The First Time I Ever "Traveled", Part 2: Kingston Calling

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It took me all the next day to hitch to Charlotte, to my parents' home.  A good friend, then and now, Gary Dunn, wanted to see Jamaica as well.  So one night of rest and I was off again -- we  were off.  My father drove us to the Interstate and left us, with his best wishes and a pack of Marlboros.  We put out our thumbs, and that night, faster than we could believe, we were camped in a field outside Miami International Airport.  The night was uneventful; despite our hunger, our exhaustion guided us to sleep.  

In the morning we woke and took inventory.  Roughly $100 in our pockets each.  A round-trip ticket to Kingston was $60 per person, leaving us with $60 to live on once we hit the island.  Plenty!  Only a few hours later we were in the air and on our way.

Our arrival in Jamaica was, how should I put this...?  Not really culture “shock”.  More like a culture earthquake!  Immediately upon arrival we were led into the office of a customs official, husky, his dark skin like ebony against his damp, limp white shirt, shiny with sweat, scowling, making notes from our papers in his hands.  “Why are you here?” he asked.

Gary and I exchanged uncertain glances.  Gary spoke first.  “We’re on vacation.  We want to see Jamaica.”

“Where will you be staying?

“We planned on camping,” I answered.  “We have sleeping ba—“

“Camping?!  You plan on CAMPING!?”  He was furious.  He threw the papers at us across the desk, and as we plucked them from the air and pulled them from the floor, he spat “How dare you come into my country with no place to stay!  Vagabonds!  And looking like you do!”

Wait – WHAT?!  Gary and I turned to each other.  He wore a white ribbed T-shirt, the type today we call a “wifebeater”.  I wore a Jimi Hendrix “T”.  We both wore jeans with holes, and sandals.  Oops.

“We didn’t mean any disrespect,”  I said.

“We just wanted to see your country,” Gary added.

“When was the last time you cut your hair?” he demanded.  “When was the last time you bathed?”

“Last night” I lied, “we’re actually very clea—“

“You will not see my country,” our host seethed, “You will see your way back to the tarmac and leave this island!  Admission denied!”   And the security guards who had waited sleepily outside entered the office, and we were led away, and we were put on a plane back to Miami.

The flight made a stop in Montego Bay, and it was there we walked off the plane and "disappeared" into the Jamaican townscape.  We faced no immigration officer since we'd only come from Kingston.  That night we spent in a field behind a gas station just outside the airport, the cooling slow beat of reggae drifting from a tinny radio with the station attendant, the warm tropical breeze blowing  Marlboro smoke from our campsite toward the town of Montego Bay. 

And uneasily... we slept.

NEXT:  Our Escape, Across the Island