A Virtual Pilgrimage to Nine Mile - 'Walk Good' book extract

Greetings fellow PNS sufferers!
You visit this board for the same reasons that I do – you love Negril, you miss Negril, and you want more – so you come to Negril.com - to experience ‘the virtual vacation that never ends’
(Thanks Rob – I don’t know how I’d survive the time between trips to Negril without your board.).
Well, there is another thread on the board about taking a trip up to Nine Mile, and it got me thinking about the trip that I took to Nine Mile. I wrote about that trip in my travelogue 'Walk Good - Travels to Negril, Jamaica'. I thought I would post that chapter so that you could make the virtual trip up to Bob’s mausoleum with me.
If you would like to take a further look at the full book it is available at the URLs below.
I've arranged for discounts - good until June 30th - on both the eBook and Trade Paperback versions of Walk Good - (just for you my Negril.com compatriots :)
I'll soon be posting updates and excerpts from my upcoming novel 'Sunset Negril', which I am really excited about.
Here are the 'Walk Good' URLs and discount codes:
Walk Good - Paperback:
https://www.createspace.com/3621913
FVLHZ5CC – Discount code for $5.00 off

Walk Good - eBook:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/64184
YN69V - Discount code for 30% off

Because of the board’s 10K character limit, I’ve broken the Nine Mile chapter into three successive posts.

- Part One -

A Pilgrimage to Nine Mile
Facts an' facts, an' t'ings an t'ings.
Dem's all a lotta fockin' bull****. Hear me!
Dere is no trut’ but de one trut’,
an' dat is de trut’ of JAH RASTAFARI!
Bob Marley, 1978

Amy doesn’t understand how I can listen to the same Bob Marley CD’s over and over and over . . . and over. She’s never said it out loud, but I believe that she thinks I’m compulsive about Bob’s music. She’s good about it though, because she likes the music - - - kind of. Okay, she puts up with it. But for me it’s much, much more than ‘liking’ the music. It’s difficult to explain to someone who doesn’t ‘have it’, Bob’s music is a part of me, an important part, right down deep in my very core somewhere. I know there are others who feel the same way, others who ‘have it’, and there are a lot of us too. The amazing thing is, some of Bob’s devotees weren’t even born until after he left us. One of my daughter’s guy friends, who is seventeen years old, has turned his bedroom into a Bob Marley shrine.
Bob once said, “My music will live on forever.” He was right. In my mind and in the minds of thousands and thousands of his devotees around the world, his music is very much alive. Bob lives.
I saw him live in concert once. It was at the Montreal Forum on June 9, 1978, during the ‘Kaya’ tour. Leading off was ‘The Tower of Power’, a tight brass ensemble that did a good job of warming up the Forum, but everybody was there for the Wailers. By the time Tower of Power had wrapped up, the crowd had spilled over onto the open floor area in front of the stage. It seemed that the whole Caribbean population of Montreal had turned out and had staked out their rightful place smack in front of the stage. And no one was going to move them out of there either.
Then it was time. The lights went out. The rhythm guitar’s sudden ‘chuka… chuka… chuka…chuka’ leapt off the stage and homed straight into my gut.
"And now ladies and gentlemen. . . . ,"
the announcer said in a deep, booming voice,
". . . . coming to you all the way from Trenchtown, Jamaica . . .
. . . . . please welcome . . . .
. . . . BOB MARLEY AND THE WAILERS!”
The stage lights came on, the rest of the instruments joined in and there they were, the Wailers, and two of the 'I Three', Bob's female backup vocal group. Later Bob introduced them as the ‘I Two’, explaining that one of the girls was sick that night, (Marcia Griffiths, if I remember correctly).
The Wailers were up there onstage, playing their instruments, the girls were bopping side by side, but Bob was nowhere to be seen.
”Until… the philosophy… which hold one race superior and another, …inferior…..”
His voice filled the Forum . . . people started to whistle . .
“Is finally…., and permanently…discredited…and abondened…”
Everybody was standing, I stood up looking for him, the cheering got louder, everybody’s eyes were locked on the stage searching . . . waiting . . . anticipating . . . .
“H’everywhere is war……”
And there was Bob! Up on the front of the stage, bouncing his dreads, arms stretched out to the crowd. Pandemonium broke out! People around me were screaming. I was screaming. The crowd on the floor in front of the stage started dancing, heads bobbing in the sweeping spotlights.
For the next hour and a half, a natural mystic flowed through the air. We were in the presence of greatness. The messiah had come to town and we, his disciples, were receiving his benediction. Until my dying day, and then some, I shall never forget that concert, and whenever I hear the opening strains of ‘War’, goose bumps rush over my skin.
Erin and Hannah love Bob’s music too. They know many of the lyrics by heart, and well they should; they’ve been listening to Bob since before they were born. When their mother was pregnant with them I would put headphones to her belly to wake them up and get them kicking when it was playtime. Erin was a little late in coming so I played “Exodus” to get her moving. It worked too, she came into this world a-wailin’. When I can't find my 'Confrontation' CD, I know that it will likely be in Erin's mini-system.

So here we are in Runaway Bay, and I am keenly aware that Bob Marley lies in his mausoleum a tantalizingly short drive away. I intend to go, but I haven’t broached the subject with Amy yet.
We’re sitting in the Scotch Bonnet, watching the ocean rolling in, and Amy asks me, “Do you want to do any excursions hon?”
“Well, I was thinking of touring in the mountains a bit . . . . going up to Nine Mile maybe,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the breakers, trying not to sound too excited.
“Oh, that sounds interesting! Nine Mile, that’s where Bob Marley is buried isn’t it?” She's a sharpy my bride, it’s hard to get one by her.
“Yeah, well actually he’s lying in a mausoleum.”
Yes, we’re going!

Cliff, our driver, picks us up at the front entrance early in the morning. Amy jumps into the back seat. We are planning on a route that will take us east along the coast to Ocho Rios, south through Fern Gully and up into the mountains, back east through the mountains to Nine Mile, where we'll pay our respects to Bob, then back down through Browns Town, Discovery Bay and back to the hotel. The route, when drawn on a map of Jamaica, describes a rough oval with one edge running along the north shore.
The drive to Ocho Rios is uneventful. Once there, we turn inland and drive up through Fern Gully, an old riverbed that was long ago converted into a road. It twists its way up through a gorge cut into the mountainside. Ferns smother the embankments and trees hug the road, towering above us. Even though the day is cloudless, Fern Gully is cool and steeped in dark shade. Cliff informs us that there are 350 different types of ferns here. He tells us that back in his childhood, cars driving this road had to use their headlights during the day. Now, due to the heavy traffic and overuse, a lot of the foliage has died off. Trucks are banned from driving through Fern Gully and efforts are being made to return it to its previous state. Craft stalls displaying colorful batiks flowing in the breeze punctuate the sides of the road as we climb the twisting, turning mountainside road. Suddenly the road straightens out and levels off and we break into brilliant sunshine along the ridge top. We all reach for our sunglasses. There’s a large craft market located in a clearing and several tour buses are parked in the lot even though it’s still early.

- End of Part One -

- Part Two -

A Pilgrimage to Nine Mile

We turn west along the mountain roads, heading toward the town of Claremont. A small inconspicuous sign at an intersection indicates the way to Bob’s place. The further we penetrate into the mountains, the worse the road gets.
I ask Cliff about the massive holes in the ground that scar the countryside. He explains that the excavations are left behind from where bauxite has been gouged out and hauled away. The soil here is red and shows at the edges of the holes where the vegetation hasn’t completely grown back in yet, as if the earth was made of flesh and was oozing blood. The road meanders through the mountainous terrain. It’s hot and the road is dusty so we stop at a roadside stand for a cold Ting. Cliff talks with the vendor, they speak in incomprehensible volleys of the local patois, laughing and slapping each other on the back. My patois ear is not tuned to the northern dialect and I only understand one word in ten.
We continue, passing through many small towns. Cliff deftly dodges the cows, dogs and goats that share the road. He tells us that the goats are very road smart and hardly ever get hit. If they get caught out in traffic, they will freeze in the middle of the road until it’s safe to cross. It’s the cows that you have to watch, “Cows, dey stupid,” Cliff says.
Children in crisp school uniforms trot along the shoulder, toting their backpacks. We are getting deeper into the hills and the countryside is lush green and pastoral. The traffic thins out and soon the road narrows down to one lane. In places, portions of the road are so pot-holed and washed out that it can’t properly be called a road. As we're jostling through a particularly bad spot, I ask who maintains the road. Cliff answers with a laugh, “Nobody mon!”
He beeps the horn as we approach blind corners, as if to put up a force shield to protect us, but he doesn’t slow down any. When we encounter oncoming vehicles we slow to a crawl and scrape past each other. We meet a large tanker truck as we're descending a steep grade. There isn’t enough room to squeeze by. Cliff backs the car up the hill until we reach a cutout in the roadside. The truck slowly edges by to the accompaniment of Cliff’s shouted directions and waving arms. All the while the car radio, tuned to IRIE FM, blasts out an assortment of reggae and dance hall music. It seems that everything in Jamaica happens to the beat of background music.
I suddenly realize that we are on a road that Bob traveled many times and somehow that makes me feel closer to him.
Soon the only traffic we encounter are farmers leading donkeys loaded down with sacks bulging with vegetables. The clearings we pass are planted with patches of yams, each plant mounded high. Small groupings of banana plants abound. All the farmers that we see carry machetes, I ask Cliff about it. “To work de ear’t, yuh know, dig holes, cut vines and rope and t’ings. An’ to fight off de garden raiders an’ protect der work”, he explains. The people we encounter on the road wave and greet us as we pass. The terrain is extremely mountainous, wreathed in picturesque valleys. It’s taking longer than I thought it would to get to Nine Mile, but the trip is very enjoyable and we are in no hurry.
We stop by the side of the road to stretch our legs and admire the view across a wide valley. Below, a narrow road snakes between the hills, modest farmer’s homes dot the mountainsides. I take in the view, it is a scene of utter and complete tranquility. Cliff plucks a dry leaf from a small tree and bends it in two. “Smell dis,” he passes it to me. It smells like spice.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Pimento,” he says, “people crush de berries an' put it in dere porridge, some people call it 'all spice'.”
We drive a little further and enter the tiny hamlet of Nine Mile. So named because, as John Crow flies, it’s nine miles from here to St. Ann’s Bay. The original name of the area is Rhoden Hall, but now everybody calls it Nine Mile. It’s no different from any of the other small towns that we’ve passed through to get here, but I am finally here, where Bob was born and grew up as a young boy. We pass Bunny Wailer’s house, one of the original Wailers, just across the road from the gates to Bob’s mausoleum. There are no signs indicating that we are at the mausoleum. It looks like the rest of the town, sun-baked and understated.
A pair of high wooden doors in the fence surrounding the property are opened and we are directed in. Several Rastas are in the parking lot and they greet us with the fist tap. There is only one other car in the parking lot. Nine Mile is definitely off the beaten tourist path. Anybody that makes this trek does so with conviction. The mausoleum is perched on the side of a mountain, which, we are told, Bob called Mount Zion. We walk up to the reception area where there’s a small gift shop with the world’s largest collection of Bob Marley T-shirts. There's a bar and a veranda overlooking Nine Mile and the surrounding area. I go out on the verandah. Across the road is a concrete rainwater catchment covering the side of a hill. It drains into a large cistern that provides fresh water for the town’s people. Small hills stretch to the horizon, simple homes and shacks are scattered on the hillsides. Below the verandah is Bob’s grandmother’s house, where he was born.
In the bar are a couple of visitors and another Rasta behind the counter. A TV above the bar is showing a video of Bob. It’s turned up loud and his music echoes off the walls.
We meet our guide, Bongo Jo (his real name is Anthony, but like many people in Jamaica, he has a character-fitting pseudonym). Bongo Jo's head is covered with thick, long dreads. He leads us up the trail to the mausoleum. We pass through a gate swinging from tall, cone-shaped stone posts. On each wing of the gate there’s a picture of Bob. I recognize it as the photo from the front jacket of the ‘Kaya’ album. Across the top of the gate are two signs, ‘Respect’ and ‘Exodus’.
We slowly mount the path, as we go Bongo Jo gives us a brief summary of Bob’s life, all the details already familiar to me. At the top of the path, about a third of the way up the mountainside, there’s a small, level clearing where Bob’s mausoleum and his second house, built by his mother, are situated.
It is quiet and serene here; we’re alone. The house is narrow and very small. The walls are made of stone, the roof of corrugated metal. The wooden trim is painted in the Rastafarian colors, red, gold and green. We take our shoes off and enter the house. There are two small rooms and in one the bed that Bob slept in as a child is still there.
“We’ll share the shelter of my single bed.”
Bongo Jo tells us that Bob’s children still sleep in these beds when they visit Nine Mile, it helps them to connect with their roots, he says. Outside the little house there’s a medium sized boulder half buried in the ground.
“Cold ground was my bed last night and rock was my pillow too,” Bongo Jo sings quietly, pointing to the rock.
The mausoleum, a few steps away from the house, is a narrow whitewashed building with a high vaulted ceiling. Three tall windows run up its side filling the high gable. We enter and although we are the only ones inside, there is a presence here. It’s very quiet, candles and incense are burning, sunlight streams in through the windows. A large marble crypt dominates the center of the small narrow room. There's just enough space to walk around the crypt. I put my palm on the marble. It's warm.
“My music will live on forever…”

- End of Part Two -

- Part Three -

A Pilgrimage to Nine Mile

A lump grows in my throat and tears well up in the corners of my eyes. The walls of the mausoleum are adorned with photos and memorabilia including photographs of His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie, the great African-American civil rights leader Marcus Garvey and a detailed needlepoint of a lion. There's a picture of Bob’s brother propped up at the base of the crypt. Bongo Jo speaks in hushed tones as he tells us that the body of Bob’s brother occupies the lower part of the crypt. He was killed in Miami in the late ‘80’s. At the head of the crypt, on the eastern wall, there is a large circular stained glass window, gloriously back-lit by the sun. We are told that Bob is lying with his favorite guitar and a stalk of Sensemilla, his favorite herb, the species that he used when he wanted to meditate.
Bongo Jo tells us that Bob is laying with his head to the east, toward the rising sun, but that it wasn’t always so. Several years back, after Bob’s mother and some parish priests had independent visions that Bob had been mistakenly laid to rest with his feet to the east, the crypt was opened and the coffin was taken out, turned around, and correctly replaced. We spend several minutes in the chapel, looking around at the objects within and absorbing the tranquility.
We leave the mausoleum. On the west side there's a sycamore tree, planted by Rita, Bob’s widow. I stretch my neck to look to the top of Mount Zion.
“Bob climbed to the top to smoke an’ meditate,” says Bongo Jo.
We move into the clearing. The grounds of the mausoleum border on a yard belonging to a family who is related to the Marleys. There are a couple of young girls playing there. They see us, come over to the fence and start to sing ‘Three Little Birds’. We listen for a while until the singing breaks up into laughter. Bongo Jo laughs with them and tells them that they can’t sing.
We cross the clearing and sit on a rock in a flat area across from the little house. It is so tranquil here, the silence broken only by the singing of birds and the laughter of the children. This is a spiritual place. The words of ‘Redemption Song’ echo in my mind. I look over at the mausoleum and wonder what would have become of Bob if he were still with us. What more could he possibly have given us? Maybe it was destined that his message be short, sharp and loud, so as to ring clearly down through the years. After several minutes of quiet contemplation, we get up and head back down the path. I dab my eyes, Bongo Jo looks at me knowingly. He puts his fist up, we tap. “Respect, my friend,” he says. He’s seen this before.

On the way out of Nine Mile we pass a big sports field on the west side of town. Last week the field was the scene of the annual Nine Mile Bob Marley birthday bashment. Reports are that it was huge this year, blocking the road until 7:00 the next morning. The field is torn up and there’s still some litter lying around, mute testament to the party that was. Bob lives.
Our ride back starts out in silence. I reflect on our visit to the mausoleum, we take in the sights and Cliff answers our few questions. About thirty minutes out of Nine Mile our thoughts are disrupted by the booming bass of amplified music. It gets progressively louder as we move down the road. We round a corner and the source of the music is revealed to us. Music, at an earsplitting volume, is blaring from two enormous banks of speakers that have been erected in a vacant, dusty parking lot. Each bank faces the other from opposite sides of the lot. A few young men are in the parking lot standing between the speakers. They are apparently engaged in testing the sound equipment and they seem oblivious to the deafening volume. A couple of children are sitting at the side of the road watching the sound test and I fear for their tender ears. Each bank of speakers is about twenty feet wide and twelve feet tall, making the setup that I saw at Cuba’s look like bookshelf units. We roll by the parking lot, the car vibrating from the music. Each time the bass thumps something inside the dash buzzes in harmony. Amy holds her hands over her ears.
“What is that all about?” I holler to Cliff.
“Dere’s goin’ to be a big bashment 'ere tonight!” he shouts.
A short distance down the road we enter the small city of Brownsville. It’s a bustle of activity. We pass a school during ‘shift change’. In Jamaica, due to the scarcity of classrooms and teachers, some schools have been forced to institute morning and afternoon shifts. The kids are dressed in school uniforms that differ in color and detail depending on their ages and the school they attend.
About two miles outside of Brownsville, the traffic, which has increased to a surprising level, slows to a crawl. The reason soon becomes apparent; there are two men in the middle of the road waving makeshift red flags. On closer examination I see that in fact they are not red flags, but bouquets of red hibiscus blossoms. Each of them is also holding a bucket. They’re dressed in tattered clothing and are barefoot, so they’re obviously not police or municipal road workers.
“Dere collecting handouts to do repairs on de road,” Cliff explains. The road here is especially bad. We weave slowly around the deep potholes, pass the 'flag' waving panhandlers without making a contribution, and continue on our way. I wonder out loud if they might have made the potholes deeper and wider to aid their cause. Cliff shrugs in answer.
A little further on Cliff points to a cave on the side of the road. “Dats Sergeant Corner,” he says. “Dere’s a man living in dere, he’s been dere for fifteen years.” The cave mouth is festooned with bits of cloth and it looks very lived in. “He was in de army an’ he got an honorable discharge and dat’s where he lives now,” Cliff adds.
It has happened to me again, every time I start to believe that I’m getting to know this country, it shows me something that I never would have imagined.
We descend toward the coast but my mind turns back to Bob’s mausoleum, I’m already thinking about going back to Nine Mile someday. I wonder if they would let me climb Mount Zion?

- End of ‘A Pilgrimage to Nine Mile’ -

niceness

Niceness!

LOL, nick

I guess we got the same vibe!

Rollie, do you have a release date yet for "Sunset Negril" ?

Hi Kim
I'm still working towards a late July release.
Thanks for asking
K3

goldilocks said
I guess we got the same vibe!
=======================

AND at about the same time.........Coolness!

Thanks so much for sharing that. I have simply got to get "walk good" on the 1st. :)