Your soul for a US visa

In the early to mid-1970s when Jamaica's ganja exports were nearing peak if not at the highest level, I had a friend who was a frequent visitor to a yacht moored in Kingston Harbour that was owned by an American connected to the US Embassy in Kingston.

My friend was a 'hustler'. He would buy an old car for $300, spend $350 in a garage to get it in working order, then sell it a month later for $1,500. The complaints that came after from buyers were seen by him as mere impediments on his way to success. Uneducated but highly intelligent in utilising what life presented to him -- 'the edge' -- for his survival, he connected with those who he believed could best assist that overall purpose.

At that time, a 10-cu ft, no-frost refrigerator was sold for a whopping $250, gas was sold for under $2 per gallon, and most of my friends who had good jobs were paid between J$250 and J$350 per month. A mid-priced house in Havendale with land space for another four such houses was under $30,000; a domestic helper earned, on average, anywhere between $10 and $15 per week; a supply of $40 worth of food and groceries could feed a family of three for two weeks; and ganja locally prepared for export would surreptitiously leave our shores at $35 per pound.

My friend had four other friends who were, like him, in their 30s. One owned a furniture store, the other an ice cream parlour, and one provided legal services for him, at minimal cost. He was a lawyer and along with the fourth, a semi-literate 'businessman', but all were 'small fries' in the illicit export of ganja to the US. In addition, my friend 'sold' US visas, and it was my assumption that he did so through a dirty contact at the US embassy.

My friend did not survive the 1970s, neither did the furniture store owner, the ice cream parlour owner nor the lawyer. All met violent deaths as a result of their increased involvement in the illicit drug trade and their greed. Not surprisingly, the only survivor is the semi-literate one who is now a born-again Christian and an owner of significant parcels of real estate in Jamaica and Florida.

In the 1970s the going rate for a US visa was anywhere between $3,000 and $5,000, depending on one's needs/ability to pay. There were social horror stories related to attempts to secure a US visa through the established channels. It was said that applicants had to be in line outside the embassy (Duke Street, Cross Roads) from as early as 4:00 am, and because there was no guarantee that one would be seen that day, it created the need for the professional 'line holder' -- someone who would keep the space for you, for a fee.

Essentially, one had to prove to the US authorities that if one visited their country for a month, one would not disappear into the American woodwork anywhere along the eastern seaboard from Miami to Plymouth Rock.

Some Jamaicans would falsify bank statements by having moneyed friends or relatives make sudden transfers to their accounts. All efforts were made to convince the consular officer that the applicant had sufficient ties to Jamaica (job, savings, home ownership, dependents, etc) to not run off.

When that failed, the 'visa man' was always available.

Opinion polls of pre-recession times indicate that in excess of 75 per cent of Jamaicans would 'sell their soul' for an American visa. "Mi jus waan dem gimme a one-day visa an mi gone," said an unemployed labourer to me one day last week.

"Don't you know that times are hard there and people are complaining that foreigners have taken away jobs?" I said to him.

"Dem nah clean toilet. Mi wi do it," he said. One of his younger friends, in his early 20s who is also unemployed, laughed and said, "Him jus waan guh deh because him waan hit di streets and push drugs."

After about five minutes had elapsed, with minimal contribution from me, they both agreed that whether a poor and uneducated person decided to go legal or sell illicit drugs on the street, it would be better to do so on the streets of Brooklyn than Kingston and starve.

I have no statistics on the number of Jamaicans, as a percentage of those granted visitor's visas, who eventually meld into the American socio-economic network for protracted periods. I would imagine that to some poor Jamaicans, the cost of finding the return-ticket fare after a visa has been granted is a little too much to bear. Something else has to come with that plane fare and too often that extra serving is an AWOL in the system.

Some love to hate America

In my teens I read in a publication (the title escapes me now) that in the old, money-rich, genteel upper St Andrew society of the 1950s when the skin colour of choice was white, at recreational gatherings - which they imagined was avant-garde in their social outlook - it was, at times, considered necessary to invite a man - a Rastafarian - to such gatherings where they would listen to him lash out on 'the evils of the white man', 'the stolen history of the black race' and the 'day of reckoning' when 'heads would roll and blood would flow'.

In terms of pan-African sentiments in Jamaica, Rastafari has been ahead of the curve of the remainder of the population who represent the vast majority of the black-skinned population. But where there were some white-skinned Jamaicans of the 1950s who saw the stark and embarrassing social imbalance, it is my view that there were not many who wanted to fast-forward to a time of social change.

When a Rasta showed up at such a gathering, he was being openly caricatured by his hosts (who would pay him), but one would imagine that a good deal of Jamaican Anancy-ism was in him as he indulged in what he deeply believed in and got paid for doing so. Uptown, separatist Jamaica referred to him as a 'pet Rasta'.

In a not quite so similar manner there were many liberal institutions in the USA in the 1960s and 1970s that would invite Third World scholars/socialist leaders to flay America while getting paid to do so. The more strident the criticisms, the bigger the next cheque. It is obvious that in a post-9/11 USA those sentiments have been significantly relaxed, and now America is getting a bit tired of those with tiresome political philosophies and nothing in their pockets telling it what a crock it has been - and getting paid for the buffoonery.

Colleague columnist Rev Mervin Stoddart is a fearless critic of what he calls 'Euro-American' dehumanisation of black countries. In last Wednesday's column, he ended with, "Wake up, Jamaicans, and guard your God-given human rights and privileges. The imperialists and their henchmen are powerful and deadly, but true servants of Yahweh, guided by Yeshua Messiah, cannot fear them. The religiosity of Jamaicans should not make them docile but fire in them the prophetic spirit historically found in Manley, Marley, Marcus, Martin, Malcolm, Mandela, and Messiah Himself, among others. Are there any courageous humans left among us?"

I would never for one minute mistake Stoddart for a 'pet Rasta' of the 1950s because one doesn't get the impression that he aches, deeply, to repatriate to the 'Motherland'. Apart from not knowing that God was partial to names beginning with 'M', I had no idea that Stoddart, a scholar/clergyman, could spend so many years studying the Jamaican people and find so much fault in big government, imperialism and leaders 'actually executing their demonic plan of destroying and controlling humanity' without, at the very least apportioning some of the blame to the people who continue to endorse such a system: us the voters.

I have many friends and a few relatives living in the USA, legally that is, and I have two US visas. One is an R type B1/B2 expiring in 2011 and the other is an R Type 1 expiring in 2013. Most Jamaicans I know living in America would return home if Jamaica had even half of the economic prospects America offered them in its heyday and if Jamaica's violent crime problem were to be suddenly reduced by, say, 80 per cent.

Some years ago I knew a young woman who had seriously fallen off her economic pedestal. She was left with a young child and no support. Next door to her lived a young couple, friends of mine, who had three children and were themselves struggling to make ends meet.

Knowing of the young woman's plight, my friends would religiously invite her for dinner until she became a fixture at the dining table. Many times all my friends could afford was Grace Mackerel, fondly known as 'dutty gal', a permanent protein fixture in my kitchen cabinet today.

Years later when the young woman's fortunes changed and she no longer needed to head next door, she was overheard saying to other people, "All dem eat ova dey so (my friends) every day a dutty gal." Talk about biting the hand that once fed you.

It is not my understanding that Jamaicans should suddenly become afraid to criticise America, but I must confess I have a problem with people eating out of my pot and telling me that there is not enough meat in the stew. Next time carry your own meat to the table.

If one hates America, one has a duty to represent the other side which would show why one is domiciled in America. Certainly, it must be like a marriage where the wife loves the fact that her husband is able to fund the household but hates the smell of rum on his breath every evening he comes home and wants to kiss her.

What gives a state its legitimacy?

In a democracy it is the effectiveness of the security forces and the military which allows a state to police the legitimacy given it by an unwritten agreement.

If tomorrow morning Opposition leader Portia Simpson Miller should decide to report for work at Jamaica House at the same time as all her ministers in the pre-September 2007 Cabinet are reporting for work at the various ministries, what would the JLP government do? For the PNP to be serious it would need to have the support of the army officers, the army, the commissioner of police and the police force itself.

In other words, Portia would need beside her the head of the JDF and the police commissioner, as well as their prior assent. If Golding refused to budge, he would be removed to a 'secure facility' as would other senior Cabinet members. And, of course, after that, it is the army and the police that would be the real bosses.

It's a far-fetched scenario but there is an unwritten code among our people at all levels that once the transfer of a governmental administration takes place, the legitimacy of the changing of the guard must also come with a philosophical concession by the losers and a similar mental shift of 'taking up the mantle of leadership' by the winners.

Jamaica has many mini-states where so-called dons operate in a parallel universe to the legally constituted government. Apart from the ceremonial gatherings and swearing-in, instruments of office (fancy words on fancy paper) and the playing of the national anthem, over the last 30 years the mini-state has been modelled off the legitimate state and, more importantly, in many instances the mini-state is more effective.

To a poor, powerless man, the only thing more important to him than securing and holding a job which gives a livable wage - and the possession of a US visa - is his need for justice, because we are a very contentious people.

If I should park my car on Darling Street, or anywhere downtown for that matter, and it is stolen or broken into, I am positive that I will have my vehicle or the contents returned within 48 hours if I should seek the assistance of those running the mini-state. Go to the police and I can kiss my car goodbye.

Why is this so? The answer is simple. In the years when those in government opted to take the easiest route to maintaining the power they had - that is, rush in at election time with goodies then disappear for the next five years while leaving the actual running of many inner-city communities to dons - the leaders (dons) of the mini-state were seeing the real problems because they were always very close to the people.

The state-within-a-state saw that it needed a base of regular funding - called taxation in the legitimate state. Extortion was the way. It needed to maintain a workable justice system, so it simply borrowed from grinding poverty and the police what it knew worked well in inner-city communities: Brutality. Enter its justice system.

But like the legitimate state it needed to police its authority. With the power connections to deal in the drug trade, many of the mini-states earned the huge sums needed to recruit and maintain various armies of 'soldiers', arms and regular supplies of ammunition.

Next came the lines of authority in the leadership structure and, most important of all, the infiltration of the mini-state inside the legitimate state. Jamaica is there now and the lines between both states are dangerously blurred, especially where the legitimate state has failed on basic deliverables to those most at risk and those who are most impatient and angry.

Top-class Jamaican products and the commoner

It certainly has not created for me a lifetime's affliction to admit that I am a commoner. The first time I had beluga caviar was in 1976. Since that time I have been able to convince myself that I am more comfortable with Grace mackerel on fluffy white rice than tasteless, little gelatinous, brownish balls heaped on a small cracker.

In the early 1970s I had escargot at The Mill restaurant, then a most upscale Manor Park eatery. No more snails for me. Chupski loves sushi and tends to always order it whenever we are out dining fancy. Whenever she chides me while I am halfway through my oxtail meal, I simply say, "I do not eat raw fish", because cooking it is what those on the sidewalk of society do.

Long before the Observer presented awards to Homestyle for their frozen dinners, I wrote about them. Excellent! Just steep in boiling water for 15 minutes and voila! I dare any well-known restaurant to cook a more tasty curry goat than the Homestyle brand. I must, however, confess that the recession has for me cut down even moderate consumption of this product.

One of the best compliments paid to my writings in this newspaper was by an Observer newsroom staff. We were in a bar off Red Hills Road. "Mark, you are to the Observer what Grace mackerel is to GraceKennedy." I thought about it for a while and was then convinced that he had perfectly captured the essence of me the commoner. I was the Observer's 'dutty gal'.

I confess, however, to hating instant coffee, the first and last refuge of the commoner. I have been inside many corporate offices and most of them serve up instant coffee. So totally void of class. My choice is Blue Mountain coffee roasted beans, ground in a Magic Bullet then percolated. After that the commoner chips in as I add condensed milk and a 'touch' of salt to it. Said Novia McDonald Whyte to me years ago, in her clipped British accent, "Maaak, no, no, no, no! One doesn't use condensed milk there... oh dear, there is no hope for you. Can't say I didn't try."

The other Jamaican product which I consider excellent is Tru-Juice, especially its orange juice. I have been to many fancy hotels and restaurants but I have yet to taste orange juice as good and fresh as Tru-Juice orange juice. Still, there is nothing better than the freshly squeezed fruit in the morning.

Although I am not a regular consumer of energy drinks, the face of Red Bull in the market is unmistakable. Over the last few months, however, in many bars, a Wisynco-produced drink called Boom has been making significant strides. I haven't asked the principals how they have done it, but having pretty much the same ingredients as other energy drinks, Wisynco has been able to significantly increase the serving size over Red Bull while selling for nearly $100 less. A marketing coup!

At one period in my first marriage I would purchase Grace mackerel, a case at a time, because it served the dual purpose of feeding me and the dogs. Once when I added one tin to the 'tun cornmeal' mix, the dogs went crazy over it.

At that time, I was still the only one on two legs in the household who ate 'dutty gal'. The proviso issued by my wife to the children while they were rummaging in the kitchen cupboard was, "Leave the Grace mackerel alone. It is Daddy's and the dogs' food."

I have known my place since that time.

observermark@gmail.com

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