The eyes are the groin of the face

I’m fairly sure less work is accomplished during rainy season than any other time during the year. At first I was appalled to learn that many citizens choose to skip scheduled meetings, school, work… due to a little rain. Then I realized how wet and muddy I get walking short distances in the rain, and how quickly my damp clothes and shoes develop a potent odor. Taxis are suddenly jam packed and scarce, and roads flood after 10 minutes of steady cloud excretion. The flooding is almost impressive in it’s speed and scale. Everyone back home should take a second to appreciate gutters and sewers. Really an integral, but often overlooked, component of our infrastructure. The rain (and demonic 4 and 5–year-olds) is what is keeping me from the 400 books that need to be dusted and labeled. The problem is that I am here, more or less dry, on my couch while the books are a soggy uphill walk to the mosquito and rock-throwing-child inhabited basement of a basic school. Otherwise I would currently be contentedly slapping stickers on paperbacks. In an attempt to make use of my morning, I swept and then got down on hands and knees to scrub the floor. After about 2 tiles, my effort became half-hearted and I resigned myself to just hitting the really dirty parts. Domestic goddess I still am not. I just noticed a pile of dirt under the coffee table. I have an admirer. He’s always at the stand I pass on my way to work in the afternoons. He began showing up two weeks ago when Patrick was absent. Every time I step through the hedge next to the stand, he opens his toothless maw and shouts jubilantly, “Teacha!” He usually follows this up by telling me he is back again today (a fact which I can see for myself, thanks) or mumbling something about “baby.” I’m not sure if he is calling me “baby” or if he wants me to have a baby. Either option is likely, and unwelcome. This sudden attention has made me consider running for Miss West Best Fish and Bammy. I think I have a real shot. What a sweet title, right? Who wants to be Miss America if you can instead wear the crown of Miss West Best Fish and Bammy? Not me. Taxi rides always mean a chance to catch up with the fresh new hits on Jamaican radio. Someone hit gold—maybe platinum—with the bag juice song. We were on a bus to Matt’s house when we heard it. Bag juice is sugar water that comes in small plastic bags. It costs J$10 and is the sole cause of diabetes on the island. The dancehall ode praising this adored potable is reminiscent of the peanut butter jelly song. Except that this is no novelty ditty. Oh no, it is serious musical poetry that shares airtime with Sean Kingston and the molestation song. I know it is an actual radio-worthy song because they interrupt it with sirens, air horns, and the Irie jingle. That’s how we roll here in Jamaica.