Page 46 of Dr. Weston

“Excuse me. Do you work for the resort?”

“No, ma’am. They hire me to bring guests to and from the airport.”

I nod, realizing I’ll have to get this man a tip. “How long is the trip?”

“About two hours.”

Two hours?I really should’ve done my homework.

The van rumbles to life, and we lurch forward before he slams on the breaks as two of the children I saw earlier dart in front of the vehicle. Some harsh words are muttered from the front seat, which I assume are Jamaican swear words. Grabbing ahold of the windowsill with one hand and the edge of my seat with the other, I pray the rest of the trip will be less rocky than the start.

About forty minutes later, I feel like I’ve just completed a heavy workout. This man has swerved to avoid hitting every pothole, and there have been many. It feels like I’m in a real-life version of the video game,Frogger.

The town of Kingston sits against a backdrop of mountains. There is blue water to one side and a mix of old and new architecture toward the city center. I try to take in as much as I can while holding on for dear life. As we leave Kingston and head through the mountains, we pass several open-air vehicles with military officers brandishing intimidating rifles.

The driver seems completely unaffected by their presence and turns up a talk show on the radio. It appears to be in English, but it’s too low to make out any details. It’s basically white noise, adding an additional layer of sensory overload to this trip.

Suddenly, a shiny black vehicle pulls in front of the van, causing the driver to hit the breaks to avoid careening into the back of it. The car slows to a stop in the middle of the road, and a gentleman steps out, walking briskly to the van. I watch, curious, as the driver rolls down the window and speaks animatedly in what I assume is a conversation completely in Jamaican. Moments later, the back doors of the van open, and I watch as my suitcase is removed.

“Hey, what’s going—”

The door next to me flies open, startling me. “Come with me,” the gentleman dressed in all black directs.

“Where are we going?” I step out of the vehicle and turn to the driver of the van who met me at the airport, but he’s already put his shuttle bus in reverse and is pulling around the black town car. My heart is pounding in my chest, fear coursing through my veins. What the heck is happening?

Am I being kidnapped?

My mind is reeling, trying to come up with an escape plan, when the driver opens the door for me. “Please, ma’am.”

Realizing my bag is in the back of the car, I determine it’s unlikely a kidnapper would stop to get my things and try to get my wits about me.Breathe, Poppy. Just breathe.

“I’m sorry. I’m confused. What is happening? Where are we going?”

“My apologies for the mix-up, ma’am. We’re going to the resort. You were supposed to receive a luxury transfer instead of the van. I got here as quickly as the error was discovered.”

“Oh.” I sigh in relief. Completely overwhelmed, I can’t think of anything else to say. Sliding into the smooth, leather covered back seat, I find several bottles of water and some tourist information on Jamaica. Boy, this is a change. I’d merely been hoping for a less torturous ride.

“We should have you to the resort in about forty-five minutes.”

“Thank you.”

Reaching for a water, I chuckle at the label. WATA. Settling into the seat, I glance out the window to my left. I can’t quite make out what I’m looking at.

“Aluminum.”

“What?”

“It’s an aluminum refinery.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Over the course of the next thirty minutes, the kind driver points out different Jamaican highlights. Bikes seem to be a big mode of transportation here. I watch curiously as several individuals begin to pedal while carrying stacks of vegetation atop the handlebars.

“What is that they’re hauling?”

“Ah, that’s sugar cane.” We continue to drive until the area becomes more populated with stores and various cement and concrete buildings. “And this is Ochi.”

“Ochi?”

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