Negril Notes

Negril Bound – October ’04 – Part 2

April 8, 2005

Somehow this section got deleted or failed to import from the old “Blogger” format – Enjoy

US Airways is a sad way to get to Jamaica. I kick myself every time for not spending a few bucks more to fly Air Jamaica.

I buy my tickets online as cheap as I can find them, usually months in advance, so I expect to be strapped to the wing, or stuck between two sumo wrestlers. This time I got the aisle seat, clear shot to the emergency door, only one or two people to trample, not bad. You see, between the time I bought my tickets and departure day, US Airways declared Chapter 11 and I figure they’ve been cutting corners somewhere. Paranoid? Just a little.

Philly is a hub for US Airways, which means for me it’s non-stop to Montego Bay, but for many it’s a connecting flight. Caitlyn was one of these people, a pretty thirty-something woman who connected all the way from Phoenix on the third leg of her trip. I had to compliment her; she was quite perky for someone who just spent the night on planes and in airports.

We discussed all things Jamaican, this was her first trip to the Caribbean paradise, and in true Cliff-Clavonian fashion I played the roll of salty expatriate, spouting off advice and answering her every query in much more detail than necessary. I didn’t care, I was headed to Negril, I was happy to be talking to a pretty woman and she seemed intrigued with my vervy knowledge.

In the real world I’m usually self conscious around women I don’t know, but something comes over me when I’m in the “Jamaican Way.” I let loose! I drop the burdens and baggage I carry in my normal life. Hmm, I’m thinking there’s a lesson here. Maybe that smooth, charming fellow I let loose on vacation should come back to Philly with me and see what happens.

Caitlyn definitely made an impression on me too, she was going to Negril for her Dad’s birthday and was staying at an all-inclusive about as far from Banana Shout as one could be and still be in Negril. So I decided to enjoy our plane time and not to get my hopes up for one of those “From Here to Eternity” moments, though I did show her my vulnerable side by tearing up when Peter Parker and MJ finally had their romantic moment on the tiny airline movie screen.

Walking off the plane I came face to face with the ever forward march of progress, well, in Jamaica it’s more like a cool rhythmic gait. Anyway, the renovation I witnessed the previous April had been completed. The stair trucks were gone and a shiny new jet way greeted us! We walked in cosmopolitan luxury through the jet way and into the newly air-conditioned arrival area. I hated it!

Am I becoming and old head? A highlight of previous trips was that hot blast of salty, fragrant Montego Bay air hitting you like the proverbial ton of bricks. The dazzling Caribbean sun blinding you as you stepped from the plane to the stair truck and clumsily made your way down to the asphalt for the hundred yard walk to the terminal.

For the past few years I heard my friends in Negril tell stories of the “Old Road to Negril,” I always feel left out, I’d only been on the old road once and it was a truly magical experience, but still, it was only once. I was jealous for their memories and would sit and listen to yarns for hours as Red Stripes and ganja mixed with smiles and sunsets to create the cocktail that makes this place so special. Well now I can pine for the stair truck! Sure it’s less romantic than a two hour road trip through jungle towns and potholes, but I’ll always miss it.

I hung out with Caitlyn through the immigration line. I invited her to breakfast at Selina’s Sunday morning, and we said our goodbyes as she went to get her baggage, I carried on.

Dodging Red Caps I made it to the JUTA bus counter and paid $20US for the bus ride to Negril. I promised myself not to blow money on stupid things this trip, like an $80US private taxi ride to Negril. I told the JUTA folks I’d wait outside for the bus, a decision I immediately regretted. It was HOT, and there was no way back inside without going through the airport security gauntlet.

I found myself in a small fenced in lot where the fancy hotel jitneys lined up to take their overpaying fares to all inclusive wonderfulness. Other than the lady in the small refreshment stand, I was the only one out there. I was terribly dehydrated, it was ninety degrees in the shade, but there was no shade! So I broke with my tradition and ordered a Ting instead of a Red Stripe for my first taste of Jamaican refreshment.

That’s my moment! I don’t know why. Not the landing, not the passport stamping, but that first taste! Oh yeah! I was in Jamaica! Maybe being gravitationally challenged for much of my adult life gives sway to my taste buds when it comes to the sensual understanding of reality. Maybe it’s just that when I finally slow down after the immigration, customs, Negril transport blur, the first thing I do is get a drink and relax, giving me time to look around and see that I’m really here! Whatever the reason, it’s a great moment, the beginning of my slide into Jamaica time.

The JUTA bus was filled mostly with Hedo people, which surprised me because on my 1994 Hedo trip, the resort sent a ramshackle old bus to pick us up.

I sat in the front, which is my custom, and right behind me were the two most excited twenty something guys I have ever come across. I luxuriated in their enthusiasm, it was truly contagious, and as if to pour gasoline on their fire, I told them of the wildness and wanton sexuality waiting for them, for I had “been there” and “I knew.” They had read that this week was a lifestyles week and expected a “totally wicked-awesome time.” The younger guy, the red head, was literally drooling.

I didn’t have the heart to tell them that the large majority of swingers looked more like their parents than supermodels on a sex binge, but what I did tell them was they were in for a great week, because as different as Hedo was from my preconceived notions, it was among the most bizarre, wild and fun times I’ve ever had.

All the talk on the bus was of Hurricane Ivan and what kind of damage we were going to run into in Negril. From my vantage point the northeastern shore looked untouched, but like many things in Jamaica it’s all a matter of degree and perception. Some people see only poverty, saying they are so upset and they feel so badly for the people, but these same people would never go into a Jamaican person’s house, share a meal and get to know them, get to understand what Jamaican life really is. They just compare it with their suburban 60 by 120 and feel superior.

Soon we rounded the bend at Lucea and headed down the west coast towards Negril. There was some damage, mostly just piles of trees and brush that I wouldn’t have noticed if the driver didn’t point them out.

Entering Negril, the piles of debris became more obvious. Our first stop was Hedonism and it looked great. The entrance was brightly colored and all the plants were manicured to perfection. This brought a sigh of relief, I was expecting devastation, I was guardedly optimistic.

Leaving my Hedo friends behind, we were off to Mariner’s to drop off a couple from Toronto. Through the heart of the beach resorts from White Sands, past Selina’s, to Kuyaba, the obvious but limited damage was encouraging. The overall impression is that the entire town needed a paint job. The usually bright signs and facades were dull and weather beaten.

Finally alone in the bus we hit the roundabout and headed up West End Road.