How I got to Jamaica...too.

[Accompong]

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.”

[Accompong]

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.

[Accompong]

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.

[Accompong]

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??”

[Accompong]

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!

[Accompong]

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.

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.

[Accompong]

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??

[Accompong]

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.

[Accompong]

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.

[Accompong]

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?”