This Chapter's richly woven narrative takes listeners on a journey through the streets of Jamaica, capturing the essence of its vibrant culture and the darker shadows of its societal challenges. The story unfolds with a morning walk through the city, where an encounter with local hustlers escalates into a tense confrontation, underscoring the harsh realities faced by those perceived as outsiders or different. This incident serves as a microcosm of broader societal issues, as the narrative examines the role of the dons in maintaining social order, their influence extending from local communities to international perceptions of Jamaican culture. The episode presents a nuanced exploration of the complexities of life in Jamaica, where tradition and modernity collide, and the struggle for acceptance and progress persists.

Rootsland "Reggae's Untold Stories"

Rootsland is produced by Henry K Productions Inc. in association with Voice Boxx Studios in Kingston, Jamaica.

Introduction by:  Michelle "Kim" Yamaguchi

Guest Vocals by:  Patrick "Curly Loxx" Gaynor

Featured song: Halfpint - “Bully You a Bully”

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Henry K.

Henry K.

Seduction Rastafari is love because righteousness.

Broadcasting live and direct from the rolling red hills on the outskirts of Kingston, Jamaica.

From a magical place at the intersection of words, sound and power, the red light is on.

Your dial is set the frequency in tune to the Rootsland podcast stories that are music to your ears.

Good morning, Jamaica.

You're tuned into JBC radio.

And what a show last night at the harbor.

The place rocked and grooved, courtesy of Bob Andy.

He surely wasn't joking, and it surely wasn't what he was smoking.

Coming up this morning, still some fallout from Margaret Thatcher's recent visit to the island.

Some in the reggae community are demanding that the british prime minister and the UK take a tougher stand and impose harsher sanctions on South Africa's apartheid regime.

We have the poet Muta Barucha in studio for you.

And you can bet, you can just bet he's got something to say.

Yeah, man.

Yeah, man.

I would usually leave the hotel by 715 to walk over to Bob's place.

We would try to get going as early as possible to avoid the morning traffic.

Holborn Road is still pretty quiet that time of morning when roadside stalls come to life and food carts begin setting up for the long day.

There's a gentle rhythm to the mornings in Kingston.

Everything in Jamaica had rhythm.

The sound of the landscapers raking up the leaves, brooms sweeping the concrete entrances of the local businesses danced like jazz cymbals and helped me keep my stride on the morning walk.

But this morning, something was about to break it.

Yo, GX.

GX.

Yo, GX.

There were a few guys across the street trying to get my attention.

They were standing next to a small cart that sold drinks and cigarettes.

I didn't recognize them, but figured they were part of Texas crew.

They were on Holborn Road.

Yo.

I thought they were just saying hello, so I kept moving, but they were calling me over.

I didnt have time to deal with this and something inside me said, keep moving, but I didnt want to come off as rude.

I did pass this way every morning, so I turned around and went back.

Jakes, the name they were calling out was a generic term I used to hear on the north coast of Jamaica.

In Negril.

Local hustlers would throw out random names to get the attention of passing tourists.

Sometimes it was Jim or Joe or John, but their favorite was Jake's.

I never did figure out its origin, but it caught on and they were sticking with it.

As I got closer, I could see by their expressions, they were agitated.

Maybe since I hadn't walked over sooner, they thought I was ignoring them.

No bright smiles or cheery morning greetings from this bunch.

One of them stepped out in front of the other two in cut off jeans and a white tank top.

He was tall and thin and his body language became more aggressive as I approached.

A metallic clicking sound grew louder and I can see it was coming from a silver butterfly knife that he was playing with.

The sound is very distinct.

It's made by flicking the knife with the wrist, causing the butterfly handles to counter rotate, either revealing or concealing the blade.

The noise is designed to be intimidating and it worked.

Yo sir, you never hear man I call you.

It's like you want disrespect man.

Like when I exist.

No, that's not the case.

I'm sorry, I thought you were just saying good morning and I'm in a rush to get to work.

You work here?

What kind of work you do?

Ya fuck bout it?

Ya fuck bout it.

I thought he was joking around.

I had no idea what he was asking and no idea how to answer.

I looked at him, puzzled, and turned to walk away, trying to avoid a situation.

But he put his hands on my shoulder to keep me from going anywhere and he repeated himself.

Your fuck about it.

He stepped closer.

The sound of the knife became louder and he he wanted an answer.

I suppose in hindsight I should have asked him what he meant, but I was nervous and panicked.

It seemed like a simple yes or no answer.

How bad could it be if I got it wrong?

It was a 50 50 shot and I rolled the dice.

At the very last second I decided to hedge my bet.

Instead of yes or no.

I answered sometimes bombokla, sometime, sometime.

Wrong answer.

By now he was right in my face.

I could smell the weed on his breath momentarily.

He looked confused.

He wasnt expecting that answer, but after a quick glance at his cronies and a short lunge forward, the knife was at my neck.

I completely froze.

He forced the point of the blade up into my chin.

Somehow he must have found the softest part of my body.

I could practically feel it poking through the bottom of my mouth.

I was sweating and felt dizzy.

If you come anywhere near here again with that shit, you're dead.

You hear me?

Blood clot, you will get bullets.

Now get the fuck out of here.

I turned and walked back across the street, scared, confused, humiliated.

I never even checked to see if there were any cars coming.

I didn't want to turn my head in either direction.

I didn't want to know if anyone was watching.

The rest of the day, I was in a daze, going through the motions.

I had no recollection of anything that happened after that moment.

I just wanted to get back to the hotel, to my room.

But I was wondering, was it even safe there?

Yes, safe.

Safe.

So safe you wouldn't believe.

It wasn't till the end of the day, after I finished my first beer with Tex, that I even began to comprehend what happened earlier.

As Tex explained, henry, you see, in.

Jamaica, we don't like homosexual.

We call them Batiman here.

You know, it's a christian country.

We cultured to not deal with that kind of lifestyle, you know?

Now, you know, Tex is a businessman.

I don't care what people do in their private life.

If it don't affect me, I don't matter that.

But most of them, you out on the road, they are dark and ignorant.

Tex.

So that's what this was about.

Those guys threatened me because they thought I was gay.

That's crazy.

I didn't even understand what they were asking.

He threatened to kill you, man, because he's weak.

And he was looking for someone weaker to show that he's the bigger mandehead.

Just like every bully looking for someone vulnerable, you know, someone different to pick on.

That's how predators work.

You have to learn the game.

Henry Tex did know his country.

At the time, most of Jamaica didn't tolerate homosexuality.

In fact, it was, and still is illegal according to jamaican law.

It may surprise you to learn there are more than 80 countries in the world where it is illegal to be gay, including Uganda, Nigeria, and Russia.

One country that is also on the and happens to be a tropical paradise destination.

A country where being gay is illegal in the eyes of the law and an evil sin in the eyes of the people.

I think most Canadians think of Jamaica as being a winter vacation paradise.

But there's also a high level of homophobic violence that exists in society itself.

Anti gay sentiments were expressed at many of the island's religious pulpits, and that's in a country that has more churches per capita than just about any place in the world.

However, what would prove to be most destructive to the island reputation and the biggest obstacle to the progress of jamaican music?

The presence of anti gay lyrics.

Sometimes violent ones that have pervaded dancehall songs and culture.

This was a heartbreaking revelation to many reggae fans around the world.

It seemed to be in direct conflict with the ideals, principles, and inclusive message that traditional roots reggae had become so beloved for.

During that time, period news stories and mainstream papers and tv shows covered in some detail the more brutal and violent lyrics.

A story appeared on the front pages of the Village Voice, and the front page said, boom.

Bye bye.

And it detailed the homophobia that exists in Jamaica.

Our laws, the laws of our country.

Sebogar is a crime.

In every square mile I can find about four or five churches in these churches or churches of God, they preach.

Homosexuality is a crime.

Public reaction globally was swift and fierce.

There were commercial boycotts of dance hall shows, and major labels quickly distanced themselves from the jamaican artists embroiled in the controversy.

Although they were different branches, they came from the same tree.

So reggae music.

Dancehall's older brother was given some of the blame.

Irreparable damage was done to Jamaica and the one love, one heart brand.

The sad thing is, the whole thing could have been avoided if these greedy, impulsive record labels and executives that released these songs would have thought more about the long term credibility of an entire genre rather than the quick money made on a couple of singles.

Rastafari is love.

Togetherness, oneness, unity, unconditional love.

Fighting for the rights of the people, for the poor, the sick, the elderly, the needy.

That's what Rasta is about.

Loving and caring and sharing.

Love and hate can never be failed.

It's the streets, my youth.

It's survival.

Survivor of the fittest.

You see that youth, Viper?

He didn't care whether you are or wasn't a batyman.

He didn't care about the truth or any kind of facts.

It's the one with the loudest voice that get heard.

You see that youth, Viper?

He disrespect the order, and now you have to deal with it.

What do you mean, I have to deal with it?

I didn't like the way that sounded.

You don't have a choice, Henry.

All talking done text was not like most gangsters in Jamaica.

Maybe if his turf was in one of Kingston's more violent ghettos, in a darker corner of the city, he would be less tolerant, less open minded, if he'd even still be alive.

But on Holborn Road in New Kingston, near the international hotels, trendy cafes and boutiques, his business catered to mostly uptown Jamaicans and tourists from all over the world, people of different races, religions, nationalities and sexual preferences.

Tex learned early that his personal prejudices didn't mix with his business priorities.

So he learned to tolerate his clients, even if he didn't agree with their lifestyles.

Although I don't think he would admit it over time, tolerance became friendship.

Might I say Tex was one of the first progressive gangsters.

Tex was on autoplay night after night, again and again, repeating his mantra, his Weltin Schung, his philosophy of life in three simple maintaining the order.

The streets, he explained, exist in a fragile state of equilibrium, a delicate balance of volatile elements that can erupt at any time.

There is one thing that keeps that from happening, one thing that keeps the peace from becoming chaos.

On the streets, one word more powerful than God.

It's the word order.

And maintaining it, an elaborate web that starts and ends with one man, the top man, the godfather, the one they call the don.

When did I ever refuse an accommodation?

The title of don derives from Latin for master of the household.

It became part of the mainstream vernacular thanks to the popularity of Hollywood mafia movies that created these larger than life characters.

It turns out, really weren't that much larger than life, because real mob bosses like Al Capone, John Gotti or El Chapo, with their lavish lifestyles and cold blooded tactics, seemed to capture the collective imagination just as much as Don Corleone or Tony Montana.

That includes in Jamaica, where the local gangsters obsession with the godfather style criminal culture created a roll call of legendary dons who still control the garrisons of Kingston to the streets of Brooklyn, and also populate some of the federal penitentiaries along the way.

The question is, why do dons exist in the first place?

What makes dons so popular, so revered and beloved that people are willing to put their lives on the line?

For them to find answers, you have to look no further than the communities where they come from, control and consolidate power, usually the inner cities, housing schemes, tenements, ghettos, parts of the world that are underserved, marginalized, forgotten.

And in the absence of any legitimate government or social structure to care for the people, a power vacuum is created that often ends up being filled by the one strong enough and smart enough and brutal enough to take it.

The dons pave roads, build schools and infrastructure for lighting and sewage.

The dons give small businesses loads of to people who don't qualify anywhere else and protect the communities where the police won't come.

The dons provided, and before long, they were more powerful than the police and the politicians.

Eventually, they owned the police and politicians.

Why?

According to texts, they maintain the order.

The dons have their generals, the generals have their capos, and the capos have their loyal soldiers like Tex, who take their orders, do what they are told, no questions asked, and all remains good in the world for at least one more day.

Now, I had to take my order from Tex and do what I was told, no questions asked.

Cause the guy from this morning, his name was Viper.

And since he disrespected me on Texas turf, and that was a disrespect to Tex.

When Tex heard, he went ballistic and had a little talk with Viper.

Now, tomorrow, when I went to work, Viper would have to apologize to me publicly in front of his crew.

You have to face him and make that pussy beg for forgiveness.

Are you serious?

I don't want to deal with these guys.

I mean, even if he is sorry, can't we just leave it at that?

No, man.

This is the streets.

You have to deal with certain things according to the laws of the streets.

You know this.

What if I don't want to text?

Then I'm going to have to beat Viper to sickness, and it's all going to be on your head.

So you know that.

What kind of guilt trip is that?

I didn't want anyone getting hurt.

So the next morning, I did as Tex said.

I guess he realized how apprehensive I was.

He sent one of his soldiers, Robbie G.

To follow me.

Robbie was waiting outside the Indies.

I wasnt sure if he was there for protection or to make sure I didnt back out.

Robbie G.

Was the jamaican version of J.

Wellington wimpy.

This is going to be much more difficult than usual.

Robbie always had some kind of deal brewing and needed to borrow money.

Now that he promised to pay back when he had his big payoff.

Which of course never came due to a thousand reasons.

That, of course were never his fault.

But Robbie had a great negotiation tactic.

He would harass you nonstop to the point of submission.

And then you would pay him just to leave you alone.

Henry, watch out, you.

Hey, remember that thing I told you about that business opportunity?

Don't tell Tex.

The moment of the apology came and went.

It was anticlimactic, to say the least, which was fine with me.

When Viper saw me, he ran across the street and immediately held out his hand as a gesture of peace.

A strikingly different tone from yesterday.

I did notice something else strikingly different.

He had a bruised and swollen face.

Yo, Gx.

Jono.

Sorry.

My youth may never meant any kind of disrespect.

It was a joke.

A joke we was making.

It's all good.

No worries.

Yo, Henry.

Just make sure everything good with text, man.

Tell Tex misunderstanding.

It was a misunderstanding, you know, really sorry.

And just like that, it was done.

Queld and the viper crawled back into his burrow.

When people hear the term street justice, it usually invokes images of vigilante beatings or high profile shootings with bodies covered in bloodstained sheets.

I guess those are the images that make the evening news or headlines that sell papers.

What Tex taught me is that every day, in every scheme, every garrison and ghetto, there's a constant series of negotiations, truces, liaisons that don't involve violence or guns or murder, but carefully orchestrated parlays arranged between power brokers and overbosses.

Gangster generals who, like most hardened soldiers that have seen battle, would prefer to avoid a war.

Turns out, on the streets of Kingston City, like the rest of the world, killing is easy.

Keeping the peace is the real challenge.

And just like that, order was restored on Holborn Road.

I certainly had peace of mind, but even that had a cost.

Now I owe Tex a favor and he collected what he was owed.

Remember my youth?

Id soon find out.

My payback included arranging backstage passes for me and Tex to attend the upcoming reggae Sunsplash festival in Montego Bay, booking a luxury suite at the Seawinds Hotel located on the grounds next to the venue, and taking a high risk road trip across the island with a trunk load of stinky indigo bud.

And if we made it there in one piece, Texas plan also involved a rendezvous in Montego Bay with a young singer that he met in Kingston and had been clamoring about introducing me to for weeks.

Spoiler alert, the singer had a voice I had heard before.

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Yes Rasta.

Don'T worry about a thing cause every little thing is going to be alright.

Depth.