On Kingston's WATERFRONT

It was just after five o'clock in the afternoon when, on my way to the Kingston waterfront, I met Raymond, a pot-bellied juice vendor.

We were just outside a small shoemaker shop on East Street.

"Juice here, juice right here," he bellowed. There was a melody to his sales pitch, which he augmented with an ill-advised little dance.

I told him I didn't want any juice, and he sighed, resting the white bucket full of his stock on the ground next to me.

He dipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers and retrieved a red rag, which he used to wipe sweat from his forehead.

"What a day hat, bredrin!" he said. I agreed that it was indeed a very warm afternoon and asked if that was helping to boost his sales.

"Nuh really, yuh know," Raymond said.

"Dem people yah too mean. All di tursty dem tursty dem people yah nah buy no juice."

With that, Raymond the juice vendor picked up his white bucket and lumbered off, resuming his sales call.

"Juice right here, juice!"

I restarted my journey to the waterfront. I had been told that evenings in that area are splendid, with beautiful scenery and calming atmosphere. I was eager to get there before it got dark.

It wasn't long, however, before I was stopped once more, this time by a burly woman sitting on a chair next to an igloo on the sidewalk. "Change hundred dalla fi mi," she said. I told her that I couldn't and she hissed.

Just then, a white car came to a screeching halt in front of her. The driver poked his head out.

"Sell mi two cigarette, deh," he said.

The woman got up and started walking across the road where a wooden stall was set up. She stopped mid-way and turned around. "Yuh have change, right?" she asked.

The driver of the car searched through some bills.

"No sah," he said.

The woman hissed again.

"Meck yuh never tell me?" she yelled.

"Mi nuh have no change," she added, dryly.

The driver seemed annoyed.

"So, how yuh ah run shop and nuh have no money?" he shouted.

The woman waved him off and the driver sped off. The woman looked at me. I gave an uncomfortable shrug and she walked back to her chair and sat down.

tamarind man

I quietly walked away.

Near Harbour Street, I came across a man selling small bags of tamarind.

"Any tamarind, my boss?" he asked.

Before I could respond, the driver of a yellow van shouted an order from across the road and the tamarind man forgot me, and apparently all good sense, and dashed across the roadway through moving traffic to make the sale.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a short, white-haired fellow perhaps close to 70 years old. He was well dressed, with his long-sleeved white shirt neatly tucked into his black trousers.

"Leave something wid me, nuh?" he asked, holding out a hat. I put some money in the hat.

"God bless you, son," he said, putting the hat with the money in it, on his head.

I walked across the road and, soon, I was at the waterfront. There were about 20 or 30 people there. Some were sitting on benches, others in the shade of trees. It really was a nice atmosphere. You could see the airport across the water where an airplane was just taking off.

Not far from where I was standing, a middle-age woman wearing a business suit was hugging a young girl.

"You see the plane?" she asked the girl.

I introduced myself to the woman and asked her if she came out to the waterfront often.

"Once in a while," she said, smiling. "This is my daughter. Sometimes, I like to take her to see how her country nice," she said. The little girl looked up at her mother and smiled. Her mother rubbed her forehead.

"Yes, man. Sometimes we don't realise how Jamaica pretty. I like to make sure my children know how nice it is. Sometimes you just have to take the time to see it," the woman said.

Where should Robert go next? Let him know at robert.lalah@gleanerjm.com