With notes written Tuesday January 22
My after-breakfast swim was moderately interrupted by the setup for some event. I prayed they wouldn’t do away with my chaise lounge. What would I do without it?
This motivated me to move. I exchanged some USD for Jamaican funds at the front desk. The exchange rate was 1 USD for something like 72 JD. This screwed me up to no end. For the first time I had a whole lot of 100s, a couple 500s and some 1000s burning a hole in my wallet. And so, with that, I ventured forth into the outside world.
I turned down an unexplored road (see pic) and ended up in a small business district of strip malls and fast food.
As I walked I tried estimating how many times the local men catcalled or made “hey baby” comments directed at me. I could not come up with a fair number. I debated keeping a tally. It was also about this time that I realized I was being HISSED at. HISSING fer chrissakes.
The guidebooks weren’t exaggerating. Many men say pretty much whatever they want to women as they pass on the street here. The “hey pretty lady,” and the “hello beautifuls” were tiresome, and annoying.
I wondered what Jamaican women thought about this, and how they dealt with it. Later in the week I did ask someone. She said it was typical.
“But how does it make you feel?” I asked. “Some people would argue that you should take it as a compliment.”
She said she does. And ignores it.
I found that pretty interesting. In Canada, men will catcall and woohoo, but they are almost always in a group ie. construction workers hooting from the other side of the road. Very rarely would a Canadian man be bold enough to say something directly to my face. This wasn’t the case here in Jamaica.
I didn’t venture far into the strip malls, but it was almost lunchtime. I tracked back to Devon House to pick something up to eat. I’d read that the Jamaican patties were very good here. I found The Brick Oven (see pic) and ordered a chicken patty (see pic). I was not disappointed. It was so hot I could barely touch it. It was delicious.
I followed it up with some ice cream (see pic) from “I Scream,” which is said to be the best in Kingston. I ate, and wrote, and rested in the shade of a giant tree (see pic) in the pretty courtyard behind Devon House (see pic). I watched sleek little hummingbirds flit around, teeny lizards wrestle in the garden, and Jamaican pigeons clean up the flaky crumbs that fell under my bench.
I really liked this spot. There was an equal ratio of Jamaicans to tourists. Clearly the patties were a huge draw, and reasonably priced at $120.00!
I wondered why more of Kingston wasn’t like this. Clearly, this tranquil little space was appreciated. It was pretty to look at as well as useful. It gave food and shelter where it was needed. Why couldn’t every street be clean and free of garbage and potholes? Why couldn’t gardens of native plants be better tended? Why must there be any kind of ugly? (pic and pic and pic and pic … with bonus stray dog)
Problem is … I suppose there’s no money or will. I think beautiful neighbourhoods would make their residents proud to live there, and most would help protect it. As I think about it now, I think the same could be said for every city, not just Kingston. Every street could be beautiful, but it isn’t.
Now, picture this: I was in a happy daze. I had just had a delicious lunch of spicy food followed by coconut ice cream. I had eaten it in a lovely tropical garden, watching all kinds of critters, human and non-. At one I point I decided my laurels were fully rested and that I would wander the gardens of Devon House, slowly making my way home. The taste of the ice cream lingered in my mouth, as did the coolness. The food and the rest had done me good. I was a woman transformed!
I was walking along a seldom-used driveway (see pic), to the right was a flowerbed which contained some densely packed broad-leafed trees when suddenly I saw something flitter out of the corner of my eye. My first thought was that it was a bird but I quickly realized it was a bat. My camera happened to be turned on, so I snapped off one frame. (I would like to mention that I did not have my flash turned on. Several people have asked. But it wasn’t. Here’s that pic.)
Next thing I know, the freakin’ bat had attached itself to the bottom hem of my knee-length shorts. Let me repeat that last part. IT ATTACHED ITSELF TO MY SHORTS (the ones pictured here).
lt happened in the space of one breath, during which my internal dialogue went something like this:
“Hey! A bat! Cool! OHHHH SHIT SHIT SHIT.”
I shook my leg. I jumped up and down. I spun around. I screamed. IT WAS NOT GOING ANYWHERE.
I felt its leathery, furry warmth flapping against the skin of my exposed leg.
Warm.
Leathery.
Thing.
Clutching. On. To. My. Body.
It felt like an eternity, but it must have been 10 seconds, A LIFETIME OF SECONDS before it finally let go.
A couple of fellows who happened to be in the ice cream shop with me earlier heard the fuss and started to come over.
“Are you okay?” they shouted.
“THERE WAS A BAT ON MY Sh-Sh-SHORTS!” I think I may have been hyperventilating.
“Oh! [laughter] A bat! It’s just welcoming you to Jamaica!”
Ha frickin’ ha.
Mom, I swear I did nothing to provoke the wrath of this bat.
I walked back to the hotel in a stupor, replaying the whole thing in my mind. As I walked, my hand occasionally flew to my heart, which was still pounding loudly in my chest. I stepped into the shade, took a deep breath, and considered the possibilities. I looked at my leg. Surely I would have felt it if it had bitten me. Oh, the thought of it made me sick. What if it had bitten me? I would have had to go to a hospital and get treated for rabies. RABIES! In JAMAICA!
I couldn’t shake that creepy dry leathery feeling of that bat. It had not been a small bat. It was a healthy, well-fed, medium-sized brown bat. A brown, furry, rat with wings. *shiver*
I walked back to the hotel and inquired at the desk. The fellow told me that bats are relatively common, but aren’t known to affix themselves to people’s pant legs.
Suddenly, Jamaican fauna didn’t seem nearly so amiable, like the pretty little hummingbirds and the teeny little tree-climbing lizards (see pic).
Kristina told my bat story to her Jamaican colleague, who insisted it must have been a moth. He said there is a Jamaican moth that is a size of a bat, and they call a bat although it’s actually a moth. I looked it up later, and I think he was referring to this, but seriously folks, I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A BAT AND A MOTH. A moth doesn’t hang upside down by little feet. Nor does it have big wings that fold up. There was no mistaking the creature I met that day.
[tomorrow: slow banks, fast food, heat exhaustion and a big win at the casino]
