How I got to Jamaica...too.

With a nod to Captain Dave and a little time on my hands, I thought I might copy his lead.

It was 1983 and felt like I was living in a dream. I couldn’t stop looking at the Eastern Airlines advertisement for “Fly anywhere you want for $399 for up to 21 days” (and for an extra $100 they would add Caribbean destinations), I knew right away a vacation was in our future. I called my wife into the room and showed her the ad trying to read her expressions as she read.

A smile crept over her lips, so I jumped right in on “Where do you want to go?” taking advantage of the situation. She said she wanted to go to the Yucatan to see the Mayan pyramids and asked me where I wanted to go. I had been in Puerto Rico for two years in the Military, so I suggested we go there instead.

Thinking out loud I said, “We have 21 days so perhaps we can do both.” She liked that idea and added that perhaps we could even make it a three destination-one week in each vacation. But where? I had an idea…..

Do they still have those kind of deals? That would be awesome, like a Euro rail pass but for flying.

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Originally Posted by TuffGong

Do they still have those kind of deals? That would be awesome, like a Euro rail pass but for flying.

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Eastern Airlines was in financial trouble at the time and finally went bankrupt in 1991. They even had a $999 Fly anywhere for a Year for Senior Citizens but I was too young at the time and it didn't include the Caribbean (except Puerto Rico).
https://www.bing.com/videos/search?v...%252BxGt5TCOEA

I took my wife out to the garage to the dart board on the wall and grabbed a dart while she took a well-worn map and placed it over the board. We decided to just throw a dart and, if Eastern Airlines flew to any country it landed on, we would go there. I stood at the prescribed distance and threw the dart. Wouldn’t you know it? The dart landed in the middle of Cuba and we could not go there! She suggested I throw it again, but I declined and came up with an alternative solution. I tied a piece of thread to the dart and made ever increasing circles until it hit a land mass. Bingo! Galina Point, St. Mary’s Jamaica.

It was Providence. In 1978 I worked as a Stage Security Guard at the Santa Barbara County Bowl for a Bob Marley and the Wailers concert. I was transfixed by Bob and the band as his lyrics seemed like they were talking to me and me alone. And so, began my fascination with most everything Jamaican from the food to the music and from its history to its mystery.

And, I started with my digestion of the Eastern Airlines Route Schedule with a goal of fitting all three destinations into a maximum 21 day time period while also being mindful of the rules such as only being able to stop at any airport once which proved to be more difficult than I anticipated.

Nearly one month later I had an outline of a plan that would do all three stops and take almost all the 21-day limit too. Now I needed to work out a ground plan for when we arrived for things like places to stay and car rental when public transportation was not available. We would be backpacking taking sleeping bags and a tent as an alternative cost saving measure when appropriate.

On July 3rd, 1983, the adventure began.

Fresh from a glorious week traversing Puerto Rico staying in a tent on the beach, renting a room in a lodge in the mountains near Dos Bocas and Utuado plus a splurge on the last night in a luxury hotel on Condado Beach, on July 11th, we arrived in Kingston, Jamaica. Not knowing what to expect, we had decided while dressing at that luxury hotel to put on some Hawaiian shirts and white, drawstring pants along with our flip-flops. Something we soon regretted.

The Customs and Immigration building was a huge aircraft-like hanger and all the agents were in military uniforms. After the 1980 election and some tourists had been assaulted on the beach, the US Government had cut off almost all tourism and now it was only starting to come back which explained the military presence. We approached a rather large, gruff man at the desk who asked us for our papers. He scrutinized them once…twice and a third time before talking. “Where are you staying?”, he said to which I replied we are just traveling around and camping.

His loud, gruff voice seemed to echo off the building’s walls when he replied, “No Camping in Jamaica. You will have to get back on that plane!” This was upsetting to me on many levels. The first being that I had been in contact with a Jamaican named Peter Bentley on Jack’s Hill who ran JACHA (Jamaica Camping and Hiking Association) and that was where we were staying for two nights plus there was no way I wanted to go back and ruin this vacation.

Thinking quickly, I slowly and calmly said, “Do you want to know where we are staying?” to which he nodded so I apologized and said that I didn’t understand the question because of his thick patwa. “We are staying a JACHA on Jack’s Hill” leaving off the part about camping. He seemed reluctant to accept that answer, but our outfits looked so out of place that I believe he took some pity on us and stamped our papers.

We pick up our backpacks and headed out the doors into the reality of Kingston completely clueless and definitely not dressed for the occasion.

Pushing open the double doors and being enveloped by the scorching afternoon sun plus walking through the hundreds of people outside waiting for arrivals who suddenly became silent made me almost wish we had gotten back on that plane. Luckily the several letters I exchanged with Peter prepared me a little for my next task. I needed to hire a taxi to take me up to the top of Jack’s Hill and Peter had already gave me the approximate price for visitors.

We smiled and said hello as we walked the gauntlet waiting for to hear the magic word; “Taxi?” until near the curb we were approached by a couple of drivers that had been gathered near their cars. I chose the most presentable of the three and asked for a price to Jack’s Hill. I was told to expect somewhere around $100 US so when the stories of how far it was and how bad the road was produced a $200 fare, I waved my hand, shook my head from side to side and kept walking.

We were running out of daylight and options when a slightly disheveled older man approached with a hint of rum factory air about him. He had misbuttoned his shirt and I could not help staring at it while we talked. He offered to take us for $80 US and when my wife nodded in resignation, I agreed, and we walked to his car an early ‘70s Russian Lada.

My first impression of his car was, “Where is Fred Sanford when you need him?”. It was a combination Russian Red and rust color with rust being dominate. It had 4 wheels but just barely as all totaled there were only enough lug nuts for 3 wheels. After putting our backpacks in the trunk, he directed my wife to sit in the back and me in the front seat saying something about needing more traction to climb Jack’s Hill. He removed half a dozen Red Stripe bottles from the front seat area to the rear seat floor next to my wife while he adjusted a piece of sheet metal covering a large hole in the floorboard. He laughed saying he did not want to lose me on the way. Somehow, that gave me some comfort.

The clutch chattered and the gears gnashed as we pulled out of the airport towards the unknown.

My confidence in our driver “Frank” was growing as we wound through New Kingston and Papine finally stopping at the Texaco station in Barbican before climbing up the winding road to Peter Bentley’s place on Jack’s Hill. Frank asked me for some money for petrol and asked us if we wanted a warm Red Stripe for the drive up. We both declined. Frank popped the bonnet before getting out of the car and removed the steaming radiator cap letting out a “bumbaclaat” from the burns he seemed to be accustomed to getting from frequently repeating that task. It was the first smile I saw from my wife in nearly a whole day as Frank opened the back door and removed the empty Red Stripe bottles.

After filling up, shutting the bonnet, and putting something in the boot Frank returned to the driver’s seat with two warm Red Stripes. “Tall drive ahead, man” he said pointing at the Red Stripes as we started up the hill. The drizzling rain was coming down a little harder and the Lada’s wipers seemed to only smear the red rust water from the radiator all the more. Only one sharp, hair-pin turn into the climb and Frank had already guzzled one beer and opened the second one as the car skidded from side to side while losing some traction on the leaf-covered, rain slicked road. Nearly bald tires on a front wheel drive car will do that.

Intermittent slips and slides and several sharp turns later, the recently cleared red rust water on the windshield was back. I glanced at the indicator gauges and saw the temperature was pegging past “H” and it was obvious that Frank was looking for a place to turn off the road safely. I took a quick glance back at my usually unflappable wife to catch her rolling her eyes as Frank pulled off the road.

He once again popped the bonnet and removed the steaming radiator cap cursing just above a mumble as he went to the boot and removed a black scandal bag, closed the boot, and took the bag back to the radiator. I could see through a gap under the bonnet that he was removing Red Stripe bottles from the bag and pouring them into the radiator. I was wondering if it was Red Stripe beer but soon decided they were the empties from the back floorboard he filled with water at the petrol station. Closing the bonnet, Frank returned to the driver’s seat where he put the two new empties into the bag and handed it to me. He said we would have to wait a bit until the radiator cooled down but, in the meantime,……

“You want me to what??”

Frank was explaining that we would need to make at least one more stop to fill the radiator before we arrived at Peter Bentley’s place. He went on to explain that there was a small stream a short way down over the side of the road where “I” could go and fill the empty Red Stripe bottles but he wasn’t saying why “HE” couldn’t do the same thing. It was getting dark and we were getting nowhere. I thought it over and weighed all the options before agreeing to go. My wife did not like the idea but, at that point, it was either me or her, so I went with my little dollar store flashlight leading the way.

In the dimming light, it was two quick steps followed by a bauxite mud slide down to the small creek below on the seat of my white drawstring pants. I took a minute or so to catch my breath and do a quick inventory of my bones. Check. Red mud everywhere. Check. I filled the empty bottles and climbed back up to the car.

Frank seemed amused but did not say much as we pulled out to continue the trip up the mountain. I kept glancing over at the temperature gauge as both we and the gauge kept climbing. Anxiously, I was trying to anticipate how far we would get before having to stop again. I made up my mind there and then that a repeat trip down the side of the road to get more water was not in the cards for me. Period.

Rounding a sharp corner, I saw a bar named Foxy’s at Peter’s Rock Road and before I could ask Frank a question about it, he volunteered that Peter’s place was only a few chains up the road. That did not help me much as I had no idea how long a chain was but, frankly, I did not want to know right now.

The radiator was steaming again as we pulled up to a house with a young couple sitting on the verandah next to a sign that read “Sense Adventures”. “This is Peter’s place”, announced Frank. I do not know when I was ever so happy to get out of a car in my life. While Frank had the boot open to retrieve the Red Stripe bottles, my wife grabbed our backpacks as I walked over to the couple on the verandah to ask about Peter’s whereabouts.

Gus and Inga from Holland were their names and they had been staying in a bedroom for about a month. I asked about Peter and they told me he would “soon come”. A phrase that I would hear often in Jamaica. I walked back to the car next to Frank who was refilling the radiator when I heard a voice calling my name. I looked around and there was Peter confidently striding towards me with an outstretched hand.

What the Hell??

I could feel my wife at my shoulder as I focused on the grinning, bearded man coming towards me. This was Peter Bentley. He was somewhere in is mid-30’s, White Jamaican who was born and raised in Jamaica. He was not very tall, but it seems the mountain living kept him in rather good physical condition. That you could tell that mainly because he had no clothes on! He was a devoted nudist by inclination.

Maybe we were staring but for some reason it seemed he felt the need to explain. “I hope it doesn’t bother you that I don’t wear clothes around the place” and went on “I am getting over this nasty rash and the air helps it to heal”. The fact he had no clothes on did not bother us as we frequented a nude beach in Santa Barbara California where we lived. “No, not at all”, we chimed together. But I was a little concerned about somehow catching that rash.

Peter pointed to my bauxite covered pants and asked, “How did that happen?” Where upon Frank and Peter digressed into a patwa back and forth that neither my wife nor I understood a word except for the laughs which were in perfect English. “Well, you better get a shower right away as they lock off the water up here at 9:00pm”, said Peter pointing towards the side of the house. “And, you can set your tent up there”, indicating a spot on that same side of the house. My wife said she would put up the tent while I showered. Gus, from the verandah offered to help her so they carried the backpacks over to the camp site.

The water was ice cold and the mountain air not that much warmer as I tried to make a quick but thorough removal of the sticky red soil from my body. My wife was sitting on the stoop outside the shower area talking with Peter as she had completed setting up the small two-person pup tent. I think I should explain at this juncture that I was a rather conservative, Corporate Accountant for a Fortune 500 company who wore a suit and tie much of the time and my wife was the adventurous, outgoing half of our dynamic duo.

She was getting the lay of the land, the whaagwans and the inside scoop to which I occasionally cringed at her directness while I was standing under the water pipe listening. I was more uptight about sharing and asking questions with someone I had just met. My opinion of Peter was that even though he was a Naturist, Naturalist, and an Environmentalist, he was also a Capitalist. It seemed that everything he asked us if we wanted cost a dollar. We dubbed him “the one-dollar man”.

As I was toweling off and slipping into a pair of shorts, t shirt and sandals, Peter asked my wife, “Would you guys like a drink?” “Yes”, she said. “One Dollar each?”, he replied. “Okay”, she said. He showed her a bottle of rum he distilled himself and went over to a tree in the yard and picked a pink grapefruit before returning to the kitchen to mix a drink. “Want a smoke?”, came from the kitchen. “Okay”, I said walking over to the stoop. “One Dollar each?” Okay, now I got the drill. “Thanks”, I said.

Settling down to a smoke for me and a drink for the two of us, my wife asked, “What do you guys do for excitement?”

Great reading, my friend. You had me laughing so much! My first trip was in 1984 due to hearing “Buckingham Palace” by Peter Tosh in1979. I had no idea what to expect, but I don’t know what happened to my “I survived the road to Negril” T-shirt. That was also the 1st time I had rum punch, which I was drinking as I read your story. Thanks for sharing!!

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Originally Posted by Jdub

Great reading, my friend. You had me laughing so much! My first trip was in 1984 due to hearing “Buckingham Palace” by Peter Tosh in1979. I had no idea what to expect, but I don’t know what happened to my “I survived the road to Negril” T-shirt. That was also the 1st time I had rum punch, which I was drinking as I read your story. Thanks for sharing!!

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Respect jdub. All this quarantine plus liking Captain Dave's story made me want to give myself a mental checkup. Sometimes reliving those memories helps put the present into a more livable perspective.

I am writing this for myself but like a good tour guide, I make a real effort to enable others to have the best experience possible and, perhaps, do a little reliving of their own. The one truism I have learned over time is you can't please everyone and some people do everything they can to not enjoy something. I sometimes don't play well with others but most of the time I just don't even like to play.

Maybe that is why I come and go to Jamaica and few people know until I have already come back.

I toil in self-approbation.

Respect

The drinks were strong, and the smoke was even stronger. I was really in no rush to go out somewhere and every time I glanced in the direction of the tent; I was being drawn in that direction. I was sitting there quietly on the stoop while my wife, Peter, Gus, Inga and two farmers who stopped by while coming back from the fields were socializing. Somewhere in their conversations, the subject of dominoes came up. Well, my wife was one to brag on me, especially in my presence. She said, “Bill is the best dominoes player around where we live.” While it is true, I play good dominoes I do not know if the best around where we live would be exactly accurate even in a smaller than average neighborhood.

“Well, this is a Monday night and we usually wait and do a walkabout down to Foxy’s on the weekend but let’s go down a see if we can get a match”, Peter said smiling. Suddenly, everyone was moving at speeds that were leaving trails in front of my eyes without asking me what I thought about the idea.

I guess the fact that everyone was standing there looking at me was a sign that the time had come for me to scrape myself off the stoop so I stuck out my hand for assistance on getting to my feet. The potent cocktail of rum, smoke and a little night blindness was swirling in my head as we headed down the dark road riddled with bomb crater size holes. One such hole nearly gobbled me up when I was caught off guard but I somehow managed to catch my balance again using my wife’s shoulder.

Maybe it was the near catastrophic stumble that suddenly brought me back to the present or maybe it was a little paranoia from the smoke that sent a shudder through my body. “Stranger in a strange land” came immediately to mind. What the hell am I doing here in a strange country, on a dark strange road in the company of people I had only just met less than a couple of hours ago?

My eyes darted around in the near total darkness trying to make out shapes to put with the voices that seemed to come from every side. Rounding a corner and sidestepping another axel-breaking pothole, I heard and saw something a little familiar coming up on our right. It was both a little scary and at the same time curiously a little reassuring.

Foxy’s.

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Pause….
This would probably be a good time to put a little context into the backdrop of this time in my life up to the present. I was then living in Santa Barbara California with my wife who had only been my wife for a couple of years after living together for nearly a decade. We were married (in the nude) in a river in the mountains behind Santa Barbara at a place called Pendola Hot Springs where we were living/camping with a group of people and both collecting unemployment. I had extensively traveled outside the country but mostly during my years in the service. I liked (and still like) to be in control of all situations as much as possible. I was also a career student at Santa Barbara City College where I was working on my third 2-year degree living mainly off my GI Bill money and working some part time jobs like the Security at Santa Barbara County Bowl. During much of those ten years previous, I was working as a Cost Accountant and Auditor for a major corporation before having my position “downsized” and going on unemployment. Shortly after this trip, my wife died in an auto accident and I continued by beginning a long and sometimes turbulent courtship with a new lover; Jamaica, that has lasted for nearly 37 years. I have never stayed a night in an All Inclusive. I usually now live in remote, isolated villages around the island where I have no or little contact with tourists. I mostly prefer it like that.
Continue…

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As we drew closer, the chest-thumping bass from the twin stack 12” speakers took over the surrounding mountainside. Somehow, it seemed that the laughter and shouting from inside Foxy’s walls provided the lyrics that made that bass line into an alluring melody. I have been in many similar places before this and many, many after but right now this one seemed more important and somehow dangerous in an intoxicating way.

My wife, Gus, inga and the two farmers made their way inside to the end of the bar against the wall while Peter and I stood at the doorway surveying the situation. Up to this time, I had never seen something exactly like what I was seeing now. A couple of dozen men, a couple of women and even a small child were packed into this one room shack that was big enough for a little bar, a few barstools and couple of small tables with domino games in progress. The shouting and taunting coming from those tables was occasionally interrupted by sudden spurts of dominoes being slammed one by one on the table in public displays of dominance. I understood intuitively that this could and sometimes did get out of hand resulting in violent behavior. Maybe that is why I was so intrigued by what I was witnessing.

My wife bought Peter and I a cold Red Stripe each and brought them over to the door frame where we were standing. She seemed perfectly happy with being there so that lowered my anxiety level and I started to just enjoy my surroundings a little bit more. What I really noticed was how invisible Peter and I seemed to be standing there. Especially knowing that he was something of a regular there, yet no one seemed to look our way. Again, this was somewhat comforting and showed acceptance on some level.

The music had been playing from a selection of 45’s behind the bar so after one finished, it took a few seconds for another to be played. It was during one of these lulls in the music that Peter suddenly shouted out something that changed the whole atmosphere and greatly affected my life on Jack’s Hill.

“Do you see this guy, here?” (pointing at me) “He is the best domino player in all of California and we are going to whip someone’s baxside!”

What???

I was struck speechless. What the hell? This could be looked at through many different lenses and all of them bad in my mind. Where did this “best domino player in all of California” come from? That was never said. I suspected and soon came to understand that Peter could be quite antagonizing at times though otherwise a great friend too.

The domino table closest to us seemed to just ignore Peter and went on like nothing was ever said but the one towards the rear reacted quite differently. They shot looks back and forth at each other before two players on one side reluctantly got up and walked away from the table. Peter put a hand on my shoulder and seemed to push me forward and we sat down in the two empty seats.
To say I was intimidated would be an understatement. Our two opponents both glared at me as I tried to just relax a little when the barmaid brought four beers to the table. A warm Guinness for Peter (his usual), cold Red Stripe for me and two warm Red Stripes for them. My wife was smiling. She always seemed to know what to do. It loosened the atmosphere considerably.

Peter mixed the bones and pushed them to the center of the table. I noticed right away that they were old, and all seemed to have some distinguishing characteristics to them like discolorations and chips. In other words, those that played with them all the time knew which domino had which number. A definite advantage. The mad scramble for the good numbers left me with mostly double numbers on my draw. A definite disadvantage. Plus, when at home, we would all stand our dominoes up in front of us and play them one at a time. Here, they picked all seven into two hands hidden by their fingers. I tried but I kept dropping them. What have I gotten myself into? The double six is pounded to the table.

It is my turn and I play a six-three. In my opinion, an exceptionally good play and look for approval. Get none. It seems I only get to follow with the only domino in my hand the rest of the game or pass until the other side slams their dominoes and wins. Peter explains the “six-love” concept which I know nothing about and chides me to pay better attention. And so, it goes for a few games before we manage to win one and break but then lose right away again.

By this time, it seems that every resident of this area and some of their friends from up and down the hill are watching the game. It is about this time that I realize that I am playing a different game of dominoes than they are. In California we play “All Fives” where the object is to put fives or combinations that add up to fives on the ends. They are playing “Partner” dominoes where the object is to get rid of your dominoes first or have the lowest total of any dominoes once the game is blocked.

It was a true epiphany. It was now nearing midnight and I had stopped drinking and smoking some time ago and the fog was lifting from my brain just in time to figure out how to play. And it went back and forth for an hour or two more with neither side getting a “six-love” win when it finally happened.

“Six-Love!” “The best domino player in all of California has just…….”

35 years ago give or take took a flight to Mo Bay. Taxi to the minibus terminal. [a vacant lot]. Mini buses were packed to the doors but they always made room for me and my wife. [the only white people]. The driver was smoking and drinking and everyone was singing during the trip to Negril.
Stopped at Arthurs $6 for the trip.
Met Norma and Bradley Arthur and negotiated a price of $8 a nite for a room at Norma's Cottages.
Bradley is gone and so are the cottages. Norma still lives across the road near Thunder and Barbara.
The girl who swept out the rooms is still there but I can't remember her name.
Back then we had the vendors, the peanut man, the hat man, and long timers may remember Nuray, the white guy with dreds who was selling sprouts to the restaurants.
Been going back ever since.

Enjoy.

Yes, it is always good to look back on the old days and remember how special they were.

If I stay quarantined for a few more days, I just might get to the point on this first trip where we got to Negril from Port Maria, St. Mary on an old country bus. We stayed the old Secrets Cabin at Firefly for $10 US per night.

The one vendor I really remember from this first trip was a guy they called "Mushroom Kenny" ;)

Hope you enjoy as well.
Peace and Guidance

I woke up without a clear memory of how I got back to Peter’s yard and safely atop my sleeping bag. I glanced over and saw my wife had since gotten up and left the tent. I wondered just what time it was when the memories of last night came back in short, little snippets. “Six Love!” and an explosion of sorts when the table was hit so hard that the dominoes flew to all corners of the bar. Cheers resounded both inside and outside the bar. We lost. Time to get up and face my first full day in Jamaica.

I gathered my soap, towel, and toothbrush; unzipped and rezipped the tent and headed for the shower area when I heard my wife say, “Good afternoon, sleepy head” from where she sat on the stoop. She said that the water was still off but would “soon come” and patted a spot on the stoop next to her so I went over and sat down. I pointed to her watch and asked the time. It was about 8am and already getting quite warm.

I could hear Peter in the kitchen cooking something that smelled like eggs, so I said, “Good Morning, Peter” and did not get an immediate answer. I turned to my wife and asked in a near whisper, “Is he upset or something?” She just shrugged but added, “I don’t think so, why? “The game last night”, I continued when Peter stuck his head out the door and said, “Good morning, partner” with a special emphasis on the word “partner” which stung just a little.

“Want some coffee?”, he said. “One dollar a cup”. “Sounds good”, my wife added. “Want some help?”, she asked. “Okay”. She was getting up to go in the kitchen when he said, “I will show you how we make Blue Mountain Coffee”.

Peter took a cast iron frying pan off a hook on the wall and put it on a burner turned to medium where he dumped in a few handfuls of dried, green, unroasted beans and gave my wife a wooden spatula to stir them and keep them moving. The smell was incredible and getting more so as the beans darkened and, meanwhile Peter brought a small cane broom out to sweep off the top step where I was sitting. I stood and watched as he took the frying pan’s contents and dumped them on top of the now swept step. He handed my wife an empty one-liter rum bottle and told her to crush the beans using the bottle like a rolling pin. After the beans were ground down to his liking, Peter took three handkerchief-sized pieces of cloth and filled each with the ground contents and tied a knot on top of each.

Peter went back into the kitchen and then he and my wife came out with three mason jar mugs filled with hot water. He demonstrated dunking the bean-filled sachets continuously until the water turned dark black with an oil slick on the top. I could hear Gus and Inga rustling around in the kitchen and they appeared carrying enough ackee and saltfish in wooden bowls for the five of us along with a can of Betty to sweeten and color the coffee.

My first breakfast in Jamaica. Boy! This coffee is strong!

Not exactly a truth serum but, if you want to get someone talking, a cup or two of freshly brewed Blue Mountain Coffee is certain to get the ball rolling. Within an hour over breakfast we all knew more about each other that any of us really wanted. Peter asked about our plans for the next six days and we said we were open to suggestions. Peter said, “Take your showers now as the water is on and meet me in the living room in about an hour, okay?” Sounded good so I nodded to my wife to go first. I really wanted to wait a little as I was a little fearful of the cold-water shower to come.

About an hour later, we walked into Peter’s living room where he had a projector white screen set up with a carousel Kodak projector. There were a couple of throw pillows on the floor and no chair or sofa, so we made ourselves comfortable and waited for the show to begin. We whispered some small talk while waiting when my wife asked about Peter and the nudity thing. “Do you think he will be wearing any clothes?” to which I said that except for when we first met, he has been wearing a pair of shorts at least all the time including breakfast this morning. “True”, as Peter entered the room clad in a new pair of shorts.

He asked us if we wanted a drink. One dollar each, of course, but we begged off saying it was too early and we rarely drank anyways. He continued. “I am going to show you some pictures of places where you can go and stay around the island. We all work together so I can set up any reservations you might want.” He asked, “Are there any places in particular you might want to visit?” I told him maybe Negril as I had read a little about it and then I told him about how we got here by the throwing of the dart and Galina Point, St. Mary. “I know just the place for you.” He began showing us the pictures.

I have to say that Peter was an exceptionally talented photographer. His shots were beautiful with one added feature. Almost every picture had a naked woman super-imposed or posed on it somewhere and this is before photoshop, so I really did not understand how he did that, but I liked the added touch. After nearly 50 slides, we narrowed down our trip to two stays: Sealawn Coral Beach, Port Maria and Secrets Cabin at Firefly in Negril. Peter explained that although Jamaica was not that large, the transportation was by country bus and they were hit and miss and sometimes did not come by at all on a particular day plus it was not good to travel on a Sunday.

We decided to stay here another night and go see something around Kingston. Stay the 14th and 15th at Sealawn Coral Beach and the 16th and 17th at Secrets Cabin and travel all day on the 18th back to Kingston to catch an afternoon plane to our last week’s stay in Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. Peter pulled out his pre-printed Sense Adventures invoice sheet and started writing down our choices and totaling up the associated costs of the trip. The total came to a little over $100 US for the four nights we would be staying after leaving here. He explained that we were to pay him, and he would give us a receipt to take to the two places and he would pay them next week when he was visiting them.

My wife and I exchanged a “Do we look like country bumpkins?” look. “Give us a little time to make a final decision, okay?” Peter smiled, nodded, and left the room. We talked it over and evaluated the prices and the payment method finally settling on the “I know where you live!” scenario if things went wrong.

I called him back in and counted out the money.

The overdose of caffeine was wearing me down physically and I wanted to take a nap but decided instead to sit with Gus and Inga on the verandah with the hopes of learning a little more about Holland and how they managed to have so much time to spend here in Jamaica. I was impressed that Gus could even chat a bit of patwa. I was still having a hard time with it but wanted to learn.

From the time I sat down with them and for a few more hours, it seemed like everyone was stopping by on the road or walking through the yard and pointing my direction. Gus explained that I was now famous. People thought I was some kind of crowned champion in dominoes and that two local guys had beaten me the night before. I thought about it and felt that it was a good thing because it lifted the local men’s talent level in their eyes and gave me many opportunities to engage them in conversation. I basked in the pseudo-notoriety.

I bid my leave and joined my wife for a brief nap in the tent. She had borrowed a couple of travel books from Peter and was reading up on Jamaica and especially the areas where we would be traveling. I was very pleased at how she had embraced this journey. I gave her a big hug and closed my eyes to sleep.

It was just a brief nap, but it was nearing dusk when I awoke. I was getting hungry. I got up and walked by the kitchen door smelling some delicious odors. My wife was cooking something with Inga for supper. It was then I learned that Gus and Inga were vegetarians. The meal was a medley of sautéed vegetables over curry rice which was delicious. I was helping wash the pots and pans when Peter came to the doorway. “How about taking a walk with me?”, he asked. “Sure.” I finished up and joined him on a hike up the trail from the house.

We stopped at a large water tank on the side of the mountain with an incredible view of Kingston below. The normally padlocked opening to the ladder that went to the top was unlocked so Peter said to follow him to the top. The top was not solid but instead would go up and down depending on the water level in the tank. The tank was nearly full, so we were able to sit on the top rim with our feet dangling over the edge. Over the hour Peter and I reasoned with each other. We bonded in a way that provided a fast friendship that lasted decades until he moved to Australia.

We returned to the yard to find our two farmer friends sitting and talking with Gus and Inga and my wife who was sitting on the stoop listening. I sat down next to my wife and Peter stepped past into the kitchen. “Want a drink?”. “Okay”. “One dollar each”. We smiled in unison and said, “Sure”. James Dennis, one of the farmers, walked over and gave me a stalk of ganja. He told me it was very good. Why not, I thought. “Can I give you something for it?”, I asked. Later, if you want, he said. I clumsily rolled a spliff and lit it from the small campfire burning in the yard.

Two stiff drinks and one giant spliff later I had grown roots into the concrete stoop and unable to talk or move. James and his friend were smiling a knowing smile. Even with my wife sitting next to me, I was unable to communicate my growing desire to just lie down. Then, James Dennis said something very, very strange. “Ah, mon. Tonight, you are going to chase the rabbit.” What the hell does that mean, I thought. I just managed a nod. Eventually, I managed to whisper to my wife my need to lie down and asked her to stand up and let me put a steadying hand on her shoulders.

Somehow it worked and she guided me to the tent. She said she was going to stay up for awhile longer and asked me if I was going to be okay. Okay? Hell. At that time, I didn’t know if I would ever be okay again or, actually, what okay really meant.

“Sleep well, honey” as she kissed my forehead. To sleep, perchance to dream.

The best way I can describe this experience is how I saw it at the time. An out of body yet clinical examination as an observer from somewhere high over my body. I am not religious, in fact, I am anything but. Yet, I can only imagine that if it happened to someone else, I would understand if they suddenly gave away their possessions and joined the Hari Krishnas at the airport.

I seemed to start by imagining that I was outdoors walking in a lush landscape approaching a bush alongside the trail. I stopped to visually examine the bush when I thought I saw movement coming from behind its far side. I leaned a little to my left and craned my neck to get a better look when suddenly I caught a glimpse coming from the bush’s right so I leaned to the right and, again, craned my neck to look. Repeating it again and again; faster and faster until my head was spinning making me feel a little nauseous. With each cycle, I seemed to get a better and better look at the object until, like viewing a kinetoscope’s fluttering image, it began to morph into a 3-dimensional live image of, you guessed it, a rabbit.

It seemed like we stood face to face examining each other for an exceedingly long time. My mind was urging me to see if it was real. To reach out and touch it or grab it or something but I instinctively knew I could not or, maybe, should not. I was not afraid only curious but not curious enough to follow as the rabbit turned and hopped a zig-zag pattern up the trail looking back at times to see if I was following. I felt an urge to follow but something was holding me back. A hand….

“Wake up!” “Are you okay?” I felt a hand on my shoulder as I opened my eyes to my wife’s concerned face lit by the dim light of the dollar store flashlight. I was drenched in sweat even though it was a slightly cool evening. “You must have been having a nightmare”, she offered. I could not wait to tell her about the dream while it was fresh in my mind. She listened. “If I didn’t wake you, would you have followed that rabbit?” To this day, I can’t say one way or the other if I would or wouldn’t not have followed.

I later learned that “chasing the rabbit” is a reflection of the temporary happiness you enjoy (according to theastrologyweb.com )

Perhaps Jamaica is that rabbit….metaphorically speaking.

I woke up refreshed and ready to learn more about Jamaica. I leaned over and kissed my still sleeping wife on the forehead which put a smile on her face. She opened her eyes and told me that a guide that worked with Peter was coming by to take us to Port Royal later this morning. His name was Hunter Wint and she got to know him last night while sitting around the fire. She said she liked his enthusiasm.

We took the time to pack a couple of day packs and organized the tent before heading out to the yard. Peter was already in the kitchen and the “one dollar each” cups of coffee were ready along with some callaloo and johnny cakes. I normally don’t like greens like spinach but this callaloo was delicious especially when I made little breakfast sandwiches using the johnny cakes.

Hunter arrived as if on cue, so I singled him out in conversation to know him better before heading out. My wife was correct. He was enthusiastic as well as smart. I liked him immediately. We agreed on a price of $25 for a day trip and we would pay all expenses. Peter was on his way to town, so we piled in his 4-wheel Land Cruiser and headed down to the bus yard at Half Way Tree.
The city bus was crowded with people going to work but we got a seat thanks to a couple who gave us theirs while Hunter stood next to us. We got off at the ferry terminal and bought $1 tickets for the ride over to Port Royal that would be leaving soon. Hunter took us over to the seawall to sit and gave us a short history lesson about Port Royal and places we would visit. Hunter asked if we wanted to go swimming at his favorite place, Lime Cay. He said he needed to hire a boat for the round trip, and it would cost $10 plus a little tip. We quickly agreed. The ferry gave a signal to board.

Once we got off the ferry, Hunter took us over to the fisherman’s boats on the beach where he arranged for the trip to Lime Key we would take after touring Port Royal. Over the next hour or so, we toured the old Fort Charles and museum as well as Giddy House and shared a drink with our boat captain and Hunter at the Y-Knot before heading down to the beach to shove off for Lime Cay.

The old wooden boat reeked heavily of dead fish, but I just guess that just indicated he was a good fisherman and capable of getting us there and back from Lime Cay. We cut our way out of Kingston Harbor but our destination wasn’t visible as the boat pounded the wave tops and the outboard motor changing pitch as it alternated between being under and on top of the water. About 30 minutes later, a small island appeared in the distance. Lime Cay.

We got off the boat and Hunter stopped me from paying the boat captain. “You don’t pay until he comes back to pick us up”, he said. “That way you pretty much know he will be back”. I smiled. I am getting hang of the Jamaica ting. We put our stuff on an old concrete table topped by a weather-worn thatch covering that had seen better days. No real shade here anywhere as we watched the boat fade into the Kingston skyline. My wife and Hunter sprinted to the water and dove in. I followed close behind. We swam and bobbed in the water playfully splashing each other. Actually, they were mainly splashing me! I was wondering if I were losing my wife to this “Hunter”!

Hunter waded back out of the water and returned with three sets of snorkel masks and tubes he borrowed from Peter. We adjusted them and began to snorkel. Wow! This is why people came out here. They came to snorkel. The fish were colorful and big. Although there was a small reef around the island, it quickly dropped off to a hundred feet or more in depth. A large fish, I think a shark of some kind, swam directly below me which caused me to doggy-paddle my way to shallower water.

In the later afternoon, I kept searching the skyline for our returning boat captain dreading he would not, and we would be stranded here all night or even longer. “Here he comes!”, I heard Hunter yell and felt much better knowing that. We retraced our route back to Port Royal where I paid our boat captain with a little tip that he showed appreciation for by giving us cold Red Stripes.

We took the ferry, a city bus, and a taxi back to Peter’s place just as the sun was setting. We ate some cut up fruit grown mainly in the yard for a dinner. James Dennis was sitting on his usual log seat and I wanted to give both him and Hunter a little something, so I went to the tent. We had started this trip in Reno Nevada, and I had 52 silver dollars I won in a small bag. I took out ten of them and gave five each to Hunter and James. A small token but they seemed to really appreciate it. We hugged and shook hands all around and retired to the tent for the night.

Tomorrow we would be on our way to another new adventure.

It was Thursday, July 14 just before sunrise and I was wide awake in the tent thinking over our plans and our first real day of travel out on the island alone. I was rethinking the plans. How easy would it be to just stay here where we know the runnings instead of braving the unknown? Stop it! Don’t let it get inside your head! Everything is gonna be alright. Isn’t that what Bob said? The sun was just peeking through the trees when I slipped out of the tent quietly and headed towards the kitchen.

I caught up with Peter putting a pot of water on the stove for coffee. We went into his office/living room where he handed me an envelope for Jah Mike at Sealawn Coral Beach and a receipt for $20 to give to Valerie (I think her name) at Secrets Cabin, Firefly in Negril. He said that everything was set and not to worry. Just give them these things, okay? He asked when we would be ready to go, and I told him about two hours. Just let him know when we were ready, and he would take us down to Half Way Tree and see we got on the proper bus as it can be a little confusing for a tourist. “Thanks”. “Thanks for everything”, I said as I was heading out the front door.

Two hours later and after some sad goodbyes and hugs, we loaded up the Land Cruiser and headed down the hill to the bus park. Peter was right. It was a mad house of activity as Peter pointed to the bus that said Annotto Bay on the signboard across the top. When it gets to the ocean it will turn and go through Port Maria and Sealawn Coral Beach was just on the other side of the town. Peter said to ask the conductor on the Bluebird Country Bus if you need help. We grabbed our backpacks and headed for the bus.

It was not too hard to identify the conductor as he rushed over and grabbed us both by the arms and pulled us towards the bus. It was his job and Peter had warned me about that. On the way, I told him we were going to Sealawn Coral Beach to see a guy named Mike Higgins. “Ah, Jah Mike. Mi breddren.” “No, problem”. “Here, take the front seat and I will tell you when”, as he stretched out his hand for money. I knew the fare from Peter, but I gave him some extra for the guidance. About a half hour later, the bus was full and all the cargo on the roof.

The heavy bus lumbered up through the mountains and I put it together that every time someone yelled “Driver, One Stop!”, the bus would pull over and people would pay the conductor. I was thinking that maybe I should not have paid the conductor in advance. People along the road would point to the ground or wave and the bus would pull over so they could get in. It all seemed orderly for Jamaica.

Peter had given my wife one of his older travel guides so she was following the occasional road signs and giving me what information it had about the area we were traveling through while also following the route along on the map page. It was slow going up the mountain but a little frighteningly fast going down the other side to Annoto Bay.

The coastal part of the trip was beautiful as well until we entered Port Maria. Port Maria was very depressing and the first up close look we had of poverty in Jamaica. We felt so sorry for the people because, compared to them, we were rich and entitled. About 15 minutes later, the bus pulled out of Port Maria and the conductor tapped my knee. “Soon Come”, he said. We secured our backpacks and waited.

“One Stop!” the conductor shouted to the driver and he pulled off the road on a sharp turn so we could get off. A crudely painted sign saying “Sealawn Coral Beach” with an arrow pointed down a walkway towards the ocean below.

It was just around noon and we were anxious to see what would come next.

The view was spectacular, and the path went down the hill right into the ocean. Cabarita Island seemed like you could reach out and touch it. On our left was a house and nothing else all the way to the sea. We walk up and yelled, “Hello! Anybody there?”. A lady came out to the verandah drying her hands as she walked. She said she was Jah Mike’s girlfriend and that we could put our things inside and wait for him as he was soon to be back. He was out in the “bush”. It seemed there were mostly only three places anyone could be. The house. The yard. The bush. Anywhere else was just “gone somewhere”.

While we were sitting on the verandah wall, a nicely dressed youth approached and introduced himself. He said his name was Tony and a good friend of Jah Mike. We talked for a bit when he asked if we wanted to take a walk up to Firefly which was the former home of Ian Flemming for an even more spectacular view of the ocean. Why not?

So, off we went on our first adventure.

The driveway up was steep. That along with the heat caused us to labor our way to the top, but Tony just climbed effortlessly taking time to teach us about Firefly on the way up. To say the view from Firefly is spectacular does not do it any justice. I have seen many pictures of it since and it still fills me with awe. There was an old gentleman caretaker of the property who gave us a tour of the house and grounds. He was some relation of Tony, so he took us where tourists are not allowed. There was a tunnel in the basement that he said was dug in Captain Morgan’s time as an escape route and some said to hide treasures looted from passing ships. Firefly was later built over it but an opening still exists.

Just before leaving, we were relaxing at Firefly when Tony asked to see my wife’s sunglasses. She took them off and handed them to him and he put them on. “They look great on you”, she said. “They are yours”.

A gift to a new friend but who knew it would cause so much trouble?

On the way back to Jah Mike’s house, Tony asked if we would like to take a swim to the island. When I remarked that Cabarita Island was way too far, Tony laughed and said Allen’s Island. It turns out that Hurricane Allen in 1980 had bunched up a lot of coral a few hundred feet offshore and locals have beaten a lot of the sharpness off the surface making it easier to sit on. We agreed to go if Jah Mike had not yet returned.

Jah Mike had not returned so Tony scooped up three sets of snorkel equipment while my wife and I changed into swimming suits. We headed down the path to the beautiful ocean below. The water was very clear and even though the bottom was 20 or more feet below, you could see it clearly with all the colorful reef fish darting here and there. Suddenly, Tony dove to the bottom and retrieved a large conch shell and brought it to the surface giving it to my wife. Tony offered to take it to the beach where we could pick it up when we returned and for us to continue swimming and he would catch up to us.

We started swimming to the small outcropping in the distance. We were starting to tire as it appeared that Allen’s Island was a lot further offshore than it appeared. About that time, Tony effortlessly swam up and coaxed us to go on. We did and were glad we continued. Especially when we got to the island and took in the view of the coastline. “There! On the hill”. Tony pointed. “That is Firefly where we just came from”. I looked over more to the right where the coast came to a point. “What’s that called?” “Oh, that’s Galina Point”. My wife and I looked at each other and smiled. We had come full circle.

After a time, we swam back to the beach and Tony offered to take the conch shell up to the house to soak and clean it while my wife and I took a short walk up the coast towards Galina Point for a look. A few minutes later we returned to the path and started our climb back up to Jah Mike’s house when we heard some loud talking and swearing. As we approached, the talking stopped, and Jah Mike came forward and introduced himself.

“Peter told me to give you an envelope and we would like to stay for a couple of nights.”

Mike Higgins, better known as Jah Mike, was a physical specimen of a man. About 6’ 5” tall and muscular in a lean, athletic sort of way. I am 6’ 3” myself and with his lion’s mane hair he towered over me. His best quality was his constant disarming smile which he flashed readily as he talked. I begged leave to go into the house and retrieve the envelope from Peter and give it to Jah Mike. He read it and said to pitch our tent near the corner of the house then come inside for something to eat. I could feel a little tension, but I did not want to bring it up, so we pitched the tent and went inside.

One thing we learned quickly from our discussions with Jah Mike is that he is the face of tourism in this little village dubbed Castle Gardens. Also, we learned that nearly 70 percent of the people were unemployed and an equal number illiterate. Mike’s house was also like a club house where everyone came to visit and hang out. Before long, a number of young girls and young women came to talk to my wife and very soon after eating she vanished into the neighborhood not to be seen until the later afternoon and that happened both days we were staying there.

After polishing off a meal of fresh lobster and steamed snapper with rice and gully beans, Jah Mike invited me out to the verandah to talk. I had to be a little bit of a detective to put all the pieces together but I was beginning to see that my wife and I were some of the very few people to come here to stay so we were valuable property to Jah Mike. Jah Mike asked straight out if Tony charged us to go up to Firefly and go swimming. I said no. He asked about my wife’s sunglasses Tony was wearing and I told him it was just a gift and not a payment. He seemed to accept the answer, but I did not see Tony around much the rest of the time we were there.

Jah Mike told me he takes guests out to Allen’s Island in his boat “Jah Love” and to go fishing and snorkeling. I started to say we had already been there but realized he needed the money, so I agreed to go the following morning. Soon, several Rasta youths came by and joined us on the verandah. English went out the window and I was struggling to understand the conversation, but I had the old standby “yah, mon” to use when asked something and it mostly worked. Things started to go downhill when Jah Mike rolled me a spliff and gave me a beer.

Again, I was hammered. The strength of the smoke was beyond any that I had experienced except up at Peter’s place. My wife came back, said “Hi” and went to the tent to get it ready for the night. Everyone was smoking a spliff and when someone talked to me, I did not understand so I just said, “yah, mon”. It happened several times when suddenly everyone got up and left me alone on the verandah. Including Jah Mike!

Perplexed, I made my way over to the tent and said to my wife, “The strangest thing happened”, “We were all sitting around talking and suddenly everyone got up and left me alone”. She chuckled. “They were asking you if you liked the smoke and you said ‘yah, mon’ and they asked you if you wanted to buy some and you said “yah, mon” but you didn’t give them any money to do it!”

It was dark outside. I was hammered. There were no lights up on the street, but I felt I must find Jah Mike and make this right. I stumbled up to the road and started to look for him.

Pitch black and no lights along with being high and night blind, I stumbled over the jagged edge of the road and just caught myself before going down. I looked down the road. Nothing. No sounds. No cars. Nothing. I started walking down what I thought was the center of the road when I realized that almost every yard had people sitting along the road and watching for the rare car that might come by each evening. Suddenly, I felt a little paranoid at being watched by so many strangers that were also being so silent, but I continued to walk towards a board shack along the road with a flickering light of a candle showing some people in the doorway.

Getting closer, I noticed a large person walking towards me and caught a flash of a toothy smile. “Whaagwan, Bill?”. It was Jah Mike. I went on to babble something about being sorry and not understanding and wanting to buy some ganga. Jah Mike kept saying “No Problem” and “Tomorrow” when I realize this must look like a dope deal that it was in front of his entire community. I shut up and he offered to walk me back to the house. It felt like a perp walk and I was so ashamed.

When we got back to the verandah, Jah Mike asked me for $2 Jamaican to get some ganja. Wow! I could not get the money out of my pocket fast enough. Mike said to get some sleep and be ready for a trip in Jah Love in the morning.

It was barely sunrise and the house was abuzz with activity. We were anxious to get the day started so we got up and walked to the edge of the cliff to gaze at the beautiful view. Shortly, Jah Mike joined us. He said he had some coffee and cut-up fresh fruit from his farm ready if we were ready to eat. We thanked him and followed him up to the verandah where there was a make-shift table had two bowls of fruit and two cups of hot water with two packets of instant coffee. A far cry from Peter’s coffee but we were thankful. Finished. Now we were ready for a trip in Jah Love.

I helped Jah Mike turn over the beached boat and push it part way into the water so my wife could get in first and I followed while Jah Mike went into the bushes and retrieved two oars. After putting them along with a bag full of snorkel equipment into the boat, he stopped. He had forgotten the spear gun which he then retrieved. The spear gun had a carved wooden handle with a trigger and frame made from broken lawn chair parts and a piece of surgical hose for propelling the sharpened steel rod. Jah Mike pushed and jumped into the boat and grabbed the oars.

Jah Mike’s powerful strokes caused Jah Love to cut swiftly and efficiently through the water passing Allen’s Island in a couple of minutes as we headed straight for Cabarita Island. Jah Mike told us that the Pirate Captain Henry Morgan used to own the island but lost it in a card game. Also, he said the locals still call it Goat Island as Morgan used to keep goats there to re-provision his ship as he prowled the waters looking for ships to attack. He added that Morgan used to bury treasure there, but no one has yet to find any. We circled the island slowly getting a panoramic view of the coastline. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e7x3...ature=emb_logo

We beached Jah Love on Allen’s Island and put on the snorkeling gear. Jah Mike put on a mask but didn’t use the tube preferring to free dive as he grabbed the homemade spear gun and swam across the water. We carefully walked over the coral pieces before swimming and snorkeling as well. Two dives later, Jah Mike had two large reef fish on the end of this spear that he said would be our last night’s dinner. My wife and I exchanged looks. Too bad we only have one last night here.

The three of us put our snorkeling gear into the boat and just treaded water while we each talked about our lives. Somehow life here was so simple and pure compared to the rat race at home. I could get used to living here and, I could tell, so could my wife.

We re-boarded the boat and headed for the beach. As we approached, I could see a group of girls and women waiting for my wife. It was so rewarding for me to see how happy coming here was making her feel.

They took her from the boat and practically dragged her up the hill and into their world.

I helped Jah Mike re-beach and turn over the boat and hide the oars before following him up to the house. It was still early, and Jah Mike asked me if I wanted to accompany him to football practice. Sure. He changed into a soccer uniform that closely resembled one of the National Team uniforms I had seen on TV and he told me it was an old one of theirs from when he used to workout with them.

We arrived at the pitch and I witnessed firsthand the leadership qualities and the respect the youth in the area had for him. He practiced them hard. I was saddened by the lack of shoes as most of these boys had none to wear. Without a man like Jah Mike to guide them, I shudder to think what would happen to these youth.

Practice wound down and we walked back to the house. A young man that I had seen that first night on the verandah stopped us and handed Jah Mike an ounce or more of ganja which he passed to me. “Here is your $2 bag”. I had almost forgotten about that ordeal last night. “You keep it”, I said. “You can roll me a spliff later”. Jah Mike smiled a signature toothy smile. It was done.

Back on the verandah, Jah Mike and I were still talking when my wife and her ever changing entourage kept coming back down the lane and, after getting things out of the tent, running back up the hill. I stopped her to remind her Jah Mike was cooking the fish for dinner and she said she would be back around sunset before running off again. Jah Mike remarked that he was grateful for my wife helping these young women as many did not have positive role models in their life either.

Jah Mike did not like to talk about money, but I knew I owed him some but did not actually know how much. Meals. Beers. It all adds up quickly. He told me that Peter had put $20 US in the envelope that I brought him. Jah Mike explained that he met peter at Sun Splash in Montego Bay about a week ago and Peter borrowed it from him. I told him that Peter was coming by to pay him for our camping at $10 per night next week but that he should not have to wait. I gave Jah Mike $20 and asked if it covered everything until Peter and he worked out the rest. “Jah Bless”, he said with a smile.

The dinner was cooking, and the smell of herbs and spices was filling the house and making me hungry when my wife arrived alone. Finally. Alone on the verandah, she told me about how the girls did not understand the most basic of feminine hygiene and how they were constantly asking questions. She said that the girls asked if we had children and when she said we did not, the kept saying how sorry they were thinking we were unable to have them instead of not wanting them.

Jah Mike’s girlfriend had steamed the fish and stuffed them with crushed up Cream Crackers and callaloo which was delicious. We finished and Jah Mike, my wife and I went out to the verandah where at least 15 people were gathered around in respectful silence. They were waiting patiently while we finished our meal. Again, I was feeling a little ashamed having eaten such a big meal and most of them had not enjoyed a full meal in a long time. One of the girls, Beverly, was sitting next to my wife and holding her hand. I knew right then and there, I had to do something for these people.

We sat, talked, and laughed a lot until around midnight when Jah Mike asked about our leaving tomorrow. I said we wanted to catch the country bus and he said we needed to be out there on the road early as there wasn’t a firm schedule of times that anyone knew of as it depended on a lot of things like mostly breakdowns. We told everyone individually goodbye and thanked them for everything. It was an extremely hard moment.

I went to the tent to lie down. It took my wife a little longer with Beverly.

“Bill?” “Are you sleeping?” “Not now”, I mumbled as I rolled over to face my wife’s tear-filled eyes. “I can’t sleep”, she says. I knew she was having the same tugging at her that I experienced up at Peter’s place only this time it was a little more private and personal. She fell in love with this place. “You know, we really need to move on”, I said gently. “I know but I just can’t help feeling so sad”, she continued, “I know I could do so much good for these girls”. I thought, “My little Margaret Mead in Samoa”. I was so lucky to have her as my wife.

I couldn’t go back to sleep and I could see the gently lightening of the morning sun though the tent’s roof. I could also hear muffled voices coming from Jah Mike’s verandah. It seems a growing number of voices could be heard. My wife could hear them too. We started assembling our possessions and re-packing our backpacks leaving only the tent to take down and pack as we grabbed a light and exited the tent.

I could make out about a dozen people either standing or sitting on the verandah wall. Suddenly, Beverly came running off the verandah and hugged my wife which started them both crying. I knew they would be friends forever. I continued up to verandah and greeted the rest when I saw Jah Mike’s girlfriend approaching with coffee and some roasted breadfruit from the kitchen. My wife joined me with Beverly in tow and we enjoyed our breakfast amidst our new friends.

I looked over at the tent where two youths were taking it down and trying to figure out how to pack it in the little bag. Smiling, I wanted to intervene but realized how important it was for them to do it by themselves for us. Jah Mike broke into my thoughts. “I think it is time to go up by the road”. I agreed and went over and completed the packing of the backpacks. Once completed, the two youths grabbed them up and carried them up to the road. Jah Mike, my wife, and I followed along with the cadre of our new friends totaling now about 20 or so. We were both feeling quite emotional and that feeling seemed to be prevalent in our group.

We all stood talking for about an hour or so until we heard the distinctive sounds of the old country bus climbing the hill towards us. It seemed like everyone was waving for the bus to stop for us as we said our final goodbyes and made promises to return one day then entered the bus going to the back seat where we could, again, wave our final goodbyes.

Everyone on the bus seemed to be turning towards us wondering what all the commotion was about. Up to this point in our lives, we had never been so happy yet so sad at the same time. Happy for the time here at Sealawn Coral Beach and sad to leave.

We settled back for the long, long bus ride to Negril.

We thought we were pretty clever taking the backseat on the bus as it was a bench seat all the way across the back. This way we could spread out a little and even lie down if needed. The biggest problem, we thought, was a board under the seat cushion making the seat hard. The old country buses also had no suspension to absorb the numerous pot holes so, when we hit one near Orcabessa, we flew up in the air so high we hit the ceiling of the bus only to come down hard making a loud bang. Everyone seemed to turn back around and suppress a laugh at the tourists in the back seat. A little embarrassing.

It got me concentrating on the road ahead as best I could to avoid it again. We came across another giant hole and I knew we could not miss it, so I had us lift our bodies off the seat by about a foot to make room for the jolt. It worked and when everyone turned around to see how we were, we just smiled and gave them a thumb’s up sign. And so, it went for the next 7 or 8 hours until we entered Negril.

By this time, the bus was mainly empty as most people got off in Montego Bay or Lucea and we picked up fewer and fewer passengers as we progressed along the old road to Negril. I made my way up to the conductor and told him we wanted off at Firefly. He nodded and said “soon come” so I returned to our seat. Shortly, the bus pulled over and we were there.

As I remember the place, there was a one story home and office where (I think her name was Valerie), a guy and some kids lived that was still unfinished next to two outdoor showers with concrete walls about 5 feet high. We walked up to the office and gave Valerie the receipt that Peter had given us and waited for her reaction. She readily accepted it and slipped into a pair of sandals and walked us to our cabin.

I think that at the time there were only two cedar wood cabins on a knoll next to the beach and a lifeguard stand just beyond as well. The cabin was small and had bunk beds with a naked light bulb for light. Since we had been living out of a tent up until then, it seemed like a castle to us. We dropped off our packs and locked the door. I headed to the beach and my wife headed to the showers to wash her hair and some dirty clothes as we were running low on clean ones.

I looked down the beach and saw no people as far as I could see. Only an overturned, beached fishing boat or two. Suddenly, just down a bit, a youth on a moped came putting up the beach and stopped in front of me. “Hi, they call me Mushroom Kenny” as he thrust a paper shopping bag into my hands containing magic mushrooms. I handed it back and said I wasn’t interested. He was getting a little annoying and hard to avoid as he began to list almost every drug I had ever heard of and some I never had. I kept saying “No!” and waved him away but he was nothing else but persistent so I just avoided him enough to run into the ocean where he could not follow.

About the time Mushroom Kenny gave up and motored down the beach, my wife emerged ready to join me in a swim. It was just getting dusk and the romantic atmosphere was overwhelming. She said she hated to leave Jah Mikes, but she was glad she was here. That make me very happy. It was getting quite dark and we were very tired by lack of sleep the night before and the long bus ride to get here.

We retired to the cabin and I took the top bunk bed. I was fearful all night long that I might fall out but still managed to feel rested in the morning for our last full day in Negril and Jamaica.

Today is Sunday July 17th and we got up early to wash up and change into our newly washed and air-dried clean clothes. We decided to walk down the beach and see what else may be open to get some breakfast or something like it. We saw a few places, but nothing seemed to have people around, so we kept walking until we came across the craft market at the river. There we found some people cooking in big pots and we were plenty hungry by then. After eating, my wife wanted to shop a little for a souvenir but wanted to see what else was available, so we continued walking on the roadside into the West End.

We walked for a time until we came across a row of stalls opposite the ocean side of the road displaying colorful towels and some shirts. She browsed the shops looking for something different but small because of the limited room in our backpacks. She settled on a couple of small, woven baskets that nested inside each other and a woven smallish beach bag to carry things too. As we were standing there, a small airplane flew over with loudspeakers blaring from an open door. They were announcing a revival that was happening somewhere around where we were, but we were geographically challenged. We thought it unusual and a little funny way to reach people but agreed it was quite effective.

We walked back to the river mouth where a boat had just come in with about a half dozen lobsters, so my wife went over and bought one for a couple of dollars. We took it back to our cabin and my wife went to go borrow a pot from Valerie to cook it. Valerie offered to cook it for her along with a pot of rice. We accepted.

While we were sitting and watching the lobster cooking, I asked Valerie about catching the country bus the following day as we had a plane to catch out of Kingston in the later afternoon. She told us the bus did not come by in time for us to make the trip and meet the plane. She went on to suggest we get a taxi to Mandeville and catch the bus out of there. She knew a guy named Roy who had a Ford Cortina that could take us, so we arranged for a pickup.

We had to be ready at about 4:30am. We looked at each other in shock. Well, it was important that we make our plane, so we agreed. After we ate and tipped Valerie for her cooking and hospitality, we headed back to the cabin to pack and get a little sleep. Sleeping was difficult knowing we had to be ready at 4:30am but we finally fell asleep.

“Beep! Beep!”, it was the sound of a little Cortina horn.

Roy was a unique guy and different than anyone we had encountered on our trip. He was in his latter ‘50s but acted like he was somewhere in his ‘20s. I think he must have come here to pick us up straight from a bar or, more probably, a strip club. It was a little difficult to tell where the rum smell left off and the cologne smell began and the “ladies’ man” in him was always on full display.

We tossed our backpacks in the boot and waved goodbye to Valerie who was standing in her doorway. This was my first experience in an English Ford and found them to be not much more powerful than a motorized skateboard having to constantly shift up or down to maintain forward momentum. Roy was quite talkative, and we learned a lot on our near 4-hour trip to Mandeville. The last hour was spent on Spur Tree Hill. Roy explained that the bus to Kingston on this leg originated in Mandeville so it was important we make it on time, or we would not make our flight.

We pulled in just as the bus was getting ready to leave. We paid Roy and ran to make the bus. It was full except for one seat my wife took and I stood as we pulled out. To say this bus was slow was an understatement as it seemed to stop to leave off or take on passengers every few hundred yards on some stretches. Also, farmers were throwing crocus bags full of produce on the roof to get the goods to the Kingston market without getting on themselves.

Towards the latter morning, we were seeing signs that Kingston was approaching. We were first warned by Peter and by subsequent people we met along the trip that we needed to get off the bus before it got to it’s end at the Downtown Market. Stories of pickpocketing and assaults of all kinds were common and most seemed to be firsthand accounts and not rumors.

We were both sitting on one seat now where I was looking out the window for a “good area” to get off and my wife was trying to follow the route on the poorly drawn map in the travel book. One by one we passed through the poorest and worse communities and garrisons in Kingston and they seemed to only get more dangerous looking. And then, it happened. The bus pulled into the market with possibly thousands of Jamaicans packed closely together and a couple of city busses parked maybe a hundred yards away. “End of the line”. “Everyone off!”

We were suddenly terrified.

“Excuse us”, a voice came from across the aisle of the bus. A young Hindu couple were getting ready to leave the bus and wanted to know if we needed any help. They both were wearing a Bindi and dressed like professional people, so we were appreciative of the offer. We told them we needed to get to the bus for the airport on the other side of the market pointing out the window. “Put on your backpacks and follow us closely and don’t stop for anything”. We did what they asked and exited the bus close behind our new saviors.

While at Peter’s house, we were warned about pickpockets and advised to pack our backpacks with dirty clothes on the outside if someone tried to get inside them. Also, I was told to turn my billfold sideways and push it far down in my pocket and keep aware. I told my wife to hold on to my pack and follow me closely as I plowed my way through the crowd behind our guides. What happened next was a coordinated plan that was executed with perfection. Well, almost.

Three guys, working together, started by one guy throwing some small change on the ground in front of me and then bending over to pick it up which separated us from the Hindu couple. Just then, I felt a brush against my back pocket and a quick check with my hand confirmed the second guy had successfully snatched my billfold. Where they screwed up was the second guy tried to secretly pass my billfold to the third guy who was pushing ahead. I saw him put the billfold under a coconut on a vendor’s cart and kept going. Slick. I kneed the guy who was still picking up the change out of our way and pushed a path to the vendor’s cart and grabbed my billfold. The bus was close enough now that we were able to get inside and sit.

I didn’t carry any money in my billfold but I did have my ID and immigration paper which would have made getting on the plane difficult or impossible and probably would have ended the vacation before we could enjoy our last week in Mexico. I was shaking in anger and looked out at the three guys sitting under a tree smiling. I held up the billfold against the window and gave them a middle finger salute. One guy got up and came over to the window that was slid part way open. He said, “Don’t be angry, man”. “We have to steal sometimes to eat and for our kids to eat.”

My wife was a softy when hungry kids were mentioned, so she took a $10 US bill out of her pocket and handed it through the window to the guy. I made an attempt to stop her but to no avail. I did not know if it was the right thing to do but he did have a small tear forming in his eyes and, after all, this is what I loved about my wife. Her compassion.

We got to the airport, checked in and had about an hour before our flight. We took the time to reminisce about this all-too-short week in Jamaica. About the people we met. The places we saw. Most of all, we promised each other that we would return again soon.

A promise we could not keep.

Respect for reading.

wonderful story
thanks for sharing

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Originally Posted by Bnewb

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Thanks, Lisa. Please thank Rob for letting me go on and on....

I started writing and posting this long thread on May 12th, the 36 years after the day my wife died and finished it today May 23rd, 36 years to the day of her funeral. I needed to get this all down while I had the time and could remember everything.

Perhaps I will see you and Rob later this year if I get to Negril.
Peace, Guidance and Respect.

Thank you for sharing. I am sorry for the loss of your wife.

That was a wonderful tale.....thank you and stay safe in these trying times.

I really enjoyed reading your story. You are a good writer. Maybe someday you should start a book.

Thanks so much for sharing your story. You were both really brave to take on such an adventure. You have an amazing memory too. Thanks again.

sixcats - Thank you. Some losses are so valuable they are priceless and can never be replaced or forgotten.

Kimbobwee - Thanks. I hope we all stay safe so we can be around to enjoy Jamaica again soon.

yooper bill - Thanks. Why write a book when I have a movie to run and re-run in my head? In my head, it is always like it just happened!

Thanks for your support. I remember a time when people used to write trip reports that were very good and highly entertaining on this site. I hope some people decide to write some again. It gets tiring reading daily countdowns, mangled patwa and bartender ratings etc. when there is so much more to write about.

Stay safe everyone and make good use of the time on your hands until Jamaica opens up again for tourism.