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:
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.
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:
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.
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