Jerkin in Negril

After a few last shots of the villa I was staying in, a cab was called and I made my way out of St. Ann’s. I was a little sad to leave as I knew I was headed from a villa that was frequented by locals, in a calm district tucked in the hills, to ones that would be busy and touristy. I had also time to sit and chat with quite a few Jamaicans, learning more about the food, music, personal aspirations of the people and language of the country.

For breakfast I was prepared the Jamaician staple, Ackee and saltfish. Ackee is a fruit that grows on the trees. It pops open slightly, into thirds, exposing three black caps that cover a yellow mass inside. This mass is boiled and sauted with salted fish looking like scrambled eggs. (Ackee is poisonous if not prepared correctly). I thought it quite delicious and picking out the occasional bone made it all the more satisfying.

I had also been given insight into the language of the country, Patois. It is a mixture of English, Spanish, German and other languages and it’s what you often hear the Jamaicans speaking with one another. I’m attempting to pick some of language up, just so that I can distinguish certain elements. Most of my interaction has been with Jamaicans, so it keeps me on my toes. In asking to learn some of it I am aware of the possible connotations of sounding like, “hey black people, teach me the language you developed through 400 years of slavery so that the white man didn’t understand what you were saying. Teach this white guy that secret code.” When I’m in a cab or restaurant or passing by, a Jamaican will speak with me in English then turn to his fellow in Patois. You can see how that would make you wonder what’s going on.

Just for starters, the common greeting is “Wha-ha-um“ and when a friend is calling they pick it up and say “ha-ted” which translates to “hot head.” If something is really cool then it is “damgood” or “damn good.” Yes, they really do say “Ja-mon” as much as portrayed. And “dis” and “dat” is commonplace. Even if you can pick out a lot of these words it’s the rapid rate and their experience with the language that can leave anyone without a knowledge in the dark.

They had called a cab for me and I was now headed to Ocho Rios, a harbor town that serves the gigantic tour ships. I’ve read that you are best to avoid the town, especially when the ships are in. It just so happened a few would be.

But first the driver asked if I’d like to make stops along da way. I had agreed on a price before we made our way and I knew this would rise the more stops we made. But I also weighed this with ‘when the else will I get the chance’ so I agreed to some of the stops. Another thing is that I am often at the whim of whomever I’m with. Who knows where I could be driven? But I also know that this individual benefits by my money and any subsequent call to drive me elsewhere.

As we slowly made our way up a rough mountain road, I wondered just the heck we were going. Simultaneously, I went with the flow. We passed very poor shacks and people out on their stoops. My driver had told me about the “fire waters” in which you could light the top of the water and it was supposed to have healing powers and all of that. Sure enough, we stopped where a group of men were huddled around a shack. Out we went and I had my video camera in hand. It felt very much like National Geographic with the exception being that I had no crew! Once again, at the whims of the situation but also staying in the now, catching very unique footage and knowing that we would probably be on our way soon after.

The door of the shack opens and there are several men within, surrounding a pool of water. It must be a hot spring as I found the water warm. The men are continually hustling, pointing talking, pointing, hustling, grabbing. “Fel da wada. Heelin papatees! U kin wak tru de fier en not get bunned!”

At that, one of the gentlemen lit the top of the water with a lighter and it flamed continually. He passed his hands under the water, playing it up as amazement. “Git in de wadr! Gimee da camra. I kept the camera in hand and filmed as I stepped into the pool. With that one of the men poured the water over my legs. “Why not?’ I thought. Not many could say they did this! And if it ‘healed’ my psiorasis it would be even better! Ha.
I walked through the flames and shot as I did. They then prepared a stove over the flames and boiled water for show.

During all of this the man sold like a snake oil salesman and his accomplice acted things out in form. With a small “donation” we were on our way.

I learned later that they usually don’t take money inside as God might see that they are profiting from the secret fire. Well, I hope that didn’t jinx the flow of Earth’s gasses.

On our way down the mountain road a pregnant teen girl hailed the cab and leaned in to hustle whatever. Her language was impossible for me to follow and she had quite the lost look about her. “No school,” we asked? Almost on cue was another girl of similar age, dressed in blue school uniform, making her way down the road. Upon her face was a stern expression. Whether it was due to the girl, me, us, who knows? But I do know I’ve seen that expression several times down here. Whether it is anger, depression or just the common look, I’ve seen it quite a bit.

We made a short stop at Dunn’s River Falls, taking a view of the top. Inside were throngs of white people walking out at the top of the falls. I thought it not only looked horribly touristy but also precarious. There really wasn’t any rope and rail to keep people going over that falls.

That’s the way many things seem here. On the streets and heart of the country you see the Black Jamaicans. Peeking through a hole in the fence, into the resorts, tourist attractions and beaches, you see White people.

We finally pulled in to Ocho Rios. In the harbor you could see the bloated tourist ships. In fact, the second largest in the world was there. On the sidewalks were hustlers with necklaces in hand, hassling white tourists already wearing several necklaces previously purchased.

By now I was in need of another ATM stop. We hit one bank, waited in line, only to find they didn’t do that there. While there I saw a common Jamaican cure for congestion, sniffing rubbing alcohol. At first I thought it was ‘huffing’ but several Jamaicans have told me its common to do when they have colds. We then head to another bank. The ATM was not working, so I waited in line. I was the fourth in line and it took a full 30 minutes in that packed bank. I could have chewed my tongue off. It kept my nerves somewhat calmed that my taxi driver was in the bank. All my gear was in that car and it rakes my nerves to no end. I spoke with a Brit in the line who said it was ‘in there blood to be slow.’ I’ve heard lots of Brits say things like that. I instead liken it to bureaucracy and many a DMV and postal line I’ve been in.

I got the money and after a few stops where he dragged me in to hustle me off on other people, such as an Indian jeweler, I tackfully played it down and got the heck out. Finally, I was dropped at my place.

I secured my stuff in the room and did the obligatory footage of hell. Out into the mob! Even though I was alone and had camera in hand I blended in with any white tourist target off of the boat. At first I shot the two main shopping areas where places like Marguerittaville exist. It catered entirely to the tourist and I had to shoot this for what I did. But I must also venture into some of the outer tiers to get something real and Jamaican.

I was on a search for oxtail and curry goat, another Jamaican staple. I knew of the general area but after an unsuccessful attempt, I told a man what I was looking for and he knew right away where to go. Of course he did! This was another hustle and a mistake on my part. He took me winding down roads but signaled that it was close and I knew that it was. But I also know that I would lose this guy only by paying him off. Which I did. But inside I ordered the curried goat. I was a little unsure what was going on when I only received some broth. “Is this it,” I wondered? In fact, after slowly eating the broth, I got up to pay. I’m glad I didn’t quite leave, as the plate came. It was some slaw-like salad, peas and rice, shell-like noodles and little goat chunks on the bone covered in dark curry sauce. Very good. A gentleman saw my camera and sat with me. Of course I was skeptical, but he looked clean-cut, claimed to be a videographer, and by his knowledge-base, I could tell he was a fellow.

After a convo I departed and head back to the hub. First stopping in a fenced in art market full of stalls of carved wood and t-shirts, it was time to hide in my room.

After shoots I made a call to my first taxi driver and we took the 3 hour drive to Negril. The landscape changed and it was nice to remove myself from the congested Ocho. Not that other parts of the island are not congested! The roads are generally packed when you near towns, but the open stretches offer you a chance to look across some sugar cane fields, out at the ocean to one side or to the small houses tucked in the hillish mountains. You also see little huts marked "Beer Joints." Get it? Beer, joints!

Much of Negril was made popular in the 60’s by hippies who pitched their tents on the sand. The area that I came to was the 7 mile beach area. Many hotels/resorts/clubs sit along these white sands. I’ve heard about the beauty of this area but have come to see it as follows.

Each property extends about 400m from the road to the beach. The lodgins are far enough from the road to allow for quiet and then their restaurant and bar areas run next to the beach. The beach is only about 10 feet in width before it touches the water. The water is very clear and all looks as the Caribbean picture people are expecting.

There are certain variables. Some places are policed very nicely. There is a security guard or two that stands out in the sand, with black pants, hat and white shirt. They seem to stand there all day and intimidate the hustlers from hassling you. Then, there are places where the security sits under a tree. Here you’ll be hassled much more. Even when you have your eyes close or purposely focus away from them, you hear a “hey mon?” Hey mon? Hey mon?” This usually grows louder as they come right up to you. It’s always hustling something, depending who you are.

Some places have a chill and relaxed atmosphere, while others like to play up the 'party' feel. It is not as extreme as in Ocho though, where big party boats of college kids swing by and you hear the only Black Jamaican aboard announcing "if ye ah havin fun parteein en Jamaica eveebuddi say 'Ja Mon,' to a chorus of 'Ja Mons' hoots and hollers. At night in Ocho you will also hear the same Reggae and Ska tunes played over and over and over, ad nauseum. But even one of the chill places I was staying had their own 'Fire King!'

The ganja offers are ceaseless and they offer many different varieties. While it is illegal here, even the tour books will say to just not smoke it in public or around the police. But even they know that tourists are here to have a good time and to party. While it is tempting and a solid part of the Jamaican experience, I’m here working and so don’t indulge. But its nothing to be chatting to a guy blazing up right along the beach. In a private social setting, it would be a different story.

Negril is mostly known for the 7 mile beach, lazing on the beach, sunning on the beach, running on the beach, drinking on the beach, swimming off of the beach, jetskiing, paragliding,, glass bottom boats and diving.

Once again I received a complimentary dive offer only to discover after my shoot that they had no one else signed up to the dive that day. Once again I assembled all my gear for naught.

I had an awesome run one evening. It was a short, run, like the ones I tend to take. But it was invigorating! With Vangelis’ 1492 soundtrack in my ear all was strong and proud! After all, this was the land of the sprinter. When I got back, a man hailed me over to show me a picture that he had taken of me, with the Caribbean sun rays shooting down on the ocean. He was from New Jersey and not someone trying to sell the picture.

That night I spotted a young bellman and inquired if he was a sprinter, which he most certainly was. Just to hear I was of like blood made him excited and in offer of an immediate fist ‘pound.’ He was a footballer as well who said the two sports were beginning to run in conflict with one another.

I’ll end this ramble with some food stuff. Going from a profession of ceasless conversation to one with much solitude leaves the mind needing outlets. So, pardon me.

OK, more food stuff. Curry goat is a common thing. It usually involves chunks of goat, sometimes attached to chunks of bone, sometimes in a sea of small bone fragments, covered in delicious, dark curry sauce. As with many dishes, it is served with peas and rice, previously-formed in a cup and dumped upside-down on your plate like you see in Spanish preparations. I usually doctor this with hot sauce. Jamaican hot sauce comes in a bottle resembling the narrow, Tabasco-style bottles of the American southeast. The taste is very similar though a tad bit sweeter. It resembles the same type of temperature as Crystal or Tabasco so ample shakes don’t overpower you, even when the bottle reads ‘Very Hot.’

Jerk pork, chicken and fish are common as well. As for the jerk chicken, it doesn’t resemble the supposed dry ‘jerk chicken’ I’ve had in the states. Instead, it is a wet sauce that smothers the chicken. You can see pepper flakes in some of the sauces. Man, at times, when cooked with the skin still on, the result is the tastiest chicken flesh I’ve yet had! As for the fish, it was drier, but salty and peppery and oh so good!

Red Stripe lager beer, in that short stubby bottle is produced here and common here. Some Jamaicans say the type we get back in the states is different. But to my unsophisticated beer palate, it tastes like, beer. Many Jamaicans prefer Henneiken instead.

Lemonade, made with fresh limes, is popular, or so I’ve been told. I’ve yet to find some. One night I had fruitcake for desert. It came in the form of what looked like a piece of chocolate cake and was moist and had the hint of the flavor we associate with the fruit cake that we are familiar with.

Stay well. I have to go catch some shots of a setting sun. The next two days should be the final of this island and then it will be to the final leg in Cayman.

I hope you enjoy your weekend.