Stories, Poems, Photos Of Negril: Hippie Days

[Jim Nasium]

not every day was a wonder full day in Negril back in the early 70's,

Allow me to tell you about the time me and a few friends got burst in Negril, many many years ago; I'll keep it short yet try not to forget any'a the important bits. yea yea I know this piece needs to be edited a bit but couldn't wait to share...

I'll never forget that chilly rainy night, way back in 1972. The four of us, two locals and my friend and I from Philadelphia were enjoying a quiet night around the dinning room table like any other night up on Monkey Hill when suddenly, with out warning, the front door to the small masonry house we rented up on Monkey Hill in The Red Ground District of Negril from Grandma Johnson was kicked in. Next thing I knew 5 Jamaican Police came bursting in through the now broken door hanging from only the top hinge.

Shocked at what had just happened I stood up quickly and some how managed to grab the bag of ganja, our stash, in my hands and as I turned to get up and away from the table I threw the bag out the opened back door. No one saw a thing...

"No mon move" were the first words Sergeant Brown spoke as he pointed the gun in his hands at the four of us standing there around our dinning room table where we had just been very busy at smoking, drinking and eating some Ganja Cake by the light of our kerosene lamp. "Hand in da air; move to dat wall" was the next thing I heard.

We did as the Police told us to do and we stood still with our hands on the wall and our legs spread as one of the four Policemen searched each one of us at the same time while Sergeant Brown kept his guns on us all from a distance. After each of us had been searched thoroughly by the officer nothing was found. None of the Police thought to look around in the yard outside the open back door; praise Jah.

Just then one of the Police Officers said he found a cigarette pack stuffed with some primo sticky bud laying on the floor near the table that belonged to us. None of us had ever or would never crush up jumbo sticky primo bud into a cigarette pack; none of us even smoked tobacco. The cigarette pack full of ganja was planted there; they wanted to burst us one way or another even if they had to plant evidence and so they did.

Finally handcuffed together, two by two; me and my buddy and the two locals, the five Police marched us down Monkey Hill, in the dark, even as dark as it was, in the chilly pouring rain at gun point to the Police Station and threw us in the tiny Negril Jail, leaving us confused, frightened, cold, wet and cuffed together in the small dirty cell for hours before they even told us what we were being charged with: possession of ganja. I can not recall clearly how long it was between the time we were thrown into the cell in Negril's tiny Police Station Jail before we were loaded into a Van and taken to Little London Jail but it seemed like a lifetime.

Once at Little London the four of us were uncuffed and thrown right into a small 10' X 10' building with one small window, no electric light. There was a pot in the one corner of the room for us to use as a toilet; no toilet tissue. A small hinged opening about 12" high at the bottom of the door was used for sliding our not very appealing meals and glass of water (dinner) or lime leaf tea (breakfast) into us twice a day. Boiled Yams, Boiled Banana, Boiled Breadfruit, a pile of rice and a tiny fried fish, meal after meal got old quick. At least the food they served blocked our digestive system up like cement; what an embarrassing situation it would of been if one of us had to poo.

Time passed slowly for the five days the four of us were trapped in that tiny hot dirty jail cell building unsure of our fate before we were told today was the day we would see the Judge in Savanna La Mar. None of us were in any shape to appear before a judge. Try to imagine what it was like to be one of us locked in a small hot room with no running water, no getting
washed or taking a shower in over five days with little to no sleep, bad and I mean very bad food and no sunlight; what a friggin' nightmare.

Shortly after being told today was our court day we were cuffed and loaded into a Van and taken to one of the many buildings in The Savanna La Mar Prison. While sitting in a courtroom waiting to see the judge a court appointed Lawyer came by to advise us to plea guilty and not cause any trouble and said if we cooperated we'd only get no less than seven and no
more than ten years each. "We're innocent" I explained "that was not our ganja". Plea guilty with explanation then" was the court appointed Lawyers advice as he walked away....

Standing in front of the Judge I could see the hatred he had towards Americans, especially Hippies, in his eyes as he asked "how do you plea". I took a deep breath and said "Guilty with an explanation your Honor" while fearing the worse yet trying to appear strong, and unafraid because I was telling the truth. That was not our Ganja and I had no desire to spend one
more hour in a Jamaican Jail and here I was facing ten years; I had to be strong.

After a long explanation of the events of the night we got burst and a lot of begging for mercy I was ordered to pay a fine and to leave the island and to not ever come back. My friend from the same town as me was ordered to pay a fine and leave the island and never return as well. We were both very lucky but then again we were innocent, that was not our ganja. Most of our Ganja was out back of the house, in the yard, over by our garden, in a 55 gallon drum down near the small entrance to the cave in back of Grandma Johnons that I swear has Pirate Treasure in it some where. God knows I've
looked for it too...

I was told our two local friends were released as well but for the life of me I don't see how if they were fined as much as we were. To this day I am not sure what ever happened to them because as soon as we got back to the house Grandma rented us we packed up our stuff, said our goodbyes and got a private car to take us to a place I know right across from the MoBay Airport up on the mountain side.

My dear friend Clinton Clark had a newer beautiful home on the hill side off the main road and he rented the front room, the one with a porch, looking down and across the main highway to the airport to me (and a very few select others) when ever I was it town. Clinton and his wife gladly made room for my friend as well. Clinton's was safe place to take a cool down; rest, clean up, smoke up, eat up and make plans for leaving Jamaica as soon as we could, in a day or so... but, no hurry mon.

Since it was Winter in Philadelphia we decided to not go home and headed off to Barranquilla, Colombia, South America. Barranquilla is (was at that time) a very dirty sea port fishing kind of town know for it's red light districts and crime, so as soon as we got out of the airport and downtown we got on a bus and headed East to Santa Marta. Santa Marta, Colombia is a small fishing town turned resort town with a beautiful beach and a snow capped mountain that has a very nice ski lodge you could take a bus or car to, say in the afternoon and ski your heart out after eating fresh fish, fruit, bread and cheese for breakfast on the white beach in the warm sun all morning, but that's another story...

BTW, don't tell anybody I have been back to Jamaica since the time I got burst and was told to never return; that's our secret. I have been back many times, and will never forget the first time I returned to Negril after I was forced to leave because of the bust. I had just spent a long stay, a few years, in Colombia South America and when I went back to Negril so much had changed; the place was not the same place I knew and loved. I left Negril with a tear in my eye and went to a friends place in Salt Springs, near Green Island but that too is another story. see the attached photo; that's my Negril!

Never the less I will be back to Negril again soon. My youngest son is planning to get married and he wants married in Negril, somewhere.

This is the Negril I long to return to: