The Tenth Country

The travel part of this journey is really working my last nerve.

I really just want to go back to Portugal.  The soonest I can go back is sometime in February.  Until then, I still have two months left on my Turkish visa.  I figured I’d stay there until my Schengen days reset, but I didn’t want to deal with any more rain.  January is the coldest month for that region.  Since I was already in the states, I figured I’d dip down to the Caribbean and soak up some sun for a few weeks then return to Istanbul.

Arranging the flights, though, was just … ug.  My flight out of Huntsville was at 7 pm to return me to Atlanta.  The next flight was at 6 a.m.  So, yeah.  From 9 p.m. to boarding, I wandered Atlanta airport along with a bunch of other holiday zombies.

It sucked. 

Then, somehow, despite being at the airport for hours, I still ended up caught in numerous lines for baggage drop off and security.  One minute the place was nearly deserted and then suddenly it was full of folks, including dozens of military troops on midnight deployment.  I also had to check my carpet bag as well as the rolling bag for the first time this year, at my expense, of course.

I’ve had this persistent, phlegmy cough for days now.  American food no longer agrees with me so I also have a mild stomachache most of the time and some tricky bowels.  Not exactly in tip top physical condition to withstand the lack of sleep and a general air of I’m-tired-of-this-B.S.

Finally boarded the short flight to Ft Lauderdale.  Yeah, I know.  Florida.  It couldn’t be avoided.  Then it was onto the next two-hour flight … if I could figure out the lines.  The place was packed with people, none of whom knew what was going on, including a little girl who insisted on wailing the entire time.  I knew how she felt, but I still didn’t want to hear it.  We stood in a cluster for a full ten minutes after boarding should have started with no sign of progress and no word from the attendants.  I tried to move forward only to have a man with an apparent Napolean Complex put up his hand and shake his head.  Well, then tell us what’s going on, you little sh -- 

Apparently, there was a medical emergency.  Some guy had passed out and we had to wait for the med staff to show up with a gurney.  I felt for him, but still couldn’t figure out why that was stalling our boarding.

We got on the plane.  Yay!  And then … nothing.  We just sat there for around two hours.  The captain would periodically come on to say that the ground crew was still calculating the weight of the plane for takeoff or that sitting on the tarmac had depleted our fuel so they had to call a fuel truck.  It was only after an hour of loud complaining were we finally allowed to unbuckle our seatbelts and were offered some water.

Just my luck, the loudest complainer was the man sitting next to me in the middle seat.  While I agreed with his outrage, I still didn’t need his loud, accented voice in my ear.  I just closed my eyes and tried to keep myself calm.  Yes, this delay sucked and the airline could have handled things better, but at least I was out of that airport and away from all those people. 

The way I saw it, I’d brought this on myself.  I put Florida on the no-fly list earlier this year for a reason.  But, no, I just had to go to Jamaica.  Since I couldn’t find a non-stop flight, I had to go through Fort Lauderdale.  During the Christmas season.  This was entirely my own boneheaded fault.

Even after finally taking off and landing safely on the island, the trip didn’t get any better.  It actually got worse.

Just as a refresher, I’ve had the privilege of traveling through nine countries this year; Portugal, Greece, Ireland, The Netherlands, Bulgaria, Türkiye, Thailand, Singapore, and Costa Rica.  I say this with zero hyperbole – Jamaican immigration is the worst experience I’ve ever had entering a new country.  Even worse than my first trip into Türkiye. 

Americans don’t need a visa to enter the country.  Everyone coming off the plane is required to fill out a form online after landing.  Okay.  I scanned the QR code and started inputting the usual stuff like name, passport number, duration of stay.  Then the questions got a bit intrusive.  They asked occupation (I don’t have one – you gotta problem with that?), what pharmaceuticals I brought in (do my prescriptions count?  The attendant couldn’t answer that), what did I intend to declare (my computer, maybe?  The attendant couldn’t answer that one either), what countries had I visited in the last six weeks (a couple – all better than this country even, God help me, the U.S.).  The questions just went on and on.

When I was finally okay with my answers and showed the attendant my confirmation, he then sent me onto a kiosk.  This part seemed pretty standard as I had done it in multiple other countries.  I tried to scan my passport but kept getting an error message.  One of the roving attendants saw the trouble I was having and scanned it himself with no problem.  

Then there were more questions.  Where was I staying (answers must be in a specific format that I couldn’t get right the first time)?  Was it a hotel or a residence?  What was the airline and flight number that brought me here? Jamaica, I’m already tired.  What else do you want, a blood sample?

The attendant saw my progress and directed me to take my glasses off and look up for the camera.  The kiosk then spit out a receipt full of info, including a grainy black and white photo of a haggard looking woman.  I took the receipt to stand in line for a woman sitting at a desk.

I handed her my passport and receipt and she asked to see my phone.  I glared at her.  I just spent 10 minutes entering all my info on their website.  THEN I did it again on their kiosk.  Why the #%#% would she need to see my phone? 

Before I could hand it to her, she waved me off as the info had appeared on her screen.  Goody.  She checked my passport and info, then sent me off to the next hoop I’d have to jump through. 

The hallway leading to baggage claim passed through a brief shopping area.  Women tried to entice me with perfume and booze while I shook my head and kept walking.  Then it was time to jostle for position to find my checked bags.  Now, I know that Jamaicans are a very laid-back people, but with as long as immigration took, the bags should have been unloaded by now.  Still, I stood there watching for my bags on the conveyor belt, getting more upset and frustrated.  One of the women beside me commented that they were taking bags off the belt on the other side of the room, so I went to try my luck.

I found my bags quickly, breathing a sigh of relief that they hadn’t been lost.  Ignoring the time I’d wasted watching the belt, I grabbed my stuff and looked for the exit.  Only I couldn’t find one.  Instead, I saw desks headed by signs for Declare (in red) or None to Declare (green).  Taking a guess, I got in the green line. 

I noticed an x-ray machine up ahead and sighed again for other reasons.  Like I haven’t been through enough machines to permanently fry my organs at this point.  A woman met me before I got there and checked my passport.  AGAIN.  She asked me what was in my bags.  Things to cover my nakedness, why do you ask?  I made a show of opening my carpet bag to show her the mess of everything that wasn’t clothing or my computer.   She walked away with my passport (not the first attendant to do that) and I dragged my stuff over to the x-ray machine.  She gestured me to stand to one side as my info was checked then handed back my passport and waved me on.

Finally outside and able to breathe some fresh air, I was faced with even more confusion.  Why the hell was everyone just hanging around outside of the airport?  The road in front was loaded with cars. but no buses or taxis to be seen.  It was the same chaos from inside just out in the hot air.

With most of the benches full, I found a ledge to sit on and finally lost it.  Fatigue, frustration, lack of sleep, too much noise, too many people, and too little food had me at the end of my rope.  I just sat there and cried for a while. 

Yanking up my big girl panties, I pulled it together and went off in search for a cab.  By some miracle, I spotted one and ran over.  He was indeed available and accepted American currency (my host had already informed me that the ride over should be about 35 USD).  I told him the location and we were on our way.

What to say about the ride over?  At least in Istanbul, they drive on the right (usually)?  In Jamaica – yeah, no.  There were plenty of abrupt stops, dodgy turns, and rough streets to rival Türkiye.  I looked out the window and tried to be excited to be in a new place, but I was just too damn tired to care.  When my driver asked about my trip to the island, I told him it had been awful and that I was wiped.  He told me it would take a few days to get acclimated and he was sure I’d enjoy my stay.  If you say so, pal.

He got me to the place with no problem (didn’t even need to use my phone) and charged me the $35 as expected.  I handed him a 50 and he asked if I had something smaller.  I did not.  The bill was a Christmas gift from the father, so I told him to just keep the change.  He would end up earning it.

The Airbnb I rented is in a gated community and the gates closed just as we pulled up.  I knew it wouldn’t take much more to have me in tears again.  And, look at that.  My phone won’t connect to the internet.  No access to Airbnb and the instructions I’d need to get into the place.  Pushing the button on the intercom was useless and the woman in the car behind the cab honked at us to get out of her way.

Well, that did it.

I went from cursing to crying in about three seconds.

My cab driver, lovely man that he was, asked my name and used it repeatedly to get me to calm down.  “You’re in Jamaica on vacation.  Just relax.”

The gate opened and we drove through.  He got out, again telling me to breathe, and asked a nearby woman about the Dr. Thomas I’d been told to ask for.  A man soon appeared, calling me by name.  Since I was still a weepy mess, I’m sure he, Josef, had no idea what he was walking in on. 

The driver handed off the hysterical woman onto the new stranger.  I thanked him as well as I could while gulping for air and followed Josef to my new home for the week.

Do I have to explain that Jamaica and I are already on bad terms?  The island will have to do a lot to make me not regret this trip.