How Stella Got Her Groove Back (10 page)

“Well, good luck,” I say as I begin to walk past him, and the right side of my body accidentally brushes up against his arm and in that one second some kind of feverish current penetrates my whole body and in a perfect world or if this were like a foreign film I would just turn around and put my hand on the back of his head and pull his face to mine until our noses touched and I would brush my lips lightly across those thick beautiful lips of his and we would put our arms around each other like we’d been dreaming of doing and we would begin to slide to the ground and we would be oblivious to everything around us and simply make love right out here right this very minute.

“Well, have fun and maybe I’ll see you later,” he says.

Let us pray, I say to myself, and wave goodbye.

• • • •

I am the only person on the van going to Issy’s Riding Stable. The Canadians told me that I had better make my reservations early because sometimes it’s hard to get in even two days ahead but it is worth the fifty bucks for the hour because you get to gallop all along the beach and ride up and deep inside the mountain and it is truly breathtaking.

I am not exactly impressed by the architecture of Negril as we drive past a packed and dusty marketplace with at least a hundred rickety wooden stalls filled with wooden objects and a kaleidoscope of cloth although red black and green dominate and then we purportedly go through downtown which consists of a bank and a small shopping center and we continue past small but brightly painted cement homes and cafés and outdoor restaurants and I was told that no building here is taller than the town’s tallest palm tree which is an understatement. In fact there is not much to see in the way of sightseeing but Negril is where hippies-turned-yuppies have flocked, as they consider it a wonderful reprieve from the hustle and bustle of urban life in America.

I am dropped off at the bottom of a dirt road and am greeted by Issy’s brother who’s called the General, because Issy is a bigshot and apparently doesn’t do horses anymore, just owns the place. The General looks and smells as if he has been afraid of water for a long time and does not know what deodorant is. As we walk up toward the stable he says, “You got a smoke?” and I tell him I don’t smoke and he is disappointed.

“How long do we ride?” I ask.

“Two hours. You get your money’s worth, mon. I see to it. You’ll love it. Not to worry.”

The stable is ugly and stinks and looks like the set of
Bonanza
on a bad-ranch day and these horses all look anorexic; at least six or seven Rastas with long hot dreadlocks are sitting around playing some kind of card game and I can smell that ganja because it is hard not to. They hardly notice when I walk up with the General who has chosen my horse already and his name is Dancing Dan. I sign a bunch of forms and he asks me for thirty-five dollars for two hours and I thought it was fifty for an hour so I think it must be a black thang and I am impressed that they are so organized and businesslike with all the waivers even though nobody seems to be doing anything.

The General helps me get on Dancing Dan and off we go up a rocky red dirt trail lined with mango avocado and akee trees. Flowering bushes appear to be taking over the hillside and then we enter what looks like a real rain forest. The trees suddenly triple in size and density; their branches hang over the path so heavily that we often have to duck. At first it feels cooler and then it begins to feel like a greenhouse: sultry. I am also not exactly National Velvet and when the General begins to gallop I don’t know how to lift my hips in unison to Dancing Dan’s rhythm—they slap against that hard-ass saddle and not only does it sting but the breeze is causing all the General’s funk to fly right into my face. “I forgot how to gallop,” I yell out.

“No problem, mon,” he says and turns his horse around. He explains to me how to do it and then says, “It’s too bad you don’t smoke, mon.”

We lope along and I begin to see these tiny little square structures that look like shacks, some made of several different kinds and sizes of boards and wood just nailed on top of each other any old way. Most of these places have tin or aluminum roofs and maybe one or two little windows and I wonder why they’re up here in these hills out in the middle of nowhere when suddenly I see children playing outside of one and then a woman hanging clothes on a line at another and then right in the middle of the trail a young boy about sixteen has two tin pans of water, one with soap in it, and he is scrubbing some type of clothing with his bare hands and he says hello to the General and asks if he has a smoke and of course he doesn’t and it is obvious that they know each other. We saunter onward and some small children walk right in front of my horse and hold up an armful of red yellow and green beaded necklaces and I give them a twenty-dollar bill and they hand me all twenty or thirty of their necklaces but I shake my head no and take only a few because I don’t want to exploit their craftsmanship and they look at me as if I’m nuts and then they run off squealing in delight and I put my other fifty back in my pocket twenty of which I had planned to use as a tip for the General because I believe in the power of tipping but only if he stops stopping and posing on his horse right in the line of fire of what little breeze there is.

“Do people actually live up here?” I ask.

He chuckles. “Oh yes, mon. For certain.”

I am in a state of disbelief because it does not look like more than one person could actually fit inside some of these shacks plus they seem as flimsy as the little clubhouses Quincy and his friends have built down by the creek near our house. It is difficult for me to accept the fact that grown-ups with children live inside these huts but I am trying not to pass judgment even though it looks like there might not be any running water or septic tanks or even electricity but I’m sure hoping I’m wrong. I mean even in Jamaica it is still 1995, isn’t it?

As we pass one after another of these kinds of homes I find myself getting more and more depressed. This is how black people in the South used to live back in the twenties and thirties. I’ve got old photos of my grandparents sitting out on their front porches in front of rickety little shacks identical to these. I hate those pictures. My grandparents look worn out. Tired. Like they can’t do any more have done enough and this is all we get for it, and as Dancing Dan begins to pick up the pace all on his own I am so hot and sticky I wish I could get off this damn horse and sit down under a tree and find an ice-cold bottle of Evian or Crystal Geyser with lime. I pull on Dancing Dan’s reins to slow his ass down because I can see the emerald-green ocean that appears to be a few miles down the mountain through a forest and that’s when I ask: “General, when are we going to ride on the beach?”

“Beach?”

“Yes. Some of the people from my hotel said that they rode on the beach and I was wondering how much longer before we ride on the beach.”

He laughs. “Oh no, mon. That’s Sopher’s Plantation, not Issy’s, mon. We don’t ride on no beach at Issy’s. We give you the mountain ride, mon, so that you can see the
real
Jamaica, how the Rastas live.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. “But I wanted to ride on the beach.”

“You don’t like to see mountain life?”

“Yes, it’s fine, but General it’s really hot up here and how much longer do we have to ride?”

“Well, you paid for two hours.”

“I know but we can cut it short, I don’t mind.”

“No, mon. We give you your money’s worth and a good deal at Issy’s, right, mon?” He looks at his watch. “We still have well over an hour to go, but we stop for a drink soon, not to worry.”

The General proceeds to point out a number of gardens filled with sweet potatoes and a slew of vegetables I’ve never heard of. As I look down at the dry red soil, the General explains why the plants aren’t flourishing: everyone is waiting for the rain which will be here for sure tomorrow afternoon and all I’m wondering is what Winston is doing as Mr. Meteorologist is now proudly pointing out quite a few unfinished brick structures larger than those we’ve already seen and he says many of these are going to be big three-bedroom villas but I can’t picture it. Every now and then he shows me what he defines as mansions which would not quite qualify as a Section 8 home in the hood at home and then I wonder something else. “General?”

“Yeah, mon.”

“How do these folks get home? I mean we’re like very high up here and these roads aren’t exactly smooth and I have not seen a streetlight yet.”

“Who needs light, mon? Everybody knows their way home. No problem, mon. We live ’ere. Some people have cars and some ride bicycles and others walk. Nothing will hurt you here. We’ve got Ja looking over us and who needs light, mon, if you know where you’re going?”

Good point. I am ashamed for feeling the way I do but it is hard not to. We pass a bunch of children playing in a small meadow which appears to be in the middle of nowhere and then a little girl with a backpack stops to stare at me like I’m a freak and I’m thinking what is she doing out here all by herself? Further up are more kids, shabbily dressed but clean and chasing each other around and some are digging something up from the ground and one is chasing a goat (I think it’s a goat) and they are all laughing and it suddenly occurs to me that these children look pretty damn happy like they are having big fun and I’m certain they don’t have Sega Genesis or Super Nintendo or five-hundred-dollar road bikes or Lightning Rollerblades at home and doesn’t look like any crack houses or drive-bys or gang-banging going on around here and these kids look like they know how to amuse themselves, something we have forgotten, and I understand they are probably better off much better off than I thought.

“Would you like a Red Stripe?” the General asks as we stop by the fence of one of those little stores is what I guess they’re called.

“I don’t drink beer, but I’ll take some water,” I say.

To the right about a quarter mile up the hill I see an old black man sitting on a big rock and two little boys giggling. A pale gray horse stands right next to the man and all of a sudden the General yells out, “Hey Tanto!” and no shit, that horse starts galloping down that hill toward us and he looks like he’s going to run into the fence but then when he gets close he makes a sharp right turn and continues on about his business down the trail we were on until we can’t see him anymore. “How did you do that?” I ask.

“What?”

“Get that horsie to run down here like that—and where did he go?”

“He knows his name, mon. On a good day I bring an apple but he knows when I have one and when I don’t. Come on in for a drink, mon.”

Once again the local children stare at me and I smile at them and since there’s no bottled water I get a green bottle of Ting which is a wonderful sparkling grapefruit drink that is ice cold which of course means that they do have electricity up here and I am very relieved. The General bums a cigarette from the man who apparently sells a lot of different items such as beer and soft drinks and fresh vegetables and fruit and candy and even some household items and toiletries from this little store. A girl of about sixteen stands in the doorway of the little shack that is connected to the store. She looks like she’s going somewhere because her hair is greasy and slicked back and she is wearing freshly ironed old bluejeans and a starched white blouse and she reminds me of me thirty years ago. I remember that make-do look. As I take my bottle of Ting over to where the General is I can see another girl standing in her bra and panties inside the living room of the house, ironing something. Our eyes meet and there is something like disgust in hers for me. I sort of get it, but I go ahead and sit on a handmade wooden bench and drink my Ting while the General drinks two Red Stripe beers.

We have the most amazing view of the tip of the island and the view of the ocean is pretty much surreal—no one would believe this. I don’t believe this. I am sitting on a live postcard. Miles of dark green clusters lead down to the blue-green sea, where I can see fishermen sitting in small boats, waiting. I see coral reefs shaped like navy blue states on a map of the U.S. The sky runs into the water. This is a good place to pray, I think. You would be more inclined to tell the truth from this altitude and someone might actually hear you up here I betcha. Even if I had remembered to bring my camera you would have had to be here to feel this to take it all in because a photograph even a video would not have the same impact. You always lose something when you try to recapture rename what you saw or felt and I am glad that I am here and I will remember all of this without a camera and when I tell people about it I just want to be able to recount enough of the beauty so that one day they will want to see it for themselves.

The General smokes his cigarette slowly and we sit there in relative silence for which I am grateful and as the two young girls come out of their home and take a tiny little key and put it in the tiny little padlock on their front door and disappear into a clump of trees, I’m wondering again what Winston might be doing. I guess I look a little perplexed because I hear the General say, “They’re taking the shortcut to town.”

On the way back I practice my galloping but it is still too hard to keep up with Dancing Dan and I’m too hot and I am tired of smelling the General and so when we get back to the stables I am anxious to give him that twenty-dollar American bill and he is happy as hell and I tell him to go buy himself some smokes and I want to say a can of Right Guard would be a good investment but instead I say, “I think I worked up a sweat so as soon as I get back to the hotel I’m taking a long hot shower so I’ll not only feel clean but will smell fresh too.”

“I don’t blame you,” he says and walks me down to the bottom of the road where the van is waiting to take me back to the hotel.

• • • •

It is lunchtime and in fact I
don’t
smell so fresh so I take my afternoon shower and put on my navy blue and white one-piece swimsuit and some white shorts over it and head for the beach. I decide to secure myself a chaise first and then come back and have lunch. I have to walk past the dining room in order to get to the beach so on my way there I look inside. The white tables are filled with two or three hundred people but somehow in the middle of all those folks I see Winston sitting all by himself and he is simply looking at me saying hello with his eyes. I wave but keep walking.