By Humberto Guida

Illustrations by Diana Margarita Garcia

--Miami Beach, Florida

I’m enjoying a bowl of purple haze and sushi rolls during a self-hosted Curb Your Enthusiasm marathon, jokingly contemplating life’s (lack of) purpose. Waxing on the sushi was easier: I was fucking a Japanese girl and the taste of raw fish was reminiscent. Life as a writer was proving empty–at least writing got Larry David to there. But he’s a filthy rich kike in Hollywood, and I’m watching him from a decent couch in Miami Beach. Then, yeah, I get a phone call.

This sophisticated brand of gay sass belongs to one Dewight Peterson. He’s offering to fly me to Jamaica with a photographer of my choice to cover Style Week in Kingston, Jamaica. He’s going to put us up in one of the swankest “business-elite” hotels. Doing blow, smoking doobies and relaxing under the Caribbean sun carte blanche–come again? So, I pontificate: do I need to purchase some Jamaican widgets or funnel cash into that ousted real estate email scheme involving a Nigerian ambassador that’s been swimming in the nation’s inboxes?

No, because this gig’s legit.

Planned are a string of parties with more than a Zulu’s tribe of ebony models to chew on. Of course, my end of the deal is to convince this guy I’m an aesthete of haute-couture so I can get on with my scam. To seal the surreal deal I lackadaisically crib a bit from Sacha Baron Cohen: “Oh, I laaaav covering fashion. I consider myself somewhat of a maven. Have you been dabbling with pink sashes of late? Though, don’t confuse me for being a gay, I’m actually taking a style tip from these black Harlem thugs in this magazine who were making quite a statement with their odd infatuation for that very color, one usually associated in hip hop with prepubescent tinkling. I must say…,” I fellate into the phone, stuffed with sushi.

Awkward silence weighs on the line.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay…or a black thug from Harlem.” The bloated corpses of seconds drift out from the receiver into my ear.

“Very well, I’ll send you the flight information and I cannot wait to see you,” Peterson says. I get off and dial up Crispy, né Chris Lopez, my photog pal. “Guess where we’re going for an entire week motherfucker. I got us a free trip to Jamaica, mon!”

I’m up for a good sociology lesson and this trip has the makings of a telltale, eat-the-rich, adverse education. I’m excitedly thinking: I think I love Jamaican heritage, even though you never know when a native might come at you with a machete and yellowed whites. Of course, the cutesy feelings originate from this American’s superficial love for reggae and Damien Marley’s trendy-requisite Welcome to Jamrock.

In any case, I figure to be rollicking out the Patuá. “Co’ver heaar girl,” I’ll squawk at the broads. When I tell various associates on South Beach that I’m going to Jamaica, well, that’s when I get the notion that this could be Judgment Night meets Shottas. “Where are you staying?” “Kingston,” I say. “Oh…,” and then their minds leave behind worried expressions, as if they’re closing, locking and casually stepping from a mental gate, “Be careful.”

Welcome to Jamrock’s ghettoized drama sets the tone for this trip, easy. Kingston currently has the highest homicide rate in the world, followed unsurprisingly by Washington D.C. and laps most nations’ without a breath. Headlines in Jamaica’s respected newspapers tee-off with stories tied to this epidemic of sinking-cage crime, set inside the country’s loosening, political climate. But the reality of a true-fu black nation that defies despair with flawless music is what I am looking forward to seeing. Miami and L.A. have me socializing in knowingly plastic worlds. I ain’t too scared. Fuck, I always wanted to be a wartime correspondent. I have passable faith that the land of Bob Marley (not Bob Marley black-light posters in affluent sky-rises) and endless ganja will treat me well. Worst case, some crazy Jamaican hacks off one of my limbs, but in return I’d gain a whole new perspective and a movie deal.

Jamaicans are not politically correct. They’re the first ones to castrate themselves in jest for flaws like obscene tardiness on a hyphy basis. Mind you I’m Cuban, and like my people I also have a bad sense of punctuality (ask my editor), but Jamaicans operate on some clock constructed from pebbles, chicken gizzards and a stick. And from the get go, the stereotype that there are 100 minutes in the Jamaican hour is proven beyond a shadow of a hen. Our Jamaican hosts don’t book our tickets and hotel room until the very morning we leave. It seems so unprofessional and slapped together we’re still uncommitted and laughing when we land.

The ATM machines in Kingston Town’s Manley Airport look like bootlegs. They have the Visa logo displayed on them but my Visa check card is rejected and rejected and I have no fucking cash. Giant, rotating fan blades pump and cut up humid Caribbean air like chunks of meat and old coconut, while patrolling officers with Tek-9 semi-automatics stroll by in sweat-stained khaki militant duds.

If I had a bigger hangover, it’d be simultaneously cliché and make for superb ‘70s cinema. The Style Week people send a van for us, and the ride is pleasant and settling until we reach a wide stretch of man-made-(in-a-day)-bridge. We make way past dirty beaches that taper off towards dim refineries. A large ship is freshly beached, and we veer around a federal prison and into the city. Now 95% of Jamaica is landscaped with stunning natural beauty, but the capital does not align with God’s planning. A hasty if laborious flat between ocean and mountainside, Kingston is an adequate city sans proper tourism to force the hand of beautification. Wealthy people, still slurred as “bakra,” hide in the fortified hills, which commoners are practically barred from traveling into. My hotel, an esteemed business vestige called The Jamaica Pegasus, (previous guests include Fidel Castro, Louis Farakan, and Steven Segal) is located in a trough in an uptown area labeled “safe enough,” though a daytime walk carries local discretion.

Crossing the street from the hotel, men on bicycles are already soliciting cheeba and coke and hookers. Unlike life’s mundane itinerary, the daily delivery and transaction of vices is well-oiled, though this is pretty much universal. I scope out and offer the first native who’s trustworthy in appearance, a dark, lanky, middle-aged man who’s tagged along with me from the hotel, $20 American (about 5,000 Jamaican) for “as much weed as that gets.” Waiting on a boulevard near an entertainment district, I figure the dude will take a minute so I walk over to a gas station for a bottle of Red Stripe. Two minutes into my future: “Where were you, mon? I been waiting on you.” In his hand is a bagged quarter of clumpy, green reefer, just regs with seeds, but sweet smelling and covered in crystals like Dade County krippy.

In my hotel room (Crispy has his own) I roll up a giant jibber with Rizzla papers and puff away while taking in the amazing view of the far off hills. I’ve quickly learned that the national mantra here is, no shit, “Nooo problem, mon.” It still sounds like stoned surfer-lingo yet diplomatic and soulful, and I begin to repeat it during an assembly line of toking. Crispy dials my room. His bathroom lights went dead, so he called the front desk and got a “Nooo problem, mon.” Crispy ended up taking a shower in the dark for a good duration of the trip.

The following morning the members of the “International Media” are treated to a day of doing the traveled ropes of the island. We piled on a bus at 8 a.m., as we were instructed to, and the trip gets rolling two and a half hours after. We head north to a touristy town and cruise-line hub called Ocho Rios, winding through requisite scenic mountains and valleys and sugar cane fields; lush tropical forests draped over rolling ranges. Cut, paste and return to staring dopily. Neat shanty towns and makeshift barbecue stands dot the sides of the roads like well-behaving fleas, sometimes arising in a total nowhere zone, and the imagery-imbibed crew stops to sample goat heads soup and jerk chicken.

Passengers include Crispy and I, distinguished members pompously labeled by our hosts as the “International Men of Journalism,” along with writers and other hack stowaways from nameless Caribbean publications, Essence, VIBE and producers from BET. I small-talk with a couple of fierce dudes who lived and worked in Manhattan during the doozy club kid era of the early ‘90s, the usual “we knew Michael Alig and hated dealing with his dealer, Angel, and Liquid Drano blah blah” bullshit. Their joke-cracking about the methods to get large tropical fruits up a derriere makes some of the journos upfront uncomfortable. I’m reminded of home, and play along with their schtick sans paying any attention. Most of the day I can’t turn my curiousness away from a strange, white, middle-aged freelance fashion photographer named Ron. Woo Hah. This guy is like Adam Sandler’s Little Nicky, a demon imp, a weakling of a man. Ron’s also the only true white guy here (though we often refer to ourselves as “white,” my friend and I are well-bred spics), and he throws out the most oblivious off-color or of-color, sleazy phrases. Every other minute he’s playing mason to riders’ odd stares, interjecting: “Their probably going to eat that goat.”

Escorting us throughout this expedition is a warm-blooded saint of a lady named Patricia. She belongs to the Jamaican Tourist Board, and while riding with her I find out it’s the JTB that’s picking up all of our tabs. A trip to Chile last year found me in a similar circumstance, lesson being: You can get a free trip to third world countries by contacting respective tourist boards and salivating about positive travel story pitches for esteemed publications…like Ocean Drive. Constantly asking the guides at each stop to take proper care of us and to bring us back “alive and in one piece,” Patricia’s also a reflection of the subculture of Jamaicans who make fun of Jamaicans . “All this food is giving me a little case of niggeritis. I need some coffee.” Did she say niggeritis? “Most black people from America get offended by using such words, but we don’t care here, we’re just honest. I feel lazy, I got niggeritis,” she summarizes. That’s when Ron blurts “I got niggeritis too. Niggeritis, niggeritis, niggeritis. I feel like a nigger!” as two staffers from BET are exiting a nearby restroom. “Do you know what I have?” Ron jeers.

I prepped myself before coming to Jamaica by whacking off to the finest black porn: Blacksluts.com, Innercitywhore.com, Chocolatepussy.com, and Badunkadunk.net were bookmarked. Something told me some of these wanna-get-out-of-my-third-world-country nubile models appreciate white or spic dick: it’s a status symbol like ape brains in The Temple of Doom. And tonight we arrive at a plush gala on a French ambassador’s estate, open only to Fashion Week’s “somebodys,” oooh, sorry.

Ebony nubiles, stylists, industry ambiguities, French flags, they’re all waving gaily everywhere – and it’s all very Casa Casuarina: very welcoming with a pinch of debauchery and heavily guarded, except the backyard’s crowd is half-and-half ebony and ivory. The ambassador, who is this Northern French Peter Sellers, permits his carnal and placid blue eyes to devour ounces of Jamaican gash, while his mouth plows into drippy, black cherry pie. I ask him for his diplomatic opinion of Jamaica: “These young ladies are representing their country so well. So beautiful, this is what the world should know of Jamaica.” These chicks are beautiful though - they’re Eddie Murphy-Jacuzzi-blowjob lookers. But turns out, hours later, I’m not getting my fingers wet, even with Dana, a Nordic pearl of flawless model skin and blue eyes, who’s nearly in the bag before her itsy gay Phillipino manager acts the Manhattan sophisticate and leaves me in the dust.

On the way back to the hotel Crispy and I split off from the swooning pack of International Media, and eventually find ourselves in a dim street, presumably disoriented. Cabs are a sight unseen, when some bum suddenly crosses the street and promises he’ll wave down a ride in exchange for a few bucks. Sorry dude. A cab (staple on an –ish) white hatchback pulls up beside us driven by an Arab. He tells us to get inside and I stumble into a back seat already occupied by groceries and clothes. There’s not one meter behind the steering wheel, and I’m shaking off the creeps.

“Some people here in Jamaica try to take advantage of people like you,” he begins. “You have to be careful here, there are a lot of kidnappings of people like you.” We don’t tell him that complimentary, unsolicited tourist tips from a total stranger after midnight make us mad suspicious. The guy then tells us he’s no cab driver. He just likes being a good Samaritan to Americans. “There’s a lot of bad people messing this country up. There’s too much crime. We have to kill some of these peoples.” He’s literally hissing and leans forward to expose the handle of a giant hand cannon – it looks like a .44 magnum. Crispy and I pull out the pussy J-card, touting that our Jamaican hosts are waiting for us back at our hotel and will be thrilled he got us back safe. It’s a big lie to soothe this nut’s ego, and he diligently refuses a tip when we reach The Pegasus. He’s insulted and gives us a cocky stare as he pulls away to accomplish more good deeds. We order up room service on my Visa, probably for good ole’ subconscious American reassurance, and genuinely conk out before the early morning knock.

Sunday morning comes along and we all meet in the lobby for today’s all-white yacht party. By all-white I mean the dress code. So models, guests, fashion people, and, a fat man cackles from a rooftop, “The International Media” are shuttled to a marina, where a sizable ship is docked. The good news is there’s food in the cabin. The bad news is the engine doesn’t work and there is no electricity. It’s hot as cancer and the fruit and conch patties are liquidating. Everyone’s sweating their asses off, the yacht hasn’t lifted anchor, but regardless of all that, “arie t’ing alrigh’, every t’ing criss. Is nooo problem mon.”

You see, another thing I learn is nothing gets in the way of a Jamaican party. That includes a ship that won’t sail and carries not a zap of electricity. The Jamaicans bring out an old boom box, plug it into a socket on the dock with a conjured 50-foot extension cord and break open warm bubbly. Models start dancing and I get right in the middle of them. Now, Jamaicans make a dance out of anything and everything. They have the dancehall steps with the kicks and the hands in the air and then it’s a series of instructions, like Jamaican Hee-Haw. “Grab your girl… grab your girl, touch the floor…touch the floor, touch your hat…” Rastas are hollering, “You crazy mon, crazy like a cat.”

Now black people are suckers for a white-looking dude who can shake his ass. It’s shameful not to participate, just like not laughing at a movie in Miami when a fat guy starts busting a move onscreen for no reason. It’s, like, unexpected and expected. So I’m getting cheers as I grind on a recent Miss New Face Jamaica, Tanisha Bailey, the freakiest one of the lot. She continues to push her tight ass into my boner as everyone rah-rahs. Her dark black skin is glistening with sweat against the white linen of her outfit. I grab at her wet body endlessly. We start playing tongue tennis and I slide my hand down her tight pants. Oh wow, she has a milk chocolaty, hairless twat. I’m salivating. Then this model tease, Kanise, from the Ambassador’s bashet pulls a mom and yanks her arm and then her out of our dance. Yeah, I’m like Mick Jagger on this trip – sorry black girls and readers, not enough jam. Back at The Pegasus (which is where I belong innit?) I do guns with Crispy on my balcony, becoming stoned by the very idea of wrapping my brain in long, deep, yak-inducing loops of ganja smoke, like Martin Sheen losing his way amongst bed sheets from an opium stupor.

I lower the window to a Ford Explorer that was sent for us on the way to the airport, sparking up the final blunt and chugging far from the last Red Stripe. I ask the driver if this is all he does for a living. “I’m a cop,” he tells me. “Oh shit,” I blurt putting my blunt out in the Red Stripe bottle too quickly, but too hungover, to deal with the loss or salvage. “Does that mean I’m arrested.” He laughs, “I’m a VIP cop, mon, I take care of VIPs.” Dropping us off on the airport, I take one final look around Jamaica. I had a great time with these crazy fucking people. I look at the driver and ask him if he works with the Jamaican Tourism Board. “Who you think sent me to drive you, mon?” I tell him to tell them I’ll do my best in trying to encourage more tourism in Jamaica. He waves as he drives off. Then I turn to a crowd of Jamaicans in the terminal and let them know today was a great day. Why? “Another couple of Americans are leaving Jamaica alive.”