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Well it's not really just Negril. It's more like Ochi, Negril, Sav, Treasure Beach and everything in between but that's where I spent most of my time.
I was asked to link my first two trips, so here they are:
Trip #1
Trip #2
I'm going to apologize now for the lag in between posts because I havn't had a lot of time lately, but I hope to devote some time every few days to post installments. So...here we go.
Thursday June 12
4:25 a.m.
I am in a robe blow drying my hair and the phone rings. I answer and a pre-recorded message tells me “Your cab has arrived. Press 1 to have the cab wait”. I frantically push 1. Oh my gosh, is it 4:30 already??? “Press the amount of time you’d like to wait”. The voice says. I push 5. “I’m sorry, the maximum amount of minutes available is 4”. I push 4 and hang up. I throw off my robe, tear into my clothes, throw my hair dryer, styling products, brush and comb into my carryon and pull my belongings outside. I couldn’t fit everything into one bag as I had hoped so I needed to check two pieces of luggage. My carryon is a duffle bag with a portable CD player and all of my hair necessities that I just threw inside.
I walk outside and it is pitch black and raining. The cab driver looks cranky and tired. He meets me on my step, grabs one of my bags and grunts “Where are you going”? “The airport” I respond cheerfully. His face is motionless.
I arrive at the airport and check in. The Air Canada counter clerk asks for my passport. I dig into the pocket protector sleeve where I placed it along with my airline and hotel confirmation papers. I look through the various sheets of paper and cannot find it. It must have slipped out at home somewhere I think to myself. Thank goodness I brought my birth certificate with me. She takes my information and hands me my boarding pass. I head upstairs to go through security. Purse goes through OK, Camcorder OK, Carryon – stopped. Various security are called over and they examine my bag more closely. I was expecting this. I seem to always be stopped for some reason or another. When returning in November with Danielle, my bag was stopped in Atlanta and about 5 different security personnel were called in. I remember Danielle whispering to me “What did you put in there”?? “Nothing, I don’t think”! I tell her. As my brain scrambled to think of what might be in the bag. The security guard then opened the bag and pulled out the culprit. My keys had been laying in such a way that they resembled a gun on the x-ray machine.
One of the security ladies runs my bag through a computer test and tells me that apparently my bag has some sort of explosive chemicals appearing on it. She then proceeds to take everything out of my carryon. I am embarrassed because of the sloppy way it looks like I must have packed with hair products and CD player all mixed together in the bag. Another security officer asks me a series of questions and is filling out a form. What is my name, address, can she see my ID, where do I work, do I have a business card, what exactly is it that I do, do I work with explosives, why am I traveling to Jamaica alone. I guess I pass the potential terrorist quiz and they let me proceed to the gate.
I board the plane and we make our way to Toronto. When we get to Toronto I grab my carry on and camcorder and boot it out of the plane. I have 50 minutes to change terminals in Toronto. Air Canada wasn’t sure if they allowed enough time when I spoke to them and if I didn’t make it I would have to try for the Kingston flight 30 minutes later. I did not want to do that because I have a free airport transfer waiting for me at Sangster (because I rented a car and it was part of the deal) and it would cost quite a bit to get from Kingston to Negril.
The Toronto terminals are under construction and they have made it even longer to get from Terminal 1 to 2. I make it just in time to the gate and am one of the last few to board. I take my seat and turn to see who the person is who will be sitting beside for the next 5 hours.
He’s young, probably 20 or so. I say hello and he responds back. I hear a faint Jamaican accent. I get myself situated and pull out a magazine. From the corner of my eye I can tell he is checking me out. Oh brother, this is going to be a long, uncomfortable flight I think to myself. On our way up he asks me the usual, my name, where I am going, am I going along, blah blah. We get into the air and he tells me that he is going back to Jamaica to visit his Grandmother. This is the first time he’s been back to Jamaica since he lived there 10 years ago. He proceeds to tell me about his brand new car he bought, and takes out his car magazine to share with me. He tells me that he no longer feels the need to go clubbing anymore like he did when he graduated from high school a few years back. I laugh to myself, oh to be that young again. He asks what year I graduated and I tell him matter of factly “I graduated from high school 12 years ago”. He doesn’t believe me and I repeat what I said. Silence. “You’re old”. He says. I look at him dryly. He really MUST be young to say such a thing. I go back to reading my magazine. Anytime we’d hit some turbulence, he’d clutch the seat and start talking up a storm to me. “Are you afraid”? I ask him. “Yes, I hate airplanes. I always think we’re going to go down”. I smile and think it’s payback time for the “old” comment. “You know, I went away a couple of years ago”. I tell him. “The plane ride was pure torture. We actually experienced some freefalls, you know that same feeling when you are on a rollercoaster”. He gets a look of terror on his face and then as if God is in on the joke, we hit a patch of turbulence. He seems to be hyperventilating and his nails are dug into the chair.
The captain announces that we are making our descent and I can see the beautiful island below. I see the pretty blue-green water, mountains and green green green everywhere. We hit the ground and I take notice of the handsome airport workers directing planes. Hey, a girl can look right? One imparticular waves at me and my seat neighbor looks at me for my reaction. I wave back. He grabs my camcorder and tells me he will carry it for me. I agree, grab my carry on and we are out the door.
I scoot down the plane stairs trying to take it all in but don’t stop because I want to beat the mad rush to customs. I beeline it to the very left line (thanks to tips from JA.com) and tell my seat neighbor that this will be the fastest. We get to the front pretty quickly and he is impressed. “You were right”. He tells me. It’s my turn and it looks like he wants to talk to the customs agent with me, I tell him it’s probably a good idea if we talk to the guy separately. He nods and I pass the customs man my info. He asks when is the last time I was there, I say 5 months ago. He asks who I am visiting and I tell him a friend. He seems satisfied and lets me through. I pull my stuff and wonder if I should wait for my seat neighbor. He is looking back at me from the customs agents as if to say ‘please wait for me’ so I do. He gets through and we make our way down to get our baggage. Mine were right there when we got down so I grab them. I start to tell him that I will see him on the way back but he looks at me like ‘you’re not going to wait for me’?? I feel bad and so agree to wait for his stuff. He goes and gets a cart and puts my stuff on it. When he gets his bags he puts it on top of mine and pushes it towards the line where you don’t claim anything. I tell him I have coloring books and some toys for kids and think I need to stand in the very long line where you have to claim stuff. He tells me to just to through the no claims line so I do. When the lady asks if I am bringing anything in I breakdown and tell her I do. She asks me what the value is and I tell her $25.00. She asks what I have and then seems too tired to check my stuff so she waves me through.
We get to the doors of the airport exit and I thank my new found friend for pushing my stuff and collect my bags from the cart. He looks kind of hurt that I was leaving so abruptly but what the heck was I going to tell Paul when I see him outside with this guy that seems to have latched himself to me. So I walk away pretty quickly with my stuff and head outside. I look for Paul and Vernon’s driver with the sign. I see the driver right away but don’t see Paul anywhere. Where the heck is he?
I approach the driver and he asks my name. I confirm it’s me. He grabs my stuff and we start walking towards his jeep. As we’re walking he tells me that Paul called about 20 minutes ago, and that the bus had broke down somewhere between Ochi and Negril. He starts to load my stuff and is ready to leave but I tell him I can’t just leave him there! He looks frustrated and asks me what he wants me to do. I ask him to use his phone. “Where are you”?? I ask as soon as he answers the cell. He tells me Runaway Bay somewhere and that the bus is up and running again. I tell him the driver is about to leave and he asks to speak to the driver. After a few minutes of listening to the driver talk to him (I can’t understand what is said) the driver tells me we are to sit and wait for him. The driver says to me “you know this will cost extra”. OF COURSE. So we wait at the gas station parking lot at the airport. Elections are going on and cars with people dressed in green are going by with the soundspeakers blasting reggae. I watch the cars go by driving on the left and try to study them since it will be me driving on the left in the next couple of days. It is hot and humid and I am so taking it in that I am back. I feel like I am home. I sit in the passenger seat of the jeep and stare out to the road where Paul will be coming from. It’s been 5 months since I’ve seen him and I think my heart is about to explode from waiting even 5 more minutes. The driver’s phone rings, he answers and passes it to me. “I’m here baby, I’ll see you in a minute”.
I was asked to link my first two trips, so here they are:
Trip #1
Trip #2
I'm going to apologize now for the lag in between posts because I havn't had a lot of time lately, but I hope to devote some time every few days to post installments. So...here we go.
Thursday June 12
4:25 a.m.
I am in a robe blow drying my hair and the phone rings. I answer and a pre-recorded message tells me “Your cab has arrived. Press 1 to have the cab wait”. I frantically push 1. Oh my gosh, is it 4:30 already??? “Press the amount of time you’d like to wait”. The voice says. I push 5. “I’m sorry, the maximum amount of minutes available is 4”. I push 4 and hang up. I throw off my robe, tear into my clothes, throw my hair dryer, styling products, brush and comb into my carryon and pull my belongings outside. I couldn’t fit everything into one bag as I had hoped so I needed to check two pieces of luggage. My carryon is a duffle bag with a portable CD player and all of my hair necessities that I just threw inside.
I walk outside and it is pitch black and raining. The cab driver looks cranky and tired. He meets me on my step, grabs one of my bags and grunts “Where are you going”? “The airport” I respond cheerfully. His face is motionless.
I arrive at the airport and check in. The Air Canada counter clerk asks for my passport. I dig into the pocket protector sleeve where I placed it along with my airline and hotel confirmation papers. I look through the various sheets of paper and cannot find it. It must have slipped out at home somewhere I think to myself. Thank goodness I brought my birth certificate with me. She takes my information and hands me my boarding pass. I head upstairs to go through security. Purse goes through OK, Camcorder OK, Carryon – stopped. Various security are called over and they examine my bag more closely. I was expecting this. I seem to always be stopped for some reason or another. When returning in November with Danielle, my bag was stopped in Atlanta and about 5 different security personnel were called in. I remember Danielle whispering to me “What did you put in there”?? “Nothing, I don’t think”! I tell her. As my brain scrambled to think of what might be in the bag. The security guard then opened the bag and pulled out the culprit. My keys had been laying in such a way that they resembled a gun on the x-ray machine.
One of the security ladies runs my bag through a computer test and tells me that apparently my bag has some sort of explosive chemicals appearing on it. She then proceeds to take everything out of my carryon. I am embarrassed because of the sloppy way it looks like I must have packed with hair products and CD player all mixed together in the bag. Another security officer asks me a series of questions and is filling out a form. What is my name, address, can she see my ID, where do I work, do I have a business card, what exactly is it that I do, do I work with explosives, why am I traveling to Jamaica alone. I guess I pass the potential terrorist quiz and they let me proceed to the gate.
I board the plane and we make our way to Toronto. When we get to Toronto I grab my carry on and camcorder and boot it out of the plane. I have 50 minutes to change terminals in Toronto. Air Canada wasn’t sure if they allowed enough time when I spoke to them and if I didn’t make it I would have to try for the Kingston flight 30 minutes later. I did not want to do that because I have a free airport transfer waiting for me at Sangster (because I rented a car and it was part of the deal) and it would cost quite a bit to get from Kingston to Negril.
The Toronto terminals are under construction and they have made it even longer to get from Terminal 1 to 2. I make it just in time to the gate and am one of the last few to board. I take my seat and turn to see who the person is who will be sitting beside for the next 5 hours.
He’s young, probably 20 or so. I say hello and he responds back. I hear a faint Jamaican accent. I get myself situated and pull out a magazine. From the corner of my eye I can tell he is checking me out. Oh brother, this is going to be a long, uncomfortable flight I think to myself. On our way up he asks me the usual, my name, where I am going, am I going along, blah blah. We get into the air and he tells me that he is going back to Jamaica to visit his Grandmother. This is the first time he’s been back to Jamaica since he lived there 10 years ago. He proceeds to tell me about his brand new car he bought, and takes out his car magazine to share with me. He tells me that he no longer feels the need to go clubbing anymore like he did when he graduated from high school a few years back. I laugh to myself, oh to be that young again. He asks what year I graduated and I tell him matter of factly “I graduated from high school 12 years ago”. He doesn’t believe me and I repeat what I said. Silence. “You’re old”. He says. I look at him dryly. He really MUST be young to say such a thing. I go back to reading my magazine. Anytime we’d hit some turbulence, he’d clutch the seat and start talking up a storm to me. “Are you afraid”? I ask him. “Yes, I hate airplanes. I always think we’re going to go down”. I smile and think it’s payback time for the “old” comment. “You know, I went away a couple of years ago”. I tell him. “The plane ride was pure torture. We actually experienced some freefalls, you know that same feeling when you are on a rollercoaster”. He gets a look of terror on his face and then as if God is in on the joke, we hit a patch of turbulence. He seems to be hyperventilating and his nails are dug into the chair.
The captain announces that we are making our descent and I can see the beautiful island below. I see the pretty blue-green water, mountains and green green green everywhere. We hit the ground and I take notice of the handsome airport workers directing planes. Hey, a girl can look right? One imparticular waves at me and my seat neighbor looks at me for my reaction. I wave back. He grabs my camcorder and tells me he will carry it for me. I agree, grab my carry on and we are out the door.
I scoot down the plane stairs trying to take it all in but don’t stop because I want to beat the mad rush to customs. I beeline it to the very left line (thanks to tips from JA.com) and tell my seat neighbor that this will be the fastest. We get to the front pretty quickly and he is impressed. “You were right”. He tells me. It’s my turn and it looks like he wants to talk to the customs agent with me, I tell him it’s probably a good idea if we talk to the guy separately. He nods and I pass the customs man my info. He asks when is the last time I was there, I say 5 months ago. He asks who I am visiting and I tell him a friend. He seems satisfied and lets me through. I pull my stuff and wonder if I should wait for my seat neighbor. He is looking back at me from the customs agents as if to say ‘please wait for me’ so I do. He gets through and we make our way down to get our baggage. Mine were right there when we got down so I grab them. I start to tell him that I will see him on the way back but he looks at me like ‘you’re not going to wait for me’?? I feel bad and so agree to wait for his stuff. He goes and gets a cart and puts my stuff on it. When he gets his bags he puts it on top of mine and pushes it towards the line where you don’t claim anything. I tell him I have coloring books and some toys for kids and think I need to stand in the very long line where you have to claim stuff. He tells me to just to through the no claims line so I do. When the lady asks if I am bringing anything in I breakdown and tell her I do. She asks me what the value is and I tell her $25.00. She asks what I have and then seems too tired to check my stuff so she waves me through.
We get to the doors of the airport exit and I thank my new found friend for pushing my stuff and collect my bags from the cart. He looks kind of hurt that I was leaving so abruptly but what the heck was I going to tell Paul when I see him outside with this guy that seems to have latched himself to me. So I walk away pretty quickly with my stuff and head outside. I look for Paul and Vernon’s driver with the sign. I see the driver right away but don’t see Paul anywhere. Where the heck is he?
I approach the driver and he asks my name. I confirm it’s me. He grabs my stuff and we start walking towards his jeep. As we’re walking he tells me that Paul called about 20 minutes ago, and that the bus had broke down somewhere between Ochi and Negril. He starts to load my stuff and is ready to leave but I tell him I can’t just leave him there! He looks frustrated and asks me what he wants me to do. I ask him to use his phone. “Where are you”?? I ask as soon as he answers the cell. He tells me Runaway Bay somewhere and that the bus is up and running again. I tell him the driver is about to leave and he asks to speak to the driver. After a few minutes of listening to the driver talk to him (I can’t understand what is said) the driver tells me we are to sit and wait for him. The driver says to me “you know this will cost extra”. OF COURSE. So we wait at the gas station parking lot at the airport. Elections are going on and cars with people dressed in green are going by with the soundspeakers blasting reggae. I watch the cars go by driving on the left and try to study them since it will be me driving on the left in the next couple of days. It is hot and humid and I am so taking it in that I am back. I feel like I am home. I sit in the passenger seat of the jeep and stare out to the road where Paul will be coming from. It’s been 5 months since I’ve seen him and I think my heart is about to explode from waiting even 5 more minutes. The driver’s phone rings, he answers and passes it to me. “I’m here baby, I’ll see you in a minute”.
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