McDonald brothers, Sugar Pot, puppies, and lizard

If you read the earlier posts from today you know that the McDonald brothers (twins) are friends of Uncle Paul and came across the island to get to Oracabessa. It turns out that their destination was a little place called Sugar Pot, right on the beach. Sugar Pot is a typical beach hut type of place, with the exception of the sign prohibiting ganja. The sign wasn't working too well, as the cook was occasionally toking a splif in the kitchen. The smoke would gently waft out and tickle our nostrils.

Anyway, Sugar Pot is the start of a dream by Josh, the Belgian guy seen here on the left. He is an engineer, and his last project was the beautiful new bus terminal in central Kingston (near Halfway Tree). While he had thought of southern France or Spain as a place to retire to, he seemed to have become stuck in Jamaica. His dream is to make this little spot into a kind of hotel/eatery/music place. He has just started in the last few months.

The McDonalds, Ronnie and Michael, live in the area and got to know Josh and his local partner. The McDonalds are record producers, and work in Kingston throughout the week.

Josh had asked them to come and get some music going every other Sunday. So here we all were, for lunch and music on the beach.

The scene was completed by some young pups lazing around the area, waiting for scraps and attention.

As soon as lunch happened, they were over at the table, waiting for dropped food and nipping at each other.

The other participant was a lizard lounging and lurking on the driftwood.

Lunch started with conch soup, created al fresco over a live fire. That was followed by chicken and fish, rice and peas, and cole slaw. All was washed down with Ting (local grapefruit drink) or Red Stripe.

So, the McDonalds turned out to be very interesting people. First they hauled out an actual tube pre-amp, the first tubes I had seen in probably forty years. I asked about them, and apparently the tubes were weak, but still functioning. It turns out that these guys have been in the music business since they were about three feet tall. They had built their first gear, tube-powered amps that drove 50-60 amps. They had built their first speakers by hand, as well. Then they started playing parties and progressed from there. Now they work in their studio all week and return home to Oracabessa for the weekend.

So, to recap, Red Stripe, conch soup, puppies, chicken cooked al fresco, beach, music. Why the hell don't we live here?

White rum and Ting

First night in Jamaica after a time away: I leave at 9PM for Uncle Paul's and Uncle Danny's club, Bamboozia. This club is really nice, located on a rooftop with a beautiful view of Kingston and the surrounding hills. At this time of night the lights are beautiful. I order up my first of several white rum and Ting drinks. This was assured to me to be a perfect drink; you never get a hangover if you stick to this one drink.

The music is loud, the crowd is a bit thin this early in the evening. Thursday at Bamboozia is karaoke night. Some of the singing is good, some really bad. It is pretty high tech, with a PC station running alongside the CDs.

By the time I am on my second or third drink the crowd begins to grow a little. While I am watching it I am thinking supper club. Dinner from 7-10, with romantic couples watching the mountains and enjoying the night breeze. The kitchen would be right out in the open, dinners prepared right in front of your eyes. The music would start out as soft jazz, then gradually turn to something a bit louder and more dance oriented as the night wears on. Brain farts... Maybe rum-induced, maybe not.

Up on this rooftop is another business, a well-equipped gym. There are tons of machines, treadmills, exercise bikes, and free weights. The place sparkles. It has just opened, waiting for people to enroll. There is a young guy in charge of it. He has stayed beyond the 9PM closing tonight to participate in karaoke. It turns out that he, too, is a frustrated musician. His voice is very good, and Uncle Paul tells me that he plays the piano well. I buy him a drink while he tells me about what he has to do to support his talent while waiting for a breakthrough.

There is also a music studio on this level. I do not make it inside, being primarily interested in blowing off some steam with the rum and music. Uncle Paul tells me that a video studio is also planned. Niece Tif is now part of a growing creative group - an unstructured collection of people with talent in music, photography, video and editing, advertising, etc. They are young and energetic and seem to think there is opportunity. I find out that the local cell phone companies (3 of them) fight it out monthly on TV with newly shot commercials supporting their campaigns. There is money to be made.

I head off to the bar, drunk as a lord, to gather a story from a geezer I see there. I am thinking it is unusual to see another silverhair in a place like this. I sit down after offering him a drink and wait for some conversation to pop up. Instead, a young woman (mid-twenties or so) comes up and sits between us. She is a live wire. I know she has been up on the stage singing, and ask her if she has some Indian background. Something in her voice makes me suspect that. She tells me her Mom is Indian and proceeds to tell me her life-story. I notice she also has a space between her front teeth (like me), and comment on it. She assures me that the space means she is sweet up here (in the mouth area) and down there (she vaguely waves a hand around her lap). She introduces me to her boyfriend, the silverhair. I can't hear very well, but it seems she came from a town out west (Santa Cruz) that I have traveled through. Her boyfriend is a business man, and they are happy together. The conversation goes on and she invites me over to another bar on the following evening. Her friend writes the address on his business card. I am thinking, what a friendly place and what friendly people.

I mention that I am Danny's brother-in-law, and she warns me to stick to my wife. She tells me Jamaican girls will stick to you, trying their best to please you. So beware! Probably good advice, don't you think?

The next morning I discover that maybe no hangover is a bit inaccurate. Welcome to "Jamaica, where the rum comes from."