Mobay in Da Day.

Montego Bay (Mobay) twenty years ago and recovering from the rage of hurricane Gilbert seemed strangely more alive than mobay today. Twenty years ago the train still ran from Mobay through the Blue Mountains like links to the necks of captive laborers; both vestiges of colonialism. The new colonialism and dreams of socialism meant the end of the train now replaced by a bus: the air conditioned Knutsford Express. Also available was the leave when we full, not so, express, minibus. The Knutsford Express meant no more random sermons at each stop like the train. No more sales of strange foods, some still alive. Only a ten minute stop in relatively safe Ocho Rios.

The Rooftops of Barnett Street

The JUTA taxi driver taking me to catch the bus to Kingston talked about the ‘hardness’ of the times, “It no easy these days”, he said. I remarked that I was the only passenger in a bus designed for 30. “da wha me a talk bout”, he added. “Things slow. It always slow dis time a de year but dis year it bad. Bus sit outa the airport all day sometimes, no passengers yaasimeh”. On crime he said, “Dis nah Kingston, but crime is a major problem still. Only yesterday they kill two not too far from here”, he pointed towards the rising road. “A father and son”, he continued. I spent a little time in the craft market destroyed by Gilbert in the 80’s, now rebuilt and passed on Barnett Street by the 'short time' hotel where I stayed 20 years ago. Mama, the madam had promised me one of her daughters back then. “I wan yuh meet meh daughter. She deh foreign at university on scholarship”, she had said. She knew I was not there like the other patrons but only seeking cheap accommodations during Sunsplash. She asked regular patrons to cut down on their business while I was in town and offered me meals too. After all, it was just for a few days. I always had the front bedroom overlooking the street. “Things real slow fuh everybody on a Thursday afternoon”, my driver said, “just like that train that used to run through here”.

I joined the minibus at the market under the clock. “A town yuh go?”. “Yeh” I told the conductor.

Outside Coronation Market

“Siddown”, he replied. After an hour seated and the bus not ready to move, I exited and headed for the air conditioned, leave on time, two trips a day, Knutsford Express. But not before a near riot erupted as passengers protested the driver’s reluctance to leave without a full bus. “Yuh a idiat” was the general conclusion. As the Knutsford Express swirled its way through the island’s north coast the occasional cruise ship came into view, hugging the jetties at the all-inclusive hotels. Its passengers isolated from the people of the island, on a ship without as much as a taxi ride into town. No wonder taxis were idle at the airport. All inclusive was not inclusive at all. It is an idea conceived no doubt to cater to valuable tourists but without the money being turned over in the communities at risk. This places everyone else at risk. Designed to avoid the crime and violence of the city, the gates and guards at these hotels clearly say, “halt, proceed only if you stay here". Of course you may proceed if you work there. These are the most secure residents of the island sitting on a huge boat eating and doing everything on the boat or in the hotel.

Kingston from Beverly Hills

In Kingston, things seemed a little different. The day I arrived in Kingston my host’s next door neighbor stopped by to announce she was robbed of a cell phone at the corner of our street. This is in upscale, uptown, New Kingston. Yet, some in Kingston seemed to enjoy a fairly vibrant economy firmly entrenched in the material trappings of the world’s wealth indicia. With dependable power and a lot a people, many find creative ways of making a dollar if only to be relieved of it not far from their apartments. But I still miss that train that curved through the mountains, final stop, Kingston Market, near trenchtown and the time when you could walk without any fear.