Rum, coffee, Marley and cricket

Long flight journeys and slow-moving immigration queues can get tedious. I was half asleep while exchanging my currency at Heathrow airport, almost mistaking a five hundred dollar note for a fifty. Despite wanting to enjoy the country side, and despite Dire Straits blaring into my ears, I ended up snoozing on the bus to Gatwick.

But sometime before noon, with my watch still showing Mumbai time and with my thoughts focused firmly on sleep, I entered a quite exotic world. It was something I had only seen on television and read about. I had just checked into the British Airways flight to Kingston.

As I settled to wait in the corner of the departure lounge, there was someone humming Bob Marley’s No Woman, no cry, several young men with the characteristic Rastafarian braided hair, little kids with curled mops, as if intentionally burnt. There was a Jamaican businessman “traveling to see the cricket; to see Lara’s boys whip ye guyz”. There was a buzz around, people conversing in patois, an almost broken English, joking, singing. Suddenly, all sleep disappeared. It was time to get up, stand up.

Next to me on the flight was Glenn, a Jamaican who is now settled in London. Seeing me holding a copy of Another bloody tour, Frances Edmonds’ wonderful book on the 1986 England-West Indies series, Glenn’s eyes lit up. “I saw that series maan. Couldn’t afford tickets but got a job as a guard at Sabina Park. Our Patrick Patterson and our Mikey Holding were too good for them.” Glenn calls himself a Sabina Park faithful and spells out his four main interests in life - rum, coffee, Bob Marley and cricket (and adds that the order regularly varies).

He chats and he chats – on topics that range from offbeat Chinese cinema to Surinamese cuisine (neither of which I have any idea about) and after around nine hours, his tone suddenly rises as he looks out of the window and sees the flight descending. “Here we are – New Kingston is over there, the new highway is there, Gun Boat beach, Kingston Wharf …” Glenn can’t contain his excitement. As can’t the rest, who all let out a joyous applause once the flight touches down on the runway that parts the Caribbean sea, with the glittering waters on either side.

Kingston is beautiful, it’s apparently also dangerous. As we drive from the airport to New Kingston, with the mountain range overlooking the sea on one side and a pastoral countryside on the other, our local escort, who is an Indian working here, briefs us about the city. “Crime is rampant - don’t go out late - but most people are very friendly. Taxis may fleece you but there is not much of an option. It’s a very hospitable country but restrict yourselves to a few areas.”

The streets are pretty deserted after the sun falls. But a group of Jamaicans sitting together indoors comes with a certain joi de vivre. The musical intonations in patois, the cackling laughter, the Appleton rum, the stories, the stories the stories. I called up Glenn to say that all was fine with my hotel and that I was off for an early night. “There are no early nights in Jamaica maan. You wastin’ your time sleepin’"