I had managed to avoid having to go to the Jungle during our last trip. This time with Daisy and Jamar itching to go, the “Ayes” had it.



Luckily things people say are relative and when someone describes a club in Jamaica as an L.A.-style club, it isn't necessarily very similar. There were no overly aggressive bouncers, brand-name clothing requirements or cold neon lights under the bar. Only the tiniest fraction of the place was closed off for bottle service. The VIPs were in the minority.

While we waited for Bea we had ample time to study various groups of people going in. A lot of boys were wearing their best jeans and some brought as much bling-bling as their necks could support (Sidenote: I just read the term “bling” originated in Jamaica. Any credence to this? There sure is a lot of it on the Island). We saw purple suits and even one guy fitted from head to toe in silver tweed. The girls presented lots of leg in short skirts and hot pants, and tops that equally showed off, what they had to offer. But I also wasn't the only guy in beach sandals.

As you already know Bea didn't make it that night. So eventually we decided to head on in. Ahead of us was a large group of girls, who were pleading with the bouncer.

You can find The Rules of the club in a photo in Daisy's entry (see previous page). Here is a word of caution: Should you visit the Jungle, do not jeopardize your welcome by making a joke about how your friend is in any of the disallowed professions mentioned on that board. It might seem funny at the moment, but it's like saying “bomb” at the airport. We watched the aftermath such a prank unfold with a group of girls in front of us, while the bouncer just waived us through.

The club itself is quite receded from the gate. Eventually we came to the end of another line, split in two files for male and female. Before entering you will be thoroughly searched and the contents of your purse might be emptied and investigated. If you are like us, you might like to know this before going. There were a few items in my and Jamar's possession that we lost at this juncture. Forget hiding anything cleverly. Luckily there were no serious consequences.

The club was still empty and it amazed us how all the people that passed the gate could so utterly disappear in the large space. So we hung around here and there, explored the different levels and had a beer at each of the empty bars. There were cuddle couches, several pool tables, a gift shop and even an albino python in a glass cage, busy shedding it's skin.

The upper-level, open to the night breeze, was most popular and around midnight it began to get crowed with fist pumping tourists that enjoyed the dance-floor music offered. There was somewhat of a Jersey-shore vibe going on and we stayed on the sidelines watching with amusement, while Jamar scanned the crowd for some of the opposite sex to talk to, someone that preferably wasn't married to me.

He found two pretty girls alone at a table and moved in. I have to give the man kudos. I don't know, if I have mentioned this before, but when he sees someone he likes, he goes for it.

We followed, in case he needed a wing woman or man, but soon found ourselves free to do what ever.

Daisy struck up a conversation with a few locals, some of which worked at the hotels here. We shared a few Magnum and Guinness and eventually decided we had enough of the upper deck.

One of the guys offered himself as an unsolicited guide and led us down a dark stairwell to the infamous downstairs dance-floor. The air was thick with dry ice and cigarette smoke and it was exceedingly warm from the closely crammed bodies everywhere.

We had a hard time staying together. Eventually we ended up on the other side of the room on a step with perfect view of the goings-on.

Two huge towers of sub-woofers on each side of the DJ-station blasted hard Reggae Tunes. Each bass note compressed the air to such a degree that the a small amount of air escape from my lung each time the sound waves pounded against my soda-plexus. The floor-boards and everything else was bend to its limit by the vibrations, the buildings integrity itself seemed at stake.

Oddly the dance floor was empty. All around its edges though, buds of movement slowly blossomed and by the minute the action was getting heavier.

A girl dressed entirely in gold, like a bond villain, was lost in highly athletic intercourse like contortions, pumping and heaving her midsection against an imaginary partner on the floor below here. The whole time she held her golden purse out at arms length to the side, as if not to get it dirtied in the commotion. Three of her girl-friends in equally flashy attire hooted and screamed, cajoling her into further more extreme contortions. It was getting wild!

All the beer had to eventually come out. I asked Daisy to join me on the search for a rest-room, since I didn't know if I could make it back to the same spot. But she was in a conversation with our new acquaintance, so I left the two alone.

When I got back, ten minutes later, the fellow was giving her “dance-lessons”. Needless to say, this ended the “Night at the Roxbury” for me. Call it a cultural misunderstanding, but I am just not cool with that stuff. There is dancing and then there is the kind of stuff, I don't let no-one do with my wife, especially, while I am in the bathroom.

I almost whacked the kid. And, holy sh*t, I was angry

Message:
Guys: Stay close to your girl at the Jungle!

So like an angry Ulysses I grabbed my woman, parted the sea of people, and stormed out of the establishment, leaving a somewhat confused hotel-dance-instructor back in a cloud of dry-ice.

I know I might have over reacted, but when Jamar said in his trip report (and I quote): “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW” about the dancing there,...well, let that be my defense.

Away from the cigarettes smoke and ripe body odor, I calmed down a little. Daisy was equally in shock and unaware of having done anything to warrant such a strong reaction. So we exchanged a few more thoughtful remarks about our feelings and quickly forgave each others behavior.

I am so lucky. It doesn't even matter whether I am in the right or wrong, but the fact is I am in a relationship, where in eleven years, we have never gone to bed angry at each other. And I know I am more stubborn, but she always finds a way to make it all look ridiculous and make me remember the things that are really important. That is not a super power of “hubby-man”. That is the most awesome quality of “clarity”.

So that's how we ended up in XXX....

To be continued