The Cruise - Part 4: Rasta Mon!
The ship docked in Montego Bay, Jamaica. I went ashore to check out
the city. I was not impressed. Everything was set up for tourists. The
locals had little shops for selling souvenirs or even a standup suitcase
with carvings, rings, and such. The fancy motels faced the sea and
catered to the rich foreigners who came to drink, play golf, and burn
their pink skin laying on gated beaches.
There were more taxis than mosquitoes, and all of the cabbies were looking to pinch a rich American. They were always honking their horns at one another. It was a friendly but noisy gesture.
I hit it off with the local Jamaicans. I liked them a lot. Even though most of them were poor and their country was in disarray, they had a positive attitude about life. Maybe all of the ganja they smoke helped with that. I noticed that most of the older Jamaicans needed major dental work and cataract removal.
After a couple of hours I had enough of Montego Bay and went back to the ship. I hung with the Jamaicans working on the ship. They ran the bars and waited tables in the dining room. Whenever I saw one, we nose bumped and hailed, "One love, Mon!"
My Jamaican steward, Jesse, was very diligent in cleaning my cabin and highly considerate of my personal needs. Every afternoon he brought dried chicken strips and a fresh bowl of water to my room.
He kept putting a small ganja cigarette on my pillow when he turned down my bed at night. I told him I didn't smoke, but he continued doing this anyway. He said the King of Judah (Haile Selassie) had spoken to him in a dream and told him to provide the sacrament to the white-pawed dog.
One evening I indulged in smoking the sacrament just to be respectful of Jesse and the other Rastas. I started singing a sea shanty I made up while dancing an Irish jig on top of the bed:
♫ Yo, ho, ho, I'm a pirate dog,
And I spend my life at sea,
Yo, ho, ho, I'm a salty dog,
And I ain't no pedigree. ♫
Then I lay down on the bed and rocked back and forth with the ship while watching fluorescent eels swimming on the ceiling. I started singing, ♫ "Whiskey river don't run dry. Whiskey river don't run dry." That's the only line of the song I could remember (I think it's a Willie Nelson song), and I kept singing it over and over until I fell asleep.
One love, one heart, Let's get together and feel alright.
~ Bob Marley