Morris Cargill

BECAUSE OF my wretched lameness I go out very little though many kind people visit me regularly and keep me informed about what goes on.

But Tuesday April 6 was very different, for on that morning my old friend Butch Stewart had most generously put his private jet and two pilots at my disposal. Another old friend, Junior Foote, turned up in his red Mercedes to take me, my assistant and my wheelchair to Norman Manley and looked after all the red tape attendant upon our departure. I had, by the way, to fork out $1500 in departure tax. I was surprised that I wasn't charged a departure tax for my wheelchair.

The two charming pilots bundled me into the jet to be followed by my assistant and my wheelchair and off we sped to Grand Cayman. Both Butch and Junior were supposed to have come with me but at the last moment both had to back out; Junior, because of the exigencies of his advertising agency, and Butch, because he was in the midst of buying an hotel from FINSAC. I hope he manages to buy one or two of them at a tempting price for FINSAC would be well advised to sell them cheap rather than have then gathering dust in the books and costing taxpayers a fortune.

At Cayman, I was met by a very special person, my half brother John Pringle. At Cayman I counted at least seventeen private jets parked at the airport. There were probably more. There were four huge cruise ships standing off Georgetown.

The town was packed with happy tourists, none of them suffering any kind of harassment and nobody was trying to sell them anything. Cayman is doing a land office tourist business.

Many years ago when I first went to Cayman the Caymanians, more used to ships than cars were busy running into one another and into walls for no apparent reason. On this occasion the traffic was heavy but well ordered, with everyone giving way when necessary and nobody cutting the lights.

At John's flat I was delighted to be greeted by John's ex-wife and great friend and by John's attractive daughter and her handsome husband. Also, there was another old friend Peter Harty who gave me three bottles of a Colombian blend of instant coffee that, with apologies to the Blue Mountain's, is the best instant coffee in the world. My gift also included a bottle of raspberry jam and two of the huge onions that I always craved when I went to Cayman.

Reprimands

Lunch was next at an excellent restaurant called The Brasserie where I ate too many large shrimps in garlic batter. Another pleasure was meeting another valued friend, Pam Hart, Hugh Hart's wife. She was, however, in a somewhat militant mood and ticked me off roundly for being horrid in my column to her brother Eddie Seaga. Well, it is right and proper for a sister to defend her brother. I gave Pam a hug and paid no attention to her reprimands.

Much talk at lunch was about the attempt of two Jamaicans (wouldn't you know it?) that very morning, to rob the Bank of Nova Scotia and who had also shot a guard. However, within half an hour they had been captured and locked up by the Caymanian police. In due course they will doubtless join the 70 or so of their fellow Jamaicans who are now enjoying the hospitality of the Caymanian jail.

The driver of the vast taxi which John had hired to transport my wheelchair, my assistant and myself was an elderly Jamaican who has been driving a taxi and living in Cayman for years. I asked him if he ever went back to Jamaica. He told me that he did from time to time for visits to his relatives. He said, "But I don't stay there too long. Jamaica is too dangerous. I get back to Cayman as soon as possible."

There are thousands of industrious and peaceful Jamaicans living and working in Cayman. It is the usual picture. Jamaicans are always productive and hardworking people if properly housed and well paid and live in an environment which simply does not permit the damn nonsense which so many of them go on with at home.

As 3 o'clock approached I felt rather like Cinderella for it was time for me to say farewell to my loved ones and to return to the airport. Butch, quite understandably, wanted his jet back by late afternoon. So once more the strong young captain bundled me, my assistant and my wheelchair back into the jet for a swift return to Norman Manley where my faithful friend Junior was waiting in his red Mercedes to take us back home. I should have been tired but wasn't. It was not only a treat to see my special half brother and some old friends again. It was particularly refreshing also to have spent, if only for a few hours, some time in a civilised and well-ordered country once again.

The contrast

As I dictate this column I'm suffering from the drumming and caterwauling of those marching on the streets outside. Many, barely clothed, are wriggling their bottoms indulging in crude sexual posturing in public.

While Lent means nothing to me, Jamaica claims to be a Christian country and I find it puzzling that Jamaicans should have chosen to have Carnival in the middle of the Lenten period so sacred to Christians.

Many of the dancers have painted their bodies as the ancient Britons did before they became civilised.

I wonder if those now cavorting so noisily in the streets realise that they are dancing upon the grave of their morality and prosperity.

* Morris Cargill is the Gleaner's senior columnist who has been writing for more than 46 years.