After "yeah, man" the third word I heard a lot in Jamaica was "respect".  It wasn't used in a sentence.  It was a one word statement.  If you want to tell someone how important they are or how much their actions or words mean to you, this is a really good way to do it.  That one word emphasizes the point very well.  It's always good to end an experience on a high note . . . with a little respect.  And, in Jamaica, I received my respect.  I had two mural dedications in two days.

ROSE TOWN - The first presentation was in Rose Town at the Rollins Enterprise Center where my new mural on panels was just installed.  The ladder was still up and a man was cleaning up little smudges as I arrived.  I'd say that was freshly mounted.

The U.S. Ambassador, Donald Tapia, was there for the ceremony and ribbon cutting.  It was my first time to see him during my stay.  His schedule was crazy busy so I was pleased that he made time for my mural.  The ambassador sat in one of the four seats set aside for dignitaries at the event.  While he had a spare moment alone, I slipped in next to him and said, "I don't think I'm supposed to give presents to embassy people, but I have something for you."  I gave him a copy of my Jamaican folk tale Anansi and the Market Pig as a way to say thank you for bringing me to this island. 

Now, I didn't know who the four reserved seats were for, so after a little talk, I thought it was best to vacate the seat for whoever belonged there.  As it turned out, I belonged there.  So, I got to turn around, sit down, and get to know the ambassador a little better.  I thoroughly enjoyed our time to talk.

No matter in what country the ceremony may be, all kinds of people need to speak at events like this.  Everyone needs their moment in the spotlight.  A representative from the Embassy Public Affairs Office spoke, and she did her homework.  She knew this was mural 60, in 26 countries and 4 continents.  I was impressed with her preparation.

The ambassador spoke, as did I, then a local member of Parliament, and Greg Bailey represented Edna Manley College.  The ceremony was short, sweet, and desperately hot - even at nine o'clock in the morning!  Greg almost broke a sweat, which just never happened the entire month I was in Jamaica.  Shortly after the ambassador cut the ribbon, he needed to hurry on to his next event.  We closed up shop and left too.

STANDPIPE - Just like when teaching a lesson for the second time, things always go smoother.  The ambassador showed up again, and it was so nice to be greeted by name.  This time I knew I was supposed to sit near him.  More people showed up to speak.  Other people showed up to be seen.  And, many people in the community came to genuinely thank me for the project.

When it was my turn to speak, I told them that I'd been away for a week and this was like coming home to Standpipe.  It was a good way to start a speech.  I explained a few things about the mural, focusing a lot on their loodie board.  I confessed that I'm an American and I would just toss the dice.  But, I loved how Jamaicans used their whole bodies to roll the dice.  It was kind of a dance when they played and it was so much fun to watch.

I spent a while talking about my two secrets concerning the mural.  I knew everyone could tell that I illustrated things about Jamaica and their local community, but most people didn't see the secret text "Standpipe" that was hidden in plain sight until I pointed it out.  It was an audible "aha!" moment in the crowd with an unexpected round of applause.

The second secret concerned the domino with the numbers 5 and 9.  I told them it was a huge controversy while we painted.  So many people stopped to tell us that dominoes didn't have a nine.  I seriously wondered if I was crazy (always a possibility) but I distinctly remembered seeing nines in dominoes.  A Google search proved I wasn't imagining things.  But, the tiles only go to six in Jamaica.  But, then I shared the reason for those numbers.  It was my mural number 59.  And now, they knew both of the secrets and they could explain them to their friends in the community every time they shared the mural.

The final person to speak was a representative from the community.  And, he could not have possibly been more gracious and sincere with his thanks.  He really didn't have to say anything.  His smile said it all, and he was truly so very pleased with the project.  Respect.

It was still another hot morning in Kingston.  I was drenched by the end of the ribbon cutting.  Greg almost broke out in a sweat for the second time in two days.  Almost.  And, the ambassador had to race off to another event.  But, the dedications left such a warm feeling in my heart that will last a lot longer than twenty minutes of blistering heat under a Caribbean sun.

I mean, seriously, if you go to Kingston, Jamaica, don’t you have to go to the Bob Marley museum?  Yeah, man.

I had three stereotypes about Jamaica in mind before coming to the island.  I’m not 100% sure, but Bob Marley may have helped to implant all of those ideas.  First of all, I knew that everyone in Jamaica had dreadlocks.  Anyone who could possibly sport them in my folk tale book Anansi and the Market Pig certainly did.  So, the rat, cat and bull didn’t, but almost everyone else did.  But, once you land in Jamaica, you quickly learn that isn’t the case.  Yes, you can see those locks every day and every place, but most people sport something a whole lot shorter and, my guess, a lot more comfortable.

My second stereotype about the people of Jamaica is that they all say, “Yeah, man.”  Well, it actually sounds more like "Ya mon", but they do.  It’s true.  No stereotype at all.  Every one of them.  You hear these two words all day long, from everyone, anywhere you turn.  I don’t know if Bob Marley said it as well, but chances are good.  Oh, yeah, man.

And the third stereotype?  That would be weed, kaya, ganja, pot, reefer, grass, dope or whatever else you might want to call marijuana.  It’s legally and readily available in Jamaica in two-ounce quantities.  But, I honestly don’t know how much is required to actually make up two-ounces.  I have no interest in ever knowing that.  And, the best friend I made during my stay in Jamaica has never used the stuff.   Thank goodness.  But, Bob Marley did.  It’s in his music, on his album covers, photographed, documented and even portrayed in murals at the Bob Marley Museum.  He believed it to be a healing herb.

I knew they guy’s name and could tell you two songs by this reggae legend (Buffalo Soldier and One Love).  But, that’s about all I knew of this national hero.  So, yes, before I left the island, I had to learn more at the Bob Marley Museum, a Jamaican Heritage Site.

The museum was his actual residence as well as his recording studio, until Marley died of cancer in 1981.  And, the home was a treasure from the 19th century with a lot of the original colonial wooden architecture intact.  I personally would have preferred more of the furnishings but that was only preserved in the kitchen and master bedroom.  However, the walls were filled with photographs, paintings, gold and platinum albums from around the world, costumes, awards, newspaper clippings, posters and a Lifetime Achievement Grammy.  There were also a couple of bullet holes in the walls.  Yep, there was an assassination attempt in 1976, rumored (depending on who you talk to about it) to be political in nature, that was fortunately unsuccessful. 

Robert Nesta Marley was born on February 6, 1945, on his grandmother’s farm in Nine Mile, British Jamaica, a rural community in the north central part of the island.  His mother, Cedella Booker, was 18 years old and his father, Norval Marley, was a white Jamaican from England and somewhere around 55 to 60 years old.  I’m not going to touch that.

The opportunities in young Bob Marley’s life changed when he moved to Trench Town, an area of Kingston, when he was twelve.  (In case you just have to know, Trench Town is the area of Kingston right next to Rose Town, where my mural number 60 was painted.)  In Trench Town, Marley was influenced by musicians in the community, both family and friends.  By 1963, (when Bob was 18) he had already formed Bob Marley and the Wailers.  And, two years later, the group debuted their first album, which included “One Love” and brought them world-wide attention.

In the sixties, Marley converted to Rastafarianism and the message of this movement spread around the world in the lyrics of his reggae music.  It’s hard to sum up a religion in a few words, but one of the main founders, Marcus Garvey, was inspired by a “back to Africa” movement.  Really devout followers, grew their hair out in dreadlocks, inspired by a lion’s mane.  Haile Selassie, the crowned ruler of Ethiopia, was viewed as a Biblically fulfilled king of Africa and the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah.  And, smoking cannabis was a way of communicating with God.

I have the feeling that any day is a good day to visit the Bob Marley museum.  There were several groups of school children there when I visited.  My guide tried hard to direct our little group around their way and out of their path.  But, there were a lot of people roaming the building.

And, hopefully, if you go there, you’ll have a guide as excellent as the one I had.  From what I heard there were a lot of good guides.  In every corner of the house, you could hear the guides/performers/singers working their hardest to pull the lyrics of classic reggae hits out of their visiting guests.  And, isn’t that the experience you want in a musician’s home?  There were people, of course, who knew all the lyrics and swayed just right to the beat.  They sang with the guides, harmonized and danced.  It just wasn’t me.  I didn’t know the lyrics and I have no moves.  But, I do recognize a good public speaker when I hear one.  I was well informed and entertained.

I never know when, how or who will cross my path when I travel.  I just trust that someone will do just that and it always seems to happen.  Sometimes, I might wander into the right souvenir shop as I did in Fiji.  On other occasions, I may be assigned a translator as happened in Transnistria and Moldova.  And, in Brasil, a cowboy came looking for me after he heard me on a radio broadcast.  So, I really mean it when I say I never know how it might happen.  In Jamaica, I was kind of thrust upon Greg Bailey.  Neither of us had a choice in the matter.  But, so very fortunately, the friendship was instantaneous.

Greg is an artist, and if you happen to run in the circles of those who know the art found in the National Art Gallery in Jamaica, you'd know that he's one of the country's up and coming painters.  I don't usually run in those kinds of circles, in America or anywhere else.  So, I've been so interested to learn a little of his story and find out how he's gotten where he is.  Greg has worked hard to establish his name, hone his talent, and get his art seen by the world.  And, I really mean the world.  In addition to shows in Jamaica, he's exhibited his work in London once and Germany twice.  He's come a long way from his rural upbringing in Warsop, Trelawny, in central Jamaica.

Part of that path would be easy to guess.  His Bachelors Degree in Fine Arts with an emphasis in painting was from the Edna Manley College of the Visual and Performing Arts in Kingston.  If you study art in Jamaica, or the English-speaking Caribbean, this is your destination.  And, along the path, he also tutored young artists, worked among inner city youth with Youth Opportunities Unlimited, and painted his own murals around the country.  Fortunately, the number of his murals is nowhere near sixty in twenty-six countries, or I just might not be able to even share my art with him.  I kind of mentioned that to Greg.  I mean, after all, he has had his art on display in the national gallery.  That'll never happen for me.  But, he didn't miss a beat and replied, "I wish my art was on display in Africa, Europe, North and South America."

Okay, so you see why I like him.

Most recently, Greg spent two years in Missouri (of all places!) where he received his Masters of Fine Arts at the Sam Fox School of Design and Visual Arts of Washington University in St. Louis.  His thesis was published by the Lambert Academic Publishers in Germany.  But, his real American education was learning that a patty means a hamburger instead of a Jamaican dish, there are so many kinds of steak, and what to put on a deep-dish pizza.

So, how was I thrust upon him?

Greg now teaches at the Edna Manley College of the Visual and Performing Arts.  And, one of his classes is Mural Design.  It sounds like a perfect fit.  Doesn't it?  A match made in heaven, or at least Jamaica?  My trip to Jamaica was sponsored by the U.S. Embassy and Edna Manley.  It was kinda destiny, but in order for destiny to function, there can be no art divas in the equation.

Hmmm . . . two artists working together.  What are the chances of an art diva showing up on the premises?

Actually, I'd say the odds were pretty high.

But, not this time.

I learned a mere three days before departure that I'd be teaching a couple lessons at Edna Manley.  I didn't know until I arrived in Jamaica that the classes would be a part of a mural design course.  Greg had about as much warning and information as I did.  It would have been wonderful to have had time to "meet" Greg online a few months in advance and plan things out.  That's not how it unfolded.  And, that's where the forcing took place.  I spent very little time with Greg before I walked into his classroom and I took over for three or so hours.  It takes a very gracious teacher to be willing to allow something like that to take place in his classroom.

I was impressed.

And, since that lesson, I've spent a lot more time with Greg Bailey.  He's not been a right-hand assistant on my murals.  It's more than that.  He painted, guided his students, assisted with the community, outlined the mural, talked of his culture, shared his food, and let me repeat, helped outline the murals.  That saves me an enormous amount of time and I rarely ever find anyone who can do it to my satisfaction.

So, with all this said, you might get the idea that I like this person.  Well, it might be the case if it weren't for one tragic flaw that just drives me crazy.  Insane crazy!  I simply do not understand how it is physically possible crazy.  Greg doesn't sweat.  Never.  Not a drop.  He may actually deny this truth, but I've been watching.  I've been eagle-eyeing him for just one little drop.  It doesn't happen.  He is about as opposite of me as you can get in the tropics.

Fifteen minutes.  That's about as long as any hint of freshness might last on one of my clean shirts.  I kid you not.  I know what drenched looks like, feels like and (sadly) smells like.  And, when I walk down the street, complete strangers say, "You got a good sweat on."  There is nothing good about it though.  There's just a good amount of it and that's not good.

Not so with Greg.

His clothes look as fresh and pressed as they did when he put them on so many hours before.  There are no lines of perspiration running down the sides of his face.  His hair isn't damp.  If you wanted, you could place your hand on his shoulder without sticking to anything.  Greg looks like he's stepped out of a modeling runway and I just want to run away.  But, if I did try that, I'd sweat even more.  Even though that may not be humanly possible.

So, let me say it now.  I really hate Greg Bailey.  And, he's one of the nicest people I've come across in any of my travels.  I hope to hate him for a very long time.