2006-06-24 - 1:46 p.m.
I received an e-mail the other day saying - You mean you’re not going to write anything about Jamaica - well I had planned to but thought I would just move forward with the current tour. But hell, Jamaica was pretty fuckin’ cool so I’ll give some of my impressions...
Daniel’s Resort Village... our home while on the island was a fading beauty sprawled out across the highway from the beach. It seemed like we were the only ones there. We were checked in and led to our room by Beddy; a lanky black man with a huge smile and a low, laid back voice. As we walked, Beddy gestured all around at the rambling resort that looked as if it were designed by M.C Escher and said, “ All of this is for you to do with what you will.” I got a sense he meant it literally.
Jamaica has three predominant scents... it smells of
Fire: people burning their trash everywhere.
BBQ chicken: there seems to be a jerk chicken grill burning every half mile.
Pot: although it’s illegal, people seem to be smoking it regularly in nearly any location. I found an interesting difference between smoking pot in Jamaica than in the United States. Smoking pot in the states seems to be more of a social activity. While in Jamaica I never saw one Jamaican pass a joint to another Jamaican. It was like they were just smoking a cigarette. Our friend Anne had a local fellow named Omar helping her with driving the scooter she had rented. When asked he said, “Well you know some men do and some men don’t so to be safe one never puts their lips where another mans lips have been.” Let’s just say it has to do with sex. It’s a strange world after all.
Renting scooters... a mix of exhilaration and fear. It was a blast! Driving on the left with a population that seems to throw caution to the wind at all times. It enabled us to drive by all the street folk who were trying to sell you something. A bunch of us had rented them with various results. I dumped mine with my wife on the back. Thank the universe I was only doing 5 MPH on a grassy road behind our hotel. I hit some slick grass on the crown of the path and the back tire slid out lickity split. I skinned my shin. Luckily my wife escaped unscathed. Our intrepid mandolinist Mr. Skehan was not so lucky. He had what the Jamaicans call a “slip out”. He wound up in a “v” shaped rain gutter - made it back out onto the road only to dump it hard. He dislocated his shoulder; an injury he is still recovering from. Some Rasta’s took him on a wild goose chase out to a hospital where he never was treated. By that time he had relocated his shoulder and then it dislocated again, then finally relocating it. The Rasta’s helped him clean up the bike (for a price) and the brave man jumped right back on the damn thing and drove it back to the resort, dislocated shoulder be damned!
One of our last days in Jamaica all the scooter riders decided to motor out to a place called Roaring River, a State Park of sorts. We were being led by Anne’s man Omar and were joined by a friend of his who was going to act as our guide/ naturalist on the trip. We arrive at what seemed like a very small village... a short strip of small, open and fairly primitive buildings. In one we went and paid a fee to go into the “park”. I’m not sure we ever went into a park, but it was beautiful. First stop, a refreshing jump into the Roaring River which was crystal clear and bracingly chilly. It was quite hot so it felt great. Then we followed a path along the river for a while immersing ourselves again under a giant culvert. The path led to some large and very beautiful springs where we stopped for pictures. On we went through a gate and onto a “plantation”. Just on the other side of the gate there was a goat who had just given birth to a couple of kids. The placenta was still hanging out from behind her! Up a small hill we found ourselves in a lovely garden and in the midst of what was the cash crop of the “plantation”. Yup... pot. More pictures and then back down the hill. Dozens of incredible flowers the names of which I do not know except a number of beautiful Birds of Paradise, all the more vibrant set against the lush, tropical forest. Before we left we took one more dip in the river. This time it was at a place where water from the river was held in a man made pool that presumably provided drinking water. The man-made falls were quite strong and when you laid up under them it was like a cold fingered masseuse had been let loose on you. Martha slipped and was carried away by the strong current 20 feet or so where she lodged between two rocks. Our naturalist went splashing down stream after her, reached down and plucked her up claiming triumphantly,”There’s no blood mon! No blood atall!” I knew she was all right because she was laughing her ass off. Soon it was time to head back but trouble awaited. Our scooters were being “guarded” by locals that were hanging around in front of where we bought our tickets. Now, of course, they wanted to be paid. This is why I started to call the country Scamaica. Omar and his friend, our guide, tried negotiating with them but we would have to give them something or risk further nonsense. I gave a rather large fellow who apparently staked out my bike as his turf five dollars. He thanked me saying, “All respect mon.” Respect which quickly evaporated when I told him the fiver was for me and my wife, who was driving our videographer Dave’s scooter so he could film on the back of mine. Unfortunately it was the smallest denomination I had and I wasn’t about to give the guy a twenty. Somehow Omar smoothed it over and we got our asses out of there. Even with the end unpleasantness and the fact that it was sort of a scam, Martha and I had a great time.
The sunsets... Amazing! Just when you think they’ve played out, they reinvent themselves yet again, getting deeper in color well after the sun has sunk below the horizon. One night when the sun was all but gone a show began to the south. Huge thunder heads rose up thousands of feet. At that height, they were still catching the reds and purples of the dying sun just over the horizon. Periodically lightning branched out from beneath. It was like a violent Maxfield Parrish painting.
Bars right on the beach... I love the fact that you can bar hop by walking down the beach. By the time you’ve walked a half mile you can be right trashed!
We had all come back from one of our shows and a bunch of us were going to walk down the beach and have a nightcap. We had just started on our way when Martha started to feel unwell. I told the rest I’d catch up; go on ahead. I waited a bit to see if she felt any better. She didn’t an opted to head off to bed. She said, “Go on and join them, I’ll be all right’, so off I went walking down the beach alone in the darkness. I hadn’t gone far when I realized I made a miscalculation. One after another, guys came out of the shadows trying to sell me all kinds of things. Pot, XTC, Coke, girls... you name it,if had the money, it could be mine. One such denizen of the beach sidled up to me as I walked along and said, “I make of this a gift for you”, he actually spoke that way, like he was reading Byron or something. He handed me a six inch bud of pot. I told him, thanks so much but I really didn’t want it and I tried to hand it back to him. He said,”No mon, it’s yours”. I didn’t think this was going to come to a good end. About ten steps later he says,”How much would you like to pay for this. This is the pot that Bob Marley smoked, the “Lambs Shear”. I thought to myself, must be pretty moldy; Bob passed on a while back. At this point I knew I had to give him something. I really didn’t want it so gave him $5, admittedly less than it was probably worth. He said, “How ‘bout ten?”, to which I said, “I rather just give it back man, I told you I really didn’t want it’, which prompted him to snatch the five dollar bill out of my hand and walk beside me, cussing me out, all the way to the bar where the rest were half done with their second drink. He met a friend on the beach just there and they both stood and stared at me as I slid up to the bar and ordered a drink. They stood there for the longest time just jawing at each other and staring at me. Mercifully they were gone by the time they kicked us out of the joint but the most magical thing happened on the way back. Just as we all hit the beach to walk back, a mangy little dog trotted out in front of us and led us down the beach. He paced himself about ten feet in front and every time one of the denizens approached us out of the shadows barked them back. RER,RER,RER,RER. They seemed genuinely afraid of this little, mangy pooch. When we got to where we had to depart the beach to make our way up to our hotel, he led us up the path and right to our abode and when we turned in he just kept on going. He was our canine guardian angel. Very strange.
The cliffs... Some friends had rented a house on the cliffs with their own cove. It was right out of a James Bond movie! It was a welcome refuge for the band. Our buds teh Hot Buttered Rum boys made it their home away from as well and musical co-mingling ensued. It was a stone cold blast!
A couple of things I didn’t like...
The P.A. systems universally sucked making for dicey performances.
It seems like the local people are forced to make a living by hustling you. Worse; they seem to totally accept this.
Over all there was a whole lot more I liked than didn’t. I had a fabulous time. My experiences in 3rd world countries have been each unique but some things are similar. If you are careful and pay attention and don’t allow yourself to be put in compromising positions (such as finding yourself alone on a dark and dangerous beach) you can have an experience that may change your life.
