A Jamaican memory

During my youth I was a Marine Embassy Guard in Kingston Jamaica. Now before you assume that duty was all beaches and rum punch, go give this a look.

In Kingston, very far removed from the tourist areas, life was (and still is) characterized by violence, political turmoil, government corruption and crushing poverty. Few people drove nice cars, and almost no one drove a big car. So when we Marines went tooling around town in a big black 1975 Chevy Impala, we stood out like a sore thumb! Given the state-run media’s fixation with “CIA destabilization in Jamaica”, it was generally felt that we were usually identified by the Jamaicans as CIA agents.

We couldn’t have cared less who they thought we were; just as long as they weren’t shooting at us – which did occasionally happen.



One day while riding the CIA-mobile thru a hard-core socialist neighborhood (the Jamaican’s have a tendency to live in areas according to their political affiliation) we were passing down a very narrow little street called Cassava Piece. All the folks there are supporters of the PNP party and thus have pronounced anti-American sentiments.

I was on the passenger side with my arm hanging out the open window as we drove past a bus stop crowded with school kids. As we passed by, one of the boys slapped my arm hard. I certainly wasn’t going to get out and confront a bunch of kids. And just as certainly I wasn’t going to acknowledge how much it hurt. So, thinking quickly, I leaned a bit further out the window so I could be seen as I made brushing motions along my arm, as if to remove some dirt or contaminant.

Since we were only going about 15 to 20 mph, we were still close enough to hear the resulting burst of laughter from the kids at my tactic. I comforted myself to think that my “message” got thru!