WHEN PUMA RULED THE WORLD THE OLD INSTAMATIC PILATE

FIRST
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N o . 4 F i t B i rd s
124
WHEN PUMA RULED THE WORLD
126
THE OLD INSTAMATIC
130
PILATE´S ERR
132
142
RAYMOND
144
PEDDLERS
150
PINKY`S WORLD FAMOUS ICE CREAM DREAM
154
THE GREAT ESCAPE
158
FIRST PEOPLE
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“I CAN’T ENVISAGE ANOTHER OPPORTUNITY LIKE THIS FOR JAMAICA TO SELL ITSELF ON A GLOBAL STAGE. ”
Terry Parris, Puma Jamaica Brand Manager
As the Caribbean braces for the inevitable arrival of yet another ‘youth savvy’ multinational corporation—MTV—we thought this
might be a good time to recall the last time our shores were visited by smiling strangers who came bearing gifts, promises of
prosperity and free yellow t-shirts. A time…
WHEN PUMA RULED THE WORLD
48
Percentage jump in net quarterly profits for July
2004—US$67 million, up from US$45.1 million
July 2003. This was largely attributed to their
Jamaica campaign.*
23
People who admitted wearing Puma trainers in
2002, one year before Jamaican colours, flags and
slogans were slapped all over them.
355
2000
2
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Number of times Puma brand manager Helen
Sweeney-Dougan promised various Dancehall
DJs that wearing Puma would give them better
“international crossover appeal” and “visibility in
magazines that wouldn’t touch them otherwise.”
Approximate number of guests at Puma’s muchhyped red carpet event at Kingston’s Terra Nova
hotel in 2003.
£???
0
15-20
Cost of the ‘Rasta tam’ worn by Puma designer
Paul Taylor as he told a Channel 4 film crew that
Jamaica was a “fun country whose culture, music
and religion” was great for selling shoes. **
Number of basketball courts (or anything) built
by Puma in Jamaica before, during or after their
2003 invasion.
Number of years that Puma promised, “Jamaicans
would be proud” following their involvement with
Puma at the 2004 Athens Olympics.
20,000
Number of guests Puma promised to deliver at
their Jamaica-themed Athens party.
350
Approximate number of guests who showed up.
*
Number of seconds it took Helen SweeneyDougan to storm off after being asked by
Entertainment Report at the party if Puma had
actually invested anything in Jamaica besides a
few free trainers and wristbands.
American City Business Journals Inc
(July 27, 2004).
** Trainers, Reggae and the Olympics
(Documentary shown on Channel 4, 2004).
*** Photo: Puma Brand Manager
Helen Sweeney-Dougan, 2003.
THE OLD INSTAMATIC
Luck, style and fashion in the days before digital
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PILATE’S ERR
pilate
once upon a time a group of murderers conspired to murder
a murderer.
The murderer was once my mortal enemy, but was a man
I came to respect. He came from another tribe, a powerful and
respected leader of his legion. For decades we had been at war,
generations of fatherless warriors growing up to avenge and
perpetuate, but, just at that moment, a wave of calm had swept
our nation’s gullies and trenches.
The Twin Towers Downtown had signed a very public
peace treaty that set the tone for all gullies and trenches. For it
was thought if the Twin Towers would make peace, all warriors
could, some said should, lower their arms.
I am Pilate, an alias bestowed on me since my return from
the Ice Box where they had locked me away for ten years, earned
by shooting and narcotics offenses. And so it happened that after four years I was offered my freedom on the condition that I
return home. I took the offer.
Once home, I resumed my old living—the way I knew best
—but with one eye remaining always on the Ice Box. And I will
not deny I formed an alliance with my former enemy, in the trust
that he would help me to return—as he was of higher rank and
might increase my chances of escape.
Perhaps forced by the Twin Towers, my friend overlooked
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tribalism and offered oneness. But some warriors, real dogs as
they turned out to be, could not agree. They wanted war because
war is an excuse to engage in all sorts of awful acts. Make no
mistake. I loved awful acts as much as the next mongrel—but my
eyes were on the Ice Box and peace served my purposes better
than war.
Peace, they decided, threatened their livelihood, their
want for pillage and their petty crimes. They decided to get rid
of my friend and so a plot was hatched, a link was made and the
Assassin emerged to do the deed.
usual, he approached, left hand out, muttering, begging. Holding the baby, my friend reached into his pocket with his one free
hand and the Assassin seized the time. He pulled a Jimmy from
his waist and pointed it at my friend.
Surprised or in disbelief, my friend laughed.
But the Assassin stared blankly and my friend’s smile faded.
As an experienced murderer, he knew he had been tricked.
“CLAP! CLAP!” barked the Jimmy.
My friend fell to the ground, his
baby landing in the dirt beside him.
The Assassin stood over and aimed
again to finish the job.
“STICK!” stalled the Jimmy.
“STICK! STICK!” it stalled twice
more.
By this time my friend’s real
warriors had heard the explosions
and were running to the scene. The
mob rounded the corner and stopped
sharply, shocked at the sight of their
leader laid on the ground in his own
dark blood, eyes half-open; life gone.
His baby cried loudly.
The mob descended upon the
Assassin. Revenge was exacted but
my friend was still dead, and I, deprived of a return to the Ice Box.
So, the Assassin’s death was not
enough.
The Assassin
The Conspiritor
He was wrapped in dirty rags, hair uncombed into wild knots
and grime etched deep into his skin. Dismissed as a wandering
half-wit, his entrance into my friend’s Kingdom was all too easy. He
mumbled gibberish unless begging for silver or food. He began to
sleep rough under some tired sheets of discarded zinc at the end
of my friend’s lane, and each day he would beg—sometimes silver,
sometimes more. This continued for more than a month, until he,
like the excrement, became part of the lane.
One morning my friend stood at his gate, cradling his baby
under the protective shade of a sprawling East Indian tree. As
We soon learned of the plot and
how it had been funded from the Ice
Box. Ten days after his death, we were resting in our trenches
one late afternoon when word reached that one of the conspirators had strayed to a small shop on our borderline to visit a female companion. As many had fallen before him, the Conspirator’s fate was sealed by the lust of a woman.
I decided then would be a good time to blood two young
warriors and I summoned them. Both given a Jimmy and directed
up the lane and round the corner to the shop where the walking
dead was supping his last stout.
I knew them to be inexperienced, and followed in the shadows behind where I waited while they turned the corner.
“CLAP! CLAP!”
I heard almost immediately, followed by the sight of them
careening round the corner as if chased by devils or the police or
worse. I had instructed them to shoot
the Conspirator and drag the body
into the lane. But youths nowadays
are incapable of following simple
instructions.
Unconvinced they had completed the task, I moved to the corner and
stepped round it to see the Conspirator
with two flesh wounds, crawling in a
desperate attempt to scrape his way
to safety. Stepping swiftly towards
the Conspirator, I stood over him,
and with a grin, raised my weapon.
A few hours later, when the police
were examining the scene, civilians
from the community saw them take
wads of cash from the blood-splashed
pants and shirt of the Conspirator.
Word soon spread that the money in
the Conspirator’s pocket was the fee
sent from the Ice Box to accomplish
the death of my friend. It was reputed
to be a tidy sum.
That I had slipped that badly—
not even checking his pockets before
I departed—filled me with hate. But
luckily for my sanity the police found
no Jimmy on the Conspirator —imagine if I had missed that as
well?
My shame was compounded by the thought I could have
enjoyed the spoils that were sent to pay those who had killed my
friend. How could I have done such a thing? How could I have
walked away like that when I am so hungry?
What a wicked act. How could I be so cruel to myself?
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PHOTOGRAPHY BY
PETER DEAN RICKARDS
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STYLING BY
KAYSIAN L. WILSON
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RAYMOND
by peter dean rickards
even today, i believe raymond’s intentions had been good.
It wasn’t that he was a bad person or a bona fide con artist;
he was just trying to get by in a place where ‘getting by’ often
meant juggling jobs and inventing schemes to supplement one’s
income.
Like many unwary Jamaicans who took one of those five
flights a day to places like Miami and Toronto in the mid-1970s,
Raymond earned extra money selling things like Tupperware,
vacuum cleaners and even underwear. He was pretty good at it
too and always seemed to have a better car and more expendable
income than my overworked parents.
For years, my parents resisted Raymond’s get-rich
schemes. As far as they were concerned, Raymond sold ‘junk’
that people didn’t need, an unacceptable notion for a person
like my father who still hadn’t fully adjusted to a peculiar North
American culture where excess and junk had an established
place and purpose.
To my father, there was no logic in converting our rented
split-level into a ‘flippin’ flea market’. So what if Raymond sold
sufficient Tupperware to send his rotten kids to Disneyworld every
summer, it still wasn’t worth the trouble. Besides, my father had
schemes of his own.
One of these schemes came to him after a series of ‘home
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invasions’ were reported in the local newspapers. According to
the Hamilton Spectator, a youth gang was roaming the mean
streets of Burlington, Ontario and preying upon old people by
knocking on their doors and pretending to be Jehovah Witnesses.
And when the unwitting old person opened his door, he was
greeted by masked Canadian youths who threatened them with
Rambo knives and hockey sticks while other members of the
gang rummaged through the victim’s house, making off with liquor and cartons of cigarettes, and in one case, a valuable cat.
Amid all the heightened chatter about “Canada getting
bad,” my father struck upon a grand plan: “Give the people what
they need!”
The next day my father came home with a bag of brass
peepholes that he had bought from the local Kmart. He must
have had fifty of them. In his hand he held a brown envelope
stuffed with photocopies of the Spectator article with the bits
about ‘opening the door to unknown persons’ and getting beaten with hockey sticks highlighted in yellow marker.
At the bottom of each page he wrote the words:
CRIME IS ON THE RISE. PROTECT YOUR LOVED ONES.
INSTALL A PEEPHOLE.
Now, even though I had become somewhat wary of my father’s
snap ideas, like the time he insisted on making my little sister’s
Halloween costume out of a cardboard box (she was supposed to
be ‘dice’), I had to admit this seemed foolproof.
Clearly, here was a man who was thinking ahead, and yet,
the plan backfired.
After all, even if peepholes were cheap, sensible and based
on good old-fashioned fear, we had overlooked the deal-breaking
reality that our salesman was a 6-foot tall black man with a
strange accent, bad shoes and a dodgy-looking drill.
A few weeks later, Raymond showed up again with
another scheme. Still dejected from the peephole
flop my father showed rare interest in Raymond’s suggestion that he purchase a coffee machine.
“Everyone was doing it,” promised
Raymond and since he was the local
agent for the company that manufactured BOTH the machines and
the stuff that went in it, my father
would be privy to a bargain.
At first my mother was
suspicious arguing Raymond’s
‘deal’ was actually a second
hand Mr. Coffee that didn’t even
accept the new dollar coins.
She also wasn’t very trustful
of Raymond or his wife Cherry
who wore bright red lipstick—a
certain sign the woman was losing
her mind.
“See the lipstick?” she whispered to my father as Cherry started
arranging Mr. Coffee brochures on our
dining table, “she’s crazy Pete, she’s crazy!”
But Raymond had done his homework, and
even though the deposit to get our new second hand Mr.
Coffee machine meant having to endure a few more cutbacks—
such as no lights before 10pm and sending the dog away and so
on – my parents bought the machine.
As for me, I was optimistic until I took one of the Mr. Coffee
brochures to school. As my contribution to show-and-tell I
proudly produced the brochure and reading word-for-word from
it explained how Mr. Coffee was going to make my family filthy
rich. But then, James Ciccolini put up his hand and said the
machines didn’t accept the new dollar coins, which is why his
dad was selling half a warehouse of them to “stupid West Indian
immigrants and Pakis.”
Sure enough, I started to notice worry on the faces of my
parents each time they’d return from checking the machine at
the Chrysler plant’s cafeteria. The primitive machine
was hopelessly defective and made coffee that the
Chrysler workers said tasted like “a mouthful
of dirty pennies”. And so it was kicked, beaten and spat on until it was finally pushed
into a corner of the cafeteria where it
died of neglect.
And yet Raymond had guaranteed the machine would pay for
itself within three weeks. My parents phoned him repeatedly, but
no Raymond. He was long gone,
and when my little sister joked
he’d probably “bought a bunch
of Playboys with mum and dad’s
money”, my father threatened
to send us to the Children’s Aid
Society where nuns would try to
molest us.
Like many Jamaican immigrants of the time, there was
nothing to do but learn from the
mistakes and work harder to make up
for the losses. Indeed, it wasn’t long before Jamaicans in Toronto became famous
for their ability to juggle multiple jobs while
somehow raising young families and as in the
case of my father, expanding their qualifications.
And yet for every Jamaican who made it, there was another
who didn’t. Such was the case of poor Raymond who as we learned
a few years later, had died in a fire, alone and penniless after falling asleep with a cigarette in his hand. Far from Jamaica and the
politics and the violence, just trying to get by.
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Peddlers
PHOTOGRAPHY BY
RICHARD LECKY & PETER DEAN RICKARDS
Whether they’re being used to transport
goods to market or as a means of exercise,
escape or showing off,
the bicycle means different things
to different people.
In Kingston, however,
one thing is clear—
people LOVE their velocipedes.
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In true Jamaican tradition, the bicycle is often ridden,
decorated and modified to reflect the personal style of its
owner.
From the seemingly suicidal packs of BMX riders in the back
alleys of Spanish Town to the Gleaner man gliding down
Hagley Park Road on a Sunday morning,
Jamaicans continue to re-invent the ordinary.
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Illustration by
HEISLER MULANO
Photography by
PETER DEAN RICKARDS
Styling by
KAYSIAN L. WILSON
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BEG YUH
HUNDRED
DOLLA GAS
NOH?
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DON’T
GIVE HIM
ANYTHING.
THE GREAT ESCAPE
WORDS BY UNCLE SID
PHOTOGRAPHY BY PETER DEAN RICKARDS
It was passing 1:30am and Couton still hadn’t emerged from his home for the long drive from
Kingston into deep St Elizabeth, where he was contracted to appear at a dance. My rented
Nissan Sunny was idling nearby—this was pre-Toll Road era and we were very late. “St E jus’
up di road,” he smiled when he finally strolled out under the stars, unfazed by his tardiness.
“Unoo ready?” Scorching through garrison shortcuts and out on to Spanish Town Road it
quickly became clear the speed-limiter the rental company had planted in the Sunny’s engine
could not keep up with the lightening speed already being achieved by Couton.
To stay visible he clicked on his hazard lights.
By the time we reached the Ferry police station, as I floored
the lethargic Sunny, Couton’s blinkers were mere peenie wallies
dotting further into the distance. I found him waiting impatiently for me at Jose Marti roundabout on the cusp of Spanish Town.
“Yuh haffi mek yuh second drive your car and you roll wid
me yah man,” he advised. Against my better judgment, I duly
switched places and was soon riding shotgun - I had vowed never
to drive in the same car with Couton since that time he rammed
another vehicle off the road in New York.
On that occasion we were taking the new-brand Acura of a
female friend of his for a high-speed test-drive. Confronted with
a slow-moving vehicle in his sights, Couton prepared to round
it, but the car swung out to block the pass. Without a moment’s
thought, Couton pressed the gas harder, pulled alongside the
perpetrator, swung the Acura’s fender into it and sent it, with a
bang, onto a grassy knoll.
“Couton, a foreign we deh now,” I protested, “Yuh cyan
drive like this!”
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My advice fell on deaf ears. Rapidly approaching a stoplight I warned him I could see the vehicle we had just run off the
road in the mirror, heading our way at top speed. Unfortunately
there was a car in front of ours at the stoplight. Slowing slightly,
we were soon bumper to bumper with the car in front.
Couton revved the Acura’s engine and began to nudge the
vehicle out the way, hand on horn. The startled driver looked
round, saw a cursing madman, jumped into gear and pulled to
the curb—a wise decision for him as he didn’t need to see one of
the matte black .45 Llamas with three-dot sights under both our
seats. Couton paused only to tell the stunned driver: “A mi name
Pupa-Jus-Lick-One—MOVE OUTTA BADMAN WAY!”
Jetting along the Spanish Town bypass in a real life version
of Gran Turismo, I quickly regretted going against my vow as our
car’s four wheels left the road surface, ramping off the raised train
lines dissecting the bypass. I knew it would have the opposite effect, but I began to protest for Couton to ease up offa di gas.
“Bredrin, yuh know mi motto when mi a drive,” he dismissed, “100 pon di straight, 120 roun’ di bend. Stop bawl.”
Couton continued to redline along poorly lit roads in dire
need of rehabilitation while loud bangs intermittently rattled
the car’s structure as we smashed through potholes. “Better yuh
slow down yah man,” said his brother from the back seat, “Him
‘fraid of the hard driving.” As if he wasn’t.
Tired of my complaints, Couton abruptly screeched to a
halt the other side of Old Harbour. “Jah know, mi lose offa yuh
bredrin,” he cackled. “Mi ‘ave you as big badman and you a bawl
bout mi driving. Gwan inna di back of di car,” instructing his
brother to swap places with me.
Sitting in the passenger seat was like being in the front car
of the scariest white-knuckle rollercoaster on the planet, but sitting in the back provided little respite. From there I tried to employ all types of diversionary tactics—conversation, questions,
arguments, but quickly decided against talking altogether, as it
only caused Couton to turn around when he wanted to emphasise
a point.
A spliff I thought, let me roll him a spliff, maybe that will
slow him down a little. I soon discovered it an impossible task
to crush out the weed without spillage, harder still to load the
Rizzla. Determined not to go out without a fight I decided to improvise with the two rear seat belts, wrapping them both around
my body and positioned myself horizontally on the back seat,
bracing myself for impact.
One hundred per cent convinced the car was to crash that
night, and having exhausted all means of trying to avert disaster (including praying for Jah to dispatch an angel to lodge itself
under the gas pedal), an eerie calm washed over me. My thoughts
fell on my family and friends. Speeding through the Clarendon
countryside the car seemed to be operating in separate halves
with the front wheels kept on the road for the most part, while
the back two were busy trying not to give up as they slid across
dirt and gravel on either side of the road beneath me every time
we cornered.
I wanted to vomit.
Somehow we managed to reach Spur Tree Hill. I could just
see Couton’s widening eyes in the rearview mirror, a devilish grin
spreading across his face. He began to regale me with stories of
how dangerous the corners were on the downside of the hill, how
many people had crashed and died there. As we hurtled down towards a particularly acute hairpin, Couton, true to his MO, still
hadn’t applied the brakes.
“COOOOOUTON!!” I bawled out as the car shot into the
corner and began to lift off the ground as he pulled hard on the
steering wheel. With the rubber of only one wheel still clinging
to the road, we miraculously rounded it, before the car slammed
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back down onto the other three tires, aftershocks tossing the car
violently from side to side.
“BUMBOCLOTH” I screamed at him. He laughed.
Slowing to get last minute directions to the venue, I began
to see light at the end of the tunnel – we were nearing the venue,
we were going to make it. Entering the showground I was leaping
joyously from the car before it had come to a halt. Thankful for
divine intervention, I knelt and kissed terra firma.
As Couton made his way to the stage, all I wanted to see was
the Nissan Sunny trundle through the gates, which it duly did
around 45 minutes later. Leaning in through the window I plucked
the key from the ignition, and placed it firmly in my pocket.
“A dis mi a drive go back a Town,” I said to my second with
measurable conviction.
As soon as Couton uttered his last line on stage, I was pulling out the entrance, heading for Kingston, gleefully in charge of
my own speed. I chugged, at a leisurely pace, back up Spur Tree
hill, glancing every few seconds into my rearview mirror, expecting to see Couton rocketing up the hill doing the one-wheelwheelie. No sign of him.
We stopped next somewhere in Manchester, but all we
could see were piles of produce and crocus bags stuffed with coconuts, bundles of cane atop and tired faces of country people
waiting for the bus to market. No sign of Couton.
Fatigue peaked in me and I continued on to Town, concluding Couton must have stopped for refreshment or a spot of female
companionship. Shortly after daybreak I pulled up on Upper Mall
Road and fell asleep. 20 minutes later I was awoken from slumber by a loud knock on the driver’s window.
“Desmond dem crash!” announced his sister, “Dem deh a
Mandeville hospital.”
In the aftermath, a CVM news crew reported live from the
hospital. Couton’s brother’s leg was broken and his nephew, who
took my seat, took the brunt of the accident, with some of the
front of his head dropping out, along with a broken limb or two.
Couton, of course, came out the least injured, with just a
minor injury to his knee. In the words of my grandfather – he
could fall in a pile of horse shit and come up smelling of roses. A
Gleaner photographer snapped the crash site—a roundabout on
the Winston Jones Highway, the one with the gully in the middle,
which is precisely where the car rolled to a stop.
It resembled a can of sardines.
“Ungle dead people alone fi come outta that car,” observed a
bystander, clearly forgetting that only a Ninja can kill a Ninja.
FIRST 157
FIRST
PEOPLE
WHO
Gilly Preist (the original gateman)
WHERE
Earth (76°47’ W and 18°01’N)
CLAIM TO FAME
Subject of Josey Wales’ classic song Leggo mi Hand.
Shot himself by accident, twice!
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FIRST
™
Publisher
Lithographic Printers Ltd.
Editor/Photo Editor
Peter Dean Rickards
Fashion Editor
Kaysian L. Wilson
Associate Editor
Ross Sheil
Writers
Peter Dean Rickards, Ross Sheil, Uncle Sid,
Dwight Collins Ph. D., Pilate
Photographers
Peter Dean Rickards, Kaysian L. Wilson, Vuran
Baker, Richard Lecky
Design/Production
Benjamin Bailey, Omar “Sharky” Martin, Peter
Dean Rickards, Tobias Huber, Jermaine Valetine,
Heisler Mulano
PRINTED AT LITHOGRAPHIC PRINTERS LTD.
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