robot taxis
living in rural jamaica (or the bush, as locals call it) is a practice in personal space, nay, an exercise in foregoing it. the immediate intimacy and warmth that jamaicans posess is no better exemplified in a single taxi ride. four-door, stick shift, jolting motherfucker careening down hills and lush green canopies in a car made for 4 that is holding 7-12 people in the back, staggered like teeth in a broken smile so the smallest and thinnest are wedged between everyone else.
it's all sweaty arms and thighs rubbing against each other, flesh spilling out of the car in every which way, and one type of proximity lends itself well to the others. on one particular afternoon, it only took the quick jolt of sailing over a pothole to promote us fellow passengers from acquaintances to kin, sharing wide-eyed disbelief and cacophonous laughter at the unpredictability and brunt force of the ride.
it's all sweaty arms and thighs rubbing against each other, flesh spilling out of the car in every which way, and one type of proximity lends itself well to the others. on one particular afternoon, it only took the quick jolt of sailing over a pothole to promote us fellow passengers from acquaintances to kin, sharing wide-eyed disbelief and cacophonous laughter at the unpredictability and brunt force of the ride.
