Howard HamiltonI TRUST that you all had a pleasant and reflective Christmas. It is always a time to give thanks for our many blessings and to offer the hand of friendship and fellowship to those brothers and sisters less privileged than ourselves.
As we look forward to the New Year let us do so with an earnest resolve to lift up those around us who have lost hope. Let us dream "but not make dreams our master."
It was George Bernard Shaw who said:
"Some see things as they are and wonder why, others dream things as they should be and wonder why not"
Let us work to make those dreams of a better tomorrow a reality.
Those readers of this column will recall the occasions on which I have recounted some off my excursions into Dreamland.
Well I had another dream last night. I dreamt that for some reason I had lost the use of my car. You know how it is with dreams: you don't get explanations for the things that happen, they just happen. Well, there I was taking the bus like thousands of Jamaican citizens have to do every day.
As it turned out, however, this was no ordinary bus ride, as it seemed to be something of a cross between a JUTC bus and a tour bus. The driver was explaining things to us as scenes suddenly appeared and just as quickly disappeared.
We arrived at a spa - I could not tell if it was Milk River of Bath - as, while it looked vaguely familiar, it also seemed far beyond anything Jamaica had yet developed. It was an elegant place in a lush, verdant setting. The staff, dressed in loose comfortable and stylish clothing, was drawn form Jamaica's many ethnic backgrounds and seemed to be serving the clientele with an understated self confidence and style.
The driver cum tour guide explained that this was one of two new spas opened recently. As he put it:
"The government now actively discourages de washing of sore foot at de spa. Instead spa water is now sold at convenient locations in town so dat such tings can be done in private at home".
He further explained that since the new policy went into effect it had become possible to build 200 room hotels adjacent to the spas and that they now attracted visitors from the world over, who spent lavishly on the services offered at these spas, to the extent that both operations occupied three people per hotel room, which was twice the normal ratio.
Suddenly we were transported to what I recognised as the Rockfort Mineral Spa, where it seemed that some pollutant inhibitor had been installed on the nearby cement factory, as the air was as pure and sweet as mountain air. In the baths people frolicked and families picnicked on nearby benches. Our driver explained that the government had also made it a priority to keep the benefits of "spa-ing", as he put it, "within reach of the common man".
Suddenly, we were at a racetrack. It bore a vague resemblance to Caymanas as it seemed to be in the same location. However, that was where the resemblance ended. This facility had generous, well-lit, secure parking space with shuttle bus service from the furthest lots. Inside there were elegant stands and comfortable seating for thousands of people, much of it considerately shaded from the elements.
The track and surrounding facilities were magnificent. At the centre of the green was a stage area replete with state of the art lighting and sound, on which Byron Lee's Dragonaires were performing to the wild delight of an audience of thousands that seemed to contain as many tourists as locals.
Our driver-guide explained that this had been built after the decision was taken to abandon the claiming race system and "other foolishness that had held back racing" for years. He also took care to point out comfortable restaurants and a well-equipped play area and petting zoo for children.
Suddenly, the scene changed: The driver now spoke in a style more like that of the popular dancehall DJ and he was pointing out some ghastly sights, like one he described as the "body pit", where a local rival gang disposed of victims, to whom he referred dismissively as "de dutty bway dem".
The bus had become much more crowded and the goings-on aboard it made my hair stand on end. Music blared from a powerful sound system. The lyrics called down fire on "all chi-chi man".
To the music, grown men were rubbing themselves against the youngest of schoolgirls in the most lecherous and vile manner. The only person of authority on board seemed to be a character who was addressed as 'Ducta. His only reaction to the assault on the girls was to mutter, "go ina it, man", as he accepted the fares they proffered.
I awoke from my dream in a sweat, confused and alarmed by the apparent reality of these last scenes. What had been real and what had not?
