My brother Jeff had dementia, but when I started taking care of him he wasn't that bad. I decided that we should get out of Vermont for the winter and I chose Jamaica because we lived there when we were children. Our father worked at the US consulate in Kingston back then when Jamaica was a British colony.

I rooted around on Airbnb and finally settled on a place in Port Antonio. It was pretty much the cheapest place on the island and was called “Rastaman Rev’s Garden Guest House,” or something like that. There were places that looked fancier but I didn’t want to be isolated with Jeffrey and there would be other guests around in a guest house. Rev’s place had chickens in the yard, too and I liked that.

The taxi driver drove like a rally driver via the “junction road” which is a whole lot of switchbacks. There was nothing to do but sit back and trust in Jah as we rocketed around corners. On the other side of the mountains, we stopped at a little roadside bar and we could hear the ocean for the first time.

I first met Bobo on the verandah of Rev’s place. He was sitting on a stool stringing red, green and gold beads into necklaces. He had a shop in Musgrave market but he had closed up in order to do a construction job. The construction job had fallen through so he was helping Rev with some renovations at the guest house.

The guest house was quiet as the normally busy Sommerstown Road was being dug up to put in a municipal sewer system. A lot of interesting people were in and out. Jeff was a hit with the two Rastas. Before his brain went off-line, he was witty guy and Jamaicans love wit. I have attached a video of the two of them giving Jeff some football therapy.