Cah me haffi wine pon di cocky like dis Kartel spin me like a satellite dish Deal wid yuh breast like mi crushing Irish Spice I neva love a pussy like dis You ah my Mista You ah my miss Kill me with the cocky Romping Shop / Vybz Kartel Translation not provided. Further interpretation on the website genius.com
FYRE FESTIVAL ALL OVER AGAIN
Acknowledgments. Kindly watch Netflix’s documentary “FYRE: The Greatest Party That Never Happened” to understand this section. If your girlfriend smashed your TV on Valentine’s Day or changed your Netflix’s identifications over the last two days, there is also this very insightful article on theguardian.com.
Miami December 26th / 3 days before it goes down.
I have been on hold with an Expedia agent for the last 2 hours, transferred subsequently from Northern African countries to Indian telemarketing platforms (quite the norm, you would say). François Dupond, my interlocutor, allegedly a French native as he convinced himself, picked up, reciting his mechanical speech, unstoppable. I concisely presented the situation: the resort we booked in Jamaica happened to be a scam that was still undergoing massive construction.
François, without a care in the world, got back on his recital, pretending that he will examine the situation when we all know he will alternatively be scoring on Tinder.
Miami December 28th / 1 day before it goes down
Over the last two days, François Dupond has been a ghost, and I don’t blame him. Being a target of frantic tourists ain’t easy.
Twelve hours before our departure, he magically resurfaced from his telemarketing world with an ambivalent suggestion: ” All the resorts are unavailable at the moment, but my friend, I did find a HOSTEL. You will share a room with other people, not too bad. Happy?”.
“Happiness depends on ourselves,” as declared Aristotle; therefore, it’s a no-no François.
Montego Bay December 29th / When it goes down
Following her basic instinct, mom filled her suitcase with all the utilities you need for a Humanitarian trip to Monaco: bandages, Truffle chips, and Champagne. Her perspective, no doubt. Dad naturally emptied the stock of rum in the plane and filled his pockets with pretzel bags in case it will be missing at the hotel. On a side note, several passengers were asked to donate their pretzel bags to tranquilize him and, more importantly, to prevent further product shortage incidents—the art of the hustle.
As in every nightmare, Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No.4 resonated gradually; no signs could be seen on the side of the road as if they intentionally prayed for no one to locate this hotel. The taxi driver abandoned us in front of a Western-Union scam / dumpster-like resort. As in John Wayne Western films, the backside was nonexistent. Construction workers were on a high frequency, knocking one nail at a time since they couldn’t help but gaze at every woman passing by. The hotel manager greeted us with their finest Creole Champagne and said: ” Ya, man, welcome to Jamaica.”
PRAISE THE LORD OR BOB MARLEY
Highest divinity on the island,
A supreme cultural figure,
Bob Marley all smiles and,
Omnipresent for sure,
At the post office, the beach and your gynecologist
His aura bewitched us,
You worship Bob more than your mistresses thus,
No wonder why his portrait is nailed on your marital bedstead,
Sing along, “Love the life you live and live the life you love,”
and unveil the definition of true love.
THE DUTTY WINE EXPERIENCE
The traditional Sunday service is presently held by the almightly dancehall Queens, a conglomerate of women whose doctrine endorses dutty wine, splits, and other remarkable acrobatics. The traditional “Hail Mary, full of grace” benediction has been replaced by modern canticles such as “kill them with the…” or “Shake that thing, Miss Annabella.”
The sense of creativity among the Dancehall Queens should be acknowledged and acclaimed by the most pre-eminent critics. Their ability to compose and adjust their choreography to any situation is undeniable. I recalled during New Year’s Eve as the countdown began, and under the grip of the national dutty wine anthem “Fiver” by Vibz Kartel, they began to shake uncontrollably. The Dancehall Queens grabbed anything in their surroundings, including long chairs, Ray-Ban glasses, husbands (non-exhaustive list). The excitement was at its paroxysm, as tourists attempted to replicate the dance moves. Lord Have Mercy.
HIDE YOUR WIFE HIDE YOUR KIDS
Caribbean Islands have been exempted from sexual taboos. Perhaps the 6-am office dominical initially instituted by the European colonists lost its greatness. Uninhibited From Lust To Love is now the new motto.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a casual walk on the beach can turn into a hunting session. Once, deprived of any conscious fears, and most certainly running away from my dad’s daily rum discovery narratives, I strolled by the seashore. Within 2 minutes, using the infamous crab-walking technique, I was encircled by two alleged Rasta men. They sang in unison “Babylon, Babylon, Jah Bless,” and legitimately challenged, I retorted, “yeah man, Bomboclaat.” “Bomboclaat” being an expression used by Jamaican to translate their anger and, most fundamentally, a cursed-word meaning “fuck.”
Impressed by my extensive knowledge of the Jamaican vocabulary, they engaged the conversation. Initially cynical, the Rasta duet appeared satisfied to know that my father was from Martinique. I was elevated to the gold status of a two-night stand: “wicked, wicked mi sistah, but on the real, can you cook jerk chicken and do the split?”.
Further revelations compromised my ranking. Not being married at 29-year-old was alarming enough for them to run away. Typical sociopath profile, according to few Jamaican Psychologists.
Nonchalant, the two protagonists continued their spiritual and intangible quest on the beach: “Sexy gyal, move ya body, mi love yu, Bomboclaat.”