Jamaica: bank notes and brief flashbacks
Pulling out a wallet for a trip to Indonesia, I found a battered black-and-white checkered “OP” brand vintage piece in dodgy state of repair (I always liked it because flipped upside down it shows “DO” my initials but anyway…)
{When carrying currency in a damp climate with sometimes some shady characters around, i’m partial to having a crappy wallet to keep some bucks inside in event of sudden soaks and as a decoy amongst other reasons}
Pulling open the velcro, a bill leftover from my last Jamaica trip was there, sparking memories from many years past, staring back bringing back the flashbacks of the noted island where built a house, thought might live long and healthy eating papayas and “pears” (avocados), and soursop from my own trees, jumping into the Caribbean sea and hanging out with my pal Chubby at his rasta camp as he cooked up Irie stews
It all turned out a little bit bit different as things do but for four or five years of my life, I spent a lot of time in a place called Little Bay – a hamlet, mostly unmarked, at the end of some battered roads in Westmoreland Parish, in the southwest area of Jamaica / Sort of stuck in between Negril and Sav La Mar and not far from Orange Hill which is the heartland of herb on this island, famous for tokes but it was there (while I was there on TeeVee, the gubmint announced plans to permit safe(r) and legal-ish to the plant which has flourished there at least since the Maroons escaped the treachery of enslavement, heading to the hills and creating a self-sufficient life
Due to Little Bay’s (at the time anyway, things change, naturally, and especially unnaturally) inaccessibility and renegade locals, was a bit infamous for various smuggling and hideaways including Bob Marley having a cabin there… Yes I know, Bob Marley was everywhere in Jamaica but this is the real deal,(sidenote: made a video of the wreckage of his cabin with all the provenance, as well as dipping into his swimming hole)
Designed down to the tiny details, a charming wooden villa with a wide porch, screened-in lounging area, a giant picture window in the bedroom with a king-size bed looking out to the sea, a rocked-in shower with heads at two sides and a sitting ledge, a red curvy fridge, and assortment of glassware and convenient appliances, and most important to me: a majestic custom writing and arts and crafts desk, covering two sides in a shape of tiered shelving and wide hardwood surface, and a replica of Jack Kerouac’s wooden writing chair on caster wheels
Built to last of course as hurricanes and other storms ravage the area from time to time and the house, affectionately named “Nesta”, was a few steps from a jumping off into the Caribbean sea with a sandy beach just over there and a freshwater pool right over here – so, the house was bolted to the very core of the earth via concrete pier blocks, welded rebar and sturdy hardwood footers, as well as quality materials used throughout and a metal roof fastened down, the inside ceiling carefully assembled and sealed // it all looks like a bit of a cathedral as imagined in a Jimmy Buffett song perhaps
In my time there, I had so many experiences from heading up to experience Ital bush life with a fellow called “Fire” (everyone in Jamaica has several aliases), ergo: guided by a chap named “Foot”, commissioning a drum from a Nyabhingi Rasta called Lion Claw who gave me a very powerful talk (you can hear this in a podcast), hiking up to some beautiful gardens of female plants growing in back guano nestled into nook of coral out cropping, eating banana porridge, harvesting coconuts, drinking a distasteful but powerful herbal medication Nooni along with all kinds of healing roots brews (well documented), while listening to World Cup soccer on a radio while hardwood fire burned In a glorious hut
or hanging out in shack bars with a tiny TV perched up sipping on Red Stripes or Guinness while locals drink overproof Rum from with flat Pepsi (only Pepsi, and only flat), being the honorary manager for a football team with a rampaging tournament on a field that was sometimes interfered by omnipresent JamCo motorcycle or cows, and appointing myself an amateur sign painter for non-hire and made colorful signs for friends – including “Mr. Chubby’s Irie Cove” as well as a *not really resort* of ramshackle cabins – a place i quite adored and did my best to help burgeoning marketing efforts (read: wasted my time) for a while at least until learned the disgust, contempt and detest the operators had for the guests & constant squabbles with employees and other shady transactions which usually resulted with some or men lounging around in an “supervising role” // so much kindness at first blush, just another shakedown disguised as a good time – there’s always a scheme, a hustle, an angle and lines not to be crossed
As things go, I started to learn about what happened to some other non-locals who settled in there maybe without appropriate protection and connections – the “ownership” of land is a complicated matter and probate, title, land trust and leases all fraught with fraud with peril whereas possession, intimidation, ammunition and imminent domain are the keys // some of the situations were rather grisly, but I won’t get into that here as they are a matter of record elsewhere except to say there was the Coconuts man from Wisconsin – shot high noon, another from Austria set-up & ransacked, the “snake man” and other stories which seem too crazy to be true and tell you scratched around a little bit & holy whoa
Since last time there, with all my documentation scattered around, I kind of became a clearing-post for internationals who had spent time there and left a little bit of their heart and a lot of their wallet In various circumstances, some stories sad, others wistful and nostalgia, others angry
I also filled in more of the legends of the donkey races and some other good times and years past
All of this is behind me now has Japan and Jamaica are close alphabetically but not geographically, to draw an itinerary from here to there is a bewildering, and even once you are “there” still from Kingston or Montego Bay you’ve got quite a trek ahead of you down some of the wildest roads you’ll ever ride (yes, I’ve been to India and Nepal, I’ve seen some wild roads) – beside Jamrock, i spent seasons and years lingerin on so many islands from Micronesia to Indonesia to Philippines, Japan, the Mediterranean and my – for better or worse “home area” – of Cascadia with the glorious islands of the Salish sea, and i learned: every island has its own character, there is always another island to explore (as i make treks to the hundreds of islands right here in the inland sea Setouchi area
So, in fact – specifically at this point if you want to investigate – is a beautiful villa called “Nesta” which now will find a new world in which to exist // I do wish a great smoking jacket, a set of glen plaid pajamas, swim trunks and soccer shirts, and especially a few paintings would’ve made their way back to me
But these memories from a wallet on the way to another place where i had a house where some magical things happened, found that banknote – somehow with smell still attached, then remembered the ants, the sand, the fruits, the lingering conversations under palms, covering myself in fresh aloe and soaking in freshwater pools, trying to improve diving technique off of “the jumping rock” which also saw some bonfires, signal fires really…, learning how to jerk meat, cooked low and slow over charcoal made under giant dirt mounds – But mostly i’ll remember my first night where a wild Bush tiger (who I later a retained as my personal roller when he wasn’t out gallivanting in some suspect activities) pulled out a giant box of weed – leaves, small flowers, stems, stocks and buds – and threw it on the bonfire, never forget that smell, wafting into a night of endless stars after another truly spectacular sunset
Farewell Jamaica, forever will I see you no more
re: above, in 2011 I made what turned out to be first of many visits to #Jamaica, i came across a photo of “everything Im taking to Jamaica for 14 days” Note smoking jacket, podcast rig & op checkered wallet (and a disposable camera)
PS since someone is bound to ask (triggers):
https://www.jamaicaobserver.com/2016/06/10/canadian-shot-dead-in-westmoreland
https://jamaica-gleaner.com/article/news/20160611/update-canadian-shot-and-killed-negril
https://jamaica-gleaner.com/article/news/20160611/update-canadian-shot-and-killed-negril
+ “Someone needs to do an audit to determine how many foreigners who bought real estate in Negril have had to run for their lives or lost their lives defending their properties. Those with local knowledge say the numbers are stacking up.”
