Rumpolephoreskin's Existential Wanderings in and Around Negril

[Rum-polephoreskin]

Day 6 cont . . .

Anything is going to pale in comparison to Rockland’s, our next stop did. There isn’t a lot up near Rocklands in the way of attractions; at least that you can squeeze into a day trip. Roaring River (Shrewsbury) does not always roar, sometimes (like when we were there) it doesn’t even whisper. Be advised!

I would have been happy just driving back to Negril and listening to Alfred talk about native flora. Alfred dropped us off at the entrance, what exactly we were charged for I’m still not sure. As he dropped us off Alfred glanced around, seeing a young thin man in a plaid shirt, he said, “Oh, Rasta Robert, go with him.” The look on Alfred’s face said he was less than convinced of his own advice.

We paid an official looking young man our entrance fee and got in tow with Rasta Robert. Rasta Robert asked the official looking young man for the key. The young man looked hard at Rasta Robert for a moment, like he was weighing whether or not he'd give Rasta Robert the key. Rasta Robert's expression indicated the matter was in doubt as well. The Young man demonstrating reluctance then handed Rasta Robert the key.




Robert explained we’d missed the boat on the river’s roar. He showed us the big spring that provides water for the village. The crystal water boiled up from the earth. "The village gets its drinking water from this spring, you can't swim here." He then gave us a vague idea of where we could swim and assured us it was no where close by. The rivers banks (above the spring) contained only sand and dusty gravel. The rainy season was over.

Rasta Robert had at least a rudimentary knowledge of botany. He pointed out a fig parasite enveloping an innocent cotton tree (the kind fishing boats/canoes are carved from). . .


cacao beans (still on a tree) . . .


and plant leaves used as Jamaican seasoning (allspice?). He asked us if we wanted to see the caves or village first.

It was very hot, for that reason I thought the caves may be a good place to finish. The stocking I have to wear on my damaged leg is essentially a rubber sleeve.

It slows my body’s ability to radiate heat or cool itself via the evaporation of perspiration. I walk a lot back home (to and from work – 6 miles a day but it’s much cooler there). The noon heat in Jamaica is different. I mention this because things were about to get weird. Even now it's hard to sort out. I may have gotten overheated on the walk. Judge for yourself.

Robert said we’d walk through the village then go on to the “Blue Hole”. As we started on the road through the village we were met by Robert’s friend “the cold cut man” (the way Rasta Robert pronounced cold cuts ended with a "ja" sound). The cold cut man seemed to materialize right out of the bush. He was dressed all in black and sported a Cheshire Cat smile. After some introduction he offered me a submarine sandwich for $10 U.S. I told Rasta Robert that wouldn't fly. Eventually I got a healthy sub for $5, but not before Rasta Robert asked if I wanted some tobacco in my sub. In the old days Rastas used to rail against the British practice of cutting their cold cuts with tobacco. I remember an interview with Bob Marley (read who knows where) when he became incensed at the idea of putting tobacco in a sub, down right pi$$ed. I passed, hey I'm old school.

IMO most of the cold cuts being hustled in Negril are schwag. With the exception of a fat sub Gerryg gave me, I ran into nothing in Negril that held a candle to to medical grade cold cuts we can get at home. If you don't partake at home you may think the beach schwag is just fine.Don't get me wrong, everything doesn't have to be overproof. Remember the old, old days when you could get a $15 Oz. of Mexican cold cuts, with the attendant light buzz that didn't knock you out, but just made a party more fun. The beach schwag goes great with sipping beer in abar while you're chillin', but at least once it day it's nice to "turn I loose, cause the rain is fallin' . . .kaya, kaya". I did not give the “cold cut man’s” wares the proper respect. I was about to have a Mrs.-Peel's-cake-moment and I never saw it coming.