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<span style="font-style: italic"><span style="font-weight: bold">This story was written a few years ago, after a terrible incident during our reach. It's a short story based on that trip.
It weighed upon me afer I came home, so I decided to write about it.
*Disclaimer* The reference to Rasta man was used by the locals who worked at the resort, so I don't feel that it is in any way, a characterization of Jamaicans in general.
This is my perception of the incident, and mine only.</span></span>
<span style="font-weight: bold">A Dark and Deadly Sunrise</span>
Waking to the sounds of the sirens in the distance, certainly not a familiar sound in the yard first thing in the morning, we realized that the blaring shrill was ringing louder in our ears as it neared our resort. Staring up at the over-head fan, I watched the continual turn of the fan blades in somewhat of a daze. It was throwing off a nice cool breeze, even though the blare of the sirens through the open shudders became louder and louder eventually drowning out the low, monotone hum of the fan.
After just a few minutes, the sirens abruptly stopped and I could now hear the faint murmur of the fan beginning to break the much welcomed, but short silence in the room.
It’s not uncommon to be wakened by the early morning sweet songs of the birds outside the window, or the ever-annoying barking dogs behind the resort. Glancing over at the clock, I noticed that it was slightly past 7 am, so we decided it was, as good a time as any, to put the coffee on. The morning ritual always began with coffee and Sangsters rum crème while relaxing on the balcony. Sitting back and taking in the morning air, the sights and the sounds was the best way to start the day.
Today however, started out much differently.
The sun was already streaming in through the door to the balcony, and it was time to fling open the curtains and let the rest of the world in. Stepping out onto the patio, the heat of the day was already evident, as the palm trees swayed ever-so-gently in the yard. I was hoping for another wonderful day in paradise.
Anxious to see why the ambulance was here and to see if everyone was alright, my husband quickly pulled on his shorts and headed over to the front of the resort. I took a bit more time as I leisurely rose, reaching for my closest sarong to wrap around me.
From the balcony I could see a few of the staff bustling around the property. Through the swaying palm trees, I could see the back of the ambulance which was parked at the front gate with a police car behind it. I hurried to the bathroom and quickly glanced at myself in the mirror, still half awake. I pulled my hair up and clasped it back with a clip. I brushed my teeth before searching the room looking for my flip flops. Before leaving, I caught a glimpse of my camera bag hanging over the chair, so I grabbed it and headed down the stairs to the front gate.
As I neared the end of the path, I heard the voices of staff muttering in patois. I reached the side gate and saw the ambulance across the street.
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There were no other guests in sight, possibly because it was still quite early in the morning. Mostly likely some guests were still sleeping, but maybe they didn’t have the same interest in finding out about the sirens. One of the housekeepers was just arriving for her day of laundry, changing beds and and cleaning up after the guests. She crossed the road towards the activity and she disappeared behind the ambulance at the gate. I turned on my video camera wondering what had taken place on this early morning, but I was nervous that something serious might have happened. I stood there patiently waiting for my husband to return with any news.
The days leading up to this morning, my husband always jokingly referred to the night watchman as the ‘Jamaican James Bond.’ When my husband would call him that, he would quietly chuckle and shyly smile back at him. He had a good sense of humour and would shake his head, and look back and say, “yes mon” as many of the Jamaicans do.
He was a tall, thin young man with a sweet smile and a quiet demeanour. m. James Bond, could be considered by some as lanky, and when he arrived for his night shift, always on time, he would be decked out in his dark suit; hence the detective reference. With broad shoulders, his gangly frame took on the shape of a triangle narrowing down to his hips, giving the suit a baggy appearance, hanging from his 6’4” body.
After the sirens had long stopped; James Bond, unfortunately this morning on his watch, had a dead Rasta man.
Earlier in the week, our first few days of vacation were spent hanging on the cliffs, swimming, reading or walking up the road to visit friends. It doesn’t take too long after arriving at resort, to notice and meet many of the other guests. Sometimes you can spark up a conversation while at the bar, or by the pool or other times just a cordially ‘hello’ in passing is all the contact you have with guests.
The Rasta man and white woman seemed well known here, probably regulars and they greeted everyone as the wandered around the resort. Always flanked with an entourage in tow, there was no shortage of friends, family and ‘hangers on’. From the outside - looking in, they seemed to be a rather low-key couple who were quite enjoying themselves. Later in the week, one early afternoon, I noticed them dragging bags behind them towards the front of the resort. They had arranged to stay in a cliff-side cottage overlooking the Caribbean for their last night.
It was almost time for sunset after another glorious sunny afternoon. A short afternoon shower cooled things off which made it bearable. Typically around late afternoon, ‘happy hour’ we hung around the bar having a few red stripes and appletons with the other guests. The sun was slowly dropping from the sky, projecting a bright orange and pink hue across the glistening water. The ever changing colours covered the sky; a breathtaking site like no other as the sun dropped closer to the water. It’s a wonderful time of the day to unwind and give blessings for a wonderful day.
The bar was a bee-hive of activity and our housekeeper was talking with the Rasta man across the bar. I heard from a few people that he was a bit upset and distraught. Maybe it was because it was his last night, but later I would find out differently. He seemed at odds with himself, but I don’t think anyone realized just how much.
The evening was like many others during this reach. We would head back to the room after sunset, chill on the balcony with a glass of wine or a rum and plot out our next plan of attack for the evening. Like many nights we would head up the road, stopping in for a drink along the way with friends and as life has it in Jamaica, the biggest decision would be our food of choice for that night. Sometimes we would share a plate of jerk chicken, calalloo, rice and peas and then hop in a route cab and venture up the way to another jerk hut and share some brown stewed fish or chicken.
Never an agenda in Jamaica, just a ‘go with the flow’ attitude.
Before leaving the resort, we walked through the bar area and our housekeeper was still talking and sharing drinks with the Rasta man. We had a chat with the bartender before walking up the road. The Rasta man had spend much of the day drinking steadily and when we saw him last, he was at the front of the resort chatting with one of the local cabbies. He was visibly upset, ranting, raving and…everyone was a bumbaclott. The cabbie was trying to reason with him, calm him down and bring him back to reality. My husband was standing with the two of them, not really involved in their conversation, but talking to the cabbie. His last words to him, before we walked away were, “life is too short mon to worry” and off we went up the road.
Trouble was already ‘a brewing’ in paradise for this Rasta man.
The scene was written; set in motion, but no one in their wildest dreams could have imagined how the final act would play out.
As I stood by myself outside the resort that morning looking over at the ambulance I could only speculate that something terrible had gone wrong. First to my mind was that someone had suffered a heart attack, maybe a drowning. I could only wonder and wait for my husband to return that morning with news. Just at that moment, coming up the road, I could hear the voices of local Jamaicans escalating as they got closer. They frantically rushed to the front gate. Young Jamaican men looking anxious arrived with crying women on their arms…a slow parade of people coming and going, disappearing behind the ambulance which blocked the front entrance. I could see them through the foliage walking down the pathway to the cottage, still not knowing what had happened.
I didn’t think I should be here any longer so I turned to head back to my room just as my husband finally crossed the road. I waited for him as we walked together back to the room. He had been talking to ‘James Bond’ who was shaken from the morning events and was trying to keep himself together. He was the first on the scene early this morning and it was his job to recount the details to the police.
Still in my mind, I was wondering…what had happened? My husband looked over at me and said, do you know what a drug mule is?
What was he telling me? Oh my god, it took me a few moments before I realized what he was talking about. In a low, whispered hush he said, “the Rasta man is dead.”
The rest of the morning was sombre and quiet, with staff going from room to room with little to say. Sadness was all around, as staff talked amongst themselves. The wife of the Rasta man was left to pick up the pieces and try to make some sense of it all.
As I stood on the balcony overlooking the beautiful lush flowering gardens and the gorgeous blue Caribbean off in the distance, I was quickly brought back to reality when the ambulance and the police car pulled away from the front entrance or the resort with a body in tow.
Life’s choices can turn into tragedy in an instant, and paradise as we know it, even with its’ blue sky, calm waters and sunshine can rear it’s ugly head and turn dark and deadly.
It weighed upon me afer I came home, so I decided to write about it.
*Disclaimer* The reference to Rasta man was used by the locals who worked at the resort, so I don't feel that it is in any way, a characterization of Jamaicans in general.
This is my perception of the incident, and mine only.</span></span>
<span style="font-weight: bold">A Dark and Deadly Sunrise</span>
Waking to the sounds of the sirens in the distance, certainly not a familiar sound in the yard first thing in the morning, we realized that the blaring shrill was ringing louder in our ears as it neared our resort. Staring up at the over-head fan, I watched the continual turn of the fan blades in somewhat of a daze. It was throwing off a nice cool breeze, even though the blare of the sirens through the open shudders became louder and louder eventually drowning out the low, monotone hum of the fan.
After just a few minutes, the sirens abruptly stopped and I could now hear the faint murmur of the fan beginning to break the much welcomed, but short silence in the room.
It’s not uncommon to be wakened by the early morning sweet songs of the birds outside the window, or the ever-annoying barking dogs behind the resort. Glancing over at the clock, I noticed that it was slightly past 7 am, so we decided it was, as good a time as any, to put the coffee on. The morning ritual always began with coffee and Sangsters rum crème while relaxing on the balcony. Sitting back and taking in the morning air, the sights and the sounds was the best way to start the day.
Today however, started out much differently.
The sun was already streaming in through the door to the balcony, and it was time to fling open the curtains and let the rest of the world in. Stepping out onto the patio, the heat of the day was already evident, as the palm trees swayed ever-so-gently in the yard. I was hoping for another wonderful day in paradise.
Anxious to see why the ambulance was here and to see if everyone was alright, my husband quickly pulled on his shorts and headed over to the front of the resort. I took a bit more time as I leisurely rose, reaching for my closest sarong to wrap around me.
From the balcony I could see a few of the staff bustling around the property. Through the swaying palm trees, I could see the back of the ambulance which was parked at the front gate with a police car behind it. I hurried to the bathroom and quickly glanced at myself in the mirror, still half awake. I pulled my hair up and clasped it back with a clip. I brushed my teeth before searching the room looking for my flip flops. Before leaving, I caught a glimpse of my camera bag hanging over the chair, so I grabbed it and headed down the stairs to the front gate.
As I neared the end of the path, I heard the voices of staff muttering in patois. I reached the side gate and saw the ambulance across the street.
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There were no other guests in sight, possibly because it was still quite early in the morning. Mostly likely some guests were still sleeping, but maybe they didn’t have the same interest in finding out about the sirens. One of the housekeepers was just arriving for her day of laundry, changing beds and and cleaning up after the guests. She crossed the road towards the activity and she disappeared behind the ambulance at the gate. I turned on my video camera wondering what had taken place on this early morning, but I was nervous that something serious might have happened. I stood there patiently waiting for my husband to return with any news.
The days leading up to this morning, my husband always jokingly referred to the night watchman as the ‘Jamaican James Bond.’ When my husband would call him that, he would quietly chuckle and shyly smile back at him. He had a good sense of humour and would shake his head, and look back and say, “yes mon” as many of the Jamaicans do.
He was a tall, thin young man with a sweet smile and a quiet demeanour. m. James Bond, could be considered by some as lanky, and when he arrived for his night shift, always on time, he would be decked out in his dark suit; hence the detective reference. With broad shoulders, his gangly frame took on the shape of a triangle narrowing down to his hips, giving the suit a baggy appearance, hanging from his 6’4” body.
After the sirens had long stopped; James Bond, unfortunately this morning on his watch, had a dead Rasta man.
Earlier in the week, our first few days of vacation were spent hanging on the cliffs, swimming, reading or walking up the road to visit friends. It doesn’t take too long after arriving at resort, to notice and meet many of the other guests. Sometimes you can spark up a conversation while at the bar, or by the pool or other times just a cordially ‘hello’ in passing is all the contact you have with guests.
The Rasta man and white woman seemed well known here, probably regulars and they greeted everyone as the wandered around the resort. Always flanked with an entourage in tow, there was no shortage of friends, family and ‘hangers on’. From the outside - looking in, they seemed to be a rather low-key couple who were quite enjoying themselves. Later in the week, one early afternoon, I noticed them dragging bags behind them towards the front of the resort. They had arranged to stay in a cliff-side cottage overlooking the Caribbean for their last night.
It was almost time for sunset after another glorious sunny afternoon. A short afternoon shower cooled things off which made it bearable. Typically around late afternoon, ‘happy hour’ we hung around the bar having a few red stripes and appletons with the other guests. The sun was slowly dropping from the sky, projecting a bright orange and pink hue across the glistening water. The ever changing colours covered the sky; a breathtaking site like no other as the sun dropped closer to the water. It’s a wonderful time of the day to unwind and give blessings for a wonderful day.
The bar was a bee-hive of activity and our housekeeper was talking with the Rasta man across the bar. I heard from a few people that he was a bit upset and distraught. Maybe it was because it was his last night, but later I would find out differently. He seemed at odds with himself, but I don’t think anyone realized just how much.
The evening was like many others during this reach. We would head back to the room after sunset, chill on the balcony with a glass of wine or a rum and plot out our next plan of attack for the evening. Like many nights we would head up the road, stopping in for a drink along the way with friends and as life has it in Jamaica, the biggest decision would be our food of choice for that night. Sometimes we would share a plate of jerk chicken, calalloo, rice and peas and then hop in a route cab and venture up the way to another jerk hut and share some brown stewed fish or chicken.
Never an agenda in Jamaica, just a ‘go with the flow’ attitude.
Before leaving the resort, we walked through the bar area and our housekeeper was still talking and sharing drinks with the Rasta man. We had a chat with the bartender before walking up the road. The Rasta man had spend much of the day drinking steadily and when we saw him last, he was at the front of the resort chatting with one of the local cabbies. He was visibly upset, ranting, raving and…everyone was a bumbaclott. The cabbie was trying to reason with him, calm him down and bring him back to reality. My husband was standing with the two of them, not really involved in their conversation, but talking to the cabbie. His last words to him, before we walked away were, “life is too short mon to worry” and off we went up the road.
Trouble was already ‘a brewing’ in paradise for this Rasta man.
The scene was written; set in motion, but no one in their wildest dreams could have imagined how the final act would play out.
As I stood by myself outside the resort that morning looking over at the ambulance I could only speculate that something terrible had gone wrong. First to my mind was that someone had suffered a heart attack, maybe a drowning. I could only wonder and wait for my husband to return that morning with news. Just at that moment, coming up the road, I could hear the voices of local Jamaicans escalating as they got closer. They frantically rushed to the front gate. Young Jamaican men looking anxious arrived with crying women on their arms…a slow parade of people coming and going, disappearing behind the ambulance which blocked the front entrance. I could see them through the foliage walking down the pathway to the cottage, still not knowing what had happened.
I didn’t think I should be here any longer so I turned to head back to my room just as my husband finally crossed the road. I waited for him as we walked together back to the room. He had been talking to ‘James Bond’ who was shaken from the morning events and was trying to keep himself together. He was the first on the scene early this morning and it was his job to recount the details to the police.
Still in my mind, I was wondering…what had happened? My husband looked over at me and said, do you know what a drug mule is?
What was he telling me? Oh my god, it took me a few moments before I realized what he was talking about. In a low, whispered hush he said, “the Rasta man is dead.”
The rest of the morning was sombre and quiet, with staff going from room to room with little to say. Sadness was all around, as staff talked amongst themselves. The wife of the Rasta man was left to pick up the pieces and try to make some sense of it all.
As I stood on the balcony overlooking the beautiful lush flowering gardens and the gorgeous blue Caribbean off in the distance, I was quickly brought back to reality when the ambulance and the police car pulled away from the front entrance or the resort with a body in tow.
Life’s choices can turn into tragedy in an instant, and paradise as we know it, even with its’ blue sky, calm waters and sunshine can rear it’s ugly head and turn dark and deadly.
SistaC ... 
Too late to change careers at this stage of the game....lol
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