Multistory tenements, again with that strange plastic-looking whitewash sheen. Dim greenish bursts of foliage clustered the rising hillside, shaggy jagged-edged palms like dreadlocked Rasta heads. Satellite dishes and skeletal TV antennas ridged the tenement rooftops. Old dead dishes stood face-up on the trampled lawns—bird-baths? Laura wondered. "These are the government yards," Sticky said. "Public housing." He pointed away from the harbor, up the rising hillside. "That’s Fort George on the hill—the prime minister live up there."