Negril Notes

Kuyaba for dessert…

April 8, 2007

After a great meal at Selina’s, we headed over to Kuyaba for dessert. We’d planned to relax, digest a little, and then to ride our second wind up the beach to Alfred’s for the Thursday Night Beach Party.

Does Kuyaba just keep getting nicer, or do I forget every time I visit? You can’t beat the location, a great bar and restaurant just yards from the bay. The ever present salt-kissed breeze whispers through the abundant foliage keeping all conversations private. But it’s the attention to detail, the constant small improvements that I noticed. A decorative stone walkway here, a new lounge section there, a likke splash of design in a newly built stairway, all keep Kuyaba fresh and new every year.

We begged off table seating, who can resist those hanging-hammock-barstool-chair-like thingies Kuyaba is famous for?

I’m glad these chairs haven’t spread all over town. I love the way they get more comfy the more you drink.

Since this was dessert we dared the bartender to surprise us with something unique from his blender. We weren’t heading to Margaritaville that night. These creations were to be glorified milkshakes doused with over-proof rum. I forget what he called them, but they were full of creamy coconut yummy-ness while still packing a punch. After two my sweet tooth was sated, and I switched to Red Stripes. In general my foo-foo drink tolerance is pretty low.

This was Megan and Jason’s last night in town, so I decided to take an evening walk in the surf to give them some time to make googly eyes, and to whisper sweet nothings. The beach was beautiful that night. The faint lights of the beach-side businesses mixed with a three-quarter moon infused the sea with an aquamarine translucence that gave off a soft glow. I’d spent so many nights up in the cliffs these past few years, it felt as if I was discovering it for the first time.

I was lost in the moment, communing with the sea, I didn’t notice a group of five or six Jamaican girls drawing near as I stood ankle deep at the waters edge. I smiled and said hello. I couldn’t help but to notice they were all dressed to kill, though undressed to kill might be more accurate. I think I was staring. I assumed they were headed up to Alfred’s Ocean Place to party.

“You look like you’re having a good time.” A light-skinned girl with the spiky braids said as she came close in the way certain island girls do when flirting unattached older men in flowery shirts.

I didn’t know what she meant by saying that. Was it; ”Hey, you look really drunk, may I take advantage of you?” or; “Wow, you look like and unaffected party animal, and I want to be a part of your world if only for a few fleeting moments.” My problem is, in that moment of boozy bravado I assume she means the latter, and in the morning my empty pockets realize she meant the former. 

“I’m Georgina,” she said with a pearly white smile. The other girls kept walking.

“Hi, Georgina, I’m Vinny.” I played along. I knew my virtue was well intact, and I wasn’t going to be swayed by this twenty year old vixen. The devil on my shoulder smiled wickedly, while the angel on the other knew he was still in control.

We made small talk, the usual meeting a Jamaican thing: Where are you from? Is this your first trip to Jamaica? Where are you staying? Do you like Jamaican girls?

She noticed my beer was empty, and she asked if I’d like another one. I said yes, and she waited while I pulled some cash from my pocket. I gave her 1000j, and told her to get something for herself, big spender that Vinny.

Being past the dinner hour a waiter cleared the surf-side table for two Kuyaba usually sets up to entice folks into a romantic sunset dinner. I took a seat. Georgina returned with a beer and a shot glass with some kind of red stuff in it.

I was surprised when she pounced on my lap and poured the shot into my mouth. Trying to act cool, as if this happens everyday, I reached for my beer, her ample Jamaican ampleness just inches from my face. Taking a swig I tried to regain the upper hand.

The devil on my shoulder was reaching for my wallet, while the angel just looked pissed. She poured what I thought was her shot of rum, mixed with some sickly sweet proof hiding agent, down my throat, and asked again if I wanted to party. 

I feebly tried to make light of the situation, but her coconut oil lotion, the rum and our precarious position were conspiring against me. Luckily physics bailed me out. Her ninety-five pounds bouncing on my lap was just enough to cause the back legs of our folding chair to loose footing in the wet sand, and forced her to hop off as I rolled sideways onto the sand. 

She sat on the opposing chair, and we did another shot. I could feel her reeling me in. My friends were nowhere to be seen, I had a pocket full of money, and Georgina had my full attention. By this time the angel had gone to bed, and devil was bartending.

Stay Tuned…

Vinny

Filed under: Negril, Writing