Sharks at the Montego Bay airport

The scene Sunday afternoon outside Sangster International Airport in Montego Bay, Jamaica, was biblical. A Babel of young Jamaican men in colorful shirts dashing amongst dazed travelers, myself included, calling out, “Sir, where you going?” “Sir, what hotel, please.” “This way, sir, this way.”

Duffel bags, stained backpacks, limp garment bags, golf cases, and enormous Pullmans were all hurriedly stacked onto carts and wheeled into a parking lot filled with limousines, vans, mini-buses, taxis, and tour buses, most in shocking Caribbean colors—lime, teal, butterscotch.

I stood in the bright tropical sunlight, wondering what lunacy led me to wear a black silk sports coat on the plane, waiting for my pre-arranged car from the Ritz-Carlton. The hustle and bustle all around made me feel a bit like a plump red snapper in shark-infested waters as one young man after another insisted I follow him, then darted away, quickly repelled, when I mumbled something about waiting for a car from the Ritz.

All except two gregarious young men in vivid red shirts who sniffed indecision in my wilting demeanor and moved in for a closer look. When I told them the resort was supposed to be sending a car, they happily nodded and grabbed my luggage from the curb. “Yes, sir, yes, sir…a car to the Ritz.” Within seconds, my bags were in the back of their van and I was seated, alone, in the middle of a stifling-hot vehicle with threadbare tires, feeling rather certain this was not the Ritz Town Car I was told would pick me up.

I suppose I could have made a scene but, frankly, I didn’t have the spirit. Not after 14 hours of travel. Besides, the young men who snatched me up seemed nice enough, in a profiteering, kidnapping sort of way. So what the heck.

The men climbed into the front of the van and smiled appreciatively at me as they evaluated their catch of the day.

Just as we were about to pull away, there was a belligerent thump on the van door and there, looking all cool and crisp and elegant, was a muscular young man in pressed navy blue slacks and a white polo shirt with the Ritz-Carlton logo on it.

“Mr. Lansing?”

“Yes?”

My driver, Mr. Lincoln Pryce.

“My name is Lincoln.” (I kid you not.) “I’m very sorry for the delay. Come with me please.”

And then Lincoln snarled at the two slender men in pale blue shirts and in some sort of sing-songy threatening patois, told my two abductors that they were to take my luggage out of their hot, dirty van and release me immediately. My former captors, believe it or not, immediately followed his instructions and within seconds, I was sitting in the back of Lincoln’s well-chilled Town Car (the irony of car and driver—I know). My former captives smiled and waved as Lincoln pulled away. Feeling oddly remorseful (Stockholm syndrome?), I waved back. I’m sure they meant well. No harm, no foul.

As we started rolling through Montego Bay, Lincoln turned around and gave me a big smile. “Welcome to Jamaica,” he said as the tinted window rolled back up, sealing us in a soothing cool from the ragged tropical heat outside.