Sunsets, Rum, Sand and Gizzadas 97 Days in Negril

[jimnkim]

Going to miss your writing and tales of Negril

[Face Down]

Enjoy your last day and have a safe trip home!! Thanks for the most awesome report!!!

[Lady Jane]

Thanks for the great trip report. Keep working on that book, I need a new read. Safe travels home

[Bluez]

Thanks for sharing your travels and making it seem that we're right along there with you. So happy to have read about your return and continued adventures on the beach. Safe travels, bundle up extra warm,, say hi to Miss Bea

[Kahuna3]

My last day, my last post from the beach. I have a late flight, so I’ll spend most of the day in Negril.

Wow! What a trip! It’s been a long haul, thanks for hanging in there with me. Much thanks.

I’ll post more and some final thoughts after I get home and settled.

Last night I treated myself to my traditional going away dinner – jerk chicken at Best in the West. It lived up to all my expectations. Totally.

Afterwards I walked the dark beach and gazed at the lights on the high ground above the town center. Yes, I’m ready to go home. But I’m going to miss this place. I’ll miss the sand, the rum, the sunsets and the gizzadas. I’ll miss morning swims in the glassy calm waters of Long Bay. I’ll miss walking the beach until my feet are sore. I’ll miss the sounds of the surf and the music and the smell of the sea and the night jasmine. And I’ll miss the fun times I had with my peeps and I’ll miss the Negril vibe. But it’s the people here that I’ll miss most of all.

Jamaica . . . Negril. I’m going to miss you, but I’ll be back.


Here’s a last photo. JT and the cake lady at Sunnyside. There’s nothing particularly special about this, but it’s emblematic. It’s a moment in time, one of so many experienced over the last months. I know that whenever I look at this shot, and others, I’ll be transported right back to that moment and my eyes will glaze over and I’ll replay the good times we all had together in Negril.

In fact, looking at JT and the Cake Lady now I can hear Johnny talking about visiting Negril back in the early eighties; the ‘good ole days’. “We were young and poor back then, we only had enough money for mushrooms and cake.”





I’ll leave you with this piece, another look at Negril Street Theater.

Likkle more . . .

Street Theater #3 – Off to Work
One of the better pieces of street theater I observed played out one morning while I was walking from our residence in Redground headed down into town. I turned the corner from Hermitage onto Redground road. I saw a man walking in my direction on the other side of the street. It appeared to me that the man was headed off to work.

About twenty paces behind this man, a woman, in bare feet and wearing her pyjamas, emerged from a gateway and stood at the side of the road. She turned to the man and shouted something. I didn’t understand what she said but it clearly wasn’t in the tone of, “Hey sweetie, you forgot your lunch.” No. It was more like, “Hey you S.O.B. we’ll talk more when you get home!”

Although the woman had delivered her invective at considerable volume, the man, apparently, hadn’t heard her, because he didn’t turn around nor did he break his stride. At that moment I got the impression that this was a domestic discussion; perhaps a wife seeing her hubby off to work.

I slowed my pace a little. I didn’t want to walk off the set before the act concluded.

The woman sent off another barrage. Longer, louder, considerably more acerbic and involving several broad sweeping arm gestures, as if she was wielding a machete and was hacking her way through thick foliage. To my ears, the words were still incomprehensible, but the message was becoming clearer.

The man, obviously hard of hearing, continued steadfastly along the road, the distance between him and his significant other steadily increasing. I noted that he was now safely out of rock throwing range.

The woman at the gate paused to catch her breath. Her posture was tense, her body language: extremely pissed off.
Another voice, higher pitched and not nearly as strong as the first, filled the verbal gap left by the other. I glanced over. It was an older woman. She too, was yelling at the steadily retreating back of the man. She was sitting on the curb atop a seat-pad fashioned from a folded piece of cardboard. She was sipping on a Red Stripe. It was 8:30 in the morning. Maybe this is the mother-in-law, I thought. Maybe the Red Stripe was her breakfast. Maybe the cardboard that she was sitting on was from a Red Stripe carton.

I recognized the older woman. I’d seen her frequently on our morning walks down the road; always sitting on the curb, always sipping on a beer. She was the same elderly woman we’d met at the Good Over Evil bar the night that Bea and I had JT over for dinner.
A young man pushing a large wooden hand truck loaded with bananas, oranges and tomatoes appeared on the scene. The cart had tiny, tortured, squeaking wheels. It was as if the fellow had a walk-on part in this act. He laboured by, calling out his trade.

This incident played out largely unnoticed by others in the vicinity. A woman who was sweeping the roadside in front of her yard paused and looked over, but didn’t appear overly concerned. It was as if it was normal behaviour. Children walking in their school uniforms did not seem interested in the mini-drama.

The guy pushing the cart, having trucked no trade, trundled off center stage.

The man going to work progressed around a slight bend in the road. His antagonist (is that an acceptable synonym for ‘wife’?) went across the road to gain a better angle of attack on him. She stood directly beside the older, beer sipping woman. This seemed a better tactical arrangement and they renewed their assault on him. They unleashed a dual barrage; the pyjama-clad woman peppering him relentlessly while the elderly woman added higher notes. It was like the grand finale of a fireworks show.

Their denunciations appeared to propel the man down the road for he was soon too far away to be effectively yelled at. He never turned around or acknowledged the verbal attack on him in any way. Probably a wise decision.

The pyjama-clad woman, fuming, strode across the street and stormed back through the gateway. The elderly woman took a sip of her Red Stripe and smiled up at me as I passed. Most of her front teeth were missing.

A dog lying on the pavement lifted its head and yawned. A mother hen surrounded by a troop of chicks scratched at the turf in a small clearing and a couple of goats munched on the greenery next to a fence.

Thus the piece ended. It had been finely executed. I’d enjoyed it. It had been well performed by all concerned.

I picked up my pace, already looking forward to the next act.

[MoFromMonroe]

Clap Clap Clap. Loved it and still looking forward to more stories when you have settled in back home. Thank you so much for entertaining us through this long hard winter.

[Maryann]

Loved this!

[Lola]

OMG Kahuna have you ever attended one of the Jamaican comedy plays that tour the island? if you haven't, I recommend.

[papamark]

And the show goes on...
Thanks for sharin' Kahuna!

[walter]

Hello Roland :
So sorry you are going away, fare well. Your incomparable reports, "Negril moments" and pictures have made Winter much shorter, for all of us. Yours and Bea's presence at our place and especially your friendship with Luna will not be forgotten.
Hoping to see you again, one day,