the iine en steps. Port Antonio also liasrnthe Blue Lagoon, setting for the film ofrnthat name, in which Brooke Shields andrnher adolescent companion, on a desertrnisle far from the restraints of socieh, discorner tlie innocent ios of sex.rnThe lobb’ of the Trident Castle nearrnPort Antonio exhibited a with’ and fantasticrnpainhng in the nai’c shle enhtled HerrnMajesh’ Queen Victoria in the Companyrnof Selected Inmates from the PortlandrnHome for Bad Girls, Watches a Display ofrnPrecision Dwarf-Tossing [into basketballrnnets] by I Deal Dwarf Masters at the CastlernTrident. Poii Antonio. May 18, 1871.rnAs we admired the painting and inqniredrnabout the imposing Trident Casde downrnthe road from the hotel, the owner. EarlrnLe”, hospitably offered to give ns a tourrnof his pri’ate domain. Its stone floors,rnhigh ceilings, sweeping staircases, trompernI’oeil murals, swimming pool, lavish gardens,rnand fabulous views of the bay andrnthe sea reminded me of the mansionsrnmodeled on French chateaux that linernBellcue Asenue in Newport, Rhode Island.rnYet it seemed a comfortable, livablernhouse, and the family now rents itrnout for weekend parties and luxmiousrnweddings.rnIn Ocho Rios, we had free tennisrnlessons and an all-inclusive price. Manyrnguests made the most of a good deal, gobblingrnand guzzling until they passed outrntoward midnight. Idie more refinedrntvpes (like myself), fearful of appearingrntoo greed’, partook with restraint—andrnafterward regretted our delieacv. Thisrnhotel turned out to be my favorite — thernmost comfortable and civilized. I wouldrnhac been happy to spend the whole timernthere, but wc had booked ahead and hadrnto keep moxing.rnAs we bumped along the potholedrnroads, filled with mudcK’ water after therntropical squalls, I was amused by thernevocative expressions on signs, billboards,rnand walls: Sir I^lucky Chickens,rnFish Tea (soup). Mannish Water (virilerngoats’ testicle soup), Obe’ Your Thirst,rnMurder Mr. Trust (no credit), Don’t Pissrnon This Wall (someone, of course, wasrnpissing against it), and Only God HimselfrnAlone Can Judge Me.rnWhw then, with all these attractions,rndid I find the atmosphere so repellent?rnThe change from the glamour of colonialrntimes, symbolized by Fleming, Coward,rnand Flvnn, to the grim squalor ofrncontemporan- Jamaica was effected, afterrnindependence in 1962, by the fanaticalrnsocialist and nafionalist prime minister.rnMichael Norman Mauley. He forcedrnout the American owners of die bauxiternindustr- (still the most profitable businessrnon the i.sland, but suffering from inteniafionalrncompetition) and ruined rclafionsrnwith the United States. His policiesrnquickly destroyed the economy, raisedrnunemployment to unprecedented levels,rnand caused mass emigration. Violencerndrove out most of the English residentsrnand frightened away the tourists.rnThe economic condifion of die countr’rnis desperate. A white Jamaican whornowned a successful insurance agenc’rntold me that the economy is bad and goingrnto hell. Foreign imestors are wan’ ofrnopening factories because of the highrncost of electricit)’, restricfive labor unions,rnand difficulties of dealing with the goveniment.rnAn American Peace Corps volunteer,rnworking as a sewage engineer,rntold me it was hard to get anything donernbecause of typical Third World problems:rnbureaucratic obstruction, governmentrncorruption, and ingrained resistancernto change.rnApart from marijuana, rum, and coffeern(inexpertly roasted and vers’ expensie atrnmore than $20 per pound), almost nothingrnis exported from the island. Almostrnall manufactured goods, from packagedrnfood and toilet paper to clothing andrnelectronic equipment, have to be importedrnat very high prices. Anyone who canrnafford a plane ticket shops in Miami.rnCrowing ganja is a flourishing industr’,rnand drug-smuggling a major source of ineonie.rnAmericans posing as tourists tr’ tornget in on the acfion and frequently landrnin Jamaican prisons.rnThere’s 75 percent unemploxnicntrnamong men and massive emigrationrnfrom the overpopulated and apparentlyrnhopeless country. Two-and-a-half millionrnJamaicans live on the island, and I’vvornmillion are in America. American visasrnare in great demand and difficult to obtain.rnJamaican employees at the LI.S.rnConsulate were arrested for selling diemrnfor $2,000 each. The crime rate is cxtrenieh’rnhigh, violence is endemic, andrnmost of Kingston —a hideously squalidrntown —is too dangerous to visit, even inrndayfime. Securit}’ (private guards, dogs,rnalarms) is one of the few growth industries,rnwhich suggests both the climate ofrnfear and the widespread distrust of therncorrupt and inefficient police. The radicalrnchange from the pleasanfiy old to thernmenacingly new Jamaica is reflected inrniioels about the island: from RichardrnHughes’ High Wind in Jamaica (1929)rnand Alec Waugh’s Island in the Sunrn(1956) to V.S. Naipaul’s Guerrillasrn(197S) and Russell Banks’ The Book offamaiea(rnm)).rnThe road out of Kingston was litteredrnwith rotting vegetables, squashed papayas,rnand pancaked roadkill. The menacingrnmood and somber scene, and especiallyrnthe contrast between the luxuryrnhotels and local tin-roofed shanties, oncernagain reminded me of Africa. Drowsylookingrnmen, idling around the shacksrnon the side of the road, stared dullv—perhapsrnresentfully—at us as we jolted by inrnour new jeep.rnTin cans, glinting in the bright sun,rndecorated the points of spik’ cacti. Vultures,rnflapping heaviK awav at our approach,rnpecked out the eyes of dead dogs.rnNext to a sign that read “J.P. Stewart,rnPainter,” J.P. himself was standing at anrneasel at the side of the road. One youngrnman, dressed only in brightiy colored underpants,rnhad wandered out to the middlernof the road as he brushed his teeth,rnand ears swerved around him. Someonernelse ran by in a hurry, carr’ing tv’0rnmacabre cow’s legs, sawn off above thernhoof and dripping with blood.rnFar from welcoming tourists as arnsource of jobs and revenue, the impoverishedrnand discontented people —notablyrnlacking good humor or natural gaiet)’—rnwere touchy and volatile. Except for hotelrnemployees who were paid to be politernor touts tr’ing to wheedle something outrnof you, they were sullen at best, and oftenrnquite hostile. Most restaurants, bars, andrnshops subjected their clients to “StreetrnThunder,” a brain-shattering blast of reggaernmusic, the legac of the local god,rnBob Marley. Asking anyone to turnrndown the sound was considered a mortalrninsult.rnMost of the staff at expensive hotelsrnwere poorly trained, and the service wasrnoften ludicrous. A waiter at one hotelrnshowed us a bottle of wine without a label,rnwhich had fallen unobserved into arnbucket of melted ice. A porter at anotherrnplace tipped our luggage off the cart andrnonto the wet grass while attempting torntransport it from the lobb’ to our room.rnThe cook who came wifli one villa andrncouldn’t be dismissed insisted on servingrndinner at her convenience, not ours, andrntransformed the spaghetti into a glutinousrnmush. A waitress who dropped arnsyrup-laden knife between my daughter’srnbare legs exclaimed: “Look where it donernchoose to fall!”rnWe began each morning and eveningrnDECEMBER 1999/37rnrnrn