In The Company of My Sistahs by Angie Daniels Page B

itself.
    I popped a few more nuts into my mouth, then closed the bag. My throat was dry and the soda machine inside the “no frills” airport was broken. Unlike in our American airport terminals there weren’t concession stands all around to satisfy your eating pleasure.
    I breathed a sigh of relief when the driver finally stepped onto the bus and welcomed us all to Jamaica.
    â€œHow far are we from the hotel?” I blurted out because a sistah needed to know.
    â€œAbout twenty minutes. But I’ll try to get you there as quickly as possible.” He then chuckled like he knew something I didn’t know.
    Shit, I heard about the way Jamaicans drove, and quickly didn’t sound like such a good idea. “Take your time,” I suggested. Several others nodded their heads in agreement. Apparently, they’d heard the same thing I had.
    He winked. “No problem, mon.”
    I swung my head around. “Did he just call me a man?”
    Kayla covered her mouth and laughed. “Girl, you are silly. He said ‘mon’, not ‘man’. You know, that’s what the Jamaicans say.”
    â€œOh, yeah.” I’m glad she clarified that shit.
    The driver turned on some uplifting reggae music as he pulled away from the airport and we glanced out the window while trying to snap pictures of the scenes around us. So far Jamaica looked poverty stricken. Shacks, clotheslines with dingy drawers hanging, and a bunch of malnourished-looking dogs. There were also numerous primitive-looking hotels. I hope to hell that we weren’t staying in any shit like that. I wasn’t worried. My father and his new wife had invited Lisa and my brother down to join them on several occasions when they visited Jamaica. It was an invitation that had never been extended to me. That shit used to hurt. Eventually I just brushed my shoulders off.
    As we moved farther from the airport we started seeing cows and something that looked like goats. There were old brothas sitting out on the curb, playing dominos. Shit, I shot up half my roll of film on the drive over.
    Finally we reached the tourist area of Montego Bay, and it was like stepping into the twilight zone. It was like going from black and white to Technicolor. We passed shopping strips and merchants on the side of the road and made mental notes to stop and patronize each and every one. I wanted a large wooden giraffe. Last year I had my basement remodeled and was working on an entire jungle theme. Big silk plants, face carvings, and animal paintings. There was a mile and a half of hotels and all-inclusive resorts surrounded by white sand beaches.
    The driver made a left at the end of the block and pulled into a wide circular drive in front of our hotel. I couldn’t wait to get off that bus but there was this fat woman in front of me, moving like a turtle. When Kayla and I finally got off the bus, we waited for Lisa and Nadine. Two men rushed from inside the hotel and began unloading the bags from the bus.
    Lisa stepped off smiling. “Welcome to the Holiday Inn Sun Spree. You’re going to love this place.”
    I guess she would know since this is the only place she’s ever stayed on the island. Glancing around at the well-tended grounds dotted with tall green palm trees, hibiscus, and other tropical flora, I had to agree it was paradise for sure.
    â€œCome on—let’s check in,” I said. I was actually anxious to get out of the heat. It wasn’t until we stepped inside that I realized the lobby had no doors or windows. It was all open air, spacious and relaxing. I stepped across the Aztec marble floor over toward the front desk. From the far left Calypso music could be heard, which made me want to kick up my heels and dance the night away.
    There was an excursion desk up front as well as a place to rent a car. After watching them crazy-ass Jamaicans drive down the highway, renting a car wasn’t even an option. I