Roots, Rock, Red Label Wine

Jamaica is an island of rhythm and rhyme. From the moment I land in Kingston, my hips begin to move. There’s music bursting from every jagged road. And it’s not always Bob Marley or Vybz Kartel. It may be a group of countrymen slamming dominoes on rickety tables while they testify about unruly women, waning hustles and lives already lived. Hot Guinness drizzles down their cracked faces into spirits fortified by mamas’ prayers and Olympic wins. I go to my brother’s bar in a lingering Kingston enclave and soak it all in. I laugh until I cry, the sweetness of the Red Label wine wining through my veins like a dancehall queen mashing up the bashment. A single-toothed, rude bwoy offers me some Wincarnis—a respected, herb-driven tonic wine that allegedly heals impotence and stimulates libido. I graciously accept. With a glass filled with ice and a belly tight from grinning, it tastes like a yummy ruby Port.

Note: Biggups to Usain Bolt and all of the Jamaican Olympic athletes that represented our little island with such style and grace this year.

In the Land of No Ice Cream Cones

I was having one of those days. You know what I’m talking about—avalanching bill collectors, late checks, forgotten invoices, and nothing but everything in the fridge. A day when you find out that the harvest will be late and that the road is even longer than you knew it was.  I was feeling weary and the last thing I wanted to do is post anything on my little blog, but then I ran into this photo I took during a Christmas mission trip to Manchester, Jamaica. I remember this little man—dusty with poverty, rich with charm, oozing the swagger of a true Wailer. He and a bunch of his comrades joined me for popsicles at the local bar. They didn’t serve ice cream cones, just Red Label wine, Red Stripe and popsicles.