- Part Two -
A Pilgrimage to Nine Mile
We turn west along the mountain roads, heading toward the town of Claremont. A small inconspicuous sign at an intersection indicates the way to Bob’s place. The further we penetrate into the mountains, the worse the road gets.
I ask Cliff about the massive holes in the ground that scar the countryside. He explains that the excavations are left behind from where bauxite has been gouged out and hauled away. The soil here is red and shows at the edges of the holes where the vegetation hasn’t completely grown back in yet, as if the earth was made of flesh and was oozing blood. The road meanders through the mountainous terrain. It’s hot and the road is dusty so we stop at a roadside stand for a cold Ting. Cliff talks with the vendor, they speak in incomprehensible volleys of the local patois, laughing and slapping each other on the back. My patois ear is not tuned to the northern dialect and I only understand one word in ten.
We continue, passing through many small towns. Cliff deftly dodges the cows, dogs and goats that share the road. He tells us that the goats are very road smart and hardly ever get hit. If they get caught out in traffic, they will freeze in the middle of the road until it’s safe to cross. It’s the cows that you have to watch, “Cows, dey stupid,” Cliff says.
Children in crisp school uniforms trot along the shoulder, toting their backpacks. We are getting deeper into the hills and the countryside is lush green and pastoral. The traffic thins out and soon the road narrows down to one lane. In places, portions of the road are so pot-holed and washed out that it can’t properly be called a road. As we're jostling through a particularly bad spot, I ask who maintains the road. Cliff answers with a laugh, “Nobody mon!”
He beeps the horn as we approach blind corners, as if to put up a force shield to protect us, but he doesn’t slow down any. When we encounter oncoming vehicles we slow to a crawl and scrape past each other. We meet a large tanker truck as we're descending a steep grade. There isn’t enough room to squeeze by. Cliff backs the car up the hill until we reach a cutout in the roadside. The truck slowly edges by to the accompaniment of Cliff’s shouted directions and waving arms. All the while the car radio, tuned to IRIE FM, blasts out an assortment of reggae and dance hall music. It seems that everything in Jamaica happens to the beat of background music.
I suddenly realize that we are on a road that Bob traveled many times and somehow that makes me feel closer to him.
Soon the only traffic we encounter are farmers leading donkeys loaded down with sacks bulging with vegetables. The clearings we pass are planted with patches of yams, each plant mounded high. Small groupings of banana plants abound. All the farmers that we see carry machetes, I ask Cliff about it. “To work de ear’t, yuh know, dig holes, cut vines and rope and t’ings. An’ to fight off de garden raiders an’ protect der work”, he explains. The people we encounter on the road wave and greet us as we pass. The terrain is extremely mountainous, wreathed in picturesque valleys. It’s taking longer than I thought it would to get to Nine Mile, but the trip is very enjoyable and we are in no hurry.
We stop by the side of the road to stretch our legs and admire the view across a wide valley. Below, a narrow road snakes between the hills, modest farmer’s homes dot the mountainsides. I take in the view, it is a scene of utter and complete tranquility. Cliff plucks a dry leaf from a small tree and bends it in two. “Smell dis,” he passes it to me. It smells like spice.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Pimento,” he says, “people crush de berries an' put it in dere porridge, some people call it 'all spice'.”
We drive a little further and enter the tiny hamlet of Nine Mile. So named because, as John Crow flies, it’s nine miles from here to St. Ann’s Bay. The original name of the area is Rhoden Hall, but now everybody calls it Nine Mile. It’s no different from any of the other small towns that we’ve passed through to get here, but I am finally here, where Bob was born and grew up as a young boy. We pass Bunny Wailer’s house, one of the original Wailers, just across the road from the gates to Bob’s mausoleum. There are no signs indicating that we are at the mausoleum. It looks like the rest of the town, sun-baked and understated.
A pair of high wooden doors in the fence surrounding the property are opened and we are directed in. Several Rastas are in the parking lot and they greet us with the fist tap. There is only one other car in the parking lot. Nine Mile is definitely off the beaten tourist path. Anybody that makes this trek does so with conviction. The mausoleum is perched on the side of a mountain, which, we are told, Bob called Mount Zion. We walk up to the reception area where there’s a small gift shop with the world’s largest collection of Bob Marley T-shirts. There's a bar and a veranda overlooking Nine Mile and the surrounding area. I go out on the verandah. Across the road is a concrete rainwater catchment covering the side of a hill. It drains into a large cistern that provides fresh water for the town’s people. Small hills stretch to the horizon, simple homes and shacks are scattered on the hillsides. Below the verandah is Bob’s grandmother’s house, where he was born.
In the bar are a couple of visitors and another Rasta behind the counter. A TV above the bar is showing a video of Bob. It’s turned up loud and his music echoes off the walls.
We meet our guide, Bongo Jo (his real name is Anthony, but like many people in Jamaica, he has a character-fitting pseudonym). Bongo Jo's head is covered with thick, long dreads. He leads us up the trail to the mausoleum. We pass through a gate swinging from tall, cone-shaped stone posts. On each wing of the gate there’s a picture of Bob. I recognize it as the photo from the front jacket of the ‘Kaya’ album. Across the top of the gate are two signs, ‘Respect’ and ‘Exodus’.
We slowly mount the path, as we go Bongo Jo gives us a brief summary of Bob’s life, all the details already familiar to me. At the top of the path, about a third of the way up the mountainside, there’s a small, level clearing where Bob’s mausoleum and his second house, built by his mother, are situated.
It is quiet and serene here; we’re alone. The house is narrow and very small. The walls are made of stone, the roof of corrugated metal. The wooden trim is painted in the Rastafarian colors, red, gold and green. We take our shoes off and enter the house. There are two small rooms and in one the bed that Bob slept in as a child is still there.
“We’ll share the shelter of my single bed.”
Bongo Jo tells us that Bob’s children still sleep in these beds when they visit Nine Mile, it helps them to connect with their roots, he says. Outside the little house there’s a medium sized boulder half buried in the ground.
“Cold ground was my bed last night and rock was my pillow too,” Bongo Jo sings quietly, pointing to the rock.
The mausoleum, a few steps away from the house, is a narrow whitewashed building with a high vaulted ceiling. Three tall windows run up its side filling the high gable. We enter and although we are the only ones inside, there is a presence here. It’s very quiet, candles and incense are burning, sunlight streams in through the windows. A large marble crypt dominates the center of the small narrow room. There's just enough space to walk around the crypt. I put my palm on the marble. It's warm.
“My music will live on forever…”
- End of Part Two -
