Last Night in Paradise (070910, Friday, Day 9 Negril)

Up at 8—actually woke up cold in middle of the night, and pulled the sheet over me—and into a bikini and sundress. Last night was the second time I’ve worn underwear on this trip since flying in more than a week ago. Every other night I’ve been buck (my own room) or like the night before last, fallen asleep with my bikini on.

I've woken to barking, buzzing, and the sound of a deep bass emanating from next door. The music's coming from Rick's Cafe, a famous (or infamous, depending on whom you ask) tourist clusterfuck, just a few yards away from Banana Shout, and our destination for dinner tonight.



We’re off to LTU again, despite the allegedly racist owner, because Y’ll want a good ol' American breakfast and because we’re trying to make sure we’re on time for snorkeling at 9:30.

Turns out they do have the Jamaican breakfast offering (ackee & saltfish, calalloo, jo’ney cakes), which two of us order, and so maybe this means the owner isn’t an evil, Jamaican food hating bigot? That is a motherfuckin' relief.

We've lingered over breakfast, and our goodbyes to Speedy, our ersatz tour guide, resident big brother, and smart-ass, who's heading back to Montego, so despite our efforts, we're late. But everything's alright, as it were. We get driven past Seven Mile Beach, Long Bay Beach, to Bloody Bay, which is supposed to be the site of the execution of murderous Pirate Calico Jack. We stand around waiting--the pro and con of Jamaican time are that people aren't pissy when you're late, but then, again, aren't particular about being on time for you, either--then into a glass bottom boat for the excursion to a reef next to Booby Cay, a wee li'l island off the coast.



I straddle the side as is my wont, until the captain (pilot? driver?) tells me I can sit on the prow, so I scamper up and sit cross legged, rejoicing.





Since T got stung yesterday, we’re all a little wary of jellyfish, and moments after I enter the water, I see the following:



Except it's day time, so none of the colorful flariness…

From I can gather (through the almighty internet), the creatures are known as ctenophores (and are non-stingy), but at the moment, they sure looked jellyfishy to me. But rather than simply getting out of the water, I try to swim over and under them, and I'm quickly getting spooked, trying to avoid them, and I keep thinking, "it's okay; as soon as I’m stung I’ll get out of the water. AAH! There's another one!" There are scores of them, floating casually in the water. V freaks out and hauls herself back into the boat, and as I’m perched on the ladder, the pilot tells me that the lil fuckers doesn't sting--apparently I hadn't been an aquatic ninja master, avoiding stings from the multitudes--and he further informs me that only the jellyfish that you can't see can sting you…huh? To which I respond, "okay, I’m going back in, and I’m going to touch one." He says, "sure."

So I hop back and lo and behold, nothing. In fact, as soon as I reach a finger out to prod one, it sort of…collapses. I continue in this vein until it occurs to me I might be killing them, and desist.

I trundle around a kind of sad little reef, but there's a decent amount of sea life: a velvety, cobalt blue fish with electric blue polka dots, lots of damsel fish, Dory-looking type fish, a giant starfish, lots of spiny sea urchin, two different trumpet fish, that I attempt stalk, brilliant, tangerine colored fish, etc.

Eventually, I get waved in--T and Y have just been hanging out on the boat, and V hasn't ventured back--she says she got claustrophobic.

And then we're dropped back off on the beach and left to our devices until our pick-up. I stomp briefly around the warm, powdery sand, sand like silk, then tumble back into the water while the ladies sunbathe. An hour and a half wings past like nothing.

Our pick-up drops us back off on the West End, and we head to Alice’s. We'd promised a gravely-voiced dude that we'd come back, so here we are again.

I order another one of my lame-o virgin pina coladas but settle for the weird banana type drink that's set in front of me because the waitress has explained that it's her first day.

Gravel Voice's smoking a massive J, and because I'm a douche, I ask the Dude if I can get a picture of him smokin' it…he assents, then tells me to hold on, he's got a better photo-op in mind:

This is a better photo.

Seconds after this photo was taken, a wad breaks off, wafting gently, gracefully to the ground, like a feather from an angel's wing. I pick it up for him--he's got his hands full after all, and he hands it back to me, then yanks off an even bigger bud, and puts that in my hand as well.

Thanks? I pick the two seeds out of it, then mutter under my breath, "No stress, no seeds, no stems, no sticks!" But it's really not quality stuff. My knowledge, of course, being purely theoretical.

(I have to appreciate his attempt to humor what he presumes is another white-bread tourist, fascinated by weed culture because it's sooo crazy.)

Because I am one of "those girls," I amble back into the restaurant proper--we're sitting under an umbrella'd, patio table type thing--to ask him him to roll it up.

For no reason whatsoever.

And in exchange? I have to give him my phone number. Did not see that one coming.


Late lonche

Shortly thereafter, I'm befuddled enough to buy an awful beach painting from a local artist--when we get back to the room, we realize he's the same painter who created this atrocity:


[smh]

When we get back to the Shout, I stop by the office to borrow a lighter from the owner--and disagree with V about the provenance of his accent, she thinks Polish or Russian, I think Italian.

After spending some time in contemplation, sitting on the cliff, gaping contentedly at the ocean, I go back to return the lighter. Milo regales me with stories about how people come into this country with bags of weed and coke, and tries to impress upon me the ridiculousness of doing such a thing, like carrying coals to Newcastle with added risk of being found guilty of international drug trafficking. He tells me how previous guests have offered to buy a share of the Shout in exchange for a share of their pot farms, and how folks are clearing millions in marijuana. He’s been owner for the last 6 years (wait, so, no Jamaican owners?), and is from Milan (holla!), and acts offended when I proffer the Polish/Russian thing; “Milano,” he says, in a huff. He talks about working in advertising and how all the things he’s done in his life he uses here. When I meander from him, he salutes me with, “do svidanja.”

And then we're off to Rick’s for one last hurrah. The whole cliff-diving thang, it’s all a little insane, the spectacle of shining black bodies leaping gracefully (and dangerously) for the predominantly white patrons,



an older, dreadlocked reggae singer working the crowd downstairs, specifically with a sunburnt white woman lifting her arms to wiggle her hips in the “White Girl Grind”:



I have the shrimp alfredo, because the lobster linguini is not available (yeah, it's that kind of place), an awful virgin pina colada, and attempt to chase it all with a Ting, but there’s only “7Up and Pepsi”—even though the next table has Coke. Erm, okay, I’ll take a 7Up.



No room for dessert, it woulda been the "Banana Rum Boombastic," but I’ve had enough. I try to light my hand-rolled cigarette in a tea-light candle, but my attempt to be discreet while walking out of the restaurant gives it enough time to go out. Boo.

Back to the hotel to try to use the electric portable stove as a fire source, no dice, then amble into the darkness to borrow fire from the porter/night watchmen/jack of all trades/concierge. He tells me to watch his food while he goes in search, presumably from the little calico kitten that's been gamboling in the gloaming.

Then, tutor V in the arts of Facebook, a quick shower, and pack it up.

G'bye, Jamaica. You haz been teh shiznit.

Mornin' Has Broooo-ken (070810, Thursday, Day 8 Negril)

I wake to the sound of hooting and chirping and crowing and bleating and snorting and the “chut chut” sound of someone sweeping the walkways.

Speedy beckons, and I tumble out of bed and amble over to the seaside cliff for a morning looksie. It’s a little intimidating, the waves crashing against the gnarly, pockmarked cliff-face, but lovely.





It makes sense that the West End, where we are, is (relatively) less touristy than Long Bay, where the bigger hotels and all-inclusive resorts are located. There's not much scope for water sports [grin], all the lodging here overlooks cliffs, as opposed to sand, beach, ocean.

A new day brings new perspective to our digs:



It still seems a little like "roughing it" after Lolivya Villa, but what was garish last night is more charming in the light of day.

We leave Y to her beauty sleep, and walk down to breakfast at LTU.

Ackee tree


The view at LTU.


Mushroom, cheese, bacon and callaloo omelette...


with pinapple juice,


a Ting,


wheat toast, butter, and, I think, papaya jam.

Maxine, the waitress, tells us that the “Jamaican breakfast” is only for show—that they never actually have it because the owner is a racist and doesn’t do nothin’ for Jamaica.

There’s a white dude on a laptop smoking a joint to our left.

Then back to Banana South for folks to cat nap in the heat of the day while I betake myself cliff-side for some solo time:



Later in the day, we swing by a hair shop to inquire about braiding (no, not for me; I'm not returning to the States with a head full of beads and singles):


Note the name of the shop. I ain't kidding 'bout the Ms. Chin thang.

Then head to a dive shop where a lady tries to convince us to go on a $78 River Walk (two hours of driving, mineral springs, blah blah), but after our extended drive yesterday, we are not having it. I think she officially dicked herself over when she said, “Port Antonio is boring.”

Bitch.

We decide to go with the $25 snorkeling package, glass-bottom boat, snorkeling, then catch a tour bus going to Seven Mile Beach, the touristy section of Negril.



Because it's low season, it's really not that bad. We land at Albert’s, where I have the fish and chips because I’m at the point in my trip where I’m longing for home, for kittens, for food that tastes like I remember it should…



Between bites, I hop over the railing to poke my feet in the water,





until I start getting waylaid by the local beach boys, the ones who tell you you're sexy or beautiful or whatever because they're hoping you'll be their sugar mama for the duration of your vacation.



The other girls decide to go jet-skiing, but it doesn't really do it for me--at least, not enough to pay 25 bucks for it--so I decide to endure being a solitary woman in the midst of a coterie of men who trawl beaches for dumb tourists. I try to disengage from one of the hustlers by taking pointless photos of the horizon, my feet, then burying myself in one of Y’s trashy vacation reads, but then feel badly (and oppressed by the book) and do the light convo thing. I try to take a maternal turn by asking him whether he still goes to school. I also conveniently mention that I’m broke, as explanation for why I don’t want to ride the jet-ski.



Cuz I'm slick like that.

Eventually, T gets a lash from a jellyfish sting, and there’s a lot of bustling for vinegar, and then we’re off to the ATM, Scotiabank, and a taxi, T pretending she’s a local taking out-of-towners around so she can haggle the fare down to something reasonable.

We return to the house, bedding down for some conversation about the Oscar Grant, Mehserle case, and the impending riots in Oakland.

Ms. Chin, Who? (070710, Wednesday, Day 7 Port Antonio to Negril)

We're leaving Port Antonio today, alas. So it's goodbye to Angela and Lorna and Chow and my dank little downstairs room with the air-conditioning problem and the steps down to the Blue Lagoon; it's goodbye to all that.

But first, a stop in town...


to another rooftop restaurant...


to grab lunch:




And then we're pointed west to Negril--but, wait, another pit stop for...corn:





and jelly coconut:



We try to pass the time by taking out T's braids,



but we have to make a detour to Kingston to drop off t, who's not going on to Negril, but finishing out her trip with a friend.

Boys in Kingston hitching a ride by clinging to the back of pickups.

It's at a Kingston gas station that I have yet another Ms. Chin incident. Walking past a woman crouching in front of the convenience store, I smile politely, and she responds cheerily with, "hi, Ms. Chin."

Ms. Chin is not, in fact, my last name, but because it's a common surname for those descendants of nineteenth and twentieth century Chinese migrant workers in Jamaica, it's become a catch-all form of address for anyone who looks Asian.

Here, I've come to acknowledge the particular sobriquet (and "China lady," "China," and "China Girl") as reasonable and appropriate, to varying degrees. I think because I'm looking through the prism of a very different trajectory of race relations.

(Although the dude who was not so subtly taking my picture with his camera phone was met with less equanimity.)

Anyway, we spend hours lost on the tiny, neglected road that threads the cane fields of Clarendon Parish, and it's dusk when we finally make it back onto the major freeway,



and dark by the time we get anywhere near the A1. At this point, I've donned my headlamp, V's expressed anxiety and questioned my attentiveness to my role as map-reader, while I've vacillated between exhaustion (trying to keep Speedy amused) and my own giddy sense of being lost.

When we finally reach Banana Shout, the ladies are all a little horrified by the quarters: two single beds on the first level, two doubles upstairs, and a horrible lack of air conditioning. In the shadows of the night, it's looking like a garish cabin in the woods, but we're too tired to do anything more than make a few bourgeois remarks.

I crawl onto the thin mattress, curl into a ball, abandoning any precautions against bug bites, let the mosquitoes feast, and sleep the sleep of the righteous.

Hot Rotten Eggs (070610,Tuesday, Day 6 Port Antonio)

I get a sluggish start to the day—decided to sleep in due to last night’s goddamn jellyfish sneak attack.

Breakfast: fresh mango-ginger juice, plantains (which Dane later tells me is pronounced “plant’ns”), saltfish, jo’ney cakes, papaya/mango/pineapple/banana, and toast. And, I'm feeling so crushed that I don't even photograph the food.

While the Ts are off to deal with fam, V and Dane start a card game of War, then attempt to transition to Spit, which I try to facilitate by looking up the rules online. My brain immediately goes haywire trying to comprehend card placement and rules of engagement, so I retire to my room to chew the cud and cat nap.

Knockknockknockknockknock comes the rapping, rapping at my chamber door. It’s Dane on the other side of the glass, and ever-silent, he gives me the hang ten signal. Pushing the door open, “you want to go swimming? Kayaking?”

“Kayak,” he says.

“To the Blue Hole?”

No, he shakes his head vigorously. “Scared.” Then, points to Monkey Island.

“Okay, let me get my stuff. I’ll swim there while you and V kayak.”

Cut to me shivering in the water—it stormed earlier this morning—so I make a quick change of plans, kick off my fins and hop into a two-man kayak. Proprietorially, I drag 'em a spot where I’d snorkeled before—a bulbous-looking coral that serves as underwater condo for many variety of fish, including a fluorescent blue trio. We peer contemplatively at sea urchins, which Dane calls “sea eggs.” Then, after a moment, Dane says, “let’s go to the Blue Hole.”

FUCK, YEAH! And we’re off, past our next door villa—the one that costs $1500 a night, then the one that costs $2500 a night and once housed the likes of Denzel, then the villa that allegedly housed Dudus Coke while on the run (a politician by the name of Voss hid him? Allegedly!).

And into the sheltered area of the Blue Hole. According to Speedy, “White people go in there. Black people don’t go in there. It’s creepy. You don’t know how deep it is.” The story goes that the likes of Jacques Cousteau couldn’t get to the bottom of (literally and figuratively) the Blue Hole, but I think this piece of apocrypha has been refuted.

The lagoon is terribly clear, up until the drop off, after which, nada. Nothing but an inscrutable blue-green (the day’s cloudy). It kinda gives me the creeps, the silence, the gray day, the opaque water, imagining what isn't, but could be, lurking in the depths. A shark, an even more monstrous sea creature, some bad juju.

Then we’re back and the fam’s back and we’re to leave “immediately,” but in Jamaica time it means we’re not out the door ‘til two hours later, at which point we’re finally on the road to St. Thomas Parish, and the town of Bath? For some hot springs? Shiyit, I'm just along for the ride, y'all.



On the way, we stop by a rum shop/clothing store, and I make a pit-stop at Jah West.Fish.Bowl (??), parked in front, for a “Rasta mon’s” fried chicken with gravy.

I cannot vouch as to why this particular dish constitutes a "Rasta Mon's" particular fried chicken. But it was delicious nevertheless.

And then, yet another pit-stop by Nicky or Micky’s Jerk Centre (sign unclear) for t to get jerk pork, and pour moi? A jelly coconut.





The way there is all winding, poorly paved roads, our van slowing to dive into a ditch, then painfully climbing back out of it, sugar cane plantations and goats and cacao and guava and adorable children peeking curiously at us from the side of the road.




This is what chocolate looks like in its incipient form.

Once there we’re immediately surrounded by dudes tryna to hustle, strange men grabbing you by the hand, and I can't help feeling like I'm a mark. This is yet another moment where we can be grateful for S’s company, and I can see S's hackles rising, and he starts to brusquely rebuff the offers to guide us to the hot springs.

And while I wasn't imagining fluffy white robes and cucumber slices, it's not what I'm expecting, this trudging through muddy gravel, gingerly climbing up and down wet stone stairs, a steep drop to my right, then a fruit seller with her wares on a cloth. A coterie of attentive men who just wanna make a goddamn buck forcing politeness and chivalric concern. Me, all Beyonce-Independent-Woman tryna simultaneously leap gracefully over muddy ditches and refuse a helping hand (from a stranger) while attempting to be polite and not a colonizing-evil-Western-tourist-bitch.

And, then? Finally?

It’s a little anti-climactic:

a tiny, but relatively fast-flowing, ice-cold brook,



but only two streams of the hot sulfur spring, one dribbling half-heartedly out of of the rock face, the other splashing onto a bamboo to scatter in something approximating a shower formation. A scalding, rotten egg shower.

Exhibit A:


Exhibit B:


But, shit, I'm here...and I hear sulfur is good for the skin, so I clamber into the stream, picking my way across the boulders with my trusty Vibram all-terrain shoes, then decide to lie down and let the frigid water run over me. Which is more fun than it sounds.

Then, though I’m still a little iffy on the healing benefits of sulfur water/toxic run-off, I head over to the sulfur shower. Because the alternative is being slathered in green mud by a dude wearing a Philly basketball jersey.

Which is only sexy if you want to bone the dude.

I content myself with chatting under the bamboo shower with the lady I'd previously helped as she teetered over the rocks, Jamaican-Canadian, and her...son? Then, a small man, all knotted muscle, and twisted, arthritic-lookin' joins us. We move aside for him to take his turn, and he shifts the bamboo slightly so that the stream comes cascading down on him. We all marvel at his fortitude. Shit is hot. But he's participating in this ablution with such intensity of purpose that I imagine he's doing it for some salutary, health-giving reasons.

On the return, we purchase a ’tinkin’ toe (supposed to smell rilly bad, sort of like the durian of Jamaica) and jackfruit:





Back at the villa, I’m keeping us on schedule for our reservations at Dickie's Best Kept Secret by barking out the time at regular intervals. I’m already "dressed" and "ready"—I figure if I just endured a four hour drive for sulfuric/radioactive water, I’m gonna fucking let that shit simmer, so I forgo the shower that it appears everyone else is taking.

The exterior of Best Kept Secret—



apparently all the stars have eaten here. I would say, the atmosphere = good, the place is essentially an overgrown tree house overlooking the water, bursting with tcotchkes, and a little uncanny in the darkness. But the food? I'd had better stuff throughout the island... Maybe it was cuz we weren't movie stars.

Starter of fruit (oranges, pineapple, papaya, banana),


a vegetable soup,


a vegetable omelette,


lettuce and tomato salad with Thousand Island,


shrimp in bell peppers,


rice and potatoes,


fried chicken with gravy,


steamed cod,


rum cake,

Awwwww. "Happy Family"!

Ting,

Classy.

and an after dinner "coffee."


My fave? The rum cake and Ting.

We round out the night visiting with family, climbing dimly concrete steps up to the top floor of a house that reminds me of the one I lived in when in Taiwan, at the age of ten, purely functional, and no consideration of form. Exhausted from the day, I gather a very large baby/toddler into my arms. He has Down's. He's a nice excuse to not have to participate in conversation, and I listen vaguely to the chatter around me.

And when I've begun to frantically cast around for a reason to politely put the baby down--my arms are screaming from the weight, and I've been nervously watching baby drool gathering, glistening on his lower lip--we're homeward bound.