Chew On A Rock
During my time in Jamaica, I made active efforts to see how the people actually lived outside of the interactions with the kindly resort staff and broader tourist ecosystem. At times, I found myself successful and other times, not so much. “I’m going to throw up”, I told Alton—a 23-year-old Jamaican who I linked with at the recommendation of a driver and fixer named “Topman” to guide me and my folks around. Alton had a small athletic build, focused yet fatigued eyes, a low Caesar cut, and an affinity for cars and machines. We were 30 minutes into a trek deep into the mountains of Montego Bay when I became “truly nauseous”– the other times were false-alarms. It might have been the narrow roads twisting round like a coiled spring, the reckless yet necessary speed of our bus, or horror of slamming into the oncoming one-lane traffic. Who knows? Before taking off, I expressed to Alton that I had wanted to see “great views” from the mountains and get some shots in the city and “be with the people”. He told me that he had just the thing in mind. I knew and didn’t know seeing the “real Jamaica” would be so dizzying.