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...