I have returned from the trip of a lifetime…I am still basking in the afterglow; fervently writing, gazing at the hundreds of pictures taken, and daydreaming about our adventure.
The airport in Montego Bay is nestled between the ocean and lush green hills filled with sprawling homes. When we arrived I was surprised to see how small the airport actually was. We cleared immigration and found our hotel shuttle on the tarmac. Stepping out into the bright Jamaican sun, I couldn’t help but feel breathless as I took in the beautiful sight. The sun was hot on my face and a welcome relief from the cold we left behind in Chicago.
The drive to Negril was about 70km. ( I love that they use the metric system there!!) The highways are narrow little roads, with twists and turns everywhere, and they drive on the opposite side… It was a little frightening at first, but only because I’m a spoiled American who is used to three lane highways. As we made our way toward the resort, we passed through several communities. Brightly colored ramshackle huts made up most of these towns, and most living spaces also ran businesses, whether it was a bar or a craft stand. The poverty was glaring me straight in the face, and while I felt a surge of pity, I was in awe of the smiles on most of the faces I saw. The average job pays about fifty dollars a week, so these people were poor. But out in the sun, they smiled and waved as we passed by, looking nothing short of content. We stopped at a bar that was literally, in the middle of nowhere. Just a single cement building stocked with Jamaican beer and rum that was obviously geared towards tourists. Our tour guide incidentally, was a drug dealer, which we later found to be very common. Many of the locals sell the locally grown drugs to suppliment their income. It’s illegal, but not enforced.
We reached the Riu Negril at about 1pm. While it was still Mediterranean themed, like the last Riu we stayed at in Cancun, this resort was a sprawling facility with no elevators and no room service. Our room was tucked away in a tiny corner on the third floor, a fair walk from the restaurants and bars. At first, it seemed like a pain in the ass to not have modern conveniences at our fingertips, but Aaron and I quickly grew to love our long beachfront strolls to the busier areas of the hotel. The pace was meant to be slow, and once we got ourselves acclimated, we appreciated how one hour felt like two.
We spent our first day exploring the resort, walking along the beach, and hanging by the pool. Because we were up at 3:30 that morning, we crashed early Wednesday night. Sun began streaming through our windows about 6am Thursday morning and we watched the first of many beautiful sunrises. After enjoying the best cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted and the first of many outdoor breakfasts, we headed out to the pool with the swim up bar. We discovered Dirty Bananas, which are a concoction of bananas, cream, rum cream, coffee and Jamaican spiced rum… They became one of our favorite little treats. Because I was on a lower dose of meds, I was able to indulge a little, which was nice. But I discovered I have kind of a mind block about alcohol, which I’ll analyze another day.
That same day we discovered our own personal piece of paradise on the beach. In Negril, the forest leads right up to the beach, so there are all sorts of exotic plants and trees that grow toward the ocean, which was clear like glass and warmed from the hot sun. It makes for great little hideaways. Aaron and I sat and watched a yellow crab dig his hole in the sand, each time burrowing deeper. We marveled at his efficient little system. It was better than any documentary on the National Geographic channel.
The Riu Negril is a few miles away from the rest of the resorts, but you can walk the beach and see them all. Crafters set up along the stretch where tourists walk and yell out, asking if you’ll come take a look at their merchanidise. “Nice lady, come and check out my ‘tings. You will find something special…” Marijuana smoke wafts through the air, and Rastafarians come up to you, spliff in hand and ask if you want to get high.
Walking along the beach, we came across a trio singing Bob Marley and Jimmy Clif songs. We stopped to appreciate their harmonies and take pictures. We found the nude beach, which we’d planned on hanging out at, but sadly we suffered from delusions of grandeur. The ‘nude beach’ was just a small, enclosed area with about 6 old, rotund people letting their bits and pieces get some sun. And no cameras aloud. What’s the fun of hanging out naked if I can’t get a picture of it? (In my exhibitionist mind anyway)
Friday we took a shopping and sightseeing tour. We were the youngest in the group, and the older folks seemed a little frightened when we stopped anywhere that wasn’t filled with white people. We stopped at a tourist mall for an hour, and then headed to the Negril Craft Market. Unfortunately, when our elders saw the market, they didn’t want to stop. I pleaded with them, and managed to get them to stay for 45 minutes. Aaron and I ventured into the shacks filled with wares to buy souvenirs and gifts, while the other tourists hung back by the bus. Sure, the locals were pushy to sell, but they were friendly and polite, and always willing to barter. This was their livelihood, and I wanted to be a part of it- no matter how small. Some of my purchases included a Bob Marley t shirt, a hand woven hat, handmade necklaces and earrings, a new swimsuit, and of course, shorts with JAMAICA written across the bum. Aaron bought decorations and rum for the bar, as well as some handmade leather sandals and a Rastafarian hat. All in record time.
After the shopping, we toured Negril. Again, it crushed me to see the poverty, but I was fascinated by their culture and lifestyle. The homes were small and open, built with whatever material that was available. Some were just framed brick and mortar, but people were living there as they constructed their homes piece by piece. Goats were everywhere. So were starving dogs. More small businesses were scattered through the community. At one point, we were supposed to stop in Negril but the seniors refused. Aaron and I were shaking our heads in disbelief… They had paid for this tour, yet were too scared to enjoy it. It was clear as day. One woman on the tour kept asking asinine questions, like if Jamaica had any industry (lady, what the hell do you think you’re doing in Jamaica?) She actually complained about the scenery on our way to our last few destinations.
We checked out a lighthouse, where I got to swing over the ocean and eat an aloe vera plant with a local gentleman. So many people in Jamaica are hustlers, and I don‘t mean any disrespect by that term… This man was out picking aloe and then trying to sell it to the tourists. We were the only ones to humor him, and it was one of the best moments of the trip. Across from the lighthouse was a hotspot called Rick’s Café. Destroyed by Hurricane Ivan in 2004, the cliff diving attraction had to be rebuilt from scratch. A reggae band played on a stage with the ocean as it’s background, and young Jamaican kids were making 40ft acrobatic dives off of the limestone cliffs. We sat in a cabana and munched on jerk chicken while watching the sunset and listening to the Caribbean music.
The weekend was a slow lazy one, filled with time at the pool and walks on the beach. We ate gourmet cuisine almost at almost every meal. We stuffed our faces with desserts and pastries and drank more Blue Mountain Coffee. We shopped at the gifts shops and took naps in the shade. We didn’t leave the resort, except to walk down the beach. Sunday night, we fell asleep watching Ellen Degeneres host the Oscars, and felt a strange disconnect from home.
Monday morning we came to the realization that our vacation was coming to an end. Sometime in the afternoon, we met G, a lifeguard at the resort. He made sure that our last few days were ones to remember. We went inland and got a real tour of Jamaica. We were welcomed everywhere we went, and he and his friends epitomized the kind of people Aaron and I had been hoping to meet. By and large, the men were more friendly than the women. I don’t know if they resented the rich white tourists they were serving or if the Jamaican women are just more quiet in general.
G taught us about Patwa, the local language which is a mixture of English, French, Spanish, and dozens of different African dialects. As we listened to reggae, he explained the Rasta religion, and taught us about musicians like Peter Tosh. We ate deep fried plantains and drank Red Stripe beer as we discussed the differences between our two countries. I asked G if he would ever like to live anywhere else, and he said only for money. Even those who are considered wealthy or well off in Jamaica would be less than middle class in America. Many of the gorgeous homes we saw were finished on the outside, but the interiors are a work in progress. Only one or two rooms are done, and families live there while they slowly finish the rest of their houses. The existence they live is simple. Clothes are washed by hand and hung to dry. Most of their food comes from their own land. They are far more self sufficient than myself or anyone I know. We were told that the next time we come to Jamaica, we had a place to stay, a car to drive, and friends to hang out with. We were perfect strangers and were being treated like long lost family.
Suddenly it was Wednesday morning, and we were packing up for our flight home. We ate our last breakfast outside, and exchanged email addresses with G. Tears streamed down my face as I took my last few pictures. I stood out in the sun, overlooking the beach and the resort and felt an overwhelming sense of loss, hope, inspiration and gratitude. I made a vow to keep a piece of that feeling with me no matter what the situation. The experience changed something inside of me. I was able to relax and not fear what was looming back home. As the Jimmy Clif song goes, “I can see clearly now… all of the bad feelings have disappeared.” I can see how it was written in Jamaica. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue every day. We didn’t have a single drop of rain- any clouds in sight just rolled right by. The breeze was a peaceful, warm welcome and seemed to know exactly when to pick up or die down. The pace of life was leisurely and the mantra of the Jamaican people was like a line from “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” That simple phrase is powerful.
Respect is very important to the Jamaican people. And I respect them immensely. Being there for just one week taught me more than I've been able to teach myself in years... Change does the soul good.
Labels: Jamaica
