Prior to my trip to Jamaica, I suspected that at least every other person on the island was a Rastafarian with dreadlocks. I was fairly sure the smell of marijuana lingered around every street corner. And, if you were at a tourist destination, there was no doubt you were bound to be pestered to buy souvenirs from peddlers or meet someone who wanted to braid your hair.
It didn't take long for me to see just how little I knew about this jewel of the Caribbean. You do see dreadlocks. If you stand in any public location, you'll see those locks, but most people have short hair. I personally felt that it was too hot to sport any other style. And, as I observed people on the street corner, I never smelled a whiff of marijuana. But, honestly, I don't know what it smells like. So, I can't say if I smelled it or not. I do know that marijuana is legal in Jamaica. However, I also know that the closest friend that I met in my muraling experience never touched the stuff.
And then, there was the tourist experience. I don't have enough hair to worry about braids. But, there was one souvenir shop near my hotel. I was grateful that I didn't stay at a tropical beach resort location. No, I stayed in Jamaica's answer to Manhattan, a new and modern part of the capital city. Not many tourists lingered in New Kingston when there were beaches and rum cocktails awaiting at Montego Bay and Ocho Rios. Still, there was this one souvenir shop in the vicinity where I walked, and I learned to walk on the other side of the street. I didn't give anyone there any eye contact. I didn't look at any of the souvenirs. I refused to walk into the shop. And, I wasn't about to give one Jamaican dollar to the aggressive shop vendors who called out to me. That kind of pestering never works on me.
During my free time in New Kingston, I ventured out of my air-conditioned hotel to see the area and swelter in sweat. It didn't take long for me to wilt. It's kind of my tropical look and I have to live with it. But, on my wanderings, I often saw a Rasta man who sat by his bicycle. He had necklaces for sale. They really didn't interest me. But, just to be on the safe side, I walked on by and didn't make any eye contact with him either. I didn't necessarily feel the need to cross the street to avoid the guy. However, I seriously wasn't interested in buying anything.
Well, after a week of this, the Rasta man finally stopped me to ask, "Why do you go to the souvenir shop but never stop and see what I have to sell?" I made it clear to him that I never set foot in that souvenir shop. And, I told him why. But, the conversation forced me to take a look at some necklaces. They were all his own unique creations and were certainly more interesting than anything that dreaded souvenir shop could possibly offer.
Now, this Rasta man was more interesting than I ever could have imagined. He lived in the United States at one point in his life and he was obsessed with American presidents. I'm quite convinced that he knew more about the presidents than I ever did - or anyone I'd ever come across in the States. On multiple occasions, I had to go to the Internet to see if he had the facts correct. He almost always did. So, every conversation was entertaining and educational.
The one good thing about that avoided souvenir shop was that it was always there. If I wanted to go to that shop, I knew where to find it. The Rasta guy wasn't always so easy to find. I'd seen him in several locations in my neighborhood as I took my walks. When I finally decided that I should buy a necklace from him, he wasn't so easy to find. I went to the souvenir shop and asked about him. They had not seen him. They didn't know his name. He was only known as "Rasta Man". But, I was told that he sold weed. "Do you want weed? I have some," the merchant offered. It gave me another reason to walk on by and never make eye contact again. (Not only did I not want weed - ever - but I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to risk doing that in a foreign country. No, thank you.
I did take comfort in the fact that if my Rasta man actually sold drugs, he knew not to offer them to me.
Eventually, I found Rasta Man parked by his bike, not far from my hotel. And, I purchased one of his necklaces. More important to me, I took his photo, which was one of my better souvenirs from Jamaica. And, on the last time that I saw him, I also learned his name. Donovan.
It didn't take long for me to see just how little I knew about this jewel of the Caribbean. You do see dreadlocks. If you stand in any public location, you'll see those locks, but most people have short hair. I personally felt that it was too hot to sport any other style. And, as I observed people on the street corner, I never smelled a whiff of marijuana. But, honestly, I don't know what it smells like. So, I can't say if I smelled it or not. I do know that marijuana is legal in Jamaica. However, I also know that the closest friend that I met in my muraling experience never touched the stuff.
And then, there was the tourist experience. I don't have enough hair to worry about braids. But, there was one souvenir shop near my hotel. I was grateful that I didn't stay at a tropical beach resort location. No, I stayed in Jamaica's answer to Manhattan, a new and modern part of the capital city. Not many tourists lingered in New Kingston when there were beaches and rum cocktails awaiting at Montego Bay and Ocho Rios. Still, there was this one souvenir shop in the vicinity where I walked, and I learned to walk on the other side of the street. I didn't give anyone there any eye contact. I didn't look at any of the souvenirs. I refused to walk into the shop. And, I wasn't about to give one Jamaican dollar to the aggressive shop vendors who called out to me. That kind of pestering never works on me.
During my free time in New Kingston, I ventured out of my air-conditioned hotel to see the area and swelter in sweat. It didn't take long for me to wilt. It's kind of my tropical look and I have to live with it. But, on my wanderings, I often saw a Rasta man who sat by his bicycle. He had necklaces for sale. They really didn't interest me. But, just to be on the safe side, I walked on by and didn't make any eye contact with him either. I didn't necessarily feel the need to cross the street to avoid the guy. However, I seriously wasn't interested in buying anything.
Well, after a week of this, the Rasta man finally stopped me to ask, "Why do you go to the souvenir shop but never stop and see what I have to sell?" I made it clear to him that I never set foot in that souvenir shop. And, I told him why. But, the conversation forced me to take a look at some necklaces. They were all his own unique creations and were certainly more interesting than anything that dreaded souvenir shop could possibly offer.
Now, this Rasta man was more interesting than I ever could have imagined. He lived in the United States at one point in his life and he was obsessed with American presidents. I'm quite convinced that he knew more about the presidents than I ever did - or anyone I'd ever come across in the States. On multiple occasions, I had to go to the Internet to see if he had the facts correct. He almost always did. So, every conversation was entertaining and educational.
The one good thing about that avoided souvenir shop was that it was always there. If I wanted to go to that shop, I knew where to find it. The Rasta guy wasn't always so easy to find. I'd seen him in several locations in my neighborhood as I took my walks. When I finally decided that I should buy a necklace from him, he wasn't so easy to find. I went to the souvenir shop and asked about him. They had not seen him. They didn't know his name. He was only known as "Rasta Man". But, I was told that he sold weed. "Do you want weed? I have some," the merchant offered. It gave me another reason to walk on by and never make eye contact again. (Not only did I not want weed - ever - but I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to risk doing that in a foreign country. No, thank you.
I did take comfort in the fact that if my Rasta man actually sold drugs, he knew not to offer them to me.
Eventually, I found Rasta Man parked by his bike, not far from my hotel. And, I purchased one of his necklaces. More important to me, I took his photo, which was one of my better souvenirs from Jamaica. And, on the last time that I saw him, I also learned his name. Donovan.
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