Negril Notes

Banana Shout - October ‘04 - Part Three

April 12, 2005

It was like night and day as we rode up West End Road and into the cliffs. The storm damage was terrible! Everywhere I looked were bare trees, washed out yards, and half standing buildings. The farther up the cliff line the worse it got! My heart was in my throat as we rounded the bend bringing us to Banana Shout.

The first thing I saw hopping out of the bus were the ruins of Rick’s Café, looked like Rick’s Baghdad, not Rick’s Negril. Lost in the moment, I heard my name called and turned to see a tall Jamaican man unlatching the bright orange gate to Banana Shout.

“Welcome, Welcome!! I am Alex!” he said as we shook hands.

For weeks now I’d been preparing myself for this moment. I knew there would be damage and construction, but my head was spinning. As I entered the gate and tipped my driver, the realization that I would be spending the week on a busy construction site made my spirits sink. The shirtless grey haired man approaching me picked up on my disillusionment. He warmly greeted me and thanked me for not canceling my reservation.

“Hi, I’m Mark,” he stated holding out his hand.

As I shook his hand, it was like I was meeting a rock star or a head of state. Again I wasn’t prepared for this, I felt like a groupie, or a dork, or a dorky-groupie.

We walked through the small parking lot that was now a depository of building supplies, around the house to Seaside One. Ahead of me the yard opened up. I was stopped dead in my tracks. The view was amazing. Her name was Anne Marie. She was the housekeeper, actually my housekeeper, since I was the only guest. Her smile could have lit up the entire town. The power of speech eluded me as we were introduced, so I just smiled and shook her soft, gentle hand.

The rest view was great too! My front door was fifteen yards from the edge of the cliff and the entire Caribbean Ocean was mine to enjoy. Things were looking up!

Mark opened the door to my mansion by the sea and showed me in. The smell of fresh paint mixed with that of ocean salt as he showed me the spacious house. The kitchen, bathroom, refrigerator, lights, water heater, beds and balconies with hammocks, the place was huge, and it was all mine! Walking out to the downstairs balcony, Mark pointed out the closest restaurants, the local food store, and even where I could watch football on Sunday if I was so inclined, though of course I planned my vacation on an Eagles bye week.

My spirits were buoyed by this awesome cabin, and by Marks ebullient character. Alone, I walked around bouncing on beds, opening drawers and looking in cabinets. I decided to explore the second floor before unpacking and since it was really hot I stripped out of my travel clothes and down to boxers before ascending the newly painted stairway. As I turned to look into the room, all I could see through the screened room front was ocean. Like an excited child I raced across the wooden floor past the two queen-sized beds to the door. Opening it I was blown away by the view, the ocean was everywhere, the midday sunlight danced on the rippling waters throwing up an impossible assortment of colors.

I was master of all I surveyed, and I was nearly moved to tears when one of the workers yelled, “Hey SpongeBob!” It was only then that I realized a few things. First, I was on the balcony in my underwear in broad daylight, and second, I was wearing bright yellow SpongeBob SquarePants boxers.

I retreated back inside while the guys all had a good laugh (I convinced myself they were laughing with me). I padded downstairs and cracked open a Red Stripe bought on the way from the airport and started unpacking. I guess the redness in my face made me thirsty. My buddy Nick wouldn’t be arriving till Monday so I got dibs on the upstairs closet, and the bed under the fan. I began to make myself at home.

Sitting at the big table downstairs, I broke out some herbal refreshment purchased up in Green Island (apropos name), took out my trusty pack of Rizlas, and headed on to happy land, my second taste and my second slide into Jamaica time.

By this time it was about three in the afternoon and the air wasn’t moving, so I opened all the window slats, kicked all the fans into high gear and hit the shower to wash off the travel dust.

I didn’t bother with the water heater, I’d always enjoyed cool water showers in Negril, and this one did not disappoint. I described this shower as “glorious” in my journal. I couldn’t tell if it was the Red Stripe, the ganja, or the water, probably a combination of the three, but I felt it was my soul that was being washed. The chatter in my mind ceased and I was transported to another place. The clatter of the construction outside took on a rhythmic musical texture, and I felt the spirit of this place wash over me. Toweling off, I was drawn to sit quietly up on my balcony and enjoy this feeling for as long as it would last.

Luckily I had the presence of mind to pull on a pair of shorts. I don’t think I could have convinced myself they guys were laughing with me if I walked out to the balcony naked.

I reclined into the brightly colored hammock and noticed a small green lizard looking me over from the support post. I introduced myself and began to survey my surroundings. The “Shout” had really been slammed, the two cottages in front of my place to the right and left had been almost completely leveled, and there was a gaping thirty foot hole in the seawall. The formerly jungle-like garden was naked, the wind took the leaves and the waves took the smaller plants. Throughout the property small saplings were planted in newly restored terraced beds, and several crews of Jamaican men were working extremely hard to bring the place back to life.

Mark shouted apologies for the noise, but I was so deep in my own experience that I almost didn’t hear him.

“Not at all, the place is great!” I replied lazily from my perch.

“It’s a lot quieter at night,” Mark said, maybe thinking I was just being nice.

“No really, this is great!” Lack of eloquence aside, I meant it, this place was really cool. There was something here, a kind of energy, an enthusiasm, and I was just scratching the surface.

About an hour before sunset the workers packed up and headed home. I’d unwound enough to do a little exploring, so I ventured forth from my house and made my way over to the cliff. I was trying to reconcile what I was seeing with my memories of the place I studied for months on the website. It was sad that the beautiful eden was gone, but simultaneously it was somehow exciting, the opportunity to create another, better place, a clean canvas on which to paint a new beautiful picture.

I climbed down the maze of stairs to the water’s edge. Over the years Mark had built this labyrinth of stairs, walkways and platforms along the cliff face. From this angle I could see how much of the seawall had been taken out, not only was a thirty foot length missing but the gash went fifteen or twenty feet deep. For a moment I had the feeling that it would be fun to go out the next morning and help with the wall building. I sat with my feet in the water till that feeling went away. Hey, wall building is back breaking work, and I’m on vacation.

Walking back to my cabin, I ran into Mark, he was watering the plant beds and we spoke of Ivan and his fury. Banana Shout is located in a tiny cove about three hundred feet wide, to the north is Catcha Falling Star and to the south is Rick’s Café. Both points were all but washed away, looking like ancient ruins against the setting sun.

The seawall from Banana Shout used to wrap around the cliff to Catcha Falling Star right out to her point where there was an octagon shaped concrete bungalow. The sunsets from there must have been amazing, but it’s gone, completely washed away.

Ricks looked like a bomb hit it. One of the most commercially successful places in town was no match for ol’ mother nature. Ivan ripped down the bright awnings and the wooden decks. He smashed through a big chunk of the main structure, and piled debris against the large cinderblock walls along the road. Rick’s deepened my understanding of the tragedy that befell this town. I’d been to Rick’s so many times that I had a clear “before” picture in my head and the after picture blew my mind.

Mark described how the ocean rose up, how the waves came in, and almost as bad, how they went back out. For the first time I got a glimpse of how terrifying it must have been, this quiet, peaceful, yet vast ocean, turning to an indescribably huge monster attacking relentlessly like the Jason, Freddie and Michael Meyers combined.

From my second floor balcony I watched the sunset. It was magnificent, as the first one usually is, though I’d slept through it on my last trip. I tried to capture the moment in my journal, but the majesty of the scene before me had me slack-jawed and silent. The view from Banana Shout is among the best views of the Negril sunset available, I’m sure there are a few as good, but none better.

As I sat there I knew this trip was to be very different from the others. Something profound had happened here, it was more than just a storm, more than a seasonal happening that the cheerful Jamaican people took in stride. I knew that being here at this time would afford and opportunity to get to know the people around here in a more personal way, to gain a deeper understanding of this little neighborhood. I really began to look forward to Nick’s arrival. I knew he would “get it” and partner with me in this quest.

I walked the two hundred yards over to LTU Pub right past the closed Rick’s. On the way I met a few locals, the first guy I met couldn’t believe I was on vacation.

“Who’s takin’ guests?” He asked

“Banana Shout,” I replied, “I got here this afternoon.”

“If ya need anyting, ya know, I’m Marcus this is my town!”

“Sounds good Marcus! I have a buddy coming Monday and we’ll be looking for you!”

That’s how so many of my conversations went that weekend, and as time went on I realized I was just about the only guest on that entire section of West End Road, say from Primrose Lane to the Lighthouse. Everything was closed since the storm.

Across from “The Shout” there is a small family run beer stand with flirty young (too young) daughters. I picked up a six-pack of Red Stripe and a few bottles of Ting, and walked back to Seaside One.

I crashed early that night, I don’t do watches or clocks on vacations but it couldn’t have been much past nine.

- More to come

Filed under: Negril, Writing