After successfully learning to kite board it was time to move on. I caught a couple of taxis and buses and arrived in Oracabessa, a small coastal town.

I met up with Sebastian and his new Danish friend Magnus (DJ Madness). The reason for visiting Oracabessa was a big dancehall party featuring most of the big names in Jamaica. It was beyond a true Jamaican experience. We were all well patted down and checked for drugs, but as soon as you get in people are selling weed everywhere anyway. I saw one guy getting searched by a female security guard. She pulled one joint out of his pocket, felt another two in his other pocket but just ignored them. Pretty funny. We got there at about 10 and got stuck in to the rum – a 200mL flask and a pepsi for about 6 or 7 bucks was the same price as 3 beers. Early in the night was a whole heap of no name dudes, most of whom really sucked, they couldn’t sing in tune at all. It got better as the night went on and became morning and I became less attuned to balance. At about 6 in the morning, things got very interesting. I was in the crowd, bopping away to someone that I had no idea who it was, when the whole crowd turned around and started running in a panic in the opposite direction. I joined in with the panic as I had not a clue as to what was going on. When I made it to the safety of a small bar, I looked back and saw stubbies being hurled at the stage and, even more unexpectedly, being hurled from the stage back at the offenders in the (now totally diminished) crowd. The newspaper the next day explained that these Vybz Kartel fans didn’t particularly like Bounty Killer. After about 5 minutes some music started up and everyone strolled on back in front of the stage as if nothing had happened. Well, this time the Bounty Killer fans didn’t like Vybz Kartel. Again, bottles were flying in both directions as the rest of us fled. This put quite an abrupt end to the party. I interviewed a couple of locals, which was fun, even though I could barely understand a word they were saying in Patois, which was also the case listening to the performers of the evening. I spent my last $2 on some dodgy fried chicken (I was actually expecting some delicious, freshly cooked jerk chicken), and walked home with my broken flip flops in my hand in the early morning light. I must have looked terrible. But that was my true Jamaican experience.

After a recovery day we set off for Black River, via Ocho Rios and Mo Bay. It took us a long time and we arrived after dark. We stayed in a bus at Sunset Beach. Black River is quite well renowned. Check out this photo and see if you can tell why. Hint: Never smile…

Yes, right in the middle of the town… a crocodile. We went on a boat ride up the river to see a few more. It was ok. You can get really close to them while they sunbathe. They can apparently grow up to about 4 metres. At the bridge where we stopped to turn around we had the opportunity to swim. I waived this opportunity, something doesn’t feel right about swimming in a river that you’ve just paid money to see crocodiles. I went swimming at our guesthouse and that was freaky enough. Even thought the owner assured us that it was totally safe, with zero visibility I was in and out of there very quickly. The town was ok, very Jamaican, but nothing special. Played some pool with a dude in a bar, but nothing to write home about… oh, hang on, I just did.

Next stop, not too far down the road, was Treasure Beach. It has a high ratio of tourists, but is very small and has generally avoided the big hotel complexes and all inclusive type tourism and is very minimalist when it comes to hustlers. The two other boys loved the place, for me it was ok. We went straight to the beach with our snorkelling gear, which didn’t get wet that day. There was some small waves rolling in so we opted for body surfing instead. We stayed for 5 nights and it was good to be able to cook for ourselves rather than have rice and peas twice a day.

The next day, we caught a taxi, actually a car impersonating a taxi, to Southfields. From here we walked the 1.5 km along the road to Lovers Leap, a ‘cliff’ where two slaves apparently jumped into the sea rather than have to part. This could be true, if they could jump about 2 km. It was not a cliff, just a very steep hill. The place was closed for renovations (more likely no one could be bothered running the place any more) so we made our own backpackers leap over the fence. The view was brilliant. At 500 metres elevation you could see the coast for kilometres, with the blue sea disappearing into a hazy sky. We found the small hiking trail across the football pitch and headed down. Halfway we could see some splashing going on. It looked like dolphins having some fun. It took us one hour to get to the bottom, where we expected to find a small beach, but instead found one of the world’s biggest rock pools. It was beautiful, but certainly didn’t feel like the traditional perception of Jamaica. There was a ledge, hundreds of metres long, where the small waves smashed into the rocks. It looked very nice and deep, but we decided it wasn’t safe trying to climb back up with the waves breaking over the rocks. On the land side of this ledge the water was knee deep, slowly tapering back to land about 15-20 metres away. We had to settle for a relaxing bathe al naturale here. The water was a perfect temperature – refreshing after the hike down in the midday sun, yet warm enough to laze around for half an hour without getting cold. We went for a wander along the coast a bit, but it was much of the same. We did encounter a random fisherman walking along the rocks with just a hand line. It was a big hike to catch no fish. After a bit more splashing around it was time to head back. It was really quite hot now and very little breeze the whole way. Magnus made it up in 40 minutes the crazy bugger. Sebas and I weren’t exactly slow finishing in 55. I was really struggling, so much that the first drink was non-alcoholic. Yeah, hot.

We went out to a local bar on the Friday night. It was good vibes with a nice young crowd – mainly locals with a few tourists floating about. Played some pool and had a good evening. So good, that we went back there Saturday night. Unfortunately, I did myself a bit of a mischief. We were drinking overproof rum at home before we went, then more at the bar. Its always cheaper to buy a 200mL bottle and a mixer than drink anything else. The overproof rum put me over the edge and I had to leave the pub early – needless to say the memories are hazy. At some point I realised that I didn’t have the key to get in our room and rather than going back to the pub, I came up with the ingenious solution of sleeping in a tree! It was such a fluffy and inviting tree. I believe I slept very comfortably for many hours before returning to our room. It was 2 days later that I met a girl who told me that I was actually trying to sleep in another tree closer to the pub, but she insisted that I go home. I showed her!

Our guesthouse called us a taxi to take us to some random town. On the way he called his mate to meet us there and take us to Mandaville. From there it was a bus to Kingston, a shuttle bus to the other Kingston bus station, a minibus to Papine and a taxi to Red Light. That’s as far as public transport goes. Here we play the hitch hiking game, very similar to the waiting game somewhere as remote as the Blue Mountains. There literally was not a single car drive past that had any spare seats for more than an hour while we chatted with locals and ate little fried snacks. Micky from the hostel was driving past and picked us up, for our seventh vehicle for the day. We drove 100 metres around the corner and stopped at the bar for one and to pick up Michael, the hostel owner. Another 10 minutes and we finally arrived in the dark to Mount Edge Hostel. Even with smooth connections all of the way (until Red Light) it had taken us almost all day. The hostel was buzzing. There was about a dozen guests and most were enjoying a drink and a smoke.

I awoke in the morning and the view from the balcony looking over the valley was beautiful. After a delicious breakfast we went down to the river for a dip in the chilly natural pool, followed by a barefoot hike in the undies up stream a few hundred metres, taking in magnificent scenes of small waterfalls, pools and lush flora. Along with some conversations about permaculture and renewable energies, I was feeling very energised myself. I had planned on staying 4 nights, but soon convinced myself that it wasn’t necessary to stay in Kingston and increased it to 6. I didn’t do a lot, but you don’t need to do a lot, just enjoy the feeling of the picturesque surrounding mountains.

I did visit an old Rasta man’s house. He has a couple of acres covered with trees and plants, mostly of the edible variety, of which we bought some. I also found time to visit the Rasta camp, about an hours walk away. It wasn’t quite what I was hoping for. We didn’t get to speak to anyone about how they run the place, what they do there, or what Rastafarianism is about. Instead, we played games with kids for about an hour. Of course this was fun, and the kids are gorgeous with their dreadlocks, but not particularly educating for anyone.

The Wednesday was a public holiday and there was a pool party in the tiny village of Red Light. It was running all afternoon and into the wee hours, but I only went for a few hours in the evening. I was amazed by how many people there were. Young people had seemingly wandered down out of the mountains for this glorious occasion, with Dancehall music blaring louder than the human threshold for pain, continually being interrupted briefly for the DJ to say something stupid. It became impossibly annoying after not too long.

I had a wander around down town Kingston one day. Nothing too exciting, nor scary, but from the stories I hear and the odd couple of super dodgy looking blokes I wouldn’t be strolling around in the evening. I went to the craft market which must have had 100 little stalls in there, with 100 people working, yet I was the only customer in the entire place for the hour I was there, checking out there handmade items, wondering which ones were factory made and/or imported from China, then spending just a few dollars in one shop – I don’t know how they can survive.

My last night at the Hostel was great. A couple of friends of the place turned up with instruments and amplifiers and had a proper jam session. It was an awesome finish to my stay there. Would I go back to Jamaica? Yes, but not desperately. There were a few places I didn’t make it to that I would have liked to. Besides that, the only places I would excitedly return to would be the Blue Mountains and especially Bounty Bay. Maybe Treasure Beach because I didn’t get to see the whole area.

The rest of the Jamaican pictures are here.

Next stop – Cuba!

Everybody in Negril tries to sell you something, Danny from the local market was no exception. He got a bit excited when I said I was going to Montego Bay that afternoon because he lived there and would be driving home in a few hours. I told him I would only pay $6, the same as the taxi fare. After some time he accepted. It worked out really well for me, only having to take one car from door to door instead of 3 taxis. I stayed the first 2 nights at Bethel Court Guesthouse (hostel), $20 for a dorm. Was a nice friendly atmosphere. I checked out the yacht club and put up a notice, hoping to find a captain sailing to Cuba in a few weeks time. I’m not the biggest fan of the yacht club scene. It seems that yachties hardly leave the marina complex and their impression of a city or even country can be based on such a small area. Of course the prices are inflated too.

I spent the next few nights at Cedar Ridge Guesthouse for the same rate. I was looking forward to some quiet time in the mountains (only 10-15 mins drive to town) to do some research and writing. It certainly was very remote. There is no public transport to get there and I was the only guest. Gregory is a young guy who has just started running his massive family home as a guesthouse. He is nothing short of a legend. I arrived there on a Friday. He and his neighbour had organised a bbq for the Saturday afternoon. He had told his mate Chris to turn up at 15.00, who decided that 15.45 might be a bit more appropriate, knowing Gregory. When he arrived, I was the only one home. Not only that, but I didn’t have a key and was a prisoner in this house. We chatted through the bars of the door for half an hour before I finally found a key. This key was good news, because Chris had brought a bottle of rum and was not rude enough to drink alone. We polished that off and then some I had floating around with Gregory and many others appearing at some stage in the proceedings. The bbq jerk chicken wasn’t actually ready until 23.30! Epic, to say the least.

I realised that my retreat was not so quiet. Sunday was the best day. It wasn’t the earliest start, but we went to a beach, paid $3.50 to enter and then a further $7 to buy a cup, which can be refilled as many times as you want until 18.00. We smashed down a heap of rum, went and did some backflips on the floating pontoon and just generally ran around crazy on the beach. It’s not a massive party, but really good vibes.

Chris told me how he was starting up a business with a mate, doing online marketing, including for Kite Boarding Jamaica, in return for some free lessons. I thought that sounded pretty cool and decided to go and check out the joint with him. The place was beautiful. A proper white sand aqua water palm tree paradise, away from the big crowds and associated hustlers. There was accommodation available, but at $45/night it was well out of my budget. It was paradise. I wanted to stay. I struck a deal with Julia, the German owner of the school. I would pay $15/night to sleep on the couch in the shop and only get charged local rates for lessons and equipment hire. This was perfect. I ended up staying there for 11 nights, boarding for 9 of the days. It took me 8 days to be able to say that ‘I can kite board’, meaning actually stand on the board and not get blown down wind. I had some quiet time in the mornings and evenings, but not boredom. There was a German couple staying for a large portion of the time and we shared a few beers here and there.

We visited the all inclusive hotel down the beach. It was really nice, but absolutely horrible. All inclusive means that people really never leave the complex, hardly a Jamaican experience. It could be any hotel in the world. It’s really no more than a change of climate for these people. Our favourite line was, ‘Ok everybody, follow the flames to the beach, and remember, this is a party atmosphere!‘ We had a couple of free rums and games of pool and got out of there.

On the Friday night we went to Pier 1 in Mo Bay, along with Julia, 2 of the instructors – Santino and Shaun, Chris and Gregory. It was a fun night and interesting to see the Jamaicans in party mode, with some good daggering on the dance floor. Jamaicans are very homophobic. There was a small hens party, dancing around with a blow up dude, dude included. Normally guys constantly try to dance with girls, but this doll kept them away. I asked to borrow him, put him on my shoulders and walked over to the boys and said, ‘Have you met my brother? He’s a bit of a dickhead!’ They freaked out, slapping him off me, ‘Get that off ya!’ Julia thought it was funny and wanted to take a photo, but the boys wouldn’t allow it. The night was so good that I actually went back the following Friday for another session.

Got up at 6.15 to get to the airport. Was going ok until we arrived in Kingston. There were 4 Russian guys, well behaved, but minimal English. At least one immigration officer walked off with each of them, leaving no one at the desks. The queue didn’t like this. I’ve never seen so much yelling and arguing going on at immigration before. After a delayed flight and a long queue, immigration wasn’t happy that I didn’t have an address to stay at. He sent me to the information office, who let me use their computer for half an hour to ‘find it’. I was worried immigration would give me a hard time and check my flights, quite the opposite, just waved me straight through.

It took me more than 1 hour and 4 ATM’s to get any cash out. Taxi hustlers were going crazy, especially when I said I wanted to go to Negril, the furthest point on the island, with a government set fare of $285! It was now 15.00, and the 4 or 5 buses I needed to catch would mean some travelling and transfers in the dark, which didn’t seem wise from what I had heard about the country. I accepted one drivers offer to stay at his house in Spanish town and catch the bus in the morning for $46. I couldn’t believe after this he was still trying to sell me various long distance trips in his taxi. By the time we met his wife, drove through peak hour traffic and got to his house, it was 20.00 – an entire day wasted. For dinner I ate a pie I had prepared in Barbados and customs hadn’t bothered to check.
I woke to some tragic news. This is not the sort of thing you need when you are travelling in a foreign country – one of my last 2 flip flops had been eaten by a dog. A Havaiana! I slowly tied my shoelaces in grieving and moped out of the house. The bus stop was chaos. Buses shouting and people honking, no signs and no whities. My instincts took over and I found the bus I needed straight away.
I got squeezed in the last seat on the minibus – 4 people wide and slammed in by the sliding door with my backpack almost in my face for 2 hours. Had to wait over an hour in Mandaville for the next bus to be ram packed and ready to leave. This got me to Savanna La Mar, where I jumped out with a girl and straight into a taxi which turned out to be a ‘route taxi’. These operate in place of buses, and of course get rammed with 4 in the back. That got me to Negril. Another short taxi ride, who tried to charge me more than the previous half hour ride, got me to Westport Cottages, at $25/night the cheapest in town. At first I wasn’t enjoying Negril. Every car tooting to sell you a ride, everyone on the beach selling you something, most often ganja, the beautiful sea and beach lined with hotels designed for Americans or other fat semi-retired people who think that money can buy everything – but then at some point, after having a massive meal for $4.50 and a few beers for $2-$3 each, I relaxed, looked out to the sea and thought, ‘I’m in Jamaica!’

I spent the next few days drinking beer, listening to live reggae, swimming, running on the beach, drinking beer, and not too much else. Made friends with Lara, from Sydney. We went to Ricks Cafe. There’s some natural cliffs, some tastefully constructed and paved terraces and a massive pub. The number 1 and 2 items on the itinerary are cliff diving and profit making – I’m not sure in which order. I jumped off the basic cliff, about 10m and scary enough, while others were doing backflips and somersaults.

Then there was a platform about 4m higher, where local kids would dive off for tips. But the real deal was the dead tree, which only the fittest, strongest (possibly most perfect male bodies in the world), local guys would attempt. It must have been 20m high, and they would still do dives. The dried up tree looked like it could snap at any point whilst they were monkeying around on it and showing off. Really cool place.

We wandered down the street about 50m, away from the 400 tourists and found a very quiet bar for dinner. So quiet in fact, that once the 3 domino players left, we were the only ones left. We took the table and invited the barman to join us… for the next 3 hours, resulting in a Nil all draw. Crazy rules. It’s amazing that a place like this can even afford to have the lights on, meanwhile there’s thousands of $$$ being spent across the road.

Not knowing what to do, on so many levels, I followed the light. The light happened to be a campfire on the beach. The main Rasta’s name was Culture. On a 7 mile beach, plastered with resorts designed for people that aren’t me, there was this little dot of a paradise that I was open enough to see. After 2 beers, I was fortunate enough to be dubbed a Rasta, and was invited to stay, sharing a room with the main man.

It doesn’t get more real than this. They live very simply and cheaply, praying to capture just one of the hundreds of tourists that pass by daily, eating cheap local grown produce, including herbs and spices. It honestly is a tough way to get by. Reading this, you probably haven’t reached the point of realising that this also means a high level of prostitution all of the way along the beach. It really caught me by surprise. For quite a few days, every girl I talked to was a prostitute. Very sad.

After a whole day on the beach here, hoping to help sell beer, massages, or some incredible 3D art, my biggest problem is the intensity of the sun off the water – “Irie Mon!”

I ended up staying with the Rastas for 5 nights, I think. I really lost track of time here. It’s not that it’s a super fun exciting place, I just made the best of what I had to deal with. During the day there is hundreds of people, not all old farts either, sunbathing and being generally lazy in front of their hotels. During the evenings, everybody hibernates. There’s normally about a handful of people in each bar. I found this quite surprising. People really go there with the attitude of doing absolutely nothing. My favourite bar was, actually, I don’t have a clue what the name was, but if you find a barman named Neil, you’re in the right place! He kept the bar open for me until 4.30 one morning. That was the end of a very big day. When I woke up, hungover and no doubt still some blood in my alcohol system, the Rastas handed me breakfast along with “Jennifer Brown” – JB overproof rum, 63%. That set the theme for the day. I met a couple from Sweden (again my memory is very loose) who were keen to check out Rick’s. I joined them for the journey and this time, with a little extra Dutch courage, I swam across to join the kids on the 14m rickety platform. They were more than happy to let me join them for a small donation. It was bloody scary, but I liked it so much I did it twice.

We called in at my little locals bar across the road. The barman was happy to see me again, which was cool. From there it was back to the beach for one at the campfire, then a wander in search of nightlife, which came in the form of my new favourite bar. As I said, there was only a few of us, but it was fun. There was a Russian couple and the girl loved dancing on the tables – reminded me of someone else I know.

It was nice staying with the Rastas, but at the end of the day, they were still hustlers, trying to push for every dollar they could, even to me and my friends that I took there for a beer by the campfire, which was a bit disappointing. I even found out 2 months after staying there that my Swedish friends were threatened with violence and forced to hand over $40 for an $8 loan they had taken less than an hour earlier from one of the guys. You really can’t trust people in this country. I also learnt that the phrase “No problem” means you can pay for it later. For example, “yeah, you’re alright mate, grab yourself a beer, no problem”. I gave one of the guys, Toto (who seemed genuine), my VB singlet, which he really seemed to appreciate. Hopefully it gets him a few laughs from passing Aussies, Kiwis and the like. I also bought the guys a sack of yam heads to plant, hoping that they can do a little more work and a little less complaining about not having money for food… time will tell. I think the happiest I saw them was the day I was leaving and handed over a heap of cash – the JB was flowing in no time. That put a very abrupt end to my alcohol free day, but after just a couple, I was on my way…