Month: February 2012

In the pre-dawn hour the roosters’ crow signaled the ritual rising of the Caribbean sun. Before long the stifling heat penetrated my corrugated tin shack, rousing me from drowsy stupor. A cursory examination of my skin shows it a couple shades darker and mosquito bites multiplied. A sniff of the air and one knows the village neighbors have fired up their makeshift wood stoves. After lounging in the garden breeze, I managed to trod down the limestone trail to Janice’s kitchen shack for another traditional Jamaican Breakfast. Some how she forgets to account the 100 Jays she owed me from last night. No matter. I do not mention it as such she is such a lovely woman with a warm heart.

Shortly after, I join a band of motley characters with whom I’ve been staying at the guesthouse — comprising of a French-Canadian woman (“We are the best Canadian”) who is a rafting guide, a stocky Czech man from the UK who is a truck driver, a white-collar Midwest man Indiana on holiday, and an old hippy-type from Montreal with countless stories to tell — to go snorkeling off the coral cliffs. This proved to be a small difficulty for me as I’m a bad swimmer and not fond of salt water.

A few hours of blazing sun later, I’ve confirmed that I truly “suck” in the open water. Luckily, once again there were sufficient diversion in the coral caves that abound the region. I happened on a hollow that directly opened to the beach where I sat in quiet meditation for a while, reflecting on the roar of the cave with each pounding surf that came.

The outing continued with break at local bar where we met “Dr. Feel Good” and “Mountain Man”; local Jamaicans who are multi-talented at a few professions, shall we say. They are extremely friendly and readily open to smile. We all get a laugh when the Hippie starts negotiating prices with the men. The remainder of the day we wanderd downed to “famed” Rick’s Cafe at the southern point of the West End to watch the cliff divers. The place is really a tourist trap, replete with bus-loads of pasty tourist with camera at hand ready to pay ridiculous prices.

Returning near sunset I once again saw the local men outside Janice’s shop engaged in dominoes as they do every day. It seems to be a passionate game to them as they are prone to random outbursts of extreme excitement late into the evening such that the entire neighborhood can hear. I pay them a friendly greeting, and after a moment of small chatter with them, make my merry way back to rest before dinner calls. And so the quiet night passes over this isle of paradise.

The mundane seasons pass uneventfully as I’ve tried to steady the keel in unsteady climes. The inane work has been given begrudging priority over my wanderlust for untrodden territory. After being mostly stationary for 1.5 years, an eight day break into the Caribbean is a most welcomed change. And so it is, I set my sites on Jamaica; one of the few destinations worthwhile given the 8-9 day time constraint.

A three-leg flight through Miami landed me in Montego Bay, point of entry for most venturing to Jamaica. Though I’m aware that the city is more renown as a resort and cruise ship destination, somewhere I was holding out that there’d be enough off-the-beaten-path to amuse my interest. Alas, the welcoming scene proved disillusioning as quite a few flights landed simultaneously, pushing the immigration wait line to 3 hours. Standing there in the suffocating head with thousands of expectant tourists afforded plenty of time to survey the environs. I’m sorry to report that the serried throngs of obese tourist — all seeking some pre-packaged “dream” vacation — foretold that I would probably be hard-pressed to find unobstructed local culture removed from the tourist scene.

After 1 hour or so of negotiating with the taxi drivers for a fare market price, I was on my merry way. Although everyone is exceedingly friendly, it is always … taxing. By the time I reached the guesthouse, of course, the driving complained that it is farther than he had thought and demanded $2 more even though the drive was less than 10 minutes.

Upon arrival, a German woman about 30 of age greeted me. She runs the Bird’s Nest guesthouse and kitesurfing school. As I hadn’t eaten all day, and with the hour passing 9 pm, she offered to drop me off along the way to the “corner jerk chicken down the way”. Well, starving and disoriented in the dark of new surrounding is not the ideal condition to navigate. The jerk stand is no more than a shed off the main road, some 3.5 km or so from the guesthouse.

This winter’s mild climes have offered rare opportunities to explore the local mountains. Notwithstanding the pain and agony of 10-plus hours of grueling, the vistas rewarded cannot be understated. On this particular day, another predawn trek of nearly 20 miles in the mountains afforded the following view: