FIRST DAY IN KINGSTON. FEAR. WAR ZONE.

Let me sum up briefly what getting to Kingston was and whenever I get a chance I' ll update the whole blog.

First of all, enjoy those pics taken from the aircraft. Cuba. Approaching and leaving. You guys might be able to get and enjoy there… the DOT would get a bit of harsh if they ever decide to beat me because …of that… given previous expierences with the authorities, let’s do it from Spain, and let’s wish Pako and Pulpo a great stay in the island… where they might be hanging out at right now

· You might think that since Kingston is the capital city to a 3m people country and to a mayor tourist US destination, the airport would be kinda small, but well prepared for tourists, confortable, welcoming... well... whenever you find yourself at the lounge and customs the first think you'd appreciate is a bit of airconditioning… which, used to old times-Barajas, might be seen as a liberty… but when you realise it’s a Caribbean country where the average temperature is around 28C all year round… you might be bound to think that it’s a must… well… US-thinking creep can happen…
· Going through customs is a funny exercise. Apparently, the thing they are the most concerned of, is where will you be staying at. They ask you as address, a booking receipt (which if you don’t have it’s not a big deal…) and length of the stay. They might even look with a learnt-from-the-DHS kind of defiance… it’s always good to know they got good manners from the US…
· Putting yourself at the ground-transportation area is the first exercise of Jamaican tourist-pester dodging. That kind of individual is extremely spread at least in the capital, not as much in the north, I’ll give you that, and might become dramatically annoying, always unavoidable and eventually threatening… not meaning that somebody’s gonna punch you to make you buy/follow him/… but after walking 100 mts. by somebody you don’t know and who yells at you to do whatever, you might get a bit irritated… and you are always the weakest side… Back to the beginning, you’ll be offered 10s different cabs, 5 different Car Hiring offices,… all that without knowing where to get and how…
· ATMs at the airport do not work with certain credit/debit cards. I had to phone Bank of America to find out I can only draw money from 2 jamaican banks… which makes you feel a bit more of stupid…
Since the very beginning I knew I was hiring a car. So, popping into the different offices, getting quotes (US$420-US$520), so got one offered by an spontaneous and helpful yellow-eyes cataract suffering folk for US$350 for one week plus US$300 deposit. I’m still fighting about the deposit cos, apparently, I rubbed the left side with something and the guys they say it’s my fault and wanna charge me US$150 for mending works plus the tyre I bursted on a kerb on my way back Kingston from Negril. Indeed, I hit the kerb so violently I bended the plate of the tyre, but some scratches were already on the wing (not all… tho… )

Driving through Kingston is somehow scary. At least, the first time. Comments coming from tourist guides and whoever is around is not helpful at all. In fact, I’d say they beef up how bad and dangerous the city might be to turn you into a kind of gentle, obedient needed-of-help stupid muppet. Anyway, the sight of endless amounts of blokes just sitting by the kerb and pavement, doing nothing but smoking and looking at the cars passing by is not very comfortable… And getting to a petrol station, with the guy you hired the car from (Harry) driving it, you sitting peacefully and quitly, and in 10 secs. time seen yourself surrounded by 4 unknown guests, riding their bykes, knocking the windows, asking Harry to get them some money from me… well… it’s not the best of the welcomes I had, and the prospect of staying three days in such a city… makes you think on how you wasted the money on…
Well, I finally got to the hostel. Through http://www.hostels.com/, there is only one hostel offered in Kingston. So my options were not that broad. I hardly recommend it. Leigthon House, at 7 Leighton Rd. Get yourself a proper hotel. I paid $20 pn. It was worthy $5 in the best scenario. Maybe no Kingston hostel can be looked at fairly. But either because of the area, the whole city or the facilities by themselves (the lack of), makes it just good to meed random people who put themselves at the same situation: stranded, scared and depressed in Kingston. The fact that very seldom Americans will get to Kingston plus being the only hostel.com in the city made it a kinda Europeans gathering spot. And after 2 years in here… that is something priceless… Approaching the driveway to the hostel we passed two white guys (Jamaicans are all black people) with rucksacks and confused look… Two Danes from Malmo. They didn’t stand long.

Then comes getting the hostel itself. You might expect, somehow, certain warm in the welcome,… but stepping in, being looked at in silence,… with… let’s say… curiosity, scepticism, incredulity… it’s not the best option to make you feel at home…well,.. I know… I shocked myself when I saw where I was at… You’ll see 50% of the living room is occupied by the staff… whose priorities, when I showed up, were not a “sit down here’s the command”… but keep on staring at the telly… I was showed the bedroom. Straightforward… but a piercing moist smell… all table mats with glass-bottom shaped stains, a broken mirror… I think the smell screws everything up and bounds you to the worse… then the toilet… cracked tiles, a Gillette blaze left on the window frame, just one tap on the shower: no hot water… the sink,… a filthy mossy piece of God-knows-what escorted by a blackened soap bar… everything so appealing…

You lock yourself up in the bedroom first trying to get some rest… then, you realise you don’t need any rest anymore but you are afraid to leave the bedroom. First of all is that there is no safe at the room you can leave your stuff on,… (it’s never a warranty for anything, and some safes at some hostels are more a cardboard joke than anything else. So, not having any, might be seen more as sincere message from the management…) but the whole atmosphere starts to play on your mind, you think again on how the whole area looks like and you see yourself trapped in a rough neighbourhood in the middle of Beirut or, what is worse Lagos… your natural instinct pushes you for a walk around the city to get som fresh air, grab some food… but you recall that footage form the Sarajevo siege and you just decide to lay down in bed,… your watchman is your worst enemy, the rooftops are full of snipers, the people you leave with want to stab you and rob your money… the only remaining option is locking up and trying not to stand out… hopefully, the might forget you are one of their guests and won’t pay any attention to you… the less interaction, the less risk…

By this time the two Danes came back from a 20 mins walk… pale… afraid… concerned… well,… at least is not just my imagination that exaggerates what the real situation is…

Did I fly 2,400 kms to imprison myself on a filthy, mucky, sticky-quilt stretcher? Not so… let’s try, at least to peer off the doorframe… don’t breathe to deeply… you can get intoxicated…

It became what in Spanish I’d call “una huida hacia delante”. If you cannot against them, do like them. I always thought that the best way in order to no get robbed in those cases consists on letting them understand that they can get much more from you in the coming days than at that very moment. “Mucho mejor por la buenas que por las malas”. Keep me happy cos you’ll make good money out of me. Somehow giving what they would expect to snatch from you. It’s quit simplistic, but not everybody is that prone to hand bucks that easily. But, if I look at how all the guests I got to meet with (2 Danes, 1 Irishwoman, 2 Swedes, 1 Japanese, 1 Italian) did or enjoyed in Kingston… I really think the money was wisely invested (spent), furthermore, Jamaican dollars are not that valuable…

I first tried to convince the Danes to hang out for a while. I could have used my car. But a “I don’t wanna be shot” was the response… while scuffing popcorn endlessly… The prospect of 3 nights in Kingston watching Jamaican telly was not that appealing…

A bit of teasing… a bit of brokering between the guests and the Jamaican staff… a bit bringing out all taboos and breaking them down since the very beginning… asking the guys at the hostel to go out… seeking some solidarity on the Danes and the Irish girl… come on guys… drop your popcorn… not very successful start though… for some minutes I saw myself hanging on my own in the middle of Jamaican party somewhere I didn’t know how I got to and how to get back from… with my hand on my pocket griping my wallet for the whole night… I know the plans I line up for my pals look sometimes a bit eccentric… but… I don’t know… I mean… I have a car… and the commit to take us out just for as long as we will… and 4 of us… nobody is gonna shoot 4 tourists on a single night is it? I perceived some good spirit on T though… yeah… “are you guys going out? Can I come along” certainly you can… you’ll make the difference… not just on the night but on the whole trip… even though it was just a couple of days, has sido lo major de la semana, del viaje, , quien sabe, incluso puede que de los cuatro últimos meses… o del año entero… en fin… la vida que es así… I always had a soft spot for the British Isles… ni siquiera me importó que flirtease un poco con el danés,… claro… ¿Qué me iba a importar?... pero mira que me sentaba como una patada en el culo… y entonces la niña dice que la apetece venirse… y yo… como para no dar saltos de alegría, muy circunspecto, voy y la digo “sí… mucho mejor que vengas… así no voy yo solo… que me da un poco de cague…” mira guapa… vente conmigo y no te separes en toda la semana… ”so let me know when you guys will be leaving, because I really wann make it, but I am a bit of tired so if it’s for an tour or so”, mucho mejor que sea poco tiempo… a donde va a parar… así si se vuelve peligroso nos abrimos cagando ostias… y en medio del pasillo, con carita de modosita… como pidiendo perdón por importunar (luego, más tarde, le saldría el carácter) “¿Os vais ya?… dame un momento, I’ll just throw myself upstairs and I’ll get ready in a sec…”

She finally made it. Muy irlandesa. Vestido de palay largo hasta los tobillos… cruz en el pecho… piel pálida del norte y medio quemada por el sol de Cuba… alpargatas… camisilla de florecillas de M&S muy británico… and by british I mean belonging to the B. Isles… not to GB… Ok?

And then it was M, whom you can see on the pic (I don’t remember what her name was, let’s call her X), with her hair dyed blond, a friend of her (the only one left chick) T and me. When the bloke showed up it was not really reassuring for he was holding on his hands a half smoked joint and a clasp knife… it’s not the it was his key ring, he was just hanging with it… well… you never can tell when you’ll need a tooth stick can you?

Reading the November 19th posting, I see the only think I talked about as a must… or
the only event I felt excited about was one of those huge street parties with plenty of ganja, dancing till dawn, rum and beer flowing kind of happenings. And, stunningly, that is where we were taken. It was pretty good. Beers J$100, weed sold openly by roaming street merchants, high speakers all over, good atmosphere… and as I told, T… it might not be the most sophisticated atmosphere you’ve been at… but not many Northern Irish people and Spaniards see themselves surrounded by swaying Jamaicans on a Kingston st… there was a female dwarf enjoying herself a lot,… X was really sweet to T… I kept on pulling beers and Red Bull all night… some nice and human conversation with T… a bit of family related… experiencing the Jamaican ceremony of flirting… which was pretty much putting yourself behind the bird and rubbing it all… I tried that myself with T even seeking some permission “So that is how it works?”… pero fui graciosamente empujado hacia atrás con un dedo en mi tripa… tuvieron su momento de emoción esos episodios de hablarse al oído por lo alta que estaba la música… ese episódico y accidental rozar de nariz que solo la imaginación hace algo más… there was a nice episode with M asking a rastafarian were could T get one of those hats… (I don’t do hats, myself, as she doesn’t do bracelets…) and then, on or way out, the final farewell between them two… yo creo que la chavala se lo pasó bien… oye… y ese es un pequeño triunfo mío… En otro momento va la niña y me dice que la había dicho el negro Ebert que al día siguiente nos iba a hacer el plato típico jamaicano (algo así como bacalao con una fruta tropical, cebolla, tomate… y harina aplastada y frita, junto con platano cocido… mu rico… mañana lo cuento. Me hice una foto comiéndolo, pero salgo gordo como puta, así que no la pondré en el blog)
y que luego nos llevaba a la playa… “Can I come?” Me faltó decirla “Mira guapa… como no vengas, se cancela todo…” “that’s why I always do hostels… there’s always something good that comes up” “yeah… it’s not just about meeting on the lift and never getting to meet with anybody” pero preciosa… no todos los hostales dan tanto de si… yo tengo que estar en ellos… no son los hostales los que hacen la diferencia… soy yo… “Me muero por mear, pero no quiero ir solo…””como yo… ya no bebo… hasta que me digas que volvemos a casa…”aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Then a bit of yawning… some hint-throwing… “Do you guys wanna leave?” evidentemente sí… pero por si colaba,… pero un categórico “Yes! Right now!” hay que ver que libertades se toma la chavala no…? Pero lo dijo con buena cara… y me pillo en un momento sensible…

“You want me to drive?” y yo, muy digno… o más bien como con cara de cierta sorpresa “no, it´s Ok, I can do it…” esa filosofía no británica, ni nórdica, ni francesa, más bien no-española de no bebo una gota si conduzco… well we might have to think to export that into the country… and they drink a bloody lot those Irish pals…