Jamaica

Or rather, ‘Jamaica with Laura’ would be a more apt description of a two-week journey that just came to an end. I met this Swiss girl on the second day of my trip and didn’t manage to get rid of her right till the end. And that despite what I considered a final goodbye, one week into the trip, on a dusty ‘transportation centre’ in Montego Bay! Well, we’ll get to that. First things first. Jamaica: Wow!

Lucky was I to experience the nadir of my trip right in the beginning, personalised by an ill-humoured and clinically correct immigration officer in Toronto. His coughs, quasi-tactfully concealed behind his elbow, were followed by an equally pretentious ‘excuse me’. He didn’t buy my story, just like the initial officer who had sent me to this special unit. What more was I to say? Yes, I am traveling on my own to Jamaica. And no, I don’t think that staying in a hostel in Kingston is dangerous. Whether this 7.2kg backpack is all I take? Yes, it’s 30 degrees Celsius over there, unlike this massive freezer I just got myself into. ‘I’ll give you a 48 hour visa.’ That was the final verdict. Oh please, if I had the choice I wouldn’t spend any of my precious time in Toronto in November. Air Canada Rouge just happened to weld in a 21 hour stopover into my trip. Well, good to go I was. Apparently the exit from the room into the normal world is rather infamous in Canada, as a lady who saw me coming out of here told me. ‘It’s tough in there isn’t it? I’ve seen it on telly.’

Well, that was my arrival in Canada. The departure was possibly even more strained, with us being pulled out of two (!) subsequent planes after boarding, both with ‘technical issues’. After a delay that lasted six hours in total we eventually took off. Canada, GOODBYE, Jamaica, here I come!

With fewer than three million inhabitants, Jamaica is way smaller than many people expect. And while I’d rather had had three or four weeks, it is very well possible to travel around the island in two weeks. Fascinated as I am by new destinations, cultures, economies, and countries as a whole, I noted with glee that this little country is functionally quite nicely. I mean, it’s not a rich place, but neither is it abjectly poor. It’s corrupt, and there are obvious contrasts between rich and poor, but it’s working out quite well all in all. Its income per head sits pretty much in between that of Georgia and Armenia, two neighbouring countries in the Caucasus that I visited in 2013. Jamaica has its own central bank with its own currency (Jamaican dollars), its own institutions, and decent infrastructure. Public transport is cheap and reaches pretty much everywhere, and the regulated system of ‘route taxis’ works well. Tap water is potable, they brew their own beer (Red Stripe, a refreshing lager), and make their own rum (Appleton, decent enough to drink straight). The Jamaican cuisine is tasty, with mouth-watering jerk chicken and patties abound. And I haven’t even started on the reggae vibes that are pretty much the rhythm of the island. There is music everywhere. Whether it’s pop blasting from speakers on the beach, gospel music played on a bus, or reggae played at the hostel, the ever present tunes make me wonder whether there’s a word for ‘silence’ in patois. A completely new destination, an entirely new culture, and it was all mine to explore in two weeks. What a feast. The explorer in me is evidently still very much alive.  

As I arrived in Kingston after sunset, due to the epic failure of Air Canada Rouge, I was presented with a dilemma. The plan had been to take a public bus to downtown Kingston, from where I could take a connecting city bus to Half Way Tree, which is a 15 minute walk from the hostel. Common sense won it from my usual preference to travel as the locals do, and I took an expensive taxi straight to the hostel. The public transport version of the trip, which I undertook in broad daylight when returning to the capital two weeks later, was an interesting experience on its own, but rather not in the dark and with my pockets full of freshly tapped Jamaican dollars. And as for ‘traveling as locals do’ …. Well... there was plenty of that to come.

The next morning I rose early, had a Jamaican breakfast (dumplings, potatoes and bananas all boiled in the same pot, callaloo, and ackee with saltfish), and made my way to the bus stop for Port Antonio. I was the first one to arrive at the virtually empty bus, which meant I had to wait until it filled up. This on its own I didn’t mind, as I had plenty of time and found a source of entertainment in the street theatre that was displayed right in front of me, if it wasn’t for an annoying Australian backpacker who sat down next to me a few minutes later. ‘If you haven’t done as much hiking as I have, I would definitely do the Blue Mountains.’ After some semi-polite nods and hmhms I decided to ignore the bloke and continue to watch the street vendors outside. When the bus finally filled up, and that means it would be hard to squeeze any additional people in, we took off onto an exhilarating trip through the Blue Mountains. Hitting the north coast of the island we subsequently turned east, until the shabby settlement of Port Antonio was in sight.

Puerto Anton, as it was founded by the Spanish, featured as the colourful setting of ‘The Pirate’s Daughter’. This novel, which I had read before traveling to the Caribbean, had involuntarily raised by expectations of the place, and I was slightly disappointed by the complete lack of Georgian architecture in town. Well, it was still a cool destination, especially since I stayed at the Porty hostel. Run by Stefano from Italy, the hostel has a snug location in a middle class Jamaican neighbourhood, about 10 minutes’ walk from the town centre. And as Puerto Anton is a perfectly safe place, also at night, I got a nice impression of how and in what conditions the locals lived. They’re a cheerful bunch, greeting passers-by from their shops and gardens, strolling the streets, and talking to neighbours. It felt all very relaxed.

Taxi driver to me: ‘You all wet. No taxi gonna take you like this man. You can sit in my trunk’ (patting Laura’s ‘leg’) ‘you’re alright. Wanna sit in the back?’

The town and its surroundings made for a perfect start of my holidays. With George and Laura, who I had met on the afternoon of my arrival, we attended a vintage-styled party that night, complete with LPs. The next days featured climbing and wading through the Reach Falls, attempting to catch a few waves in the surf beach of Boston Bay, eating overpriced jerk pork in its birthplace, and chilling out in the Germaican hostel. Incessant rain on the third and last day in Portland must have been a signal from above that it was high time to move on (or was it just coincidence?), and Laura convinced me to join her to the tourist magnet of Ocho Rios.

Random guy at surf beach: ‘I am the mystic man’
Laura: ‘I can’t do this anymore’

‘Ochi’ is a tacky string of hotels and souvenir stalls glued to an admittedly beautiful beach, with the view of the Caribbean Sea habitually obscured by a massive cruise ship. ‘OK, if we stay only 1 night, and 1 night only, I’ll join you to Ochi.’ That was the deal. In the end we stayed two nights. Because, really, Ochi wasn’t too bad.

Me: ‘Could we switch to a room that has some air?’
Hostel: ‘Like a fan? Or AC?’
Me: ‘Maybe a window...?’

The beach was privately owned, required an entrance fee that came with our reservation at the Reggae Hostel, and thus clean and relatively empty. After the rainy activities in Portland, chilling out in front of (and in!) the azure waters felt like a holiday on a holiday. Quite relaxing actually! Moreover, we discovered a side of Ochi which is fervently Jamaican and void of any tourists (as I like it best, hypocrisy all around with my white face). Past the roundabout with the clock tower, you step into another world. All of a sudden the streets are filled with people, vehicles, carts, street vendors, and stray dogs. At a big market all sorts of goods are offered for sale, from tropical fruits and vegetables to cheap clothing and shoes. Music was blasting from giant speakers while schoolgirls in their teens strolled past the stalls. It is the side of Jamaica that reminded me of New Delhi: hot, crowded, and full of sounds and scents. I loved it.

‘You know Tony, this is how we lock doors in the US, so, it’s not my fault that we are locked out. Go fix it.’

And then there was this seaside terrace… obscured from the touristy centre, it wasn’t a place you would coincidentally stumble upon. After intensely studying the LP for quite a while, Laura had spotted a reference to this hidden gem. An oasis of calm, with relaxing music, and a view of the crystal-blue waters void of any cruise ships, this became our favourite spot to watch the sunset (which we, technically, couldn’t see as it was behind the mountains on our back, but still).   

‘Hsssss.... wanna teach me how to swim?’

But, even though it wasn’t as bad as I had feared, after two days I was more than ready to leave Ochi. Especially as the pearl on the north coast was awaiting us: Falmouth! Now it was my time to convince the girl of joining me to this historical town, something she seemed to regret instantly when we were met on arrival by blue banners saying ‘Deutschland sucht ein superstar’. WTF??? Nooooo…! Not in my idyllic Falmouth! Bloody cameras and photographers everywhere, white faces all around me! That was me. Laura, feigning disgust and indignation, but with barely hidden excitement about spotting some supposedly famous German artist, vowed she would never forgive me. I was unimpressed. This was supposed to be a hidden gem, what does this bloody tv show do here?? I still don’t know. What I do know, is that they were gone by the time we got back from the Glistening Waters, which meant we had Falmouth to ourselves again. So despite that ominous start, Falmouth and surroundings is still my favourite.

‘I think in this restaurant you get only served once, and then that’s it.’

We checked in to a shabby hotel which called itself ‘Falmouth Resort’, and spent most of the afternoon at the ‘unintentionally romantic patio at Club Nasz’. It was a decent patio alright, but romantic..? No. When darkness fell it was time to make our way to the Glistening Waters, to which I had been looking forward ever since I read about the phenomenon in the LP. In essence, the algae in the lake, which comprises a combination of fresh and salt water, cause a blueish glow when stirred at night. So you can imagine what it must feel like, swimming in the warm water, under a starlit sky, and seeing your every moment in the water followed by a fluorescent glow. A truly magical experience, which lasted much shorter than I would have liked it to. But Falmouth had more to offer that night, as we sat on the edge of the fountain of the town’s central square a few hours later, drinking our cold beers. The square was filled with street vendors selling jerk chicken and clothes, people hanging out and socialising with their friends, and kids playing in the streets. The night air was warm, our drinks were cold, the atmosphere was .. so peaceful.. so happy… It was a random night in a random town in Jamaica, with people living their everyday lives, and I felt privileged to be part of it, if even so briefly. Whereas in prior destinations we had constantly been offered goods, services, taxis, what not… here we had to ask, for directions, for a ¼ chicken, and people were happy to help. A completely new experience, and an outstanding one on my trip.

‘Tony, when you’re moving back to the Netherlands, that’s it you know.’

But, however amazing Falmouth was, as always, leave at the zenith, and off to the next destination! Here is where our roads split. Laura, who had seemingly infinite time, wanted to go to MoBay, whereas I preferred to spend my remaining week in the south of the island. Quick hug at the transportation centre in MoBay, and I thought never to see this girl again. Well, not quite. A compromise was brokeraged over whatsapp the next day, as I promised to spend at least two nights in Belmont if Laura travelled there and saved Negril for later. Ok, deal. And so it happened.

Laura: ‘My cube is 5 metres high, solid silver, shiny, and... with really sharp edges’

Belmont is quite the nice, relaxing town, especially when staying at Bigga’s. Bigga is, well, a big rasta man, who offers homestays at his yard. To sum it up: hammocks, homemade food, the sea at 2 minutes’ stroll, an awkward German traveller, a Canadian couple with outspoken opinions about flight crew, loads of dogs, laundry and laundry lines, the FT podcast, swimming in the dark, and a balcony perfect to spend warm and musky summer evenings. Yeah, Belmont treated us well…

Laura: ‘Tony you can’t be serious, we JUST had breakfast, how can you buy a pattie NOW, it’s insane, what are you DOING Tony...’
...
‘Ok I’ll have one as well’

And then… Paradise! Another three route taxis down the road was Treasure Beach, hailed as the most relaxing place of Jamaica. It is.

Upon arrival at the place we had booked for the night, our initial impression wasn’t great. The price at 20 USD per person was good, but the cramped, muggy, airless room wasn’t altogether inviting. ‘Don’t you have something else?’ Well yes, the landlady did, but it came at 35 USD per person. Well, let’s have a look at least. It took me less than a split second to decide where to sleep that night after entering the circular upper floor of the little concrete tower. A spacious room, including a private bathroom and kitchen, with a balcony overlooking the sea, and windows everywhere… YES. Two nights please.

Laura: ‘Do we have to do sightseeing today?’
Me: ‘No’
Laura: ‘Good’

And that was Treasure Beach. The Caribbean blue always within earshot, delicious and healthy juices opposite the road, friendly locals, tasty food, hammocks at Andrew’s, boat trips to the Pelican Bar, swimming in the sunset… Paradise. I want to go back.

·       Number of vehicles (buses, route taxis, … ) travelled with: 35+

·       Most hopeless airline: Air Canada Rouge

·       Biggest eye catcher in Jamaica: Laura’s blonde hair

·       Most uncomfortable place to travel in a route taxi: the trunk

·       Waterproof: Tony’s bag

·       Most unattractive sight (1): big, fat guys, munching away bags of popcorn

·       Most unattractive sight (2): the guy in trash bags smearing mud on his face

·       Worst at riddles: Laura

·       Worst at card tricks: Laura

·       Best at reading the LP: undecided

·       Best purchase: spices at Port Antonio market

·       Favourite dog: the black one at Germaican

·       Least favourite dog: the snappy one at Bigga’s

·       Least commercial person: the girl in Port Antonio’s supermarket (‘this till doesn’t work, try another shop’)

·       Hardest to surf: Boston Bay

·       Most limited Jamaican experience: the German stoners at the Germaican hostel

·       Most disappointing party: the ‘beach club’ near Ochi

·       Most obsesses with ‘real life soaps’: Laura

·       Most frequently used word (1): units

·       Most frequently used words (2): that’s it

·       Favourite place: Falmouth

·       Least favourite place: Negril (Negril sucks)

·       Best souvenir: Red Stripe t-shirt

·       Most similar to scrambled eggs: ackee and saltfish

·       Prettiest girl: the Argentine

·       Favourite bar: Good times bar in Falmouth

·       Most overpriced transaction: 10 USD pp for the Peter Tosh mausoleum (we didn’t pay that)

·       Longest 5 minutes: the 25 minute walk up the hill to the artist’s cottage (we didn’t make it)

·       Best Jamaican food: patties

·       Always room for: patties

·       Always time for: patties

·       Worst at keeping keys: ….

·       Most organised backpack: Laura’s

·       Least organised backpack: Tony’s

·       Most remarkable bus ride: Mandeville to Kingston (gospel bus)

·       Not worth leaving Treasure Beach 1 day early for: Mandeville

·       Worth leaving Treasure Beach 1 day early for: nothing really

·       Least eager to work in the rain: Dilly

·       Doesn’t exist: the veggie place ‘next to the atm’

·       Favourite person to travel with: Laura!