And De Fun Don't Done (44 page)

The blue uniformed customs officer appeared to be in her mid-twenties, petite compared to the black women Les had seen in Florida, but completely unsmiling. She gave Norton's Dean Jones T-shirt a slow once up and down, looked at his passport, then made a brief gesture with her fingers that could have been either graceful elegance or sullen contempt.

‘Open your bags.'

‘Sure,' nodded the big Queenslander, knowing more or less by now what to expect.

Norton was thinking of trying out a bit of his newly acquired patois on her to see how clever he was but the look on her face made him change his mind. He opened his bags then the woman gestured for him to start unpacking them. Les got out his jeans, socks, trainers, towels, etc, till he came to his T-shirts. He placed them on the counter and the customs officer started flicking through them till she came to one with Craig McDermott on the front.

‘These yu T-shirts?'

‘Yeah,' said Les.

‘I'd like one.'

Les gave a double blink. ‘What?'

‘I want one. Give me one.'

Les stopped blinking and handed her the Craig McDermott T-shirt. ‘There you are, officer. It's all yours. Be my guest.'

‘Sign it.' The woman glanced briefly at the look on Norton's face and handed him a biro. ‘Sign it.'

Norton took the biro and wrote, ‘All Jamaicans are dropkicks' across the front. ‘Love, Craig Norton.' Then handed it to her again. ‘There. That do you?'

The customs officer folded the T-shirt and put it under the counter, then stamped Norton's passport and waved him on without looking at him. Les pushed his bag along the counter and started repacking it. As he did, he turned back to the customs officer.

‘Daht be wun gud bandulu you gon deh 'oman. Tanks for all deh chaka chaka. Dropkick.'

The customs officer looked around and stared quizzically at Les as the next passenger dumped his bags down in front of her; for a second it looked as if a puzzled half smile was going to flit across her face. Whether it did or not, Les didn't bother to smile back.

Norton got his bag packed then walked a short distance towards a set of stairs that led down to the arrival lounge. Set against the wall, just before the steps was a small, one man, money-changing office. Les figured it might be a good idea to cash a traveller's cheque and get some Jamaican money. A hundred bucks should do for a start. He walked up to the window, got out a book of traveller's cheques, signed one and pushed it under the glass without noticing a sign behind the cashier saying, $US.l… $J.24. The cashier had short cropped hair, a cheap tie, a cheap white shirt and a sour face, pretty much like the customs officer. He looked at the traveller's cheque and pushed it back under the glass.

‘Sign it again, mon.'

Les took his biro, squeezed his hand awkwardly against the small counter and signed the traveller's cheque again.

The cashier looked at it for a second and pushed it back. ‘Sign it again,' he said bluntly.

Les screwed his face up slightly. ‘Yeah righto,' he muttered quietly and again signed the traveller's cheque.

The clerk had another look at it and pushed it back. ‘Sign it again,' he said.

Les stared at him. ‘How do you want me to sign it? In bloody Ethiopian?'

‘Same as in deh corner,' ordered the cashier.

The cashier pointed to Norton's original signature on the cheque. Cramped against the counter he'd scrawled the last two letters on his name slightly. Les felt like telling the cashier to shove his money up his arse. That bloke wasn't wrong about them getting their jollys by annoying you, he thought, as he shook his head and had another go. The cashier looked at the traveller's cheque like Les had poked a rotten fish under the glass. Next thing Norton had $2400 in Jamaican dollars in front of him that looked like a lot of red and blue monopoly money that had gone through several washing machines. He packed it into his wallet, jammed the almost bursting wallet into the back pocket of his jeans then picked up his bag and followed a couple of other passengers down the stairs into the arrival area. Les was about two-thirds of the way down the stairs when he stopped dead and gave a double, triple blink. Below and in front of him was a scene of hot, smoky, absolute pandemonium.

It looked as if every higgler, hustler, rankin, rorter, taxi driver, pickpocket or just plain dropkick for miles was there waiting to fleece every poor mug arriving that looked like they might have had a few dollars in their kick. To make matters worse, the airport wasn't all that big and what there was was being rebuilt or bodgied up so the rabble swarming around were almost cheek by jowl. Among the melee a few impassive-looking cops drifted or stood around looking as if they were trying to avoid as
much work as possible. To top it off there weren't all that many people arriving and those who were a bit slow getting away were being attacked by the mob like piranhas. Les had barely got his foot off the bottom step when the first wave hit him.

‘Hey, mon.'

‘Hey, mon.'

‘Hey c'mere, mon.'

‘Taxi, mon.'

‘Ire mon. I got something for you, mon.'

‘Hey, mon. I look after you.'

‘Hey, mon. Taxi. Cheapest in Mo' Bay.'

Norton looked at the sea of black faces in front of him and a few thoughts suddenly struck him. He was about the only honky in sight. He had $2400 Jamaican on him, about a grand or more in US dollars, plus all his traveller's cheques. And he had ‘mug tourist' written all over him. He had to get to the resort and he knew if he didn't get robbed, stabbed or hit over the head on the way out he was going to get ripped off in a taxi anyway. Anything could happen. He only had to turn left at the airport, follow the main road along the ocean and Rose Point was two bays and a couple of other resorts away; he'd have to find it. Les spotted what he was looking for behind the howling rabble. He elbowed his way through the mob and a pod of backpackers getting into some rum-punch some higglers were flogging, and dropped his bag in front of the counter, with his foot through the strap, while keeping his other bag over his shoulder and his eyes open. The young lady in the Hertz uniform was quite pleasant with a nice bright smile.

‘I'd like to hire a car please,' said Les.

‘Certainly sir. May I see your driver's licence and some other ID please?'

‘Yeah, sure.'

Les carefully slid his licence out, plus any other documents the girl might need, and handed it to her. She smiled and went to the computer. While she was doing that some bloke, not wearing a Hertz uniform, handed
him some papers to fill in, saying he was getting a Honda Starlet and also gave him a map with Jamaica on one side and Montego Bay and its surrounds on the other. Les took his time filling in the paperwork while he switched off to the noise around him as best he could. Before long it was all done and the man and woman led him out to the carpark.

Outside it was overcast, steamy, dusty, with a blustery wind blowing after the rain, and it was hot; hotter even than Florida. By the time Les had walked a hundred yards or so to the carpark his T-shirt was soaked and sweat was dripping off his chin. The Honda Starlet turned out to be a reasonably clean, blue-grey Honda Accord. While the man checked it for any dings against a clipboard he was carrying the girl explained to Les he was up for the first 1000 dollars worth of damage. US, not Jamaican. Which wasn't a bad rort, mused Norton. The crate would be flat out bringing $750 at Auto Auctions on Saturday morning. Les signed one more paper, then the girl left, leaving Les and the bloke. He looked a little like Jerome only with thinner features.

‘There you are, mon,' he said, handing Les the keys. ‘You know where you're goin'?'

‘Yeah,'nodded Les. ‘Rose Point Resort. Up there, turn left on the main drag and it's about fifteen clicks.'

‘Ire mon. But let me jus say something.' The bloke came a little closer. ‘Any ting you want while yu here, mon, you come see me.'

‘Anything, eh?'

‘Sure, mon. You know what me sehin.'

‘Alright. So what's your name anyway?'

‘You jus ask for I'roy Darcy.'

‘Okay Elroy. If I need anything, I'll keep you in mind. No worries yah seh.'

‘Cool runnin', mon.'

Elroy left and Les crammed himself into the Honda, which after the Thunderbird felt like a box on a roller- skate. But it had a little T-bar automatic on the floor, it started okay, one scratchy speaker worked in the front
and, best of all, you drove on the proper side of the road. With some unknown reggae song playing, Les spread the map out across his knees. It was bigger than the one in the travel book and there was Rose Point Resort, just past Umbrella Point, Mahoe Bay and some other resorts. Les folded the map up and had a bit of a look around him. The airport was just as big a shit fight outside as it was inside. Heaps of small battered Japanese cars and old rusty trucks and vans going everywhere. People wandering around among the dust, rubble and excavations and a sign above the front of the terminal saying, ‘Jamaican Tourist Bureau Building a Better Airport'. I don't know, mused Les. Nothing wrong with the old one. Except for some of the cunts working there. Ahead of him was the main road and behind that a sparse slope of low mountains that didn't appear to hold too many trees or much vegetation. To the right old, low-rise buildings and houses led to central Montego Bay and behind him was the Caribbean. All up, nothing to get a horn over; though it wasn't much of a day. He slipped the Honda into drive and took off.

The streets behind the airport were narrow, edged with low stone walls and stunted trees and looked as if they hadn't seen a council repair gang since slavery was abolished. Les reached the main road and a sign saying Dredmouth and Ocho Rios; he turned left, put his foot down and started climbing up a narrow winding hill dotted with houses set among the scrubby-looking trees. The road levelled off and for its size the little car didn't go too bad. But for a main road it was pretty ordinary. No kerbs or guttering, no shortage of potholes and street signs were virtually non-existent. Les kept going, concentrating mainly on the odometer to see how far he'd come. After a while he settled down and started to have a bit of a look around. The countryside out of town was definitely nothing to get excited about although the ocean off to the left did look nice; though no nicer than the north or south coast of New South Wales. Other traffic rattled past and now and again jam-packed buses, which looked so old
and battered that in Australia you'd have to have them resprayed and straightened up just to get them put off the road. All the time Jamaicans, with funny-looking eyes and strange hairstyles would jump out and yell at Les, trying to get a lift; they were that keen they almost dived in the front window. There didn't seem to be any wildlife except for a few goats wandering around the side of the road and a few more lying in the middle of it gathering flies and spreading guts until someone dragged them off and turned them into stew. The houses scattered along the side of the road now were nice though. They looked like wooden boxes about ten feet square with a slightly sloping tin roof and nailed together with any pieces of wood you could find. Walls would be blue, green, brown, black or unpainted wooden planks; anything went. Outside, a few skinny poles stuck in the ground formed a fence and around these tribes of ragged, dreadlocked kids would be playing in the dust. Les had never been in a third world country before, but already he could sense a feeling of poverty and deprivation. Keeping his bearings, Les noted a garage on the left, a small shopping centre, mainly full of tourist traps, on the right, a couple of resorts then he came up a hill to a crossroad that overlooked the ocean and there it was, Rose Point Resort. It was all cream coloured and resort looking, set on about ten acres of estate going back to the water, walled and wired off with a private beach at the rear. There were boomgates and guardhouses out the front and at first it reminded Les of a well-appointed prison. The reason was probably right across the road. Waiting round the intersection was another regiment of higglers and hustlers pouncing on anybody unlucky enough to fall into their clutches. Les slowed down for a quick look then drove down to the boomgates.

The security guard and his partner, in their grey uniforms and NY-cop style hats, took one look at Les and his rental car and waved him through. Les drove up to a palm tree lined front where a big lump of a man in a white outfit and matching pith helmet opened the door for him. Les
got out and opened the boot, the man handed Les's bag to a smaller staffy in a blue uniform then parked the car for him a few metres away and brought back the keys. Les thanked him, slipped him some monopoly money and walked into the foyer behind the bloke with his bag. Inside was cool and like most international resorts or good hotels. Thick carpet, well lit, mirrors, murals and indoor plants everywhere with an indoor shopping arcade to the left and a long currency-exchange counter on the right hand side of the stairs leading up. There was no shortage of staff roaming around in white or blue uniforms and behind the reception desk were attractive women in brown and yellow dresses and men in blue DB jackets. Les thought he'd check it all out later, walked over and placed his reservation ticket and other ID on the counter. The girl was pleasantly efficient with a polite if practised smile.

‘Hello,' smiled Les. ‘I've got a booking here for two nights. Mr Norton.'

‘Certainly, sir,' replied the girl, looking at Les's ticket. ‘Just one moment.' She went to a computer, tapped around for a few seconds then came back. ‘Yes, that's confirmed, sir.'

‘Unreal,' smiled Norton, relieved there was no stuff-up.

Les signed the register, the porter took his bag and led him to his room, which was on the same floor. They turned right at the foyer and through a kind of entertainment area that overlooked the pool and the beach where a few people were sitting around on plush furniture watching some sports show on a giant screen TV. From there, Norton's room was right again, past an ice machine and almost at the end of the hallway. The porter opened the door, let Les in then placed his bag on the bed; Les slipped him some more of the monopoly money, not sure how much, but the bloke seemed happy enough as he closed the door behind him. Norton gazed around and decided to check out his deluxe suite. It was big enough, all white with green floral furniture and a small balcony at one end that gave a view of the ocean on the left, the sloping hills
beyond the carpark on the right and the other balconies above and next to his. There were two double beds, no TV, no fridge and no mini-bar. The bathroom was nothing flash, all white with a shower, a dunny, the usual soap and towels. Les poured himself a glass of water, went back out and sat on a bed. Between the two beds was the phone and a small clock radio; Les turned it on and got some more reggae that sounded a bit clearer than in the car. Oh well, thought Les, taking a sip of water. It's clean enough, the beds are comfortable and the air- conditioner works. This'll do me for the next few days or whatever then I might go and check the rest of the place out. In the meantime, a scrub and some fresh clothes wouldn't go astray then I'll check this place out. You never know. There might be something happening here on Saturday night. Ire mon.