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(continued from Part One)
The two shows that stand out from my trip, given the unusually dimwitted musical offerings at Alfred's, were a Tuesday late night show at Roots Bamboo, and the annual Bob Marley Birthday Bash at MXIII. Roots' show was a dandy: a bunch of old pros from Hanover and Westmoreland playing the real deal (yeah, I'm a codger in Negril: if it ain't roots, I ain't listening), backing up some great singers. Roots Bamboo often sets up the bands in the bar, rather than on the beach, which makes for a much more intimate setting to watch these players at work. A great drummer (but that's almost a given, in Jamaica) and a solid horn section had me sitting on the floor in front of the band like an awe-struck kid.
As Roots shows are wont to do, this one went well past the usual 1:00 AM curfew, and the late hour brought out the usual assortment of hookers, hustlers and pitchmen. One working girl in particular had even the most tolerant Jamaicans alternately laughing and threatening violence. She'd offer you her services, but after two or three rounds of "no thank you" would begin screaming at you, threatening the worst sort of bad end. She was indeed a force to be reckoned with, and I hope she got whatever she deserved. Lovely girl. In spite of her charms, I had a great time, as did all concerned, and I got home well after 4:00 AM.
The Bob Marley Birthday Bash, which was first held about 10 years ago, has become an annual event, and I've attended several. In contrast to many of the concerts that have been held in Negril over the years, this one is always well-organized, and as-advertised, at least in my experience. Any long-time visitor can remember showing up to see, oh, Yellowman, for instance, and being disappointed. One would arrive fashionably late, hear some truly awful opening acts, and leave without seeing the headliner only after a "scheduled" power failure plunged all of Negril into darkness, mostly to impede any riot that might have ensued over the no-show. The MXIII shows have always been the antithesis of that sort of nonsense, and this year was no exception.
Given the huge amount of talent scheduled, they actually had to spread the show over two nights this year, and I chose to attend the seemingly more "rootsy" lineup on Thursday night, Bob's actual birthday. There were over a dozen singers scheduled that night, backed up by a tasty house band, but my personal highlight was the great Everton Blender. The man is absolutely hypnotic. In contrast to a bunch of cursory "rasta" references by some of the warmup acts, Everton is a "real" Rastafarian (however loose that definition seems to be, even among Jamaicans), and opened his set in complete darkness by reciting some Rastafarian "scripture" along with some chilling, but pointed references to Babylon (we non-Africans). Given that I've never been offended by that sort of thing, I was ready for more, and he didn't disappoint. His singing is as emotionally charged as you'll hear outside of a Baptist church, and the crowd was eating it up. People were singing, waving ANC and Jamaican flags, holding up kids to be touched by Everton, and generally behaving in a way that even a jaded ex-musician such as I could react to. I've been to many shows, by all manner of performers, in many different places, but this crowd's response, and mine, was as magical as anything I've experienced. An exceptionally cool device Everton employs is to start each song with a shout of "run tings!", much as an American bandleader might say "a-one, a-two.." He doesn't screw around with any "proper" English between-song banter for the tourists, either. My patois is better than it used to be, but I remained blissfully ignorant of half of what he was saying, which was the whole idea, I suppose. I hung around for a couple of anticlimactic follow-up acts, but my night was essentially over when Everton left the stage. I told my cab driver that what I'd just seen was like "being in church", and he grabbed me by the arm, and laughed out loud, as if to say, "now you FINALLY get it!" Yeah, I felt that way, too, dude.
Actually, the whole atmosphere at MXIII was perfect that night. I'd say the Jamaicans inside outnumbered tourists about three to one, and security seemed to have purchased turbocharged knucklehead-detectors for use at the door. Absolutely no hassles of any kind, and all manner of acts of kindness from the locals. At one point I was eyeballing some festival cooking on a grill, and the cook grabbed a piece, handed it to me, and sent me on my way. Another guy at another stand did the same thing with some grilled fish. A woman hawking jewelry was perfectly willing to GIVE me a bracelet after dropping some names with her. I declined, and she seemed disappointed, but I simply felt she didn't need to do that. No money changed hands during any of these encounters, of course. Two perfect strangers bought me beers, after only the briefest of conversations. None of this surprises me out of Jamaicans any more, but I think too many tourists get the wrong impression about the country by only experiencing the "I'm working--buy something" face of the people. I point it out simply as a common example of how a guy with "tourist schmuck" written all over him (me) can be treated in Jamaica, given the right circumstances. Maybe Negril doesn't amaze me like it used to, but it always manages to confirm my faith in humanity. In case you wondered, I'm a nearing-middle-age white guy, and I don't "dress down" or pull any sort of "Jamerican" act when in Negril. I am in no way trying to "fit in", which I suppose is my way of saying that my experiences in Jamaica are all the more genuine.
Earlier that day, I'd finally managed to spend an entire day in the West End, and as much as the beach has changed over the years, it was refreshing to see how little it has evolved on "the cliffs". After a stroll through Red Ground to look up some old haunts, I went down to Xtabi for some snorkeling. As bad as the reef has become, it isn't any worse here than it was three years ago. Maybe the message is getting out. After a couple of hours snorkeling, I headed up to 3 Dives for their wonderful, and ridiculously cheap, jerk chicken, I'd forgotten just how cool this place can be. I tend to avoid the roadside guys and their chicken, if only because they never make it spicy enough for me, and there are too few of them around anymore anyway, given the crackdown on "renegade" vendors in recent years. In addition to cooploads o' yardbird and a cold one for about three bucks, I'd forgotten what a great location 3 Dives is for sunset. I followed my late lunch with a jaunt up to Pirate's Cave, just as a boatload of morons was arriving by water on their "sunset" cruise. The "lifeguard" at Pirate's Cove actually performs a useful service, given the sunburned cretins who swim from their hired boats to dive off the cliffs there, but his tip box remained empty boatload after boatload. My pity tip was appreciated, but hardly made his day.
From there I walked into the old Pickled Parrot, which is closed for business, but open to anyone who wanders in, and I dreamed of the million five it would take to buy the place. Popped into Mariner's too, and was happy to see the famous limestone "blow hole" there still barks and squirts water on you when the sea gets rough. In all, I spent about 4 hours walking around the West End that day and, as usual, promised myself that I'll stay up there next trip. Had a few at the Negril Yacht Club too, and that simply confirmed that, for better or worse, the West End is largely unchanged from my earliest memories of it.
Among the places that HAVE changed in Negril, a couple of examples stand out. Wow, there's a brand new Texaco station in town! Looks just like home. And, what's that yellow and red thing by the roundabout? Wait a minute... it's a... no it can't be... it's a BURGER KING!!! I thought the world ended when they put a drive-through KFC over in Sav-La-Mar, but this new bit of disnecessity really depressed me. The beach in general now has plenty of figurative grease stains, too. The new, improved, official Jimmy Buffethead Margaritaville is a little much, although I got dragged in there one night and it didn't kill me. It was here that I discovered that one can actually order a Jamaican beer other than Red Stripe or Dragon Stout. I tried a few of the new (to me) Real Rock beers, and I think the Red Stripe powers at D & G had better worry. Not half bad, and two for one after nine o'clock. Yeah, to make all you parrotheads happy, I tried a margarita and it was quite good.
The new resorts, along with the old ones that have been remodeled, are certainly, uh, well, different. Next door to where I stayed (Firefly) is a brand new, fairly deluxe-looking fluorescent pink resort called "It's For Real" (or something like that). When I arrived, there was NOBODY staying in this fairly large resort, in spite of the fact that the hot tub was bubbling, the staff was at the ready, and all the tiki lamps were lit. The reigning theory seemed to be that it was a "front" of some kind to launder offshore money, but this idea was quashed a few days later when actual tourists appeared in a couple of the rooms. We did enjoy the cheap beers at their little beach bar, and the fact that they didn't close until the last drunk went home. Many of the old places, like Mariposa, have constructed huge, new, modern buildings, and I guess it's all good. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. I managed to avoid the urge to check out the new, disco-rific club called The Jungle. I can eat ecstacy, pay cover to listen to records, and act desperate back home. But I'm sure people were enjoying themselves in there. At night, the growth of Negril is readily apparent just by scanning the glut of lights that now line the shore all the way to the horizon. Someone ought to get a high-powered rifle and do something about that supremely annoying spotlight at Margaritaville, by the way. It's omnipresent, no matter where you look while facing the beach in Negril.
Not far from The Jungle is the new topless bar. The old one, up in town, was pretty hilarious, with all the edginess you'd expect from a place like that in the Third World. The new place is called Flirts, and while I declined any urges to see it firsthand, a few acquaintances pronounced it "first class", however that compliment may apply to this sort of establishment. The funniest thing about Flirts is the sign, which subtitles it the "Cultural Dance Academy" or something to that effect. It's always good to encourage culture, I say, even on one's lap.
Also on the beach road is the new plaza, which was being built during my last visit, Times Square. It's much like the Sunshine Plaza down by the harbor, but even more elaborate. There's even a (gulp) mini Rick's Cafe in there. The upside is that a carton of American cigarettes can be had for about twenty five bucks. Hey, we all have our priorities.
Among some nameless patty stands and steamed vegetable and soup spots, my remaining meals in Negril included a great lunch of fried rice (best I've ever had... seriously), home made chicken soup and a patty at a place whose name I'm still kicking myself for forgetting. It's between Chances and Firefly, if that helps. I took it for granted, so I didn't write it down, but look for it. A touristy, but really tasty, restaurant I'll always love is Kuyaba, and I had my obligatory Beef Stroganoff (yeah, I know it's not very Jamaican--sue me) and a shrimp-wrapped-in-bacon appetizer. Oh man, it's good. Not cheap, but one sometimes gets what one pays for, even in Negril.
Finally, another old favorite of mine, Gino's Ristorante (on the beach, out in front of Mariposa) has only improved as it has gentrified. I remember when Gino (yeah, there's really a Gino, and he's really Italian) first opened, and he did the best he could with local ingredients to re-create an authentic Italian menu. Well, times change, and Gino now has what would be a nice place in any location, with red table cloths, bilingual, doting waiters, a good wine list, and solid food. The prices, amazingly, have not gone up as long as I've been going there. A decent bottle of Valpolicella is still about $15.00, but the carbonara now has REAL pancetta in it, and a big plate o' pasta is still only about nine bucks. The bruschetta, with those always-amazing Westmoreland tomatoes, is still a treat. The service is great, especially compared to those years-ago "order breakfast the night before, and it might be ready by 11:00 AM" experiences, and this applies to Negril as a whole. This, and the fact that the most aggressive higglers have been chased off the beach, are some of the positive changes over the years, happily offsetting some of the negative ones.
My remaining time was spent working on my "yes, I've really been on vacation for the past ten days, not in jail" tan, snorkeling, and wandering the beach. I managed to avoid any particularly dangerous acts, and encountered no more crime, in spite of my usual carefree (read: careless) attitude. I didn't miss my usual at-home dose of television and American newspapers, as I never do in Negril, but I found that the BBC World Service (at about 97FM in Negril) is a good taste of the real world once a day, if one is so inclined. I never even rented a motorcycle, which I usually do, so I guess I'm now officially old and have a sense of mortality. Bummer.
To all those who have asked about cell phones in Negril, I'll share my experience. I needed a cell phone (for a nagging, back-home situation), and found that by renting a Digicell phone for twenty five bucks (U.S.), I was able to receive calls all week at no additional charge. How cool is that? No, not the fact that people could find and annoy me in Negril, but the fact that in Jamaica, only the person placing the call is charged. To make calls, I bought a Digicell card (for $500J: about ten bucks U.S.), and made several calls to the States without using it up. Firefly had both the phones and cards available, but they seemed to readily available all over the place. Good quality digital phones, too.
Another Saturday rolled around, and my special dispensation had expired. I simply had to remember to wake up, pack, and wait for "Jerry" to show up to take me back to Mo Bay. I woke up without any unusual pain, packed, grabbed a patty and a Dirty Banana for breakfast, and sat and relaxed while waiting for my driver. Periodically, I'd walk out to the road to see if he'd arrived, but all I'd see was a van, some strange driver and no sign of "Jerry". On my third trip out to the road, I finally decided to ask this unknown driver if he knew "Jerry". "I'm Jerry", said this stranger. "No, you're not", I replied, sensing some sort of major beach scam in the making. "I drove all day with Jerry on Monday, and I'd know him in the dark. You ain't him!" "But I AM Jerry, mon. NIGEL Jerry. You musta been wit' mi bredda, PAUL Jerry." Apparently the first of the Jerry brothers had been unable to make it, and had sent his brother to drive me to Mo Bay. I couldn't believe this hadn't happened before to a guy with a first name for a last name, but he still seemed as confused as I was. We finally had a good laugh when we made ourselves understood, and got started to Mo Bay.
Usually, the trip back to Mo Bay is uneventful, and that of a sad, beaten man leaving a place he loves. This one promised to be no different as Jerry Number Two grilled me about "the war" and other events about which I'd hoped to forget until I hit U.S. airspace. Luckily, while getting gas in Lucea, my depression was interrupted by a guy in a car, honking and pointing at me. You should know that although I've been to Jamaica many times, I never expect to be recognized by anyone outside of Negril, and I figured this was going to nothing but trouble. Happily, I finally recognized the driver as Winston, one of the bartenders at Alfred's, and he seemed as surprised to be yelling at an American outside of Negril as I was to be recognized. A silly thing maybe, but made me feel like a big shot, rather than just another tourist heading back to reality. We chatted for while, and I resumed my trip to Mo Bay without incident. Jerry Number Two seemed duly impressed at my encounter in Lucea, by the way. Nothing but maximum respect after that.
My flight home included a connection in Charlotte, North Carolina, and after dealing with the usual, surly U.S. Customs agents ("what do mean, you're travelling alone? We'll just have to check this OUT, won't we?), I had about an hour to kill in the Charlotte airport. Since I had been wearing my lovely new Jamaican footwear for a few days, I hadn't given them a second thought for a while. As I exited customs, I gave a friendly nod to a well-dressed gentleman who smiled back, took a look down towards my feet and, without the slightest bit of sarcasm, exclaimed... "nice shoes!".
The two shows that stand out from my trip, given the unusually dimwitted musical offerings at Alfred's, were a Tuesday late night show at Roots Bamboo, and the annual Bob Marley Birthday Bash at MXIII. Roots' show was a dandy: a bunch of old pros from Hanover and Westmoreland playing the real deal (yeah, I'm a codger in Negril: if it ain't roots, I ain't listening), backing up some great singers. Roots Bamboo often sets up the bands in the bar, rather than on the beach, which makes for a much more intimate setting to watch these players at work. A great drummer (but that's almost a given, in Jamaica) and a solid horn section had me sitting on the floor in front of the band like an awe-struck kid.
As Roots shows are wont to do, this one went well past the usual 1:00 AM curfew, and the late hour brought out the usual assortment of hookers, hustlers and pitchmen. One working girl in particular had even the most tolerant Jamaicans alternately laughing and threatening violence. She'd offer you her services, but after two or three rounds of "no thank you" would begin screaming at you, threatening the worst sort of bad end. She was indeed a force to be reckoned with, and I hope she got whatever she deserved. Lovely girl. In spite of her charms, I had a great time, as did all concerned, and I got home well after 4:00 AM.
The Bob Marley Birthday Bash, which was first held about 10 years ago, has become an annual event, and I've attended several. In contrast to many of the concerts that have been held in Negril over the years, this one is always well-organized, and as-advertised, at least in my experience. Any long-time visitor can remember showing up to see, oh, Yellowman, for instance, and being disappointed. One would arrive fashionably late, hear some truly awful opening acts, and leave without seeing the headliner only after a "scheduled" power failure plunged all of Negril into darkness, mostly to impede any riot that might have ensued over the no-show. The MXIII shows have always been the antithesis of that sort of nonsense, and this year was no exception.
Given the huge amount of talent scheduled, they actually had to spread the show over two nights this year, and I chose to attend the seemingly more "rootsy" lineup on Thursday night, Bob's actual birthday. There were over a dozen singers scheduled that night, backed up by a tasty house band, but my personal highlight was the great Everton Blender. The man is absolutely hypnotic. In contrast to a bunch of cursory "rasta" references by some of the warmup acts, Everton is a "real" Rastafarian (however loose that definition seems to be, even among Jamaicans), and opened his set in complete darkness by reciting some Rastafarian "scripture" along with some chilling, but pointed references to Babylon (we non-Africans). Given that I've never been offended by that sort of thing, I was ready for more, and he didn't disappoint. His singing is as emotionally charged as you'll hear outside of a Baptist church, and the crowd was eating it up. People were singing, waving ANC and Jamaican flags, holding up kids to be touched by Everton, and generally behaving in a way that even a jaded ex-musician such as I could react to. I've been to many shows, by all manner of performers, in many different places, but this crowd's response, and mine, was as magical as anything I've experienced. An exceptionally cool device Everton employs is to start each song with a shout of "run tings!", much as an American bandleader might say "a-one, a-two.." He doesn't screw around with any "proper" English between-song banter for the tourists, either. My patois is better than it used to be, but I remained blissfully ignorant of half of what he was saying, which was the whole idea, I suppose. I hung around for a couple of anticlimactic follow-up acts, but my night was essentially over when Everton left the stage. I told my cab driver that what I'd just seen was like "being in church", and he grabbed me by the arm, and laughed out loud, as if to say, "now you FINALLY get it!" Yeah, I felt that way, too, dude.
Actually, the whole atmosphere at MXIII was perfect that night. I'd say the Jamaicans inside outnumbered tourists about three to one, and security seemed to have purchased turbocharged knucklehead-detectors for use at the door. Absolutely no hassles of any kind, and all manner of acts of kindness from the locals. At one point I was eyeballing some festival cooking on a grill, and the cook grabbed a piece, handed it to me, and sent me on my way. Another guy at another stand did the same thing with some grilled fish. A woman hawking jewelry was perfectly willing to GIVE me a bracelet after dropping some names with her. I declined, and she seemed disappointed, but I simply felt she didn't need to do that. No money changed hands during any of these encounters, of course. Two perfect strangers bought me beers, after only the briefest of conversations. None of this surprises me out of Jamaicans any more, but I think too many tourists get the wrong impression about the country by only experiencing the "I'm working--buy something" face of the people. I point it out simply as a common example of how a guy with "tourist schmuck" written all over him (me) can be treated in Jamaica, given the right circumstances. Maybe Negril doesn't amaze me like it used to, but it always manages to confirm my faith in humanity. In case you wondered, I'm a nearing-middle-age white guy, and I don't "dress down" or pull any sort of "Jamerican" act when in Negril. I am in no way trying to "fit in", which I suppose is my way of saying that my experiences in Jamaica are all the more genuine.
Earlier that day, I'd finally managed to spend an entire day in the West End, and as much as the beach has changed over the years, it was refreshing to see how little it has evolved on "the cliffs". After a stroll through Red Ground to look up some old haunts, I went down to Xtabi for some snorkeling. As bad as the reef has become, it isn't any worse here than it was three years ago. Maybe the message is getting out. After a couple of hours snorkeling, I headed up to 3 Dives for their wonderful, and ridiculously cheap, jerk chicken, I'd forgotten just how cool this place can be. I tend to avoid the roadside guys and their chicken, if only because they never make it spicy enough for me, and there are too few of them around anymore anyway, given the crackdown on "renegade" vendors in recent years. In addition to cooploads o' yardbird and a cold one for about three bucks, I'd forgotten what a great location 3 Dives is for sunset. I followed my late lunch with a jaunt up to Pirate's Cave, just as a boatload of morons was arriving by water on their "sunset" cruise. The "lifeguard" at Pirate's Cove actually performs a useful service, given the sunburned cretins who swim from their hired boats to dive off the cliffs there, but his tip box remained empty boatload after boatload. My pity tip was appreciated, but hardly made his day.
From there I walked into the old Pickled Parrot, which is closed for business, but open to anyone who wanders in, and I dreamed of the million five it would take to buy the place. Popped into Mariner's too, and was happy to see the famous limestone "blow hole" there still barks and squirts water on you when the sea gets rough. In all, I spent about 4 hours walking around the West End that day and, as usual, promised myself that I'll stay up there next trip. Had a few at the Negril Yacht Club too, and that simply confirmed that, for better or worse, the West End is largely unchanged from my earliest memories of it.
Among the places that HAVE changed in Negril, a couple of examples stand out. Wow, there's a brand new Texaco station in town! Looks just like home. And, what's that yellow and red thing by the roundabout? Wait a minute... it's a... no it can't be... it's a BURGER KING!!! I thought the world ended when they put a drive-through KFC over in Sav-La-Mar, but this new bit of disnecessity really depressed me. The beach in general now has plenty of figurative grease stains, too. The new, improved, official Jimmy Buffethead Margaritaville is a little much, although I got dragged in there one night and it didn't kill me. It was here that I discovered that one can actually order a Jamaican beer other than Red Stripe or Dragon Stout. I tried a few of the new (to me) Real Rock beers, and I think the Red Stripe powers at D & G had better worry. Not half bad, and two for one after nine o'clock. Yeah, to make all you parrotheads happy, I tried a margarita and it was quite good.
The new resorts, along with the old ones that have been remodeled, are certainly, uh, well, different. Next door to where I stayed (Firefly) is a brand new, fairly deluxe-looking fluorescent pink resort called "It's For Real" (or something like that). When I arrived, there was NOBODY staying in this fairly large resort, in spite of the fact that the hot tub was bubbling, the staff was at the ready, and all the tiki lamps were lit. The reigning theory seemed to be that it was a "front" of some kind to launder offshore money, but this idea was quashed a few days later when actual tourists appeared in a couple of the rooms. We did enjoy the cheap beers at their little beach bar, and the fact that they didn't close until the last drunk went home. Many of the old places, like Mariposa, have constructed huge, new, modern buildings, and I guess it's all good. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. I managed to avoid the urge to check out the new, disco-rific club called The Jungle. I can eat ecstacy, pay cover to listen to records, and act desperate back home. But I'm sure people were enjoying themselves in there. At night, the growth of Negril is readily apparent just by scanning the glut of lights that now line the shore all the way to the horizon. Someone ought to get a high-powered rifle and do something about that supremely annoying spotlight at Margaritaville, by the way. It's omnipresent, no matter where you look while facing the beach in Negril.
Not far from The Jungle is the new topless bar. The old one, up in town, was pretty hilarious, with all the edginess you'd expect from a place like that in the Third World. The new place is called Flirts, and while I declined any urges to see it firsthand, a few acquaintances pronounced it "first class", however that compliment may apply to this sort of establishment. The funniest thing about Flirts is the sign, which subtitles it the "Cultural Dance Academy" or something to that effect. It's always good to encourage culture, I say, even on one's lap.
Also on the beach road is the new plaza, which was being built during my last visit, Times Square. It's much like the Sunshine Plaza down by the harbor, but even more elaborate. There's even a (gulp) mini Rick's Cafe in there. The upside is that a carton of American cigarettes can be had for about twenty five bucks. Hey, we all have our priorities.
Among some nameless patty stands and steamed vegetable and soup spots, my remaining meals in Negril included a great lunch of fried rice (best I've ever had... seriously), home made chicken soup and a patty at a place whose name I'm still kicking myself for forgetting. It's between Chances and Firefly, if that helps. I took it for granted, so I didn't write it down, but look for it. A touristy, but really tasty, restaurant I'll always love is Kuyaba, and I had my obligatory Beef Stroganoff (yeah, I know it's not very Jamaican--sue me) and a shrimp-wrapped-in-bacon appetizer. Oh man, it's good. Not cheap, but one sometimes gets what one pays for, even in Negril.
Finally, another old favorite of mine, Gino's Ristorante (on the beach, out in front of Mariposa) has only improved as it has gentrified. I remember when Gino (yeah, there's really a Gino, and he's really Italian) first opened, and he did the best he could with local ingredients to re-create an authentic Italian menu. Well, times change, and Gino now has what would be a nice place in any location, with red table cloths, bilingual, doting waiters, a good wine list, and solid food. The prices, amazingly, have not gone up as long as I've been going there. A decent bottle of Valpolicella is still about $15.00, but the carbonara now has REAL pancetta in it, and a big plate o' pasta is still only about nine bucks. The bruschetta, with those always-amazing Westmoreland tomatoes, is still a treat. The service is great, especially compared to those years-ago "order breakfast the night before, and it might be ready by 11:00 AM" experiences, and this applies to Negril as a whole. This, and the fact that the most aggressive higglers have been chased off the beach, are some of the positive changes over the years, happily offsetting some of the negative ones.
My remaining time was spent working on my "yes, I've really been on vacation for the past ten days, not in jail" tan, snorkeling, and wandering the beach. I managed to avoid any particularly dangerous acts, and encountered no more crime, in spite of my usual carefree (read: careless) attitude. I didn't miss my usual at-home dose of television and American newspapers, as I never do in Negril, but I found that the BBC World Service (at about 97FM in Negril) is a good taste of the real world once a day, if one is so inclined. I never even rented a motorcycle, which I usually do, so I guess I'm now officially old and have a sense of mortality. Bummer.
To all those who have asked about cell phones in Negril, I'll share my experience. I needed a cell phone (for a nagging, back-home situation), and found that by renting a Digicell phone for twenty five bucks (U.S.), I was able to receive calls all week at no additional charge. How cool is that? No, not the fact that people could find and annoy me in Negril, but the fact that in Jamaica, only the person placing the call is charged. To make calls, I bought a Digicell card (for $500J: about ten bucks U.S.), and made several calls to the States without using it up. Firefly had both the phones and cards available, but they seemed to readily available all over the place. Good quality digital phones, too.
Another Saturday rolled around, and my special dispensation had expired. I simply had to remember to wake up, pack, and wait for "Jerry" to show up to take me back to Mo Bay. I woke up without any unusual pain, packed, grabbed a patty and a Dirty Banana for breakfast, and sat and relaxed while waiting for my driver. Periodically, I'd walk out to the road to see if he'd arrived, but all I'd see was a van, some strange driver and no sign of "Jerry". On my third trip out to the road, I finally decided to ask this unknown driver if he knew "Jerry". "I'm Jerry", said this stranger. "No, you're not", I replied, sensing some sort of major beach scam in the making. "I drove all day with Jerry on Monday, and I'd know him in the dark. You ain't him!" "But I AM Jerry, mon. NIGEL Jerry. You musta been wit' mi bredda, PAUL Jerry." Apparently the first of the Jerry brothers had been unable to make it, and had sent his brother to drive me to Mo Bay. I couldn't believe this hadn't happened before to a guy with a first name for a last name, but he still seemed as confused as I was. We finally had a good laugh when we made ourselves understood, and got started to Mo Bay.
Usually, the trip back to Mo Bay is uneventful, and that of a sad, beaten man leaving a place he loves. This one promised to be no different as Jerry Number Two grilled me about "the war" and other events about which I'd hoped to forget until I hit U.S. airspace. Luckily, while getting gas in Lucea, my depression was interrupted by a guy in a car, honking and pointing at me. You should know that although I've been to Jamaica many times, I never expect to be recognized by anyone outside of Negril, and I figured this was going to nothing but trouble. Happily, I finally recognized the driver as Winston, one of the bartenders at Alfred's, and he seemed as surprised to be yelling at an American outside of Negril as I was to be recognized. A silly thing maybe, but made me feel like a big shot, rather than just another tourist heading back to reality. We chatted for while, and I resumed my trip to Mo Bay without incident. Jerry Number Two seemed duly impressed at my encounter in Lucea, by the way. Nothing but maximum respect after that.
My flight home included a connection in Charlotte, North Carolina, and after dealing with the usual, surly U.S. Customs agents ("what do mean, you're travelling alone? We'll just have to check this OUT, won't we?), I had about an hour to kill in the Charlotte airport. Since I had been wearing my lovely new Jamaican footwear for a few days, I hadn't given them a second thought for a while. As I exited customs, I gave a friendly nod to a well-dressed gentleman who smiled back, took a look down towards my feet and, without the slightest bit of sarcasm, exclaimed... "nice shoes!".
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