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| Emperor Haile Selassie - Lion of the Tribe of Judah |
The “guys” who’d been talking about
Jamaica were Stanley and the Kiva crashers; Dennis, Steve and a youngster,
Jamie. Dennis had been to Jamaica and knew something about the place. He made a
great travelogue of his description.
Dennis could talk and, when he
talked Jamaica, the island came alive in everyone’s mind. He was the kind of
history teacher, had our classrooms been allowed to smoke dope, I wished I’d had in high school.
We spent hours at the campfire
talking. Dennis piqued our interest about Jamaica first, “I want to go back to
Jamaica. You know what Columbus Day is about for the people of Jamaica?”
Stan asked, “They do Columbus Day
there?”
“No. Not really. I mean, Jamaica was
one of the first places he landed on his second voyage.”
“Then, why did you ask?" Stan toked, "Was anyone there?”
“They were the Arawak, Dennis smiled knowing he'd sunk a hook. "They called
them Indians because they thought they were in India. They could have called
them Chinese because he thought Cuba was part of China and Jamaica is just
south of there.”
“Yeah,” Steve joked, “Can you imagine
playing cowboys and Chinese instead of Injuns?”
My mind was already running
wild and I hung on to every word.
“He made slaves out of them. The Arawaks
wore lots of gold and he wanted something to bring back to Spain. While he was
at it, he was commissioned to make good Christians out of them too.”
A good story teller is important
where there was no electricity for television, radio, or any kind of record player.
With none of these, a good story teller; or, better yet, a guitar playing story
teller, was worth his weight in Panama Red. Dennis couldn’t play guitar but Jamie
could, and the combination of Dennis’ narrative with Jamie’s accompaniment, a
jug of Red Mountain and a bag of weed, held us spellbound over the popping,
hissing and flickering light of the fire pit for more than one or two nights by
the parking lot on the mesa.
Between tokes he explained, “The natives were cool at first.
They brought gold to the Spaniards but not fast enough. They had to bring more
or lose an ear, a hand, or even be castrated. And this is where we come in.”
“What do you mean, we?” Stan
interjected.
“We, as in, ‘long haired hippies’.
The Spanish used up the native population, the Taino tribe, but they survived
in what is called the Cockpit Country… in the mountains and hills inland above
Montego Bay. When the British took over from the Spanish, most African slaves
escaped up into the Cockpit Country with the Taino …”
“What does that have to do with
hippies?”
“These escaped slaves, Maroons,
stayed in the mountains and became what they call themselves, Rastafarians... A religion that believes Haile Selassie is the Messiah.”
The year was 1970 and hardly anyone
off the island of Jamaica had heard of Rastas or Reggie music. That rhythm
hadn’t infiltrated rock music yet… it would take another decade for that to
happen.
“Holly who?" Jamie stopped
strumming a minute."
Dennis broke into a patois, “Dee Lion of dee Tribe of Judah! Jah Mawn!... the music, you have got to
hear it to believe it. Some wild stuff that makes everything we do here look
tame and unimaginative.”
Dennis was right about that. I had
tired of the Super Star strutting idol status of bands that had once played
modestly in small gyms or parks for almost nothing. These rock bands now filled
arenas of adoring fans and rode in limos and private planes from gig to gig.
All this fame and fortune was not only killing the music but it was killing the artists.
He went on to explain, “Hippies are,
to the Rastas, the returned spirits of the Arawak Taino wiped out by the
Spanish. You got to see these guys to believe it. They have hair all knotted up
and long with foot long spliffs stuck in them. They call their hair ‘Dred
Locks’ or ‘Knotty Dreds’. Their hair to them is like their antenna to the
spiritual realm.”
“What’s a spliff,” Jamie guessed,
“some sort of joint?”
“Yeah, they have this tissue that
bread comes in. It is perfect for rolling paper. They mix tobacco with pot and
roll up this cone shaped joint a foot long for each person. You just smoke your
own and don’t pass it around like we do. The tobacco keeps it burning.” Dennis
had us rapt in wonder and I had to agree that this Jamaica had to be the most
magical place on earth.
Because of the spell Dennis
wove, we made up and implemented a plan. I had several unemployment checks from
my employment in the Navy I hadn’t cashed yet. I’d stopped filing for
unemployment because it was too much of a hassle to make-up places where I was
supposed to have looked for work. I reapplied saying that I’d not gotten my
last three or four checks I’d applied for. Without any ado, the back-checks
were sent. I would have about seven hundred bucks for the trip.
“You throw in your cash and I can
sell the Hillman in Miami…” Dennis was thinking out loud and not actually
suggesting anything like a plan yet.
“What would we need when we get
there… can we live off the land?” I was drawing a map of an island I’d never
seen in the sand with a stick.
Dennis paused a moment and then laid
it out… “Look, customs will be the biggest challenge. They will want to know
whether we have the money… you know, one look at us and they… shit. You know.”
“So, we clean up in Miami. Put on
some clean clothes and even cut our hair if we have to.” Jamie suggested.
Dennis corrected him, “I don’t think
we have to go that far. I mean, if we want to get along with the folks in the
mountains… the Rastas… well, our hair is our greatest asset. Just getting past
customs is the problem. If we say we will be camping out it is best we have
some fishing poles with us and camping gear. They usually want something like
names of hotels or whatnot… where we will be staying and, if they’re suspicious
about anything they can turn us back… put us up in a hotel and send us back to
Miami on the next flight.”
“No kidding!” I couldn’t understand
how that could happen but I’d seen how this hippy bullshit can get in one’s way
if you let it. “How about if I tie back my hair and wear a hat?”
“Yeah, sure, anything that makes you
look kind of straight. I have some addresses of people who live there too. That
can take the place of having hotel reservations and so on.”
I brought up the idea to Stan when I
caught him out of the dome. I didn’t want the girls in on the idea at that time
because the plans were to remain as flexible as possible. So far, I had Jamie,
Steve, Dennis and myself. I wanted Stan along because I didn’t have full trust
in Dennis. Jamie and Steve seemed more than a little too naïve for an adventure
taking them out this far on a limb.
Stan came to me a few days later. He
didn’t sound all that enthusiastic about it, but we set a date for our
departure.
“Sounds like you aren’t into it.
What’s up with that, Stan?” I knew Stan well enough to know when something was
bugging him. “What’s got you twisted-up?”
“I told the girls about Jamaica. Don’t
worry, they don’t wanna go, but they wanna throw a party. Look, I’m not so sure
about the party the girls wanna throw.”
“It’s okay, Stan. I knew you’d tell ‘em.”
“Oh, no. You gots ta hear this, The
girls’ dad’s coming up from Atlanta. He has a cabin up in the National Forest. From
what they say about the ole man… he’s a little weird… an ex-minister, or
somethin’.”
Weird is weird but Stan’s the one
talking here and that puts a completely different spin on the word, weird.
“I knew it... that something’s
bothering you.”
“Yeah, more than bothered. We can go
but, for one, it’s the girls’ idea of a party for us and their ole man… it’s his
birthday and, well,” he let out his secret, “I’ll tell you straight: the ole
man murdered his wife… Debby and Leah’s mom.”
“He what?”
“Yeah, they say, well, he’s on
psyche-meds and walks around zomboid most of the time.”
“The girls still… after what he did?”
I hadn’t known anyone that close to a murder.
“Yeah, weird, huh?” Stan was as
puzzled as me but I figured Stan had spent more time with the girls.
“Just one night, okay? The we split…
no hangin’ ‘round in case the ole man goes for a hatchet.”
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