Rastafari

Spent a week in Jamaica. It was my third time there, but the first time I stayed outside of an all-Inclusive resort. This time I really got to see the country and to "eat the fruit off the tree." I grew grey-whiskered stubble on my face, listened to reggae music, swam in the ocean and spent a couple days in the hills. I drank Red Stripe beer, ate akee with saltfish, pineapple, lots of mango, plaintain, gnip, Jamaican pears, and lots of jerk pork and chicken, along with curry goat. By the end of the week I could actually understand the local patois.

I had this conversation with a man on the roadside while my friend's brodda was in a small market looking for dinner.

Stranger: Wa-gwan-mon?
Me: Nothing wa-gwon.

What's going on man?
Nothing's going on.

My friend's brother came out empty handed. He said. "No fish today, sea ruff."

He is a Rasta and only eats fish, no pork. Not me.

So, anyway, I'm back, rested, and as soon as I shave, I'm ready for work at 6:00 A.M. tomorrow.