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

  1. #1
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    How I got to Jamaica...too.

    With a nod to Captain Dave and a little time on my hands, I thought I might copy his lead.

    It was 1983 and felt like I was living in a dream. I couldn’t stop looking at the Eastern Airlines advertisement for “Fly anywhere you want for $399 for up to 21 days” (and for an extra $100 they would add Caribbean destinations), I knew right away a vacation was in our future. I called my wife into the room and showed her the ad trying to read her expressions as she read.

    A smile crept over her lips, so I jumped right in on “Where do you want to go?” taking advantage of the situation. She said she wanted to go to the Yucatan to see the Mayan pyramids and asked me where I wanted to go. I had been in Puerto Rico for two years in the Military, so I suggested we go there instead.

    Thinking out loud I said, “We have 21 days so perhaps we can do both.” She liked that idea and added that perhaps we could even make it a three destination-one week in each vacation. But where? I had an idea…..


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

    Do they still have those kind of deals? That would be awesome, like a Euro rail pass but for flying.
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  3. #3
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    Quote Originally Posted by TuffGong View Post
    Do they still have those kind of deals? That would be awesome, like a Euro rail pass but for flying.
    Eastern Airlines was in financial trouble at the time and finally went bankrupt in 1991. They even had a $999 Fly anywhere for a Year for Senior Citizens but I was too young at the time and it didn't include the Caribbean (except Puerto Rico).
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    I took my wife out to the garage to the dart board on the wall and grabbed a dart while she took a well-worn map and placed it over the board. We decided to just throw a dart and, if Eastern Airlines flew to any country it landed on, we would go there. I stood at the prescribed distance and threw the dart. Wouldn’t you know it? The dart landed in the middle of Cuba and we could not go there! She suggested I throw it again, but I declined and came up with an alternative solution. I tied a piece of thread to the dart and made ever increasing circles until it hit a land mass. Bingo! Galina Point, St. Mary’s Jamaica.

    It was Providence. In 1978 I worked as a Stage Security Guard at the Santa Barbara County Bowl for a Bob Marley and the Wailers concert. I was transfixed by Bob and the band as his lyrics seemed like they were talking to me and me alone. And so, began my fascination with most everything Jamaican from the food to the music and from its history to its mystery.

    And, I started with my digestion of the Eastern Airlines Route Schedule with a goal of fitting all three destinations into a maximum 21 day time period while also being mindful of the rules such as only being able to stop at any airport once which proved to be more difficult than I anticipated.

    Nearly one month later I had an outline of a plan that would do all three stops and take almost all the 21-day limit too. Now I needed to work out a ground plan for when we arrived for things like places to stay and car rental when public transportation was not available. We would be backpacking taking sleeping bags and a tent as an alternative cost saving measure when appropriate.

    On July 3rd, 1983, the adventure began.
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

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

    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.
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    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??”
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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??
    Last edited by Accompong; 05-14-2020 at 08:01 AM.
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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?”
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    Re: How I got to Jamaica...too.

    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!!

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