Sometime in Mid-November of 1970. Bob Brower and I departed SFO for Miami, changed planes there, then flew right across the middle of Cuba and landed at Montego Bay. There, the plane was emptied of it's passengers and those continuing to Kingston (as were Bob and I) were seated in a boarding lounge and some of us were interviewed regarding the reason(s) for our visit to Jamaica as we waited for the final leg of our flight to depart. This last group consisted of Bob and I and one or two others. Our interviewers were two airport police officers who seemed bemused by our appearance, smiled all the while, asked harmless questions and were very pleased to learn that we had come to Jamaica primarily to visit the Rasta compound on Blue Mountain at the invitation of Brother Ivy. One of the officers really took to us; we were in deep conversation when we were called to our departing flight and he left the boarding lounge with us, crossing the tarmack to the plane's waiting staircase before he bid us goodbye. This was just the first of many instances,witnessed on this trip, that demonstrated the high regard in which the Rastas are held by the Jamaican community-at-large.
My experience in Jamaica was limited to Kingston and areas near to it. As I recollect, the Rasta compound is only a few miles from central Kingston and that's about as far as I got from it. But everywhere I went with the Rastas they were greeted by the citizenry with the phrase "Love,Godman", to which they replied "Love". (The Os are pronounced as though a horizontal bar is above them.) I don't know for sure if this greeting is standard through out the whole country but I'd guess it is.
At the Kingston airport our ride failed to appear. After about an hour we decided to get a cab and go to the address of our host in Kingston. Arriving there, we are told by a lady at the house that the person sent to pick us up also had some other errands and might not return for another hour or so. We opted to explore the neighborhood while waiting and told the lady we'd check back later. Walking in the area I was first struck by the volume of foot-traffic and the amount of trash everywhere. Sidewalks bulging with fast-moving, payload-carrying (on top their heads) pedestrians, occationally disgorge one or a few who have found their way impeded by the slower or the oppositely moving. Trash blanketing nearly everything beginning about two feet from the street's centerline and extending to the curb and finally across the sidewalk and up against the outer walls of buildings was just a fact of life. Short of an all-out effort led by the powers that be,nothing can be done about it. So, no worries. Bob said that given the small island, the large population, the blistering temps and the knee-deep trash, he wasn't sure he could handle being there for fourteen days. I reminded him that we would probably spend most of our time at the compound and it is located in the mountains, high above Kingston. The setting is like a mountain park and a river actually runs thru it. I'd think it would be much cooler and I don't think you will see any trash there. He had known all of it, but the reminder seemed to help.
We wandered around the neighborhood for a while and came upon a place where the sidewalk was unusually wide and much of the area was shaded by awnings attached to the face of a building housing a cafe. A wall about two feet tall and mostly in the awning's shade, running paralell to the front of the building on either side of the entry made a great place to sit down and rest for a bit. Before that though we just stopped walking and stood in the shade and took it all in: Hundreds of people within a block of sidewalk, all moving fast, most carrying a burden, on the head. Before we have been stopped a minute, I spot an anomaly. Our observation point is located at an intersection of two streets so we're seeing people moving in all directions. But near none of them changes their direction of travel. But I notice one guy passing the spot where Bob and I are standing, walking forty or fifty feet away from us, making a U, coming past us again, walking a distance from us, making another U. All the time shouting stuff I didn't understand (Though I think I did hear "Ugly American" once or twice.) Bob and I had a good laugh and sat down. The "anomaly" and we were facing each other as we sat down and though he was a good distance away I could see he was suddenly very angry. This time he did not pass us. He walked right up to us, stopped and began a class A Harangue that we came to understand was a reaction to our flaunting our freedom from need ( in the face of hard-working people on the street who need to move fast and carry heavy burdens to survive).A little effort was required to understand him when he was excited but when he realized that we were listening to him and trying to understand he lost his anger and then seemed easily understandable. He suggested that we might be more comfortable in the cafe and out of the sight of the less fortunate. We agreed and invited him to join us. He accepted and introduced himself. His name was Martel Philips. We drank a couple of beers together and got somewhat acquainted. We told him of our coming meeting with the rastas and that a couple of the people we would soon see at the compound had visited us in San Francisco about six months ago. Apparantly, people whom Rastas befriend are held in high esteem by the Jamaican populace, even if they're ignorant of some pretty basic social etiquette, cause when this man heard that the rastas were the reason we were in his part of the world, he truly warmed to us. He said he was really among the more fortunate of his peers. His work was not physically taxing and he made a better than average income. He told me what his job involved and though I'm not sure, I think he was talking about being a numbers runner. A not difficult job that can pay pretty well...especially where there is a lot of poverty.
Winston Warren, the man who would drive us to the compound, came into the cafe before we could start on our third beer. He was known by many, especially in this neighborhood since he had an office here. Martel (call me Marty, he said) knew Winston (and his black "S" class) by sight but had never met him. "Martel Philips, Meet Winston Warren" I said as I did the honors.
Winston wanted to get on the road to the compound without further loss of time and Bob and I hoped to see the place in daylight the first time.Winston, upon learning that Marty had never been to the compound, invited him to come along. Marty first declined but changed his mind when he learned that Winston planned to return to kingston before dark.
It was 3:18 PM when the four of us pulled away from the cafe in Kingston on our way to the Rasta compound on Blue Mountain.
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