Asif Ahmad | Lyming sweet in Jamaica

My four years in Jamaica have been enriched by the people I have met and experiences we have shared. On my first visit to an all-inclusive resort where I had a speaking engagement, I decided to take a dip in the Caribbean Sea and saw a hut attended by a lady behind a pile of towels. In my received English, I asked for two beach towels. Silence. I asked again, this time more slowly. I got a cold stare. She then spoke with a broad smile and said, “Shall we start with ‘Good morning’?” That was an important lesson in manners that stood me well for the remainder of my time here. Ah, here I go again, my bad. Good morning, dear readers.

Before I even arrived in Jamaica, the omens were good. Kim and I were walking towards the marina in Barcelona just a few days before travelling to Kingston. As the sun was setting, I spotted a beautiful yacht. I thought I was hallucinating because I saw the Jamaican flag on the boat. What I did not know until much later was that on board were Michael Lee-Chin and his relatives, including Thalia Lyn, who we now regard as good friends.

In London, there seemed to be a send-off party just for us. Twenty thousand Jamaicans had gathered in Crystal Palace. Curry goat, rice and peas and jerk chicken in abundance. Chris Tufton and Courtney Campbell shared the stage with me. Well, the party was for Jamaica on Independence Day.

Just before getting on the plane in London, I tweeted a photo of a doctor hummingbird to symbolise my journey to my new home. When I drew the curtains back from my window on my first morning in Kingston, there was a real humming bird hovering before me. Wah gwaan?

Paulette Simpson of JN Bank in London, gave me the opportunity to witness Usain Bolt’s last race. The Olympic stadium had turned into Jamaica that afternoon. It was there that I saw in real life my first Jamaican Twitter follower, Ann- Marie Vaz decked out in a black, green and gold body suit. A living advertisement for brand Jamaica. It was through her (and ‘Husband Vaz’) that I rediscovered the magic of Portland. The first trip was a little too dramatic for my liking. I ate a lion fish that caused me to faint and ended with a helicopter ride back to UWI Hospital.

NO PHOTO ID, SO NO VISA

My first driving trip on the North-South Highway was in a borrowed car without diplomatic plates. As I came round a bend on a downhill stretch, I was flagged down by the traffic cops. I was asked if I knew what speed I was doing. I said with great pride and certainty, “110 kph, Officer.” He shook his head and said the normal limit was 80 and on this stretch it was 60. When asked for papers, I said all my documents were with the Foreign Ministry and all I could show him was my business card. The officer examined it and said “High Commissioner, without a photo ID, I cannot issue you with a speeding ticket”. I replied, “Well, in that case, we do not have a problem, do we Officer?” So we chatted a bit longer about Britain and he asked if he could have a visa. Of course, I said, “But you’ve no photo ID, so no visa!”

The following weekend, I decided to go up the mountain to EITS for lunch. The satnav took me way off the right road and I got to Robin’s wonderful place eventually but too late to park near the entrance. So I trekked back down the path and, suddenly, a Rastaman with a machete in hand leapt out of the bushes. I froze and told myself this is where my illustrious life would end. I muttered some barely audible last prayer. He looked at me nonchalantly and said, “Bless up” and walked on.

My first Easter was spent on a farm in St Elizabeth with the Jam-Austrian Martin Zsifkovics. I learnt a lot about the challenges of agriculture in Jamaica and witnessed the tough conditions under which farmers work. In one shaded area, Martin showed me his new project, tending to young pigs recovering from injury from neighbouring farms. The pen was full of cantaloupes. Amazingly, the pigs had acquired a taste for fruit that were not fit for sale. Parma ham with melons, Jamaica style.

At the other end of the food chain, my friend James Goren, whose natural habitat is the Tryall Club, brought me some chilled delicacies. The caviar we shared and I put away the larger pack in my freezer. Months later, I organised a tennis-buddies weekend in Hanover and thought I would impress my new partner, John Bailey, with James’ foie gras. As we sat down for hors d’oeuvres, the head waiter tapped me discretely on my shoulder and suggested I go to the kitchen. The packet was branded, D’ARTAGNAN, and said foie gras in large bold font. In a corner in tiny letters, it also said disposable ice pack for … I had to improvise a starter very quickly, because the only content was water.

SPORTS AWARDS SPEECH

My oldest Jamaican friend, in every sense, Mike Fennell, grew tired of me laughing at how, at the 2002 Manchester Commonwealth Games, he got soaked by the rain as he held up an umbrella to allow the Queen to read her speech. His revenge was to put my name forward to deliver the main speech for the RJR Gleaner Sports Awards ceremony. I said yes without paying much attention. My Saturday tennis group, led by Norman Marshall, started to build up the tension by saying how big a thing it was. Then came the full-page Gleaner ad with my picture hailing my forthcoming performance. The TV producer added more heat by saying I had to stick to exactly 12 minutes. Well, I think I did okay. But what no one knows is that all the athletes backstage were so excited and noisy that I could not hear a single word I said. At least, the people in the audience laughed at the right time. My reward was a unique rum which Joy Spence blended to reflect my character. I have not opened the bottle yet, fearing that it would characterise me as a terrified rabbit in headlights.

One of the younger Jamaicans I encountered was when I joined schoolboys as a mentor. Most of the boys were a bit shy about their future goals. One stood out. He looked me in the eye and said his ambition was to be a point man. I looked puzzled. He said “ A point man, like di Chinaman deh pon d wall, him jus sit n point”. “Ah”, I said realising, “you want to be a manager!”

My friends, I could fill all the pages of The Gleaner with sweet tales of lyming in Jamaica. I have not mentioned the mistake of not waiting long enough to bite a patty whilst driving, failing to get into a canoe fully dressed at Golden Eye, cooking for 120 guests, including the PM because our chef had left us, disturbing P. J. Patterson at Sabina Park when all he wanted was to watch cricket, and witnessing young footballers pause in the middle of a match to do yoga. Perhaps I need to come back again and lyme with you to share more untold stories.

Walk good.

Asif Ahmad CMG is the outgoing British high commissioner to Jamaica