Written by Chuck, Feb 18, 2008

I am a consultant by trade. What that word means is not clear. My 4 year old son defines my profession as: “daddy helps people fix problems.” It is a wonderful notion filled with noble purpose. What he does not yet understand is that the problems I “fix” tend to be things like “how can I help you make more money.” I could make the argument that helping companies to be more profitable has a positive impact on society. Healthy companies grow and hire more people who make more money and have more opportunity etc. But let’s be honest, no one will ever confuse my work with Gandhi. My son is also openly disappointed that I do not operate a bull-dozer for a living. Sometimes, I am too.

There are, however, times when being a consultant provides you with an experience that no other profession can deliver. Teaching a Jamaican telecom company how to sell cell phones is one of those experiences. To many, Jamaica equals sun, rum drinks, beaches and Caribbean charm. That may be true inside the walls of your resort in Montego. However, living and working in Kingston is different. Very different. It is not quite the third world, but you can see it from there. Living and working in Jamaica requires a cultural primer. First, take everything you know and appreciate about the American shopping experience and throw it out the window. Things like:

• Stores without live chickens walking through the aisles
• Stores that actually have products in them. (I realize that this is the definition of the word “store” but this client has challenged that needless requirement)
• Stores that don’t smell like they are being heated with burning kilos of pot.
• Stores where anyone cares at all that you are there to buy something

Second, you should understand a few things about Jamaican cuisine. Imagine all the parts of the cow, pig, goat, and chicken that we throw out, landing in one place on the earth. Then imagine all those parts in a soup and you have a menu in Kingston. In the 3 months that I have been living here, I have found the following on my plate or in my bowl.

• One cow foot
• One chicken foot
• One goat snout (not broken into pieces but completely intact with nostrils lips and teeth)
• One pig’s tail (a delicacy)
• One ox tail (also a delicacy)
• And three, count them three, chicken waddles

The lesson here is, use enough curry and anything can be eaten.

Third, when you arrive at Norman Manley airport and make the drive into the city you will notice a large statue of a nude man and woman at the entrance to Emancipation Park. I have no problem with the human form as art. But this statue is designed to strike insecurity in the heart of every man that is not in the adult film industry.

Fourth, the stereotype of Jamaican pot culture is based firmly in reality. The security guards at the entrance of my office building are apparently trying to break a record for the amount of marijuana smoked in a year. They are also armed with sub-machine guns. I have on more than one occasion walked up to the gate to find two guys sleeping in lawn chairs with their UZI’s lying on the ground next to them.

All of this has driven me slowly insane over the past three months. However, I have turned a corner in my understanding of the island and I have begun to find a well of charm in the country and its people. It began as I was leading a group of 30 men and women in a 3 day training exercise that was to make them better managers, people, spouses and general members of society. Culturally, I was uncertain how this group would react to “the show.” Would they dig my sense of humor which was shaped by watching endless episodes of the “The Family Guy\”? In an environment where 20% of the population is illiterate, will anyone care about things like “active listening?” How would they feel about role playing? It was a formula for a complete fucking disaster.

I woke up the morning of day 1 with real, “I am floating above the bed”, anxiety. As it turns out, my fears were misplaced. Jamaican middle management is a hell of a lot of fun to teach. They laugh easily, they focus, and they don’t bother with pretenses like, you shouldn’t dance during a training seminar. Oh they danced, and they danced dirty. We actually had a female participant perform a very compelling lap dance. More indicative of Jamaican culture was that she volunteered to do it as punishment for returning late from break. She was also rowdily applauded by the other women in the group. I stood in the back of the room slack jawed and blushing. It was a really good dance.

I like to play music during my seminars as a way to break the mood of gloom associated with sitting in a conference room for extended periods of time. Most people take this time to check their blackberrys and answer voice mail. This time I played a bunch of Bob Marley tunes, even though I thought it could be rejected as a cliché. It wasn’t. In fact, it inspired the group to jointly sing No Woman No Cry.

I have also made several friends including the security guards. They call me “broda” through a purple cloud of cannabis fumes. My driver, (required because people get assaulted walking from the hotel to the office) is named Lincoln. He is Born Again. He likes to tell the story about how he was “on his way to kill his girlfriend and the man she was with” when god spoke to him. He committed himself to be a good man and to enjoy each day as god’s gift. I have stopped worrying that he might be hearing other voices that say things like “kill your passengers.” In fact, he has become a trusted advisor in negotiating the markets and night-life of the city.

The regional manager I work with moves like a man that has never heard the words “I am in a rush” and he is always in a good mood. We visited a store in the islands’ interior that had a giant pig sleeping in the doorway. I asked the store owner who the pig belonged to and the following conversation occurred.

Me: “Hey ah….what is the pig doing here?”

Munroe: “Yah mon, He com evera day an sleep dere”

Me: “Does he belong to you?”

Munroe: “No mon, he come down da stret and flop like a piece of wood each mernin. He is da smartest pig I ever sin. He uses da crosswalk so he don get hit by da cars.”

Me: “Well can we move him from the doorway”

Munroe: “Are ya kiddin me mon?! He weigh tree hunerd pounds! Ya can’t move dat pig mon.

Me: “Well, that probably won’t be good for business.”

Munroe: “No mon”

After three months of working, eating, and living with these people I can’t help but feel that I am the one who is receiving the education. It is not that Jamaicans don’t know how to make money in retail. They do. It is that being more profitable is just not a priority. And why should it be. It is 85 degrees everyday. You can buy sugar cane, coconut drinks, and a dime bag on every street corner. The men are apparently endowed with super human organs, and the women are uninhibited in expressing their sexuality. Bob Marley isn’t just music you hear in a dorm room, he is a national hero who still articulates the pain and beauty of his people.

Last week we changed our plans and stayed at an American resort in Montego. It was filled with tourists, who drank all day and complained loudly that the buffet did not serve enough sausage. The service was quick, the rooms were clean to American standards and the beach was straight out of a travel brochure. There was no livestock wandering about and the menu did not include goats’ head soup. But the true magic of the place was lost. It lives in the shanty towns around Kingston where, amidst the poverty and the squalor, there are so many reasons to be happy.