Diana McCaulay

I knew parking was going to be an issue when I saw the “parking lot” at Jamaica Jazz and Blues Festival on Friday night – January 27th, 2012. Twasn’t a parking lot. Twas a patchily bulldozed field. So – no clear roads, no marked parking bays, very rough underfoot, a haze of dust in our headlights, a group of parking attendants wearing dust masks, obviously with little experience in managing unprecedented numbers of cars. We dithered, trying to assess where we would be least likely to be blocked in. Eventually we parked against the fence of a housing scheme, near to two trees and a bank of lights.

The lines into the Trelawny Stadium moved quickly, but I was a bit worried when our tickets were taken away and we were not given any stubs. Old legal training – you have to be able to prove you were at an event in case anything goes wrong. A quick search by policemen and women and then we were in.

About half the infield was filled with people in chairs and there were roped walkways through the crowd, so we walked around until we found what appeared to be the best available spot at the time – adjacent to a walkway, close to one of the huge TV monitors, far from the stage. We spread blankets on the ground and sat. It was just after 7 pm.

The evening went reasonably well until about 10 pm - the performances were good, band changes were short, we were able to use the walkways to get food and access the bathrooms. But then the walkways started to fill up with people. A female security guard near us let it happen, and only tried to take action when there were already too many people  standing in the walkways. She half heartedly asked them to move, two large men refused, one with an alpha male display of chest beating. She said she was going to get reinforcements, but just returned to her spot, watching the show. During the band change for Celine Dion, I realized it would be very difficult to leave the venue and people were still pushing their way in front of those who had been there earlier, blocking the walkways. Eventually, the ropes fell down and were trampled underfoot. As people ate, more and more garbage filled up the grass – plastic, Styrofoam, half eaten food, containers of soup. Time to stand up.

At 11 pm, as the headline performance was soon to start, there was a huge surge of people up the walkways. There was no semblance of crowd control. If you were a tall man, you could see the TV monitor, anyone else had to settle for glimpses of the artist we had paid to see. Suppose someone feels ill, I thought. Suppose someone faints. There was absolutely no retreat possible.

It’s true Celine Dion’s performance was superb. She had been thoroughly briefed on Jamaica, she said the right things, the sound was incredible, she sang the songs everyone loves. But then the crowd started to sing along and soon her voice was drowned out. You could only hear her well when she was singing something not so well known. Near to us, there were a group of young women who obviously thought they were at an Elvis concert – screaming and tearing at their clothes. And still people were pushing forward, caring nothing for who was jostled, bounced or stepped on. Suppose a fight breaks out, I thought. I found myself hoping one of the biggest acts in the music business would end soon.

Back to the car, which thanks to landmarks of trees, fence and lights, we found easily. And then we saw the chaos. It was as if we had entered a science fiction film where the aliens had struck machines dead and all cars had died where they stood. There were no attendants anywhere. The DJs in the stadium were suggesting that people not bother with the traffic, but stay for the parties, which meant that hundreds of vehicles were without drivers. Older couples wondered around looking for their cars, staggering on the uneven ground. An American accompanied by a Jamaican walked past us several times, the Jamaican looking drunker each time, the American insisting that he must know where he left his car. No problem man, the Jamaican kept saying. I walked around myself, trying to see if there was any way out. There wasn’t. I saw a man walk up to the car next to us, unzip his trousers and urinate on the car, which was occupied. And did I mention that throughout the evening the heavy cell phone use meant cell phones were virtually useless? Even the police emergency numbers were impossible to reach.

Two and a half hours later, cars began to move. It was like a migration of wildebeest - no line, just a massive melee, flowing one way this minute, another way the next. We fought our way to the road to the highway, which still had abandoned cars on it, and four lanes of traffic headed to the highway. Some poor soul trying to get up the road had to bank his vehicle. During the fight to get out of the parking field, I saw one single attendant (making gentle hand motions to proceed, as if we were being ushered into a ballroom) and NO policemen until we had left the parking field. We got to near Ocho Rios at 4.45 am – NE-VER again, we all vowed. The next day we read Promoter Walter Elmore blaming dignitaries for using available police personnel as escorts and saying we would all soon forget the parking issues, but not the performance of Celine Dion.

And this is what has been most interesting to me – the post event revisionism. Celine was AMAZING; yes, we got stuck in the car park, but it was worth it, seems to be the breathy and enthusiastic consensus. Jamaica rocks! Wi a di bes! I feel like the child in the fairy story of the Emperor’s New Clothes – you remember, the one who said to everyone describing the riches of his non existent attire: BUT HE’S NAKED!?

Jamaica was naked on Friday night, folks. Walter Elmore was naked. A 16-year-old festival sold way more tickets than it could handle, rammed everyone into a sports venue without adequate parking infrastructure or management, without crowd control or regulation concerning basic public safety and crossed its fingers, relying, probably correctly, on our legendary complacency and short memories. Greed meets aversion to rules, poor management joins the party, add Jamaican indiscipline, mix well, and you get Friday night’s chaos. Oh and I forgot – throw in VIP sections, and Uber-VIP sections (I am not making the latter up) and the various people who are in leadership positions and should insist that this kind of debacle is not visited on patrons can also pretend that all was well. I’m sure it was, for them. And since no one actually died and the worst that happened is a few hours of inconvenience for thousands of people, so what, because if you had a regular ticket, you can’t be too important anyway.

And finally… it’s The Rock, what do you expect? You want go to a concert and hear the music in a modicum of comfort and safety? Actually see the artist? Not stand in garbage? Leave when you want to? Don't be ridiculous…