A thin, cafe-au-lait face appeared suddenly at the immigration officer's shoulder. The face belonged to an elderly man whose dark suit seemed out of place in the hot, close Jamaican evening. "Let them through," the man said. "These are my students."Until that point, my wife and I had spent several minutes blocking an immigrationdesk in the Montego Bay airport with a press of tourists pushing behind us. I had told the official that we would be working for several months with a doctor in Black River. The word "work" had set off a mental alarm. "In that case," the officer demanded, "where is your work permit?"My hair was suspiciously long, our clothes ragged. The year was 1968-and the last thing Jamaica needed was more American flower children.Our savior picked up our passports and guided us through the arrivals area, his "Let them through" serving as a force of nature. "Come," he said. "I am Harold Johnston. It is a pleasure to welcome you to my country."
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