Negril Notes

Guardsman Guardsmen Guarding

January 12, 2007

When Im in Negril I try to travel light money-wise. I know me, the more I have, the more Ill spend. Filling up also forces me to get off my butt, and to get out of the resort.

This particular money run took place on Wednesday, though it may have been Thursday, after paying for breakfast I was down to four hundred fifty dollars, Jamaican dollars, about six bucks US, so I needed some cash. I hopped into a route taxi and headed into town.

You want me to wait for you. Bring you back? the driver asked.

Sure how much? I knew this would cost me.

500J he came back.

Three hundred, I haggled. Id paid the standard 50J into town, but I didnt mind over paying as long as he knew, that I knew I was overpaying. His nod was all I needed, and we pulled into Sunshine Plaza where my preferred ATM at the NCB, was located.

I hopped out of the taxi as two armored cars aggressively pulled into the parking lot. Their deliberate actions got everyones attention. Everything paused.

The first red and black armored car parked directly in front of the bank, while its counterpart circled menacingly through the lot, the sun bouncing off its dark tinted windows, the name GUARDSMAN emblazoned on its side in tough bold letters. After two laps the second car pulled up to the first, parking nose to nose blocking the egress lane.

The armored cars looked just like they do in the US, but the reaction of the Jamaicans in the parking lot took me by surprise. The lot holds about fifty cars, and it was just more than half full, mostly taxis. You can say a lot about Jamaican taxi drivers, shrinking violets they are not, but they all seemed to pause. No one walked though the imaginary line the trucks made in the lot.

I was half expecting a muscle bound guy in a tight black t-shirt, with studded army boots and a snarling Pit Bull to jump out of the armored car.

Suddenly the passenger doors of both armored cars opened simultaneously, and out of each came a man wearing black trousers, red polo styled golf shirts, Guardsman baseball caps, and extremely large pump-action shotguns. They were holding them not like props, but like they were ready to shoot someone as they scanned the crowd. 

I felt like such a white bread tourist geek, as I stood agog at the scene before me. Ive come to Jamaica so many times, I like to think I’ve passed beyond mere tourist. Ive been on the back streets of Montego Bay, and Sav-La-Mar, up in the ganja fields, and even spent a few wild late nights at the now defunct Close Encounters. I thought Id seen the Real Jamaica hustlers are always trying to sell, but I was experiencing something real here.

The shotgun guys must have given a sign to their armored security counterparts, the back doors opened, and a team of three emerged from each car. First was a manager type with a white shirt and tie, and two uniformed guards, their hands on holstered semi-automatic pistols. One team went into the Hi-Lo supermarket, while the other went into the ATM booth. One shotgun guy followed each team stopping to guard the respective doors.

A collective sigh seemed to come over the crowd. The people in the parking lot stayed in the parking lot, and as shoppers came out of the store, they waited, not wanting to cross the line. I was already closer to the ATM than my cab so I walked up and stood near the ATM as if I was the next in line.

The shotgun guy looked me over, Morning, he said his finger still looped within the trigger guard, Just a few more minutes.

Take your time, I said with a nervous smile. Im on vacation, I have all day. I immediately thought I was talking too much.

Minutes went by. I looked over to my taxi. The driver was looking impatient sitting on the hood of the car. I shrugged in a Hey what can I do? gesture knowing me his tip was increasing with each passing minute. I turned back to the guy with the big gun and saw I was now second in line.

In front of me was a fidgety white guy, dressed in all-inclusive chic, starched Hawaiian shirt, khaki slacks, dock-siders and a Yankees cap.

Hey Pal, the line forms behind me, I said as un-aggressively as I could.

What the hell is going on here? I need to get some cash! He almost shouted to me and the large man with the large gun.

Just a few more minutes sir, the guard said firmly.

Yeah Skippy, right after Im done, I said getting annoyed, buoyed by the idea the guy with the shotgun was now my buddy.

This is bullshit! What, do you people think you can just waste my time! Bullshit! This guy was nuts, here he was, ranting at an armed no nonsense guy, not to mention pissing me off.

Worst of all he was a fellow American, from his accent I figured Connecticut or Upstate New York, I wish he would have stayed there. Im proud to be an American, but this ugly American looked so very ugly from this vantage point. I looked at the faces of the Jamaicans across the way, they seemed amused. I wondered if they differentiate between him and me.

For a moment I wondered what the shotgun guy would do if I slapped the shit out of Skippy, you know, for America, but before I could find out Skippy stormed off.

Fucking Americans, I muttered eliciting a smile from the big guy with the gun.

A couple of minutes later a knock came from inside the ATM booth and the big guy with the gun moved about ten feet closer to the armored car.

The Manager Guy came out flanked by the other two guards, one holding his pistol and the other carrying bags of what I assumed was money.

“Go right a head sir,” the Manager Guy said to me while holding the door open. “Would you like us to wait for you to finish?”

“No, I’m fine.” I responded wondering if he thought I was the yelling asshole ugly American Guy.

I made eye contact with the big guy with the gun, “Thanks,” I said. He nodded in reply.

I went in and withdrew 15,000J, it sounds like a lot more than it is, and by the time I got out the armored cars were starting their motors. 

I headed back to The Blue Cave Castle to meet up with my friends for lunch. I paid the driver his 500J.
Vinny

Filed under: Negril, Writing