll get. It's not idyllic according to any Northern standard. But it wasn't exactly the decorations that were throwing me off. There seemed to be a curious lack of solo travelers like myself. I found the streets were dotted mostly by estranged, hippie families away on some crackpot Christmas vacation, or young married couples eagerly planting their matrimony deep into the coral sand. This was not the place for a loner. And definitely not the place for a person freshly mangled by airline seats, dressed for the fall harvest, hung-over, and most likely irrational. 

The streets were cracking. Full of dogs. Animals fed by the steady flow of the dollar into their bellies. If it's one thing the ghettos of Detroit taught me it's that there's nothing more dangerous than a puppy dog who bites. And as I stared out at these perfect strangers opening this car door for me, I suddenly felt the urge to walk away, quickly. But something kept me there. Fear. Intrigue. Naivety. Whatever it was, I didn't move. My shoes were lead. 

"Ay mon. Relax yourself. We could walk there, but it's quicker just to drive," the tall man says to me. I look to my right and see a hippie family all wearing the same matching, cheesy Jamaican t-shirts. The car revs up and my attention shakes back to the open door, which suddenly seemed more enticing than before. I could feel the scales tipping in my gut as I ask them, "Can I trust you guys?"

Both of their arms flailed up at the same time as the tall man shouts, "Of course you can. This is Jamaica mon." It must have been the way he said it because after that I watched myself walk up to the car and say, "Okay, but I don't want any surprises." 

The car zipped away through the streets, quickly leaving the sight of any foreign travelers behind me. We turn onto a narrow road jammed with cars. We're stopped. The tall man gets out of the car, visibly frustrated, and disappears behind the traffic. The sidewalks were crammed with people all walking to or there with arms full of bags and babies. As we sat idling, passerbys dipped there heads down to the window to look in. All I could do was stare back. Suddenly the cars in front us start parting and pushing their way into the crowds. The tall man emerges down the middle directing traffic aside, giving us room to drive through. He climbs back in and we race back down the street, making up lost time. 

We drive in silence over a time-battered dirt road. I look outside at the passing huts and see children playing in the yard with scrap metal. These people had nothing. It reminded me a lot of the way of life I witnessed in Africa. Poor, but simple lives. 

"You like reggae music?" I hear the tall man say, jarring me from my thoughts. 

"Yeah. I love Bob Marley." 

"Oh, Bob Marley?" the man with big eyes says. "He is good."

"He is king," the tall man adds, "but that was yesterday," he says plopping a cassette into the stereo. "This is Isasha. And this is today." The jovial rhythms and pure tones sooth my nerves and put me at ease. 

"Why did you come to Jamaica, mon?" the man with big eyes says to me. 

"It's kind of a spiritual journey for me."

"What does that mean?" he asks.

"I think Jamaica is a place a lot of people go to to lose themselves. But I think this can also be a place where you can come and find yourself."

He nods his head and says, "All the way from California?" 

"That's right."

"You go to Hollywood and see the stars and all that?"

"I have. It's not as nice as you might think."

"Really?" he grins. "So tell me. How are you going to find yourself?"

"I'm not really sure how."

"No? Then that's something you should probably think about." 

The car steers off the road and we stop. The tall man turns around and tells me this is it. I'm led up a hillside towards a clearing in the trees. In the distance, I can see a sun scorched Jamaican with billowing dreads, holding a rake to the ground. 

"Ay Rasta!" the tall man shouts. "Mind if we show him the fields?" The Rasta waves us on muttering something in Patois. I'm taken along an improvised trail to a small plot of land, probably 10' x 10', carved out with baby marijuana plants. The man with big eyes directs me down to the juvenile crops and begins describing their gestation. 

"These are 3 months old. They'll grow for the rest of the year. By next year they'll be as tall as you," he says pointing to me. 

"That's ludicrous. And is it just the one kind of marijuana?"

"No mon. There are six different kinds of marijuana here. Purple is the best." 

"They're selling brown at the airport," I tell him.

"Geez ma'an. Don't tell me you bought that?!" he blurted. "That's the shit weed. They spray it with chemicals and shit and sell it to the tourists. You gotta come to the farmer."

"So is this the purple?"

He stares at the crop for a moment and says, "No ma'an. Come with me." 

We push our way through the jungle and walk back to the car. We climb in the wagon and drive away, narrowly missing a goat loitering in the road. The man with big eyes rolls a joint on his leg and tells me this is purple. With a grin as wide as the Potomac, he holds the bag up for me to see. "Look at that," he says. "No seeds." 

He puts the bag back into his pocket and asks me again, "So why did you come to Jamaica, mon? Was it for the blow?"

"No man. I don't do that."

"You've seen our women. Cute, huh?"

"Yeah, they're real cute." 

"I can arrange something."

"No man. I didn't come here for that."

"What about the ganja? Do you like ganja?"

"Yeah, it's alright. It's relaxing." 

"Well now that you're feeling a bit more relaxed with us, here." 

He hands me the joint and tells me to smoke it. If it's one thing you don't have to try to appreciate, it's that driving down some forgotten road in the backwoods of a foreign country with three unknown men offering you drugs is not the place you want to be to lose your mind. But with each consecutive time he told me to light it, his tone became incrementally more severe. I had a choice to either light up the joint and smoke or risk losing any credibility that I took each of these three men very seriously. I decided to accept the joint and light it up before matters got worse. I take shallow puffs, barely inhaling. The mood was changing in the car. I could feel the car tightening around my chest as if I was being coiled up in the body of some ridiculously large boa constrictor. 

"I think I should be getting back to my hotel," I say. "They'll be dropping off my luggage there pretty soon." 

"Yeah, mon," the tall man says. 

"Can you take me there?"

"Yeah, mon."

The next 20 minutes was spent in silence as the two men talked in Patois to one another. Their words were tossed back and forth as they disagreed about something I would too soon come to know. The car veers from traffic and pulls into an abandoned shipyard. We park in an empty dirt lot surrounded by the carnage of hurricane force winds. I feel my heart get kicked out my ass as the driver turns the engine off. 

To Be Continued...

Jerk or Chicken? Or Both.

Arriving in an unfamiliar land, alone, without luggage, with a hangover can be hard on the nerves. It makes you feel deserted, vexed, like you can't get a grip. In the streets of Jamaica, a person has only two options, either to have a grip or to be bamboozled by any of the street hustlers eager to offer up the best marijuana, cocaine, or woman the American dollar can still buy. 

Ten minutes after checking into my hotel I was approached by a tall man, probably mid-30s, smiling, asking where I'm from. I tell him California and he smiles bigger. 

"I like Californians. Where you going?"

"Gettin' lunch. I'm hungry." 

"I know a good place. It's back here," he says, stopping to show me. 

"Thanks, but I'm headed up to the Pork Pit," a local grill advertising the best jerk chicken in town. He insists the other place is better, but I keep my bearings and press on through a local park. The Tourist Police see us talking and approach us. 

"Is he bothering you?" the officer asks. 

"Not really. We're just making small talk."

"Okay, but be careful," he whispers in my ear. "I'm right here if you need me."  

I nod and walk away as the officer begins talking to the man. A minute must have passed when the man runs up to my side. 

"Ay, mind if I have lunch with you?" 

It's hard for me to turn down companionship with food, so I tell him okay. We walk for awhile longer, talking, until we reach the end of the park where the tall man sees a friend he knows. 

"Hey ma'an. What it be?" 

He scrunches his shoulders while staring at me with his huge, dark eyes. They slap hands and begin laughing as they follow me to the restaurant. It's a short walk through a busy street. 

As a 90% vegetarian, it's not often I eat meat. But I make exceptions. And Jerk Chicken has made the list. I order a quarter pound of jerk and a Red Strip then find a table in the shade. It's gotta be 90 degrees. My shorts and sandals are in my luggage. Lost in transit. For now, my long sleeve flannel shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes will have to do. I gulp half my Red Stripe and hold it to my head. I'm sweating. The man with big eyes sits down next to me and starts reading the paper. 

"She's a good woman," the tall man says, pointing to a picture under the front page. "She's a strong woman. The first female Prime Minister."

"Sounds like she's got guts."

He laughs and tells me, "Yeah, ma'an. She's from the people. Once poor like the rest of us."

"Yeah, kinda sounds like a similar story I've heard lately."  

The man with big eyes then points to the Jamaican flag in the background and asks if I know what the colors mean. I shake my head. 

"Black is the color of the people," he tells me. "Red represents One Blood for the people. Yellow is the sun that covers the land. And Green is for the ganja." 

"I've heard about the marijuana here." 

"Yeah ma'an. It's the best." 

"You smoke it?" I say.

He laughs, "Everyone smokes it."

"Home grown too," I say. 

"Yeah ma'an," he smiled. "The fields are right up here. Have you seen them?" 

"No, but I've heard about them. I've thought about checkin' them out." 

"Yeah ma'an. Let us show you them. They're close."

I think about it and tell them maybe. The beer helped sooth my hangover and the jerk chicken filled a crucial hole in my stomach. I was feeling good, but I could tell my travels had worn me thin. I get up and thank them for chatting. We walk down the steps of the restaurant into the arms of a car waiting for us. 

"C'mon ma'an, get in. We'll take you to see those fields," said the tall man, waving me to the car.

I laugh nervously and freeze. I was already down on my luck, but a ride up to the plantations did seem like just the thing I needed. 

To Be Continued...

 

Odyssey Return

My house in San Diego is on 49th St, a quiet block of ordinary homes huddled together from the surrounding ghettos. I've returned from many countries around the globe, back to my half million dollar cinderblock house feeling smug and drunk with inspiration. This time was different. I feel like I've returned from an Odyssey which led me to the blue thrombosis of Jamaica's pure waters on up to the high tower skies of New York City during New Year's. Contrasts so barren it makes Michael Jackson look Asian. 

There is no equitable caliber for this story without alienating someone or some standard. I entered a world in Montego Bay completely supported by the tourist dollar, heavily accented by the illegal sale (though widely accepted) of marijuana, cocaine, and prostitution. It was a city that lived and breathed on foreign money. So much so, that when the cruise ships pulled anchor, locals would again start calling the city MoBay, instead of its more recognizable birth name, Montego Bay. A subtle change, which came to characterize the pulse and throb of this watershed community. 

Of course New York was, in every way imaginable, the complete antithesis of Jamaica. It was a bold, brash city unwilling to change or compromise. It was a city where the opinions of the people were as prominent as the restaurants selling New York style pizza. And I was a chameleon on a rainbow, quietly observing the people pulling the puppet strings of each city, absorbing their subtleties and watching as the mosaic of each place was slowly pieced together. 

I am in the process of unpacking, starting a new job, tying up loose ends, and unraveling things that were tucked away out of sight for a couple weeks. I hope to sit down in the coming days and write out some of these colorful moments. For now, I'll leave it to your imaginations.