Next week, we’re off to Barbados where there’s surfing. In preparation for having to spend time under water, I plough back and forth in the hotel pool, while not breaking any of their rules: I haven’t any serious contagious diseases, indulged in horseplay of any kind or emitted bodily fluids into the water. Not even once. Honestly.
What with the earthquakes and hurricanes, buildings don’t last long in Kingston; Port Royal, however, is an exception. This fort once housed Nelson and has stood the test of time, while the land raised around it and sea retreated in the earthquakes of 1907 and 1692. As the sole white face on the tour of the museum and a Brit too, I felt uncomfortable as the tales of swashbuckling, colonialisation and slavery were dramatically unfurled, however, there was never a suggestion of anything other than shared history (and I met an African nurse from Hackney and felt more at ease).
On the way back my driver, Taylor, needed to find some time so we cut through a ghetto. Houses and shops on each side of the road were boarded up or burnt out, to the left were us were PNP (People’s National Party) supporters and opposite were their JLP (Jamaica Labour Party) neighbours. Relations are not good and shoot outs across the road are commonplace. This should be the road to town from the airport but it is too dangerous and the solution the government came to was to build another road.
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