We could not have paid for this view of Kingston
harbor that we have right now (see picture). Atop a dilapidated
building in the throes of a city we've been repeatedly "warned" about,
I can't help but reflect on the first few days of our stay here in
Jamaica. I am amazed to the point of speechlessness at how much culture
is in this city, when all I expected were resorts.

Getting around in Jamaica is an adventure in and of itself. Our accommodations have placed us smack dab in the middle of nothing. Too far from Kingston
to "wander", too far from the Blue Mountains to "hike" we surrounded by
a very pretty ocean of banality—and sharks swim the waters between us
and Kingston.
We are hungry, but all the hostel has are bananas and beer. We enlist
the services of the hostel’s driver, a nice elderly old Jamaican who
patois is so thick that the hostel's "security" (who doesn’t look a day
over 15) has to translate every time. $500 Jamaican to get to New
Kingston doesn’t seem like a bad price.

New Kingston

New Kingston
is standard. Plenty of banks and fast food restaurants are within
walking distance. This allows two weary travelers to easily find the
basics while "breaking in" to the new locale. Two fried chicken dinners
from Tastee's and we're ready to explore--unfortunately we're in New
Kingston, a bland, featureless expanse of banks and American fast-food
chains.

Jamaica
does not have much of an infrastructure. Things happen almost entirely
through the forces of coincidence and negotiation. Thus, as we begin
walking the 5 kilometers or so to Kingston,
we are accosted by what we can only assume is a bus. $50J a piece and
we're on the super-crowded downtown express. It was only later that we
would find that

enterprising Jamaicans operate this "private" bus service. When people arrive at a bus station, they may get a real, "City of Kingston"
bus. More often, however, minibusses will pull up to the stops and
shuffle people on. I imagine the city bus is cheaper, but at $0.75 USD,
I can't complain. In the cramped quarters, I'm glad to learn that
Jamaicans are very hygienic.

The landscape of Kingston
is fascinating. Any square inch of street that can accommodate
commerce, will. In some instances, old railcars serve as barbershops.
Plywood, corrugated tin, and spraypaint alight the downtown scene like
a ghetto version of "Times Square".
Traffic is like a mobile game of musical chairs, with always one too
many vehicles than there are lanes. Thankfully the minibus drivers are
tenacious, not only navigating this twisted mess but also finding time
to pull over and cram more people into the overcrowded bus. In no time
we finally see a few tall buildings--the only indication yet that we're
in some kind of downtown.

The dilapidated restaurant in Kingston Harbor

The first bar we found was interesting. A few
drinks was all it took for me to ask about the throng of people
gathered around a man sitting and shuffling papers. "When people need
pa'pers signed, 'de come to 'im," the bartender says, "you know… b'rt
cert'ifi'cates, b'ank papers..." I was so appreciative of her answer
that I didn't have the heart to tell the truth: no, I don't know why
people come to a bar to get official documents "signed". I can only
imagine that "signed" meant "notarized" but it didn't explain why his
office was in a bar. We enjoyed $100 (1.50) Red Stripes and $60 rum
shots while a desperate crowd waited--drinkless--to get all manner of
paperwork reviewed.

With good food in our bellies and a decent buzz in
our skulls, we were ready to explore. We wanted to see the water and we
wanted to get another drink, but Kingston
didn't seem to be designed with an easy-to-use cultural-exploration
interface so often pictured in "Sandals" ads. We picked up beers from a
street vendor. "Buy one for me?" the vendor asked. It seemed so
audacious that I obliged, under the assumption that it was a cultural
thing. We wandered down the shores of the harbor, taking only light
notice of the storm that was rolling in. A bum says something to us,
and we ignore him. The harbor is clearing, and we begin to capture
pictures of the storm rolling in. Another homeless looking man
approaches us, but instead of begging for money he asks a question.
"Was that guy bothering you?" As the rain rolls in, he introduces
himself as “Paul”. Thus began our exploration into Jamaican culture.

The means by which we found our way atop this
rundown restaurant can be counted among the echelon of our "best"
stories. It is a locked building, owned by the city--these VIP
accommodations come courtesy of this Jamaican deportee and "gardener" of the park along Kingston Harbor. He lived in New York, but was deported 15 years ago for trying to help smuggle 20 pounds of Marijuana from Mexico.
I don't want to believe him when he says the city has him taking care of
the grass and shrubs, in exchange for the keys to some abandoned
buildings. It seems implausible, until he unlocks the door to the
run-down restaurant. He shows us the small, abandoned room where he sleeps, then leads us upstairs to the roof.

We spent well over two hours with Paul. The whole
time I was waiting for the meal line, the point where they all finally
say, "so, can you help me out?" He responded to my queries about Jamaica,
about why there's all this violence we were warned about. He talked
about the prices of things, how weed was $50J for a dimebag ($0.75 USD)
around here, but the locals travel to Westmoreland to get theirs. He
told us about how he hopes to go back to the States again soon; he's
been good for 15 years and usually--he says--they Jamaican government
will reward good behavior after 10. We sat and had a beer with him and enjoyed a gray afternoon. My skepticism would not be dignified with a
validation. When we parted ways, I forced a couple hundred bucks on him--enough for
one more beer.

As we
stepped away, I was aghast. My wallet was still in place, no money had
been stolen, and I have been given the great gift of Jamaica
for what amounted to about $2 USD. I lamented to my wife that there had
to be some ruse, something that we had managed to foil and in her
eternal wisdom she said something that put it all into perspective: "He
just seemed lonely to me. I mean, your father helps out tourists in New Orleans free of charge." For all that I had learned about Jamaica, perhaps what I'd learned most was how far gone I was from believing in my fellow man.