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.