Shampoo (Jamaica)

In 1991 De Bus was my favorite open-air reggae club in Negril; it was not the more polished DeBus that exists today. It had restrooms that should have been condemned, and it was almost impossible to get a beer at the crowded bar. But the talent that played at De Bus was phenomenal, and Tuesday was the night to see reggae legend Gregory Isaacs in an intimate setting. The air always pulsated with energy, a lot of which was generated by the beach soap operas played out there.

It was my last night in Jamaica; I had been there for 10 days, and I was about as wired in as a tourist can be in a place in such a short time, with lots of new friends both local and tourist. After dinner at Alwyn's (a couple tables on the beach outside a shack just big enough for Alwyn to fit a couple pots), a few friends and I headed to DeBus. Marcia, who had accompanied me from Minnesota, was there, as was Dr. Quality, a parasail driver and wind surfing instructor. Dely (also known as Happy Time), a Rasta with a philosophical bent who worked at Alwyn’s, came along, an unusual occurrence, as he rarely went to the clubs. You could get to DeBus by taking a taxi down the road and then tromping back through the high weeds and past the multi-colored, decrepit double-decker bus that had been used in a movie. But that night we decided to enjoy the long, moonlit walk down the beach, and along the way we picked up Howard and Natalie, friends of Qulaity’s from L.A. we had met earlier.

I was dressed up for the occasion of my last evening in Negril. Dressed up in Negril in 1991 was white tights and a sequined t-shirt. When we entered on the beach side, through the rickety fence put in place to help enforce the $5 cover, the first person I saw was Nicodemus, a singer with a lovely voice who had little tiny braids all over his head. He had been one of the first people I had met in Negril, and I hugged him hello. Quality gave me a raised eyebrow and wandered off. Rasta Trevor was also there, looking his usual fierce self with thick dreadlocks and a 6'4" frame, the fierceness somewhat alleviated by his fluorescent pink t-shirt that proclaimed "Black by Popular Demand". (I don't know why, but a lot of the locals called him "Rasta", even though there were plenty of other Rastafarians around.)

We stood around drinking beers, and checked out the scene. The whole beach was there, as were a lot of people in from the country. The scent of ganja drifted by every once in awhile. Some people didn't even bother to go out to the beach to smoke. Howard had drunk some mushroom tea, and it kicked in after we arrived at De Bus. When I went to the bar to get a beer, I found him sitting on a stool at the bar. He became inordinately upset when it took him a half hour to finally get the bartender's attention (it always took that long... no worries), then remembered to order drinks for everyone but himself.

If a hotter band has ever played in Jamaica than the one that played that night, I haven't seen it. I think I danced with most of the people I had met in Negril. I spent most of the evening dancing with Delroy, a very easy-to-look-at guy who worked on the boat with Quality. Sweet-natured and a natural born teacher, Delroy gave me vital choreography tips. "Ten days, I show you everything there is about reggae dancing."

I had been dancing for awhile before I just had to take a break to recover my breath. For a few moments I stood slightly apart, already nostalgic that this was the end of my time in Negril. A really young Rasta in from the country came up and asked me to dance. Actually, he didn't so much ask me as take my hand and indicate he would like to dance. He looked about 16 to me, I found out later he was 19. He was very dark, not very tall, and had exceptionally long dreadlocks. He was obviously harmless, it was my last night in Negril, and I had nearly recovered from Delroy's aerobic dance style, so I accepted.

He led me by the hand right up to the front, for he was a big fan of Gregory Isaacs. He said his name was Shampoo, (a name I had to ask about at least twice), and he told me about the meaning of some of the music. After the song, I thanked him for the dance, we shook hands, and I went to go look for my friends.

Marcia and I stayed at De Bus for awhile, dancing, socializing, and listening to Gregory. I went back in a cab with my original party (plus Nicodemus who needed a ride back up to that end of the beach). Back at the hotel, we had a drink or two, and there was talk of going swimming. I decided to leave the group and head to Compulsion, an R&B bar with a late liquor license, and meet with some other friends. Compulsion was about halfway down the beach road, and as I walked purposefully toward Compulsion, mosquitoes bit at my ankles, and the wet grass ruined my stylish leather sandals. I hoped I wouldn't step on one of those huge red land crabs that skittered across the road. Finally, I accepted a ride offered by an American guy and a Jamaican guy on a mini-bike. They dropped me off at the turn-around, I walked up to Compulsion, and it wasn't open. So I caught a cab back.

On the way to the hotel, the cab driver told me, "A Rasta guy got killed tonight. Ran his motorcycle into a tree." Negril is a small town, and the Beach News is amazingly fast and efficient.

I didn't know many Rastafarians, and I couldn't imagine Dely on a motorcycle. But I hadn't seen Dely for close to an hour, and perhaps I envisioned him borrowing a mini-bike and looking for me, worried that I had left alone so late. Also, Rasta Trevor, although not my favorite person, was an acquaintance who had been at De Bus that night. I felt a chill. A lot of people came in from the country when Gregory Isaacs played, including a lot of Rastas, I told myself, and it was unlikely to be anyone I knew. But I heard the urgency in my voice when I asked, "Who?"

"Shampoo," the cab driver answered.

My heart stopped, and then I was screaming, "Shampoo?!! I was just dancing with Shampoo. Are you sure?"

"Yeah, mon."

"I just met Shampoo a couple hours ago, and now he's dead? My god, he's a kid! Are you sure he's not just hurt?"

"Shampoo dead, mon."

"Are you sure?"

"Shampoo dead, mon."

When I got back to the hotel, I was very upset. Dely had reappeared from the darkness outside the hotel. We stood on the beach, the tide coming in around our feet, the moon hanging over the water in front of us, and I told him about Shampoo. (For those of you who are wondering, no, there was no romantic relationship between Dely and me.)

Dely said, "Calm down. There is nothing you can do. Forget about it." I imagine Dely was just trying to be soothing, for he saw I was agitated. But I was still shocked by his fatalistic attitude. I said, "Don't you understand? I just met him, and now he's dead! He was still practically a child, and he's dead!"

The next day Marcia went down the beach to Alwyn's to say good-bye to Alwyn, Dely and everyone. As she walked down the beach, she saw Quality, who was busy repairing a windsurfboard at the water sports concession. She told Quality about Shampoo; she had become part of the Beach News. Quality had not heard, and she said he just looked down at the sand.

As Marcia and I ate breakfast amid tropical plants at the hotel's outdoor restaurant, Rasta Trevor joined us briefly. He said he had been among the first to reach the accident scene. He started to describe the details, and I had to beg him to stop.

For months afterward, I felt the touch of Shampoo's hand.