THE QUEST FOR MONTEGO BAY

Zenga Longmore finds her

search for the smart Jamaica frustrated by the unexpected

`DON'T leave Jamaica without seeing Montego Bay,' my London Jamaican friends had enthused last April, just before I set off. I was determined to take the advice, but I had no idea what a hazardous quest that would prove to be. If you have no car in Jamaica, getting from A to Montego B is rather like phoning the Social Security about a delayed giro — a hair-raising mission, but you feel it's going to be worth it in the end.

My brother-in-law's family, with whom I was staying, tended to think that wanting to go out and enjoy yourself was just another symptom of English eccentricity (along with liking dogs and reading to kids). The town in Clarendon wasn't really geared for entertainment. The cinema was constantly boarded up, and the night clubs could boast neither music nor customers. What's more, I found the language barrier a bit of a problem. Asking for milk in a supermarket, I would be met by a blank stare.

`A-wha'?'

`Who?'

`Me nah speak Queen Henglish.'

And that would be that. Black tea for the weekend. I couldn't understand any- one in Jamaica, and no one could under- stand me. Some people felt I had no right to be black and yet not speak patois, but after all, I came from foreign, so what could you expect?

But it wasn't the language problem that prevented me from making my entrance in Montego Bay. In my first week it was cousins.

The number of times I climbed into some cousin or other's car, all set for Montego Bay only to have the cousin stop his car on the roadside, climb out, and disappear into a house.

`Where are you going?'

`Me frien"im live 'ere. Is why you nah come in?'

I'd stump into the friend's house, and remain there for the rest of the day.

`When are you leaving and taking me to Montego Bay?'

`Where?' `Ah no, me nah warn go there.' He'd shake his head, and continue to stare at the telly or the wall.

By the second week, I had decided to give cousins a miss. I would try trains instead — or so I thought.

I took Little Mannie with me to act as interpreter or handsome escort. Little Mannie, an unemployed friend of my brother-in-law, was instilled with that essential quality which every Jamaican needs in order to survive — a sense of humour. He laughed when we missed the train on the first day, and his sides buckled when we heard it had been derailed the next.

`So Montego Bay is off yet again,' I lamented, fingering an unworn bikini. To console me, Little Mannie said that he would take me out for a meal that evening. After a monotonous diet of curried goat and rice for two weeks, I was glad of the change. I was surprised to see Little Mannie wading through a mountainous pile of rice and curried goat when I called for him. When I reminded him we were going out for a meal, he brusquely said that he'd come out to eat after he'd finished his dinner. I angrily refused his offer to join him, and at last we set out into the warm night to the Talk of the Town.

The exterior of the Talk of the Town was a flashing display of pink and purple lights. The inside, however, was small and poky, with a disco bar and a squalid dining-room (empty of customers) at the back. We sat on rickety chairs, and studied the four-page menu. The Talk of the Town apparently sold everything from fish and chips to obscure Malaysian pâtés. The Chinese speciality was `suey mein'.

By and by an inordinately grumpy wai- tress plodded towards us, and stood scowl- ing into space. I ordered `suey mein' and the waitress immediately began to gabble a stream of Jamaicanese at us, looked at me and giggled, then stomped off.

`What did she say?'

• Little Mannie was playfully tearing bits off the menu. 'She say they nah have no food.'

`None?'

`None.'

We sat for a good five minutes in morose silence before we burst into fits of laughter.

I gave up on Montego Bay for a few days, and spent my time warding off the children of the house. My life was made a misery when they discovered my fear of spiders. I found outsize spiders in my bed, clothes, hair and once, to my hysteria, in my cigarette packet. The adults, on hear- ing my shrieks, would beat the offending child mercilessly with a belt. The child would scream with pain, then tear itself away, still sobbing, to find an even bigger spider for my punishment.

On our next try for Montego Bay, we took a taxi to the train station. Unfortu- nately, the taxi driver filled the car with six other passengers who insisted on being deposited first at far-off destinations. By the time we reached the station, we found the inevitable had happened once again.

`Don't waste yeyewater, dawta,' (Don't waste your tears, girl) soothed Little Man- nie, on seeing my dismay, 'We a-go zoo instead. Mek we get a bus a-Kingston.' I agreed.

In the packed minibus, on the way to Kingston, we laughed over people's heads, about what could go wrong with the zoo. With my limited English sense of disaster, I suggested it would be closed. Little Mannie however, with his native Jamaican intui- tion, said that the animals would not be in cages but running wild. While the bus swung this way and that along staggeringly beautiful country roads at 90 miles an hour, Little Mannie and I kept the passen- gers amused with our tales of horrors-to-be at the zoo.

To get to the zoo, you walk through the wonderful Hope Gardens. Hope Gardens is an enormous tropical park in uptown Kingston. Never have I seen the like. Lush palms, lily ponds in brilliant bloom and exquisite flowers. All these wonders lie beneath the misted Blue Mountains. Sur- prisingly enough, we were the only people there.

After a delightful stroll, we found ourselves at the zoo, and paid one dollar (about 15 pence) to get in. Little Mannie and I looked at one another, our faces registering disappointment. Nothing had gone wrong. The zoo looked beautifully laid out, although devoid of people. It was not only open, but had cages by the score. The first cage we looked at had a large sign reading 'Indian Coney'. We peered in, but found no sign of the coney. `What is an Indian coney?' `Me nah know — it not there.'

`Well, is it a snake, elephant, guinea pig, fish or what?'

'C'mon, Mr Coney, beg you reveal y'self for me an' the lady!' But the Indian coney appeared to be suffering from an advanced state of stage fright. The next cage had no sign — and no animals. The rest of the cages followed suit.

`Is why we nah guess then what seem so hobvious now? The zoo have no hanimals!'

To tell the truth, I don't think I've ever enjoyed a trip to a zoo so much. Looking at all those empty cages, and laughing with Little Mannie made my holiday. Somehow or another, a tiger had found its way into a cage, and so had an enormous python, but apart from that, our pleasure at staring into empty cages remained unmarred.

After the thrill of our day at the zoo, I gave Montego Bay up as a lost cause. No bus, train or cousin would take us, so I felt it best to admit defeat. I would buy a guide book about this elusive stretch of beach, describe what I had read to my friends, and pretend I'd been.

Then, the day before I left Jamaica, Lady Luck banged on my door in the burly form of Little Mannie. His opening lines were: 'It now hor never.' With a strong feeling that it was going to be never, I packed a towel and bathing suit, and we set off for the train station.

It was one of those enchanted days. A bus actually came, and we finally climbed aboard the Montego Bay train. The train was comfortable and cool, with hawkers walking up and down, selling everything from cigarettes and cool drinks to fried fish and bammy (a local fried bread). Five hours later we were there. We had arrived at Montego Bay! We had two hours to spend before the train went back.

I climbed from the train to view the scene — and gulped. A filthy little town, tainted with the worst traits of tourism. People clustered round us, trying to sell us rubbish at exorbitant prices. The taxi driver charged us ten times the normal rate to drive from station to beach. This was uncharacteristic of the rest of Jamaica, which is striking for the total honesty of its people.

We had to pay to go on the beach, and pay through the nose to use the beach niceties, showers, deck-chairs etc. The beach was surrounded by grey, ugly hotels. Tourists lay about like beached whales, whining in loud American accents that they couldn't leave the beach because it was too violent in the town. 'Those people y'know . . .' and they would give Little Mannie a meaningful look. Little Mannie (looking resplendent in his floral beachwear) sucked his teeth. 'Kiss me neck. Y'see why me nah like tourist dem!' I could see, but pointed out that I too was a tourist.

`Nah, you's foreigner.'

You can't say fairer than that.

So after an hour of lying in the scorching heat, bloated tourists on one side, menac- ing skyscrapers on the other, we bought expensive ice-creams, and jumped into a taxi. The driver began to shout at us, when he realised that Little Mannie was Jamaican, and so wouldn't fall for his tale that the Jamaican Tourist Board had set a rate of 50 dollars a mile. I felt however that 50 dollars was a cheap way from Montego Bay, so we caught the train, and sailed back to Clarendon. To get my money's worth out of Montego Bay, I insisted that Little Mannie took a photograph of me by the station. The photo, with 'MONTEGO BAY' in ramshackle letters above my head, has not impressed anyone so far, so I feel the quest for Montego Bay has waxed fruitless.

I can always gauge how much I have enjoyed a holiday, by how London looks on my return. After Botswana, London looked bleak and hideous, and the people seemed almost grotesque. I was sorry to be back. After Jamaica, however, London was bright and sparkling. People were friendly and gracious. Ah! It was good to be home. As Little Mannie would say, `Bwaay! Dis ya Henglan' irie!'