Cruise Vacation - Part 2

And then there was Jamaica. I was expecting a paradise of laid back, steel drumming, smiling people. Sun, sand, warm. Ehhhh.... some revising of my expectations was necessary.

As we arrived in Montego Bay, I immediately remembered how intimidating the immigration process was while entering a foreign country. Long lines of people, shuffling a few inches at a time, destined for stalls where stern looking officers made approval or rejection their business. Approval to enter the country is clearly the norm as I don't see anyone being frisked or handcuffed. I don't see guns drawn and pointed. I don't hear whistles blowing. But why does offering up my papers automatically seem to make me feel like a criminal trying to pull a fast one? My eyes are wide, my breath is short, and my knees are wobbly. When I was a teenager, I was nervous and scared to death as I tried to enter Germany with a passport my dog had completely chewed up only days before my trip. I believe my hand shook as I timidly showed the grim German officer my passport. He was gruff and large. And he looked down his nose at my mangled passport in his hands, huffing at what I'd produced for him to examine. Thankfully, he laughed and made fun as he recognized the obvious marks of a "hund." He even elbowed his buddy to get in on the joke. Meanwhile, I'm pretty sure I wanted to throw up.

This time, entering Jamaica, I believe I was just as nervous. My passport was fine, but Jim and I were unable to complete the mandatory box that read, "Destination/Name of Hotel." WE HAD NO IDEA where we were going, and each time we told this to a Jamaican official further down the line, you could see the obvious suspicion and frustration written all over their faces. "What do you mean you don't know where you're going?" Oh yeah... you'd better believe we ended up in the gray, rectangular interrogation room.

Jim explained as best he could. There was a clear and unexpected communication gap. One wouldn't have thought so, as both sides of the conversation were offering English. But that gap was wide. Things had to be repeated slowly and loudly over and over. I began to feel like the elderly woman that is always leaning her left cheek toward you and saying, "Eh? Eh?"

"I'm sorry. We missed our boat in Florida. WE DON'T KNOW WHERE WE'RE GOING. We've been told to contact Royal Caribbean cruise line once we arrived and that they'd send a driver to pick us up." Each time we explained this, the Jamaican listener never had to speak. It was clear what they were thinking, "IDIOTS."

When my suitcase did not turn up and we had to file a claim in the lost baggage line... "IDIOTS."

When we went through customs... "Go ahead" [IDIOTS] was the flat and expressionless response.

And then there was George, our driver, that finally met us on the other side of all of the red tape. He reminded me of a Jamaican version of my grandpa as he rushed into the building, attempting to scoop up our bags in one motion, hurriedly ushering to us to come find him out front in the bossiest and no nonsensing-est of ways. His likeness to my grandpa eased some of my worries that shoved their way into my mind: His lack of a name tag. His unmarked and trashy Toyota van. His aggressive driving. His inability to explain any detail of where he was taking us. His conversation on a cell phone about his current passengers (us), and his decision to conclude that phone conversation with, "Don't tell nobody 'bout this, k?" Jim, later remarked, "This is how all scary kidnapping movies begin." I'm glad he didn't say this aloud in the moment.

I don't think we breathed as we sat in the back of his windy van during the hour and half long trip to Ocho Rios. I'm pretty sure that my fingernail imprints are still evident in the tattered plastic that covered his upholstery. But with him, we went. What choice did we have?

George ended up taking us to a local hotel named Crane Ridge Resort. It was pleasant looking enough from the outside. And we relaxed slightly at our safe arrival. George assisted with our registration as guests. And in the days that would come, he'd checked on us, sometimes twice a day. Each time the phone in our room rang, it was George.

His chosen phone conversation opener was always, "Are you ok?" Honestly, this was an unnerving question at the time, but in hindsight, completely appropriate. We found we weren't exactly welcomed guests in Jamaica. Whenever we would venture out, we were sized up by the locals and never smiled at. Jamaicans don't offer smiles as freely as Americans do, but one is sure to get a fair share of disguised eyerolling and alien looks. Again, I could read their thoughts, "IDIOTS."

The country was not clean, nor was our room. Hair was in the bed. Slime all over the slippery tile floor. Constant booming music came through the paneless/screenless windows that were only covered with wooden shutters. There was a locking door... but what was the point? Everyone there knew the room the Americans were staying in. Even the lifeguard did not need my confirmation to verify my room number as he verbally rattled it off by the pool. "You are in Room 17," he would say, pointing. I understood that much. I also understood, "Why are you here?" (A question that was more of an accusation than anything.) Whenever we left the room, we took everything valuable. Room ransacking was an expectation, at this point.

Ding-a-ling-a-ling.
"Hello? Yes, George. I'm okay."

The boat arrived two days later, and we sprinted to it as fast as we could. Jamaica, we weren't sad to leave you, I'll admit. At least I got my suitcase.

Note the billboard: "KEEP FATALITIES DOWN. DRIVE, RIDE, AND WALK GOOD."

A sight for sore eyes.