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Thread: How I got to Jamaica...too.

  1. #11
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    Quote Originally Posted by Jdub View Post
    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!!
    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
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  2. #12
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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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  3. #13
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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…
    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???

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  4. #14
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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…….”
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  5. #15
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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.

  6. #16
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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
    Last edited by Accompong; 05-15-2020 at 04:31 PM.
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  7. #17
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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!
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  8. #18
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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.
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  9. #19
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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.
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  10. #20
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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.
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