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FIVE DAYS AND SIX NIGHTS

As luck would have it, I planned a trip to Jamaica during Hurricane Beryl.  Initially, I was supposed to leave New Orleans on July 2nd, but when the news started showing graphics of a Category Five monster storm hitting Jamaica on July 3rd, I contacted Jamaica Inn and ‘suspended’ my reservations.  On the Fourth of July, I received a phone call from the reservationist at Jamaica Inn:  The resort suffered minimal damage and it was open… and I could check in any time I wanted! 

 

My friend Leslie wasn’t interested in sitting on a debris strewn beach under the cloudy skies that were forecast to last another week.  I told her the resort was fine and the airport in Montego Bay was open.  Showing the remarkable good sense that I clearly lack, she continued to demur.  I re-booked my flight.  I was going.

The flight from Dallas to Montego Bay was overbooked.  Seems I wasn’t the only person whose Jamaican vacation had been delayed by two days and rescheduled.  And I was the first person off the plane, cruising down the walkway thinking I was amazingly lucky.  And, then I stepped into the terminal and saw the sea of people ahead of me, not really lined up, but clogging the airport like a mob, waiting to get through customs. Their shared obstacle was the inability to produce a C-5 form which is required to get through Immigration and is usually filled out on-line and flashed at the official gatekeeper who waves compliant travelers through to the customs desk.  But the internet was down in Jamaica so accessing and displaying this form on one’s phone was problematic at best.  I felt my pulse quicken but a very solicitous airport worker took my phone out of my hands and helped me through this technological maze and after about 20 minutes I had cleared that first bureaucratic hurdle.

But what I encountered next made my stomach turn over.  Now remember I had been awake since 3:00 a.m., having caught a 5:30 a.m. flight from New Orleans to Dallas, survived a two hour lay-over, and then flown 3 and a half more hours to Montego Bay.  And the football field sized crowd of people trying to get through customs ahead of me made me want to cry.  This was going to be at least a three hour ordeal that my 65 year old bladder wasn’t really up to.  And although I had paid for VIP Mobay service to be expedited through customs on July 2nd, I had not been able to secure the service for my re-booked flight.  I decided to throw myself on the mercy of… someone… anyone!  I searched for a friendly face.  As soon as a red vested young lady with braids and an air of authority passed by, I stopped her and explained that I had paid for VIP service… for my earlier flight.  She bit her bottom lip, judging me with liquid brown eyes, and inquired whether I was traveling alone.  Oh, yes, I was very much alone.  What happened next might have shattered any notion the honeymooners behind me had that pairing up was a good idea.  She asked to see my earlier confirmation which by some miracle I was able to summon instantly on my phone.  Her eyes swept the throng surrounding me and, rather slyly, she requested my passport.  I’ll say here that while I don’t always understand the Jamaican patois, God knows I speak their language.  Having perfected the art of palming a croaker to a Maitre’d, I applied the same skill to my transfer of the passport, deftly positioning a hundred dollar bill next to my mug shot.  And although I truly felt sorry for the sweaty and totally bewildered honeymooners now stranded in my rearview mirror, I was not ashamed to be whisked past a long snaking stream of miserable tourists to the front of the line where I was then graduated through customs like a rock star (and had only to issue one more bill to an unnamed participant before hearing the sweet ker-chunk, ker-chunk of the customs officer stamping my passport). 

And then I arrived at the resort where a scrawny pride of guests, some of whom had ridden out the storm in their rooms, was gathered in the library having high tea.  Patrice my lovely friend who works in the bar greeted me with a hug.  I don’t think she would have told me her house was without “current,” as she said, and the grocery stores were closed, making every day life a little tense, had I not asked her.  Jamaicans may be complacent about many things, like efficiency, quick service, and, as I was about to learn, the importance of accurately describing the true state of affairs to customers, but they are not complainers.  No, I did not need a cup of hot tea, but a lowball of Planter’s punch was melting in my hands as Kingsley led me to Room 6, just a few feet from his front desk.  As I entered the room, I swept up the remote control to the air conditioner, recalling that the coldest setting was 17.  My frantic pressing of buttons had no effect on the cooling unit.  Kingsley stood before me, bowed slightly and delivered the bad news.  His tone was rueful but he flashed an incredibly charming smile.  There was no electricity at the resort, “presently.”  

The fact I did not faint dead away at this news is a testament either to my fortitude or my unwillingness to admit when I may have made a mistake.  I know I was blinking furiously when Kingsley assured me the generator would start up again at 6:00 p.m., and run during the night.  Thank God, I thought.  My room will be cool in two hours and all will be right with the world.  I asked him how he made out during the storm, a question New Orleanians asked each other for at least a decade after Hurricane Katrina.  He assured me he was fine.  The manager stopped by to tell me it meant a lot to him and the staff that I was with them during this period of time.  Alone, I opened my verandah doors and drained my punch.  The dense foliage that once served as a privacy screen to Room 6’s verandah was gone.  My view to the debris strewn beach was unobstructed.  The croquet field was littered with fallen coconuts.  The sky was gray and brooding, the ocean was a dark blue foam.  But, in much the same way Julie Harris was drawn to Hill House, I felt the irresistible urge to melt into the water.  I stripped off my sweaty jeans and pulled on a bathing suit.  Picking my way over fallen palm branches, I made it to the wet sand and then the water was up to my ankles… and then I was in up to my knees… and then I was gliding beneath the cool ocean water and I was home.  And I’m so glad that the people who work here didn’t lose their lives or their homes in that awful storm.  When I asked my housekeeper, a sweet older lady how she had made out during the storm, she shrugged and smiled and said, “I’m sorry you are having to put up with the heat.”  Her accent made “heat,” sound like, “eat.”  She actually thanked me for being in Jamaica.  I so love Jamaica and its people.

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