By now I’m not sure how many times I have passed through Miami International. Again, I’m awaiting a connecting flight…Madrid this time, en route to Marrakech. Looking out on the tarmac through the rain splattered terminal panes, a certain sense of inertia surfaced (or was is ennui due to the inclement weather?) — a sort of “neither here nor there” sense. This floating life has now ventured over much land, sea, and air; for all the unknown adventures yet another trip brings, a billowing sense of unease accompanies it.
Somber day at Miami International airport.
I have left my make-shift home drifting with the tides unattended, off to chase the Saharan sun without prior planning. It seems the commitment of yet another years confines to work promoted the latest urging. Neither here more there can lasting contentment be found, but meeting with a new culture will stimulate invigorate senses to brave the year ahead.
The plane barrels east, the dawn brightens with each passing minute. Soon I’ll be wandering lost in the alleyways of the ancient Berbers.
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.
Cave exploration off coastal Negril.
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.
Local men obsessing over dominoes, again.
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.
Quiet time with a coconut on shorts of Montego Bay.The sign said "Absolutely No Tresspassing". Ignored.
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:
Indulging in the autumn scene amidst the breathless woods after 17 miles trailing through the sylvan wonders; splendor upon splendor wending through the escarpments and ravines.
Aptly named to say the least. Death Valley is no place for the unexperienced or tame of heart. Even having visited multiple times in the past and having wandered a great portion of the area, the valley still had a bounty of surprises left to present.
Strolling down Saline Valley Road photographing Joshua trees.Staring at the Mesquite Dunes shortly after dawn.Into the far distance of Badwater flats to meditate in the inferno heat.
Hi Sarah, pride of Persia. if you are reading this, I had the most wonderful day.
View from an elevated platform of the D train in Brooklyn.More ruins of the NYC subway system - N train.Wandering in SOHO during my yearly pilgrimage to NY.Golden sun sinking into the western edge of town.
The splendid beauty of this earth splayed at sunset in Bufadora, Mexico.
The slinking autumn sun culminates lower along the meridian with each passing day. In the little time I have on this short break, I follow it’s steady course south in search of warmer coastal climate. From Playa Rosarito, I wound along the toll road a bit, stopping by even sleepier coastal towns that hardly register on most maps. Near La Mission, I strayed inland from the main coastal highway for a closer look at untouristed parts of Mexico. As with much of Latin America, there are shanty towns here and there, makeshift shacks dot the landscape; however, unlike any other part of Central or South America, this region of Mexico seem to have many abandoned mobile homes littering the landscape. One can only assume these were left behind by many an American who came to escape their past or simply to drop off radar. Certainly, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that they are drug related.
With each winding turn down a lone country road, I drove closer until I edged near the bluffs of La Bufadora. This place would not even be on the map were it not for its namesake: the world’s largest “blowhole” that frequently spouts water 100 feet above sealevel. Unfortunately, the visit was anticlimactic as I happened to arrive during slack tide. Fortunately enough, the outing offered one spectacular sunset over the calm Pacific and numerous opportunity to nibble at local cuisine.
Just in time to see the sunset over the vast, flat beaches.
As another glorious day sinks into the distant horizon over endless sands of Playa del Rosarito, I came to reflect how through all these years I never ventured pass the Mexican border. Baja is famed for some of the finest stretches of secluded beaches and sleepy Mexican towns; however, Mexico’s general notoriety for corrupt police and infamous drug cartels dominates in reputation stateside. So it is, after all these years I drove across the border with someone whom I had met while wandering through Bolivia. As neither one of us seems to be able to slake this thirst for adventure, nor have pressing obligations or engagements, I convinced her to fly out to visit for a quick excursion for lobster tacos down south. We’ll have a few days over the extended holiday weekend to explore – some fine local cuisine in dive restaurants and whale watching is on order.
Encounter locals returning from a fishing outing on the pier.
There is a season when life lays full and possibilities are at its zenith. The tide rides high tonight, the harvest moon is full, and Jupiter shines bright. Forget that which needs to be forgotten, remember that which needs to be remembered. The orbs of heaven align rarely in our lives. Lead us the way, oh beacons of hope.
Harvest moon shone on a tranquil night with Jupiter in view.
