Welcome to Hell(shire).
Hellshire, Jamaica is a local beach not far from Kingston town; rougher rugged ramshackle kind of beach, what it lacks in beauty it well makes up for with personality.
"Ice Cold Beers! Cigarettes, Wata!" the lanky toothless man hawks, "Wata! Hygrade! IceCold Beers!" the local word for herb was carnival barked like a brand name with a smirk. Welcome to Hellshire!
Small crudely constructed huts with corrugated zinc roof, painted in brightly chipping paint litter a yard from the tide. Between this maze of huts cars drive and park jazz style, sand covered kids play in their underwear; people sell all matter of goods while hard pumping reggae keeps the vibe.
My blokie and I wander the maze of huts and shadowed corners reading the rough hand painted signs "Steamed Fish, Fried Fish, Lobster and Festival". This is where the lines of Jamaica and Africa become blurred. The energy here is more African than Caribbean to me, more of a jarring edge than a laid back breeze.
"Mi a get di steam fish an mi wifey av di fried" my blokie says to the dark dread. I smile a warm grin as I hear the strong sing song Jamaican accent that my blokie has when he's back home. I am sure I'm the same in Liverpool (or as we say in ˜da pool dee doo do don't dee"). "don't forget festival" I said as I saw the long tasty savory stick˜donuts' frying in his pan. We chose our fish that the fishman had just thrown into the old cooler box. I chose a vivid blue faced parrot fish while blokie chose two huge fat red scaled snapper fish with comical buck teeth. They carry the fish to the back kitchen which is the area sectioned off with chicken wire and the cooking is on a huge open flame fire.
Being Jamaica each primitive hut has an impressive full bar. I'm somewhat concerned as my blokie seems to be the Pope of Hellshire as he's given full reign to help himself behind the bar. A few ice cold Guiness and Ginger Wine bottles later I begin to wonder if it's because he's really bad or really good that they give him such respect?
A short moon faced man wonders over with a dirty bucket and a purple wash cloth. He slams the bucket on the table for my blokie and says "12 or 24? Sweet or hot?"
"Mi waaan two dozen but lemma see di bokkles". At this point the moon faced man pulls out a few plastic water bottles with pierced holes in the top each one seems to be filled with twigs, peppers, garlic, onions and topped with vinegar.
Removing the lid from his plastic bucket he starts fast and furious shelling these tiny barnacled oysters as blokie devours each one after shaking the hot vinegar mix at top.
At this point it's a full on orgy of taste, sound and smells. The rough lyrics from Kingstons new ghetto hero Movado blast the speakers, blokie dances with his Guiness and his tall stick of ganja as two huge army men carrying automatic weapons walk in. My heart sunk as my English reserve told me that this would only mean one thing - a raid with immediate arrest for blokie with the illegal drugs. Welcome to Hellshire! Both of the men start dancing their weapon cocked up in the air as Movado sings "mi an mi dogs ever strap!" knees jerking upwards in dance in their army camos and full metal jackets. They too help themselves to a Guiness and sit down at one of wooden planked tables weapons laid flat next to their steaming mounds of fish. To make things even more like the star wars cantina two young foppish guys come in dressed like the panto version of the Little Rascals and proceed to camp it up and dance foolishly in body contorting bawdy fashions. The small crew watching clap along so they stretch out the show to the point of one of the men walking around the shack crab style as everyone laughed.
Our fish arrived and it was perfect, fresh melt in the mouth morsels, crisp on the outside, moist and flavorful. The festival was so delicious and the Guiness icy cold! I dream of this meal now every day.
"Ice Cold Beers! Cigarettes, Wata and Hygrade!" the salesman returns.
"Welcome to Hellshire" my blokie says "Welcome to Jamrock!"
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