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Re: Ocho Rios, Jamaica Inn, Blue Mountains, Nine Mile with photos
We get to Nine Miles, and the scene gets a little “other worldly”, I guess you could say.
I have never seen anyone really write about simply getting in the gate, so I’ll do that.
The village comes up on you, and there are these Rastas in the road, with badges around their necks. I figure that this must be it. They start to open these (wooden/bamboo?) gates that make up part of this (six foot?) privacy fence that surrounds the entire property.
In the meantime, twenty people have appeared out of no where, all armed with herb. Some of it is in a baggie, some are rolled in spliffs, some people have entire stems of buds – the leaves haven’t even been taken off. The offers for “tours” of ganga farms are flying.
Twenty people are talking all at once, all at different points in their offer, but all talking about herb. I can only make out parts of what is being said behind me. I hear “Princess” and “Goddess” sprinkled in there as well.
Finally, one guy with a lion charm around his neck gets right in my window, and we start chatting. He wants to sell me this spliff, -
HIM - “Smoke Goddess?”
ME - “No, thanks – but I do like your lion.”
HIM - “Do you want to trade?”
And I should have traded him. Damn it – but things were moving so fast. There were arms and faces everywhere in the truck. The people at Bob’s were shooing these guys off the truck, and one of the elder Rastas was making Delroy pull forward and back up a million times so that the truck would be perfectly parked.
I should have given him my necklace, and taken his – that would have been a great thing to do – to say “I traded with a guy at Bob’s place in Jamaica, and he has my necklace in Jamaica.” Oh well, next time.
It was the biggest “ball of energy” on the entire trip – that entrance. It must be somewhat like what celebrities experience when their car is being “papparazzi’d”, (but with cameras and microphones.)
I had mixed feelings about the fence – I understand why it is there, because tourists are getting hustled, and getting hustled leads to anxiety, anxiety leads to anger, and people never come back, or talk badly about the place.
On the other hand, I wondered what Bob thought about it – locking the people of his hamlet out of his place. Bob didn’t lock his car doors, because if you did, you were keeping people out. He didn’t want people to be kept out.
We get to Nine Miles, and the scene gets a little “other worldly”, I guess you could say.
I have never seen anyone really write about simply getting in the gate, so I’ll do that.
The village comes up on you, and there are these Rastas in the road, with badges around their necks. I figure that this must be it. They start to open these (wooden/bamboo?) gates that make up part of this (six foot?) privacy fence that surrounds the entire property.
In the meantime, twenty people have appeared out of no where, all armed with herb. Some of it is in a baggie, some are rolled in spliffs, some people have entire stems of buds – the leaves haven’t even been taken off. The offers for “tours” of ganga farms are flying.
Twenty people are talking all at once, all at different points in their offer, but all talking about herb. I can only make out parts of what is being said behind me. I hear “Princess” and “Goddess” sprinkled in there as well.
Finally, one guy with a lion charm around his neck gets right in my window, and we start chatting. He wants to sell me this spliff, -
HIM - “Smoke Goddess?”
ME - “No, thanks – but I do like your lion.”
HIM - “Do you want to trade?”
And I should have traded him. Damn it – but things were moving so fast. There were arms and faces everywhere in the truck. The people at Bob’s were shooing these guys off the truck, and one of the elder Rastas was making Delroy pull forward and back up a million times so that the truck would be perfectly parked.
I should have given him my necklace, and taken his – that would have been a great thing to do – to say “I traded with a guy at Bob’s place in Jamaica, and he has my necklace in Jamaica.” Oh well, next time.
It was the biggest “ball of energy” on the entire trip – that entrance. It must be somewhat like what celebrities experience when their car is being “papparazzi’d”, (but with cameras and microphones.)
I had mixed feelings about the fence – I understand why it is there, because tourists are getting hustled, and getting hustled leads to anxiety, anxiety leads to anger, and people never come back, or talk badly about the place.
On the other hand, I wondered what Bob thought about it – locking the people of his hamlet out of his place. Bob didn’t lock his car doors, because if you did, you were keeping people out. He didn’t want people to be kept out.
) Is this the same man that you met? 
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