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I have read a couple replies to prebooking tours questions that suggest waiting till you get to Negril to book as there are plenty of drivers who would hire out for a day. In this case I am considering a South Coast tour. YS, Black River, Pelican Bar or a combo of some variety of two of them.
So my question is do the route taxi drivers own the car and would they be a good place to start? Or would a regular taxi like you usually see hanging around at the different hotels be better?
Steve
A brief history of Route Taxis as they are today. The Japanese sent used cars (mostly Toyotas) to Jamaica and took coffee and other products [as well as money] back to Japan. Of course they sold the coffee mostly to the US at astronomical prices and made out like a bandit on that.
These cars are referred to a "Deportee" vehicles. Private individuals purchased them and started to carry passengers so more extensive routes developed and the gov't and JUTA were quick to require a Red Plate and Insurance to be legal. After a while, people who owned one car made enough money to purchase another and then the leasing to drivers started to be popular. A driver will lease a car from the owner for a set amount per day. This requires the driver to beat the hell out of a vehicle to make the payment and turn a small profit per day for his/her work.
This means that Route Taxis and other Red Plated vehicles can be acquired for what is called "private tours". One method is to go from point A to point B in a regular Route Taxi who is assigned to that route and offer him enough money to take you without other passengers. They are regulated by size to number of passengers they can take so I just multiply a single fare price by (between 5 and 10 depending on a sedan or a small bus) and offer that as a starting point. Of course, you need to pay for BOTH ways.
A better way is to just offer a Red Plated driver an amount for a days rental. If you know a Tour Operator takes someone for a normal $100 US to Black River as an example....offer $75 US or something similar. Give yourself room to bargain on the final price.
Peace and Guidance.
very few "things" or places fill up....so prebooking really isnt necessary.....one days notice or less you can get anywhere.......
and your not "tied" down to a rainy day, or plans change..................................
plans have a way of changing, you may be "done-in" from the day before and dont feel like going out and about..............Attachment 4367
As a rule I pre-book my excursions with a trusted driver, due to the fact I have been ripped off or tried to be ripped off way too many times over the decades. I like to have things lined up and my ducks in a rown before leaving, not winging anything.
Hope this helps.
Before all those Japanese cars hit the streets Latas were the car of choice for a route taxi. We used to say we were grabbing a "Lata" - now we say "we're grabbing a local".
The correct name for the old cars in Jamaica is Lada. Lada is a brand name of Russian made cars that were brought to the island during the Michael Manley administration. This was before the "deportees/Toyonda's" were brought to Jamaica in mass.Quote:
Originally Posted by rastagirl777
A sidenote to the name is that black grocery/store bags are often referred to as "Lada bags" by those who live here. We all used them to carry our purchases when we crowded in the next taxi... (grin)
our first ride was in a Lada we picked up outside the fence at the airport, had no floor in the back were your feet go but two wooden boards across the opening on each side, drive shaft was still covered by remnants of the original floor.............very breezy ride :)
Guy turned out to be a "friend" for over 30 yrs...........
Ladas were also introduced into Canada in the early 80s. They are actually Fiats but were made in Russia. I had one, terrible car
"I had one, terrible car "...........
compared to now yes, but it was built so most Jamaicans could keep 'em runnin with "spit n wire" so to say.............we spent many hours touring the cockpit country and most of the Island in 'em...........................
1983
My live-in girlfriend of 9 years and I tied the knot the year before and we were shopping the marketplace for a honeymoon place to go at a good price. I saw a commercial on TV for a “21 Day Fly Anywhere You Want” fare from Eastern Airlines for $399 per person and for an extra $100 per person they would throw in the Caribbean! This looked like the perfect deal and we could afford the price and had the time as we were both collecting unemployment at the time. After familiarizing myself with the rules and regulations of the deal, I got a flight timetable and started to make a plan.
We decided to split the 21 days into 3 7-day destinations. I chose a week in Puerto Rico as I had been stationed there in the military for two years and she chose a week in Mexico exploring the Mayan ruins. Now, where to go for the other week? I decided that the only fair way to decide was to throw a dart at a map. I threw a dart and it landed on the coast of Cuba. Damned I said, “We can’t go there.” My wife said, “Throw it again”, but I said only one throw so we took a piece of string and started making ever larger circles until it hit land somewhere that we could go. The first place it touched was Galina Point in Jamaica! When it did, I remembered my promise to myself so Jamaica it was.
We left from a friend’s home in Reno Nevada a few minutes after midnight in the wee hours of the 4th of July and had to complete the trip on the 24th of July to get our car the friend was taking care of for us. In the late afternoon of July 10th and a week in beautiful Puerto Rico, we landed in Kingston Jamaica on a very hot and humid day. My wife and I were more or less wearing matching outfits by chance as we both had white pants, sandals and brightly colored Hawaiian shirts. We made our way to the Immigration Hall and baggage area which was then just like a big hangar with soldiers running the process menacingly carrying M-16s and looking quite nervous. There had been travel restrictions which were only recently lifted before our visit. After grabbing our backpacks, we walked up to the Immigration Officer.
Now, this guy was a big man and looked like he came right out of central casting in Hollywood. He really looked and acted the part of a gatekeeper who only reluctantly let visitors get into Jamaica. Sternly in a mild Patois he said, “Let me see your papers”. We produced them and he followed with, “Where are you staying?” Well, this is where it started getting a little sticky. We were backpacking and wanted to just go where we felt like going and he told us that there was no backpacking in Jamaica. “If you don’t have reservations you will have to get back on the plane.” I had to do some quick thinking. “Ah, where are we staying?” I said the words slowly. “I am sorry but your thick accent confused me a little.” “We are staying at JATCHA up on Jack’s Hill.” I pronounced confidently. He asked me to repeat it and I did remaining confident that I knew where I was going so he reluctantly stamped our papers and on the way out the door my wife questioned, “What the hell is JATCHA?” I whispered “The Jamaica Alternative Tourism, Camping and Hiking Association.” “I guess we will have to give them a call and see if they can help us.” I had read about them and even exchanged a letter about a month back so I was familiar with them.
When we pushed open the doors we were not prepared for the throngs of hundreds of clamoring people young and old trying to get our attention. I noticed a bank of pay phones behind a wire fence where you had to purchase a phone card to use them so I bought the cheapest one and gave Peter Bentley of JATCHA a call. He said to find a taxi and we would be welcome to stay with him so I hung up, looked around and said “taxi man” to the people who were waiting. A couple of men came forward and gave me prices of around $80 US to go there. Now, $80 was a lot of money in those days and Jack’s Hill was only a few miles away. I declined their offers and looked further for an alternative. An older gentleman with a slight smell of rum and bloodshot eyes pushed forward and said $40 so I said “sold” and off we went to his car.
His car was a rusty red LADA of a fine vintage. I didn’t know the year but it was old. There were either 1 or 2 lug nuts on each wheel and the passenger rear window was broken in the down position. Things started out fine as we wound through the streets of Kingston until we were at Barbican where the road went up to Jack’s Hill. Night was falling as the sun set about an hour ago when I got my first indication that all would not be right with this trip. The radiator started to steam and when he opened the hood, red, rusty water was spewing like a geyser all over the sputtering engine. He got two rum bottles and a red stripe bottle out of the backseat and instructed me to get water at the Texaco gas station on the corner.
After giving the thirsty radiator a little drink and stuffing in the rag that doubled as a radiator cap, off we chugged up the winding, mountain road. He turned on his one headlight and its angle and brightness lit up the road barely better than a penlight flashlight. My eyes would catch a glimpse every now and then of the twinkling lights of Kingston below but most of the time they were riveted on the temperature gauge that kept climbing and climbing. When the windshield started turning red I knew the radiator had had enough and it was time for another drink. The driver calmly pulled over and reached under the seat for a warm Guinness that he drained in a couple of short pulls. “Here, take this and those other bottles and go down to a small stream down there”, as he pointed vaguely at the side of the road.
I couldn’t believe that he was telling me what to do as I was paying HIM for the fare. I started to make that point but realized that he probably was too drunk to do it anyway so I reluctantly nodded and off I went down the hillside. I stumbled, fell, slid and cursed my way to a little stream where I filled the bottles. I had to take off my Hawaiian shirt to make a sling to carry the bottles before clawing my way up the hill to the car. Now, the soil was red clay bauxite slightly muddy from an earlier rain and my once white pants were completely covered in red gook along with the rest of my now exposed body. Even though I considered myself a “camper”, I was not a “happy camper” at this point.
After repeating this process once more, we pulled into Peter’s yard noticing a tourist couple Gus and Inga on the front porch. I was so happy to be here and out of the LADA that nothing but getting clean and changing clothes seemed to matter. We got the backpacks out of the trunk and paid the driver though somewhat reluctantly but, hell, it did cost me half of what the others wanted. From around the side of the house I saw a flashlight approaching. This must be Peter I reasoned.
That is when we got a shock. Peter was nude and carried himself like that was his standard dress. My wife was a very cool and unflappable person so I wasn’t concerned over the way she might react to this. We had, after all, been to several nude beaches in California already. It was what the first words out of Peter’s mouth that broke any uneasiness. “I hope you don’t mind me being nude” he said “But I have a rash that doesn’t want to go away” as he pointed to his inner thigh. I lost all concern over the nudity and now only worried about catching a stubborn rash!
“Come, you must take a shower before the water goes off.” He explained that the water from the reservoir tank locked off at 10:00pm. “You can set your tent up there”, he pointed to a grassy patch just off the front corner edge of the house. Well, this is it. We survived the flight, the taxi ride and now we will experience this crazy, mixed up world of Jamaica!
Peace and Guidance