finally declared. “I’ll ask Selvin to stop at one of the little towns on the way.”
Selvin wasn’t happy about stopping before he started his other deliveries, but he was sympathetic about Olivia’s problem, so in the next town we stopped in a side street.
On the sidewalk was a man dressed all in white. “He’s a Rastafarian,” Olivia whispered when she saw me staring. His head was wrapped in a high turban, to hold his dreadlocks, I supposed. His loose, long-sleeved shirt hung to below his knees, like a short gown. His pants were baggy, and he wore sandals. His beard was thin and kind of ragged. Around his neck, hanging to waist length, was a sash to die for. It was intricately woven in the red, yellow, and green Rasta colors, with a shiny gold border ending in a fringe, which glistened softly when the sunlight caught it. He looked very regal, like someone from another time.
“Broom, Princess?” he asked in a very polite voice as I paused to look at him. “Jah-Jah order this one specially fi you.” He held out a roughly made straw broom.
“No thanks,” Olivia replied as she took my arm and drew me away.
“Respect,” he replied in a resigned tone.
“He’s a bobo dread,” she whispered. “They live in the hills and make and sell the best brooms on the island, but we already have enough brooms.”
Olivia was getting anxious to find her shirt so we headed into another store. Finally she found the almost perfect shirt in the perfect color green. It wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but she said that if the collar were cut off and the neckline lowered, it would work.
“Olivia,” I told her, “I can def fix this for you. A little needle and thread and you’ll have a completely new shirt.” I do a ton of sewing at home, so I wasn’t too worried about the job.
The Patty Wagon
Selvin had bought us something called “patties” and fruit drinks before we started our delivery rounds. I was practically drooling from the yummy smell. He had bought three beef patties—two for himself and one for me to taste—as well as three callaloo patties, two for Olivia and one for me. Callaloo is like spinach with smaller leaves. Earlier they had showed me some in a basket that a woman on the sidewalk was selling.
My first taste of a Jamaican patty! Scrumptious! A patty looks like a half-moon-shaped turnover, but the crust isn’t as flaky as a turnover’s, and it’s filled with a spicy meat or vegetable stew. Selvin explained that at first you could only get beef patties, but now they were made with a variety of meatfillings and different vegetables. A patty and a drink was a regular lunch for many Jamaicans, he explained.
“You should come to American and open up a Jamaican patty factory!” I told Selvin in between bites. “You’d make a fortune.”
Selvin smiled but answered emphatically, “Jamaica is the place for me. Why would I want to be cold?” He had a point.
We delivered boxes of Banana Bliss to a few of the luxury hotels along the coast. It was fun carrying the trays into the fancy resorts. Some of them had little carts you could ride around in. I wished I could just run down to the beach and stay, but Selvin said I should be patient. “That’s a lot to ask, Selvin, when you have come all the way from Boston, where it is so freezing cold, icicles grow off your nose!” I giggled.
Finally we arrived at a big hotel where Selvin said he usually got a large order. When we drove into the delivery area, Olivia and I couldn’t believe our eyes. There was a Mr. Biggs Better Banana Bread van unloading on the ramp!
“Uh-oh!” Selvin exclaimed. “Trouble!”
Olivia and I quickly got out of the van and followed Selvin. Two men in elaborate chef’s hats were carrying trays of banana bread into the kitchen area. They looked very dramatic, as if they were in a play or something, I had to admit, the way they presented themselves was very impressive. Suddenly, I felt a major stab of concern for
Selvin wasn’t happy about stopping before he started his other deliveries, but he was sympathetic about Olivia’s problem, so in the next town we stopped in a side street.
On the sidewalk was a man dressed all in white. “He’s a Rastafarian,” Olivia whispered when she saw me staring. His head was wrapped in a high turban, to hold his dreadlocks, I supposed. His loose, long-sleeved shirt hung to below his knees, like a short gown. His pants were baggy, and he wore sandals. His beard was thin and kind of ragged. Around his neck, hanging to waist length, was a sash to die for. It was intricately woven in the red, yellow, and green Rasta colors, with a shiny gold border ending in a fringe, which glistened softly when the sunlight caught it. He looked very regal, like someone from another time.
“Broom, Princess?” he asked in a very polite voice as I paused to look at him. “Jah-Jah order this one specially fi you.” He held out a roughly made straw broom.
“No thanks,” Olivia replied as she took my arm and drew me away.
“Respect,” he replied in a resigned tone.
“He’s a bobo dread,” she whispered. “They live in the hills and make and sell the best brooms on the island, but we already have enough brooms.”
Olivia was getting anxious to find her shirt so we headed into another store. Finally she found the almost perfect shirt in the perfect color green. It wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but she said that if the collar were cut off and the neckline lowered, it would work.
“Olivia,” I told her, “I can def fix this for you. A little needle and thread and you’ll have a completely new shirt.” I do a ton of sewing at home, so I wasn’t too worried about the job.
The Patty Wagon
Selvin had bought us something called “patties” and fruit drinks before we started our delivery rounds. I was practically drooling from the yummy smell. He had bought three beef patties—two for himself and one for me to taste—as well as three callaloo patties, two for Olivia and one for me. Callaloo is like spinach with smaller leaves. Earlier they had showed me some in a basket that a woman on the sidewalk was selling.
My first taste of a Jamaican patty! Scrumptious! A patty looks like a half-moon-shaped turnover, but the crust isn’t as flaky as a turnover’s, and it’s filled with a spicy meat or vegetable stew. Selvin explained that at first you could only get beef patties, but now they were made with a variety of meatfillings and different vegetables. A patty and a drink was a regular lunch for many Jamaicans, he explained.
“You should come to American and open up a Jamaican patty factory!” I told Selvin in between bites. “You’d make a fortune.”
Selvin smiled but answered emphatically, “Jamaica is the place for me. Why would I want to be cold?” He had a point.
We delivered boxes of Banana Bliss to a few of the luxury hotels along the coast. It was fun carrying the trays into the fancy resorts. Some of them had little carts you could ride around in. I wished I could just run down to the beach and stay, but Selvin said I should be patient. “That’s a lot to ask, Selvin, when you have come all the way from Boston, where it is so freezing cold, icicles grow off your nose!” I giggled.
Finally we arrived at a big hotel where Selvin said he usually got a large order. When we drove into the delivery area, Olivia and I couldn’t believe our eyes. There was a Mr. Biggs Better Banana Bread van unloading on the ramp!
“Uh-oh!” Selvin exclaimed. “Trouble!”
Olivia and I quickly got out of the van and followed Selvin. Two men in elaborate chef’s hats were carrying trays of banana bread into the kitchen area. They looked very dramatic, as if they were in a play or something, I had to admit, the way they presented themselves was very impressive. Suddenly, I felt a major stab of concern for
Similar Books
