Stories, Poems, Photos Of Negril: Hippie Days

The Ganja Fence Part 1

After a few weeks of very hard work, building my home, on the land Grandma Johnson gave me the job was finally finished. I was so happy that I had decided to design and then build a big porch around three sides of my home, so that I could always be sitting on the shady side, and at the same time use the back of the home, the south side, as my garden area. Already the fruit trees and vegetables that I had planted were all starting to grow; it seems everything grows and buds so very fast here.

During the few weeks that I worked on my own new home I saw him watching me. From time to time while I was busy building he'd sit on the other side of the dirt road, under the shade of a tree watching me. I tried not to pay much attention to him and just went about the business of building myself a home here in Negril, up on Monkey Hill, in the Red Ground of Jamaica's West side where no American man has ever built before.

I thought he may have been a cop, yet wasn't sure because he never said anything to me or came closer than the big tree on the corner of the path in front of my land. I watched him out'a the corner of my eye as he sat there; sometimes he'd roll up and then burn one and just sit there smoking it, watching me slowly working on my home, all alone, day after day.

I will never forget the first time he came to talk to me: the day after the house was finished, I saw him walking towards me slowly as I sat on my front porch, his long dread locks hanging down around his waist, his red eyes gleaming in the warm Jamaican sunshine. He introduced him self as Rasta Besford Dixon, a Holy Man and local merchant, and he went on to explain to me that he was the one man, in the small town of Negril, that could, and would get me anything that I wanted... "any ting at tall mon", he said

I invited him to sit on the porch of my humble home with me and offered him some of my iced Lime and Ganja Tea. He was very happy to see that I had ice for the tea, and eagerly poured us both a tall glass of the magical drink. I took my glass from him and we both took a large drink and smiled at each other as we wiped off the juice from our mouths.

He reached deep into the inside of his shirt, and pulled out a brown bag that was packed to the top with fresh sticky reddish gold buds. He offer me one'a the larger ones and so I took it, rolled myself a fatty, and sat back smoking and listened to him tell his tales of days gone by, back in the red ground district of Negril, just behind my house a few miles or so back in the bush land.

In many of the stories that the Rasta had told me that afternoon, there was mention of an underground complex, and fields of ganja growing for miles in every direction out in the bush, just a few miles away, behind my home. When I asked him if his stories were true, he asked me if I would like to go with him for a walk, back into the red ground bush where his stories all took place, to see for myself that his stories were in fact all true. What could I say, sure I wanted to go! We made plans to meet the next day, at sunup, to explore the land of my new friends stories.

The sun was just coming up over the eastern range of the Blue Mountains when he was knocking on my front door the next morning. When I opened the door the first thing he asked me was why I didn't meet him on the porch, like we had agreed; so I told him I over slept. I brushed the bugs out'a my hair, washed my face from a bucket of water that I had in the main room, looked up at him, and said "lets go!"

We started heading West through the bush that was in back of my home. With the warm sun on our backs it seemed as if we had walked for hours when finally he turned to look at me and said, "lets stop here for a cool down mon" We sat there on the ground, and he reached behind him near a big rock and pulled a gallon sized paint can out from behind the rock. Rasta opened the can and to my surprise it was loaded with ganja bud. We twisted up a fatty, poked on it for awhile, then we ate a few oranges that he had with him. After we rested for awhile we headed West again, walking through some of the most beautiful jungle bush that I have ever seen anywhere...

I had no fear walking out in the tall grass mostly because I knew that there were no snakes at all anywhere but in the zoo on the island of Jamaica, because long ago the sugar cane farmers brought the mongoose to Jamaica, to kill, and eat all'a the serpents, so the cane workers would be safe out in the fields all day, cutting cane. To this day the mongoose is still there, and ready to kill, then eat any snake that it might find... so stepping on some dangerous jungle snake was the least of my worries but I started to think just for a moment, that maybe this new friend was in fact going to set me up to be robbed by some rude boys or maybe even to get busted by the local law or something like that... after all I didn't really know this man.

About an hour or so later we were there. Although he hadn't said anything to me yet about being there, I knew we were there when all I could see in front of me were miles of ganja plants growing wild out in the hot Jamaican sun. I followed him to a cashew tree, that was near some breadfruit and grapefruit trees and he told me to sit down. I sat for awhile just taking in the beauty that surrounded me and then he turned, took a few steps away from me, knelt down, and started to scrape some dirt away from what look liked some kind of wooden trap door. With in a few minutes he had all the dirt removed and the door open, and he invited me to go into the underground chamber with him. I climbed down the old wooden ladder, and as soon as he light the kerosene lamp in the underground chamber I was able to see ganja trees hanging upside down from the walls and the ceiling everywhere; this was an underground room of ganja!

The Ganja Fence Part 2

The Rasta grabbed a plant and said, "go back up mon", and so we did. Once we got back to the surface, we sat down under the cashew tree and broke up a few buds from the now dried plant, and as we smoked the magical herb Rasta went on to tell me this garden had been his fathers garden and that he was just a boy when his father had originally started this garden. He shared many of his happy memories of this place, as a boy working with his father with me.

I was just sitting there, spacing out and munching on some raw cashews and a grapefruit, slow poking my spleff, when all of a sudden I saw it. I could not believe my eyes but I was looking at a ganja plant that was so big, at first I thought it was a tree. I stood up and walked over to the giant plant, and from what I could tell this ganja tree as about 60 feet tall, or maybe even taller! I asked Rasta if he ever took any of the buds from this tree to smoke, and he answered, "who can reach them, mon"? He pointed out that the reason that I thought it was a tree in the first place was because all of the lower branches had been cut off and smoked long ago, and the trunk of the ganja tree was now so very tree like in appearance and girth...

I told him that I was going to go rent me a car to take me to the city, when I got back to town, and buy me a big ladder, maybe two of them, and that I would hire boys to carry the ladders out here, the next day, and that since no one else wanted to bother climbing to the top of this tree to collect the treasures that are waiting up there, I would! He laughed at me and said "dats cool mon, dat'a goot ting"

That night as I watched the sun set over the western tip of the beach below my mountain side home, I managed to spread the word that I'd need some help in the morning, and by morning's light there were a large group of boys, willing to carry the ladders for me... I told them that I had to catch a car to the city, and buy the ladder first, and so we made plans to meet, at sun up the next morning...

The next morning my driver took me to Savanna La Mar where I was able to buy the ladders I needed. My driver helped me load and tie down the ladder in the truck to carry them home for me.. The boys were all very excited when they saw the truck pull up in front of my home late that same afternoon, and they all rushed over to help us unload the ladders and to confirm the fact that they would all meet me at sun up in front of my home to carry the ladders out to the garden for me. Once the ladders were safely chained to the side porch, we all said our good nights and I went to bed. I can remember falling asleep to the sound of rain falling on the tin roof of my small wooded two roomed house, and I was so tired that not even the sound of the lightening kept me from drifting off into dream land.

The morning came way too soon for me, and before I knew it I had a large group of boys, waiting out side of my home for me, chit chatting. I picked the boys I wanted to use and then they loaded the ladder section's that I had just bought the day before on to their shoulders. I could tell they were all very happy about this chance to work for me carrying the ladders deep into the bush, to make some money!

The tall grass was very wet from the rain that fell over night, and there was broken tree branches and limbs everywhere. One of the boys asked me if I had seen any of the storm that we had last night, and asked if my home had suffered any damage like many of the other wooden homes had nearby. "What storm" I said, "tell me, just how much damage was done, did it rain all night" I asked. I didn't see any damage when I woke, but then again I really didn't have any time to look, so I figured to myself, that my home was one that was spared. "No, not at all, no damage was done to my home,". I said, As we walked deeper into the bush I could see more and more lightening damage. I saw one tree that was split right in half, right down the middle! "Wow, we must'a had a really bad storm", I said and the boys all giggled and started whispering as we walked on to the treasure I had found.

When I got to the spot, where I had seen the 60 foot ganja tree just two days ago, I could not believe my eyes... Rasta Dixon took one look and dropped to his knees and started to laugh and cry and praise Jah all at the same time. His reaction seemed strange to me but yet he seemed so happy crying that I just let him go and made my way over to the tree. I for one was happy to see that lightening had struck and fell the ganja tree, and that it was laying down on the ground, all of it's majestic branches dropping and dying... I was in a very strange state of mind as I stood there, frozen, trying hard to understand what I was looking at and what had happened: this tree was now mine; all mine...

I stood there frozen and felt a if I had been split in two, you see half of me was so happy that now I could just walk over to the half dead tree laying there on the ground, and just snip the bud, that was growing on the very tippy top of the tree, in fact IF I wanted to I could snip all the hundreds of these giant buds! The other half of me was so very sad that the tree had been struck by lightening, and that it was dying, as it lay there on the red ground. I was in this confused emotional state and it was this total confusion that finally allowed me to unfreeze and move again.. I looked over at Rasta Dixon and he was now dancing around in a circle and singing at the top of his voice "Oh praise Jah, Jah, let Jah be praise" and reciting scripture "Glory be to the Father and to the maker of creation As it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be World without end" [Jah Rastafari: Eternal God Selassie I (131)]

I walked over to the ganja tree on the ground at my feet, and with one mighty swipe of my machete' I cut the top of the tree off, and claimed that giant bud as mine! The bud had to weigh between 3 and 5 pounds each! I tell you that it was so sticky it was pulling my T Shirt on to it and it was hard to pull my shirt away. The bud smelled so sweet that bees started to gather around my head, each just waiting for their turn to suck resin and pollen from the bud as I held it in my had. I could tell that the bees only wanted to suck pollen and get high and that they had no interest in me or stinging me at all so I wasn't worried. That's just the way things are out there in the bush. you become one with everything...

Knowing that I was one with everything, I wondered to myself exactly why The Powers That Be gave this tree to me as a gift and why had Jah struck this tree down with His lightening just for my pleasure. The sound of many more bees that had gathering at the now fell tree snapped me out of my daydream, and as I looked over at my friend Rasta Dixon, and he just stood there and looked at me holding this five pound giant sticky sweet ganja bud in my hands and said "Jim mon, dis is what I remember you by mon, and from dis day on dis is da picture dat'll be in me head of you, yea mon, when me tink about ya mon dis is what me see in me head from dis day on..."

I asked him what ever would we do now, that the tree had been struck by lightening, and just laying there dying, slowly, out in the hot Jamaican sun. Dixon walked over to me and he said "don't fret mon, Jah Jah take dat tree now and do it good" I had no idea what he was talking about and really didn't care. I was so amazed at the hundreds of two, three and four pound bud's, all over the ground, just waiting for me to get around to cutting them, that nothing Rasta Dixon said made any sense to me at all...

Chech and Chong, eat your heart's out!

I carefully cut, and then dragged about 50 or 60 of these giant ganja buds down into the underground bunker, and hung each one upside down from the roof beams. I was totally exhausted but I felt that I did the right thing because now they would be able to dry slowly, and they would certainty be safe till I was ready for one or two of them.

I grabbed the biggest bud, the one from the very tippy top of the giant tree, wrapped it in a string bag, and threw the bag over my shoulder and started walking home. The time passed quickly out there in the fields and after all the sun was now setting over the fields of ganja that were waving in the breeze. I headed out towards the east and Dixon followed my lead and when he caught up with me I said "hey Dixon, ya think maybe Jah gave me that bush cause he know how bad I wanted it" The Rasta looked at me with much wisdom in his bloodshot eyes and said "Jim mon, stranger tings hap'in mon" I smiled at him and asked, "know where I can sell some ladders...


It took me less than five days to smoke that one bud so I had no reason at all to go back to "the spot" during that first week, but the following week I decided to go back to the spot, and grab me another one or two of my giant buds. I asked Rasta Dixon if he wanted to come with me, and he said ok...

When we finally got back out to "the spot" in the beautiful red ground bush where the tree just days ago lay dying, we were amazed to see that each and every branch of the tree was doing very well and was now standing straight up sucking strength and life from the hot Jamaican sun. In the past 5 days or so the tree had turned into a Ganja Fence! A sixty foot long ganja fence that to me, was the most amazing thing I have ever seen...

©1997 Jim Nasium

not every day was a wonder full day in Negril back in the early 70's,

Allow me to tell you about the time me and a few friends got burst in Negril, many many years ago; I'll keep it short yet try not to forget any'a the important bits. yea yea I know this piece needs to be edited a bit but couldn't wait to share...

I'll never forget that chilly rainy night, way back in 1972. The four of us, two locals and my friend and I from Philadelphia were enjoying a quiet night around the dinning room table like any other night up on Monkey Hill when suddenly, with out warning, the front door to the small masonry house we rented up on Monkey Hill in The Red Ground District of Negril from Grandma Johnson was kicked in. Next thing I knew 5 Jamaican Police came bursting in through the now broken door hanging from only the top hinge.

Shocked at what had just happened I stood up quickly and some how managed to grab the bag of ganja, our stash, in my hands and as I turned to get up and away from the table I threw the bag out the opened back door. No one saw a thing...

"No mon move" were the first words Sergeant Brown spoke as he pointed the gun in his hands at the four of us standing there around our dinning room table where we had just been very busy at smoking, drinking and eating some Ganja Cake by the light of our kerosene lamp. "Hand in da air; move to dat wall" was the next thing I heard.

We did as the Police told us to do and we stood still with our hands on the wall and our legs spread as one of the four Policemen searched each one of us at the same time while Sergeant Brown kept his guns on us all from a distance. After each of us had been searched thoroughly by the officer nothing was found. None of the Police thought to look around in the yard outside the open back door; praise Jah.

Just then one of the Police Officers said he found a cigarette pack stuffed with some primo sticky bud laying on the floor near the table that belonged to us. None of us had ever or would never crush up jumbo sticky primo bud into a cigarette pack; none of us even smoked tobacco. The cigarette pack full of ganja was planted there; they wanted to burst us one way or another even if they had to plant evidence and so they did.

Finally handcuffed together, two by two; me and my buddy and the two locals, the five Police marched us down Monkey Hill, in the dark, even as dark as it was, in the chilly pouring rain at gun point to the Police Station and threw us in the tiny Negril Jail, leaving us confused, frightened, cold, wet and cuffed together in the small dirty cell for hours before they even told us what we were being charged with: possession of ganja. I can not recall clearly how long it was between the time we were thrown into the cell in Negril's tiny Police Station Jail before we were loaded into a Van and taken to Little London Jail but it seemed like a lifetime.

Once at Little London the four of us were uncuffed and thrown right into a small 10' X 10' building with one small window, no electric light. There was a pot in the one corner of the room for us to use as a toilet; no toilet tissue. A small hinged opening about 12" high at the bottom of the door was used for sliding our not very appealing meals and glass of water (dinner) or lime leaf tea (breakfast) into us twice a day. Boiled Yams, Boiled Banana, Boiled Breadfruit, a pile of rice and a tiny fried fish, meal after meal got old quick. At least the food they served blocked our digestive system up like cement; what an embarrassing situation it would of been if one of us had to poo.

Time passed slowly for the five days the four of us were trapped in that tiny hot dirty jail cell building unsure of our fate before we were told today was the day we would see the Judge in Savanna La Mar. None of us were in any shape to appear before a judge. Try to imagine what it was like to be one of us locked in a small hot room with no running water, no getting
washed or taking a shower in over five days with little to no sleep, bad and I mean very bad food and no sunlight; what a friggin' nightmare.

Shortly after being told today was our court day we were cuffed and loaded into a Van and taken to one of the many buildings in The Savanna La Mar Prison. While sitting in a courtroom waiting to see the judge a court appointed Lawyer came by to advise us to plea guilty and not cause any trouble and said if we cooperated we'd only get no less than seven and no
more than ten years each. "We're innocent" I explained "that was not our ganja". Plea guilty with explanation then" was the court appointed Lawyers advice as he walked away....

Standing in front of the Judge I could see the hatred he had towards Americans, especially Hippies, in his eyes as he asked "how do you plea". I took a deep breath and said "Guilty with an explanation your Honor" while fearing the worse yet trying to appear strong, and unafraid because I was telling the truth. That was not our Ganja and I had no desire to spend one
more hour in a Jamaican Jail and here I was facing ten years; I had to be strong.

After a long explanation of the events of the night we got burst and a lot of begging for mercy I was ordered to pay a fine and to leave the island and to not ever come back. My friend from the same town as me was ordered to pay a fine and leave the island and never return as well. We were both very lucky but then again we were innocent, that was not our ganja. Most of our Ganja was out back of the house, in the yard, over by our garden, in a 55 gallon drum down near the small entrance to the cave in back of Grandma Johnons that I swear has Pirate Treasure in it some where. God knows I've
looked for it too...

I was told our two local friends were released as well but for the life of me I don't see how if they were fined as much as we were. To this day I am not sure what ever happened to them because as soon as we got back to the house Grandma rented us we packed up our stuff, said our goodbyes and got a private car to take us to a place I know right across from the MoBay Airport up on the mountain side.

My dear friend Clinton Clark had a newer beautiful home on the hill side off the main road and he rented the front room, the one with a porch, looking down and across the main highway to the airport to me (and a very few select others) when ever I was it town. Clinton and his wife gladly made room for my friend as well. Clinton's was safe place to take a cool down; rest, clean up, smoke up, eat up and make plans for leaving Jamaica as soon as we could, in a day or so... but, no hurry mon.

Since it was Winter in Philadelphia we decided to not go home and headed off to Barranquilla, Colombia, South America. Barranquilla is (was at that time) a very dirty sea port fishing kind of town know for it's red light districts and crime, so as soon as we got out of the airport and downtown we got on a bus and headed East to Santa Marta. Santa Marta, Colombia is a small fishing town turned resort town with a beautiful beach and a snow capped mountain that has a very nice ski lodge you could take a bus or car to, say in the afternoon and ski your heart out after eating fresh fish, fruit, bread and cheese for breakfast on the white beach in the warm sun all morning, but that's another story...

BTW, don't tell anybody I have been back to Jamaica since the time I got burst and was told to never return; that's our secret. I have been back many times, and will never forget the first time I returned to Negril after I was forced to leave because of the bust. I had just spent a long stay, a few years, in Colombia South America and when I went back to Negril so much had changed; the place was not the same place I knew and loved. I left Negril with a tear in my eye and went to a friends place in Salt Springs, near Green Island but that too is another story. see the attached photo; that's my Negril!

Never the less I will be back to Negril again soon. My youngest son is planning to get married and he wants married in Negril, somewhere.

This is the Negril I long to return to:

Attachment 27684

people often ask me what I did to pass time in Negril back in the early 70's what with no electricity, plumbing or transportation of my own... here re 3 short poems to give yous an idea...


To Pass The Time Away

1: * The Sea Wall *

The sun slowly set in the West
lighting the sky as I sat on the sea wall
watching fishing boats head out to sea
to answer Neptune's call
"the time was right for fishing" they said
"when the sun was not in the sky"
it all seemed rather strange to me
and I still don't understand why

At dawn the boats would return
nets all loaded with fish
I'd wait on the sea wall watching
to see if I got my wish
each night I'd place an order
for a fresh catch of the day
this was just one of the things I'd do
to pass the time away

2: * She Said *

Choclate skin with the bluest eyes
I have ever seen
I fell for her instantly
I'm sure you know what I mean
I was young and full of fire
she was hot and wanted me so
we lived together on the island
tried to help each other grow

Time passed and she had my child
a big healthy baby boy
she loved me more than ever
said I gave her life much joy
she offered me her land and home
if I would only stay
she said she needed me there
to pass the time away

3: * The Market *

Wood tables loaded with fresh fruit
vegetables, bread and cheese
anything you could want is there
remember to say thank you and please
when you're nice to folks in the market
you always get a better deal
sometimes they give ya stuff for free
have you any idea how that can feel

People are laughing and talking
they all got food in their hand
they speak in an island accent
that's hard to understand
slowly but surly I am learning
I go a few times each day
it's just one of the things I'd do
to pass the time away

Jim Nasium

Adam The Red Eyed Hippie

A Story Poem by Jim Nasium

Today while I was sitting here drawing
an old friend of mine called me
he just got back in the states
I couldn't believe it was he
he's been in West Jamaica for ten years
down the path from my own home
he got married to a woman from Salt Springs
he didn't want to live down there alone

We talked on the phone for hours
he told me about what he's been up to
he's been making and selling sausage
I swear to you this is true
also he has a bakery down there
he was making all sorts of buns and bread
he went on to tell me about his last ten years
I had to laugh at some'a what he said

It was me who sent him to Jamaica
with a photo and a introduction note
I had no idea he'd end up there
with a wife, a house and a boat
he's in the states for a few weeks
has some things to take care of here
his name is Adam The Red Eyed Hippie
and his friendship I'll always hold dear

©2009 Jim Nasium

No One Last Forever: 3 Short Poems:
"Harold The Rasta" & "Barrington Johnson" & "Neville and Job": 3 different people I knew and hung out with in Negril Jamaica, back in the day who are no longer with us...



Harold The Rasta

Harold The Rasta was a wood carver
an Artist who would never eat red meat
his dread locks were always wrapped up
in a bun of sorts, to make him look neat
he called the bush home and lived off the land
I would see him almost every day
he never pushed his wares on me
and always had kind words to say

Harold The Rasta had a little wood stand
you could see him there every day
down near the round about close to the bridge
and the beach wasn't that far away
I'd sit with him down at his stand
watch him create his works of Art
the finished piece was always amazing
considering what he had at the start
Harold The Rasta would walk the beach
when the fishermen came in at dawn
he pick up some food, buy some fish
and the next thing you knew he'd be gone
but come each morning round 8 o'clock
he would be in his stand carving again
I have many'a fond memory of him
I considered Harold my friend

Harold The Rasta is no longer alive
he died many years ago
but I wrote this poem about him
just so you who read it know
Harold was one of the first ever Artists
to sell his wood carvings down in town
it didn't take long, and it wasn't wrong
Harold The Rasta was know all around

AND

Barrington Johnson

Barrington Johnson was just a boy
back in Nineteen Seventy-Three
his grandmother, Grandma Johnson
was the woman who rented to me
she cooked my meals and did my wash
made sure I had every thing I could need
and I say everything that's what I mean
from Ackee [A] all the way to [W] weed

Barrington Johnson was a young boy
when I met him back in the day
and on a recent trip to The Red Ground
I heard Barrington passed away
after seeing how sad everyone was
when they told me the sad news that day
I felt a tear come to my eye
couldn't think of the right words to say....

AND

Neville And Job

Neville and Job were introduced to me
way back in Nineteen Seventy-Two
and when they said they had the best
trust me, what they said was true
they took me back in the bush
showed me things I will never forget
and to this day, I am sorry to say
that no one's treated me better yet

Neville and Job were both very well known
it fact you could say they were "Da Man"
and if you needed any thing at all
they'd get and seemed to understand
it's stupid to rip some body off
so they always gave more than a fair deal
I loved the way their product looked and smelled
and I loved the way it'd made me feel

Neville and Job are no longer around
after all they were old way back then
and sometimes I wish they were still around
so I could go meet them again
but nothing last forever
and no man can or ever will
but these memories in my head
are precious, and still give me a thrill

©2008 Jim Nasium

I promised my friend JG who is waiting, I would post this one:


In Memory Of Three

a drunken smoked up blown out red eyed old tired hippies account of a fairwell to 3
A Poem by Jim Nasium

Three was different; one of a kind
and he has lived every where
he traveled around the world on his wits
and never had a problem or a care

I met Three many years ago
I'll never forget the day
my friend and his cousin head
had all planned to go away

Three told us many stories
of places far from here
told us to get off our ass
to go away that same year

I took his advice and traveled
first to Jamaica and then The Andes
years went by of getting high
I was so very lucky

But that was many years ago
today I am an old broken, sick man
my spirit is strong and wants to carry on
but my body can't keep up with the plan

II.

Everyone was shocked to hear the news
our good friend Three had died
and I'm not ashamed to admit
I was so sad I even cried

His lady told me every one
was going to meet down in J A
arranged the date, time and place
and we were all on our way

All Threes closest friends were invited
to watch his ashes dumped out to sea
as to honor Threes last request
and we knew that would make him happy

The time to leave finally arrived
I decided to take along my son
knowing he would love Jamaica
and that we'd have a lot of fun

The flight was short but my cohort
was tired and wanted to land
exactly what was going on in my head
was something you would not understand

III.

I landed in Montego Bay
had a car and driver waiting for me
we took the coast road towards Negril
I love the smell of the sea

I check into my first class hotel
had the man carry my bags for me
he handed me a glass of rum punch
and a great big spleef for free

I settled in and made some calls
told everyone I was back in town
it didn't take long my reputation's strong
and the word quickly spread around

The trip was hard on my broken body
but I was happy to be there again
I promise my son a bit of fun
and I could say goodbye to my old friend

That first moon lit night I felt alright
and I sat my son down by my side
we opened a large bottle of wine
and we talked, swallowing our pride

IV.

My son and I sat drinking under the moon light
I told him stories about Head, Three and me
when we where his age a long time ago
and living in Jamaica so very care free

Dawns light came a little too soon
coloring the sea with hues of red
my son said good night, he was so very drunk
so I walked with him and got him in bed

I went back to the cliff to look for a man
Famous Vincent was his name, and he
had a boat that took folks on a tour
to a coral reef way out to sea

That afternoon his boat pulled up to the cliff
we all carefully got on board
the captain had a smile on his face
he knew we knew what he had stored

We headed East towards a coral reef
Sandy Kay is it's name
we had to dump Three's ashes
I was feeling a little lame

V.

It wasn't fair but Three didn't care
that he couldn't beat his Cancer like me
I guess it just wasn't my time
and wonder which of us is free

We dumped Threes ashes over board
opened a bottle of champagne and made a toast
the sun was hot and the wine hit the spot
as I felt my pale skin start to roast

The deed was done, so it was time for fun
so we went for a snorkel and a swim
the day was late so we headed home
as the last of sunset got dim

Back on sure we partied for sure
had dinner, dancing and entertainment
I drank so much wine but was feeling fine
there was no need for any restrainment

We had been friends for forty years
been to far away magical places
saw many a wondrous site over the years
as well as many hungry sad faces

VI.

My son was totally amazed at it all
he asked how much did it cost
I told him not to think like that
but to think of what we lost

I said some day you will have dear friends
for more than two score of years
and when one dies I'll hear your cries
and be there to wipe your tears

I helped to say goodbye to an old friend
and I kept a promise to my son
to take him to Jamaica one day
and now that our trip is done

We both agree what's best for ME
is to go back as soon as I can
and bring my son along with me
so we can do it all over again

I just don't know if I will go
but I could and there is opportunity
and now that my heart is broken again
there's really no other choice for me

good bye 3
save a place for me where ever you are...
I'd like to pass through sometime, and visit ya.....
©2007 Jim Nasium

Photos

Attachment 27676

Attachment 27677

Attachment 27678

Waiting For The Bus, In Jamaica


Dawn slowly colors the Eastern sky
reflections of sunrise paint the sea water
birds sing the song of a new day
dogs bark as cats head home from the prowl

My feet soak in the warm salt water
as I sit on the sea wall waiting
the bus to town is late again today
no one is ever in a hurry here

Off in the distance I see a few small boats
the waves toss them towards the shore
their nets are loaded with today's catch
fresh treats for the sea food lover

Soon the boats will be on land again
the fishermen must sell what they caught
but are willing to trade for things they need
slowly the market place comes alive

Vendors gather in the center of town
wooden tables and booths are set up
fruits, vegetables, breads and cheese are offered
along with fresh fish, meats and ganja

Experience tells me to get to the vendors early
they are always eager to barter
the early bird gets the worm they say
but all I really want is the bus to come

The old man who pushes a wood cart on wheels
loaded with fresh bread and sweet buns
stops at the sea wall to offer me a treat
I ask him to sit for awhile and we talk

He assures me the bus will be here soon
I thank him for the bun and wish him a good day
he has to go set up in the market place
before all the good spots are taken

A few woman who take the bus to town daily
gather near the sea wall talking
they are happy to stand in the shade and wait
the wait is nothing new to them

Children in blue and white school uniforms
play games like Simon Says and jump rope
their books and lunches lay forgotten on the ground
they wish the bus would never come

Men who must take the bus to their jobs
are not happy about the wait like the children
they are slightly hung over from last nights rum
wanting only to turn back the hands of time

The sun's high in the sky now
as the big blue bus rounds the corner
horn blowing to announce it's arrival
a long line of people forms to board

I put my shoes on and gather my things
make my way to the end of the line
pay my seventy-five cents, and find a seat
knowing the ride to town will be a pleasant one

There is always someone to talk to
young ladies interested in an American hippie
Rasta's who swear they have the best of everything
old people with their stories of days gone by

There's conversation and ganja in the air
we make our way East on the old coast road
finally on my way to Montego Bay
on the Blue Danube Morning Bus
©2005 Jim Nasium

**********

A Man And His Ferris Wheel
A Poem by Jim Nasium

He lived down the street from a junk yard
would work down there now and then
one day it finally dawned on him
so he took some rods and started to bend
when he had a bunch of rods bent just right
he started welding them together
and every day he worked on the thing
it started to look better and better

He fashioned many little seats
made of rod and wire mesh mat
he welded them all together
not wearing a welders hat
and slowly one day at a time
his idea finally came to life
no one understood his goal at all
not even his loving wife

Finally about a month later
I saw him with pink paint gallon cans
I asked him what he was doing
he asked me to lend him a hand
so we painted his Ferris wheel
man powered and very crude
I told him it was beautiful
I didn't want to be rude

We spread the word around the bush
come get a ride for a dime
and he would be ready any day
he wasn't concerned with the time
it took two men to pump the thing
to make it go around and round
and the same men had to jump and hold on
when they wanted the thing to slow down

The children all seemed to love it
he was making a few dollars each day
how the thing managed to stay together
is something that no one could say
but I was happy for him
he was able to make a dream come true
and if you look at the picture
you can see what I'm trying to explain to you...

Attachment 27686

This is the Ferris Wheel a friend built from junk and painted pink once upon a time in Jamaica many years ago...
©2003 Jim Nasium

Jim I envy you for being able to experience Negril in those days and thank you for a glimpse into the past....... it's a shame that things
ended up the way they do sometimes.... but that is as they say... life.... If you have any more pics please share them as I have always
wondered what this paradise looked like back in the early days.....

Scott
Life in Negril back in the early 70's was nothing less than Paradise on earth IMO.

The Beach was wide open, all 7 miles of it, there was NOTHING along the beach between the beach and the road but sugar cane, breadfruit, weeds, mud and more mud all the way up to boobie kay, the little island and beyond.

Up on Monkey Hill there was no electricity but who cared? We lived in the light from just before dawn to shortly after sunset mostly (there was little to no night life other than the night life one made for him or her self) so who needed electricity??

Traffic? hahhaha, what traffic? Tourists? there were about 4 or 5 of us from the US (two from Philly, two from Ohio, and one other guy I forget his name now) but I refused to be classified as such. I lived there, I wasn't (just) visiting.

The food OMG was to die for; baked goods from heaven. We only got about 87 cents for each US Dollar but money played a very little part in life there, then; wasn't money locals wanted from us (me) then, was my friendship and my time they wanted.

I guess I could go on and on but I think you get the idea...
jn

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Jim Nasium

Scott
Life in Negril back in the early 70's was nothing less than Paradise on earth IMO.

I guess I could go on and on but I think you get the idea...
jn

---

After living in Kingston for 18 months my first trip to Negril in 1969 gave me the same feeling.

As to traffic....remember Elvira from Our Pastime and her Benz?

Thanks for sharing, Jim. Sounds like you have had an interesting life.

Jim

You have fascinating stories to tell. We share the same love for Negril - the "time when the hippies came" as many of the older Jamaicans refer to us. I suggest that you create a book of your stories, maybe weave into a novel as I did with Island Odyssey. By-the-way, I think Harold the Woodcarver is the same person I know and befriended in 1970s, the last time I saw him was walking on the beach, without his dreadlocks, in 1986. When I first met Harold in 1970 he gave me two wood carvings, one of the head of a Rasta as a candle holder, and the other was a large serving plate that he used to serve to me and my friends a dinner of Bonita and rice-veges; he gave me the plate. And, when I hooked up with him in the 80's and thanked him for the gift, he said, "I mek a servin' spoon fer ya mon" and he proceed to carve a large spoon for me out of Jamaican cedar. If it is the same Harold, I am said to hear that he had passed away.

Thanks for sharing your stories and poetry on this stie.

Francis Oliver Lynn (Fren Mon)

Hi Jim,

Man you write well!!! Nice to hear all your stories. Am not familiar with monkey hill in the Red Ground District but I did not spend too much time there although my friend Mortimer Johnson lived in Red Ground and I did visit him whenever I was in Negril. My first visit to Jamaica was in April 1975 and probably a few years after you first landed there. Although there was always Ganja available in Negril I understood clearly the danger involved in using and possessing it and although I had no objection to it I recognized that to be jailed or deported would be pretty counter productive to my goals of rest and relaxation while in Negril. I had pondered buying some Negril beachfront property at the time but in those day the Manley Government was in power and the word was that he would be confiscating foreign owned properties so I never did. I also had the idea to import Blue Mountain Coffee to the US in the 70's and 80's way before the coffee boom here that drove the price of Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks and boutique coffee sales through the roof here. Was gonna call it Pirate Coffee Company, another idea left on the table unfortunately. I too have many stories from my trips to Jamaica mostly happy some sad and a few tragic. To think of all the trips I took to JA and the traveling around the island that I did brings happiness to my heart. Most importantly are the many Jamaicans that have helped me or come to my rescue in one way or other during my times there. I never felt threatened or was victimized, even walking alone through Kingston, at night no less, and most often felt safer than many places in America. Last year while visiting Kingston many old friends warned me about how dangerous both Kingston and Jamaica as a whole had become and although I didn't disbelieve them I still couldn't fear something that I had never seen. I was in Kingston and MoBay in November 1980 during the time that both the US and Jamaican elections were being held. Jamaicans couldn't believe that I a white American tourist would be stupid / crazy enough to be in Jamaica during what was practically a civil war between the JLP & PNP supporters. Gun fire, death was everywhere. Yet I can honestly say other than my disbelief of the madness of the moment I was never afraid or scared. If I wrote of my experiences in a book nobody would believe them so for now they remain as memories and pictures.

Attachment 27788

re:
I think Harold the Woodcarver is the same person I know and befriended in 1970s,

I am sure there could only ever of been one Harold The Woodcarver (from back in the day in Negril). Harold was a soft spoken, gentle Rasta; many hours were sent listening to his tales. I've a few of his pieces in my media room.

re: " If I wrote of my experiences in a book nobody would believe them so for now they remain as memories and pictures"

johng
Truth is often stranger than fiction but especially when you were a Hippie back in the day in Negril...

I told my son the story of (me) eating too much ganja cake and falling asleep on an air matress on the beach only to get wash out to sea, way out to sea many times and each time he'd give me that look, the look of (some) doubt. The truth in that case was/is stranger than fiction.

Wasn't until my son met Grandma Johnson (bless her soul) for the first time and heard her tell the same story, fact by fact, just like I tell the story that he believed the story true, so yes... I KNOW what you mean.

re: If it is the same Harold, I am said to hear that he had passed away.




that was just a poem you read; not to be taken seriously. I should of mention it was fiction based on (some) fact like most fiction...

I really do not know where Harold is, or if he is dead or alive but i heard he's a hard man fe dead:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3LERNZlQjc

Yup, I remember Ol Rasta Harold the woodcarver. One time I helped him move his meager belongings from one little hut in the bush to another spot.

Regards,
Bob

Does anybody remember an older guy named Sammy that used to be all over Negril? He used to have a donkey he rode around on, always drinking Overproof and smoking Ganja most always wore a little cap, smaller guy around 5'3". He never wore shoes and I swear he could walk on broken glass, metal, 150 degree pavement, you name it. I can see him walking on hot coals no problem. His feet were calloused and spread out like duck's feet. He was a pleasant guy but was always wrecked on something. He must have been in his forties back in the 70's. I assume he's no longer with us but does anybody remember him.

Sounds a little like El Presidente, but I don't remember him ever riding a donkey.

Regards,
Bob

I never knew El Presidente. Sammy had a noticeable scar across his flattened nose like he was on the wrong end of a machete. Back in the old days he would be riding the donkey sometimes not all the time. He loved the Overproof and would beg a bokkle or money for one. He was a friendly nice guy who as I recall never caused anybody any problems. So not sure if he is El Presidente or not.

Does anybody from the old days remember and or know a guy by the name of Eric Lindsay, a white Canadian guy who was a preacher of the "Good Book" and went by the credo "God's Love". I can't remember where he used to stay but it was on the beach somewhere close to Gloria's Sunset Cottages and I used to drink coffee with him often at Cafe Au Lait on the beach. The last I knew he got married and was living in Ithaca, NY and we stayed in touch until about 10 years ago. He often spent months at a time in Negril and was a very nice and spiritual man. Never heard an unkind word from his mouth. He was in the late 1970's probably in his fifties longish hair, beard and wore glasses to read otherwise they were hanging around his neck.

Attachment 27849
johng I do not know his name but this was on the West End Rd in 1982, I saw him a few times.

Hi Lane,

Thanks for the photo. Hard to tell but my guess based on the boots and length of his legs that isn't Sammy. Great picture!!!!

Thanks,
John