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Last year: Jamaica.
We took an economical ATA flight to Negril, the quieter northwest tip of the island. A very long, bumpy drive from the airport wound us around pastures and sea-splashed tarmac, through small villages and up the twisty cliffs toward an almost hidden hotel resort, Samsara.
Like most tropical hotels, reception is an open area, surrounded by tropical flowers and trees. Bananas dangled from trees, heliconia and hibiscus peeked from lush foliage, fragrant frangipani bloomed everywhere, bougainvillea draped along privacy walls and long-tailed hummingbirds flitted among giant breadfruit trees, whose spread serrated leaves high above our heads along the well-tended pathway winding to our room.
Our room – what we dubbed our hut on sticks – was perched on stilts to optimize the stunning sea views and breezes. Luxurious it wasn’t, but comfortable and quaint was plenty for us. It was weathered, worn and slightly rickety: part of its charm. Doors creaked and had to be forced to shut in the humidity. But the steeply pitched thatch roof contained a powerful ceiling fan, and the slatted windows opened enough to let breezes wash over us. The covered balcony offered seating for two so we could watch the waves, the sunset, the sun decks and the bar. The counter in the water closet leaned precariously as bugs scampered across it. The shower, a three-sided stall sans roof, was situated below our hut on sticks. I was a little nervous about my first shower “in public,” but threw caution to the wind, embraced the culture, and before I knew it, showering outside became an ordinary ritual.
First order of business was to find a neighborhood market to stock up on supplies. We walked down the road until we
found one, waving off independent entrepreneurs all the way. Everyone in Jamaica is a salesman, and not a single one is shy about recruiting business. We were stopped by a man on a bike every night. He shook our hands, introduced himself, asked about our vacation plans, and pleaded with us to look him up for bike or scooter rentals. Every night, the same thing. We never did find out where his business was.
Jamaicans may appear laid back, but they are also smart, savvy business people who seem to always be on call when a tourist is in sight. Bead work, carvings, paintings – their talents are endless. And their prices are downright cheap … and always up for debate.
No need to change your money: Jamaicans love American dollars. You’ll never get American money in change, however. One tip: when told the price of something is 50 dollars, be careful to ask if that’s 50 J. The exchange rate is very favorable, and many bargains can be found.
Jamaicans love music, which is everywhere at all times. But, in sharp contrast to our last trip (to French Polynesia), rather than the quiet little guitars and ukuleles and sweet high-pitched Polynesian voices, reggae music blared from radios. Surprisingly, it didn’t bother us the way the booming rap music with pounding bass does in the States.
We began our adventure with a trip to the famous Dunn’s River Falls. Hours on a tour bus negotiating traffic and tight roads took us back the way we had traveled and beyond Montego Bay, past secluded all-inclusive Sandals (Jamaica gave birth to the all inclusive resort), past the well hidden Hedonism, through tiny villages, past the house and other spots filmed in Cool Running, past the boyhood home of Harry Belafonte, but not all the way to Kingston and the former home of Bob Marley.
But before the falls, we were taken to lunch and then to a local market for – what else? – shopping. We wandered the aisles of stalls, enjoying the sights. But eagle-eyed Jamaicans called to us if we paused too long or pointed to something. “Make me happy, look in my stall!” Many got up to greet us and shake hands. “I give you respect, mon.” “No pressure, mon” was as common a phrase as “No problem, mon,” but much less true.
I couldn’t get away from one delightful man selling jewelry. Alcohol reeking from his breath, he held my hand gallantly as he showed me pieces of jewelry he knew I couldn’t resist. Noticing a heart-shaped necklace I wore, and seeing that I had a passion for ankle chains, he cleverly displayed a beautiful ankle bracelet with heart-shaped stones. I said no, no – but he wouldn’t accept that. He insisted on putting it on my ankle. Flattering words lavished on me, respect given and taken – ten minutes later I handed him $2 American and was on my way, chuckling at his polite persistence.
We scooped up a few other souvenirs before finally embarking for the Falls. Donning camel-like two-toed plastic shoes, we waddled down to the bottom of the Falls, met our guide and formed a chain. With salmon-like determination, we climbed upward into rushing water under leafy overhangs that mercifully shaded our ascent. Laughing, slipping, giggling and tripping, we made our way, stopping to pose for photos as we were splashed beneath broad spillways. It was delicious. Although crowded, this attraction is a must.
It was our only foray beyond Negril. For the rest of the week, we swam and dove off the cliffs at Samsara, which had no beach, or took the shuttle to another resort with a sandy beach. We took a catamaran to a coral reef and on to an islet for a picnic, but it was a disappointing day. The coral reef was dying, so the snorkeling was poor. The feast was grand, but our fellow picnickers were booze cruisers who got louder the more they drank.
The shuttle was even later upon our return than it had been in the morning, so we deserted the drunken crowd and quickly found a cab. Declining the suggestion of a drive to the ganja fields, we had our driver drop us at Rick’s, another landmark. Perched on the cliffs of Negril, the outdoor bar and eatery is graced by some of the most daring divers in the Caribbean. Not content to jump from the high cliffs, they climb trees. Of course, being Jamaican, they do it only for cash. Pandering to an eager crowd, they tease and taunt until enough money surfaces. Always salesmen.
Rick’s really comes alive at night, but we wanted to head back to our hut on sticks before dark. Along the way we discovered an abandoned restaurant: the Pickled Parrot. A circular open-air bar hugged a cliff and provided spectacular views. A forsaken water slide that dropped adventurers into deep water looked as dry as our throats felt. The place captured our imaginations, and we returned often to snorkel, explore and dream.
We stopped for banana daiquiris at a bar next to the Pickled Parrot, where a German tourist joined us to tell the sordid tale of the desolate bar. We left our camera with him while we dipped into the water of a cave under the bar, wondering what other mysteries lurked in this rugged seaside country.
A daily walk up the hill to the Pickled Parrot, where we swam and snorkeled – and Chris dived off cliffs – became our favorite part of the day. We ventured into Negril proper, played ping pong at Samsara, visited white sand beaches – but something drew us to the rocky shores of the point. We watched sunsets and cruise ships from the forgotten veranda as we dreamed of tending bar there, working and living in paradise.
Jamaica wasn’t the most lush or beautiful island we’ve been to. The snorkeling was extremely poor. And yet, months later, we find ourselves recalling it fondly and considering a return trip. As one islander told us, if you return, you become Jamaican. It’s a hard offer to resist. But, no pressure, mon.
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