Blending & Chilling

We live in Jamaica, where a great portion of the country's money is made from tourism & most of the people bringing in this money are white North Americans.  Given that, & being a white person myself (tho I prefer taupe), more often than not I get mistaken for being a tourist as well.  & even tho we have lived here for 3 years now, I understand the thinking of the man on the street:  black person with dreads = my countrymen, white person with flip flops = tourist with money.

Knowing that our appearance basically paints a target on our backs, we were wary in the beginning (& don't get me wrong, we are still wary, just not so nervous about it).  If people tried to approach us to beg or sell something, we would be talking to each other without moving our mouths, like ventriloquists, while suddenly speed-walking thru the parking lot:

"Hurry up, Helen - there's a man coming from over there."
"Well get the car unlocked!"
"Boys, just get in the car quickly & lock the door!" I say to the kids.
"But I -"
"Just DO it!" Papa hisses.
"Hurry up & start the car!" I say.
"Mom, there's a man knocking on the window..."
"DON'T open the window!"
"I AM!" says my husband.
"I'M NOT!" says the child.
"What's wrong?" from the back seat.
Both parents, "NOTHING!"

Phew!  All this drama just to leave the Burger King!

The years have made us feel a bit more at ease.  Sometimes, tho, if I happen to go off my beaten path, I find myself once again in the midst of the tourist stalkers.  At the same time, I forget that I appear to BE a tourist.  & by stalker, I do not mean a stalking of violence, as we might think in the States.  Here it is a stalking of money.  By fair means, usually, tho sometimes by foul.

I was in a hurry one day, as I was going to an appointment for a massage & I was running late (yeah, yeah, tough life, I know).  Then I realized that I would need to call the masseuse upon my arrival so that she could open the security gate at her place.  After fishing my phone out of my purse I saw that I was out of credit, so I quickly pulled into a broken down strip mall that had a sign up advertising phone credit.  I had never been in this store, but had driven past it several times a day.  It was in a neighborhood I was somewhat familiar with.

I parked outside the store, jumped from my car (remembering to lock it, of course) & marched into the store.  Inside I saw two people.  There was a woman sitting behind the cash register, with her afro tied up in a bandana, a peasant skirt & a tank top form-fitting enough so that I could get a clear count of the rolls between her chest & lap (four).  The man was tall & skeletal, with a scruffy beard, a Dallas Cowboys shirt, a knit cap & an arm full of some sort of seed necklaces.  Both stared at me without moving.

"Hey!" I said, reverting to that uncouth Americanism that still slips out, instead of the proper "Good Morning!" that is the accepted greeting of the Caribbean, "I need to buy some phone credit."

They both continued gazing at me, eyes half-mast, clearly not interested in what I needed - or maybe they didn't understand?  "Phone credit?"  I say again.  "Digicel?  Phone credit?"

The woman stuffs her hand into her rolls of fat & scratches, "No, no - not here, no phone credit." 

The man decides to join in, rustling his necklaces, shaking his head, "No, no, no..."

I point to the Digicel sign in the window, "The sign says you have phone credit?"  I look around the store - maybe there is someone else who knows...

The man ambles over toward me, thrusting out his arm full of necklaces:  "I sell you a necklace.  Special price.  Good price - you see."

"No thanks, really, I just need phone credit, & I'm kind of in a hurry - you really don't have credit?" I toss over to the woman at the register, as she continues to scratch & shake her head. 

"Special price - the necklace.  & this bracelet I give you for free!"  as he is trying to separate a strand from the bunch.

"No, no, no - thank you, really, I - " as I start moving toward the door,  "Why do you have a Digicel sign if you don't sell phone credit?  That's annoying.  Do you know the nearest place I could get some?"  I look hopefully at the woman.  Looking up at the Digicel sign, I see the crack in the window the sign seems to be Band-Aiding.

"Down the road."  she says, gesturing vaguely.

"You need a driver!"  perks up the man, "I like you.  You, me, we get a car & drive around the island."

I impatiently huff, "I don't NEED a necklace & a bracelet.  I don't need a car & driver - I LIVE here!  I HAVE a car!  I just need phone credit!"

"I can drive your car - I will take you all over the island.  We go to the beach.  You don't want necklaces - I can sell you something...we spend the day..." at which point the man gestures to the joints he is carrying behind his ear.

"Why would I want you to drive my car?"  somehow this question captures my attention more than anything else.  "I don't want to go to the beach.  I live here.  I am not a tourist.  & I told you, I'm in a hurry!  Ugh!"

By now I have backed clear out into the parking lot & am shooting the remote at the car, my hopeful suitor-for-cash following in my wake, "We get some Red Stripe.  We go in your car."

"NO!"

So I drove away.  Luckily the masseuse called me, so I could get her to open the gate. 

What struck me the most, tho, about my encounter at the little store, was that while I was annoyed about the experience:  no credit, the listless cashier, the man trying to make a buck, that was okay.  Because in being annoyed I discovered that I wasn't afraid. 

& that felt good.