Fear and Farming in Jamaica
New Year’s Shugyo to 20.X.2
The year is 20.X.1…
I’m jolted awake by a blast of sunlight and the unmistakable call of a rooster. I sit up suddenly and through a window I catch a glimpse of a donkey eating leaves. My mouth tastes like I’ve been drinking rocket fuel, and despite it being very early in the day the heat is stifling. It’s Christmas… and I’m in Jamaica…
2 Weeks Earlier:
My friend had just broken up with his longtime girlfriend and was taking it pretty hard. He asked me what I was doing over Christmas and New Year’s. “We should go on a Nash-style adventure.” I thought the idea was great, especially considering I was planning on going on one anyway… “Where to?” I hadn’t a clue, but I was still reeling from my Granddad’s death and needed a New Year’s training mission because I, much like Sherlock Holmes, can only function while on an adventure.
He and I narrowed our options. “We’ve got two weeks, then I have school.” What about heading through South America? “We need to skip Mexico. I really don’t want to go there.” We can’t skip Mexico without flying. Cheapest ticket is 1,500$... “No way. What about kicking around the Caribbean for a couple weeks?” Sounds good. Let me see what I can do.
The next day I informed him that our two most accessible places, given time and money constraints, were Puerto Rico and Jamaica. “Good. Where will we stay?” Don’t know…;Hey, he wanted a Nash-style adventure, and those involve lots of improvisation… We where to leave in a week and a half.
One week to go, and we still had no way to get anywhere and no place to stay. My friend comes to me and says “Hey, I don’t have a passport… is that a problem?” Yes, but we can take a trip to the main office and get an expedited one, in about a day. It’ll cost a couple hundred though. “I don’t have any money…” I ask if he means for the passport of at al. “… at all.” How where you going to do this then !? “You’re Nash. I just figured you could make this work out…” Yes, but you can’t travel the way I do, with no money or passport – and a time budget – AND be within the law. At least one of those things has to go. He didn’t want to borrow in money either. “I won’t be able to go…” he said reluctantly.
A couple days later he asked me what I was going to do over Christmas and New Year’s. I’m going to spend a couple weeks backpacking around Jamaica was my reply. He was surprised I was going, since it was his idea. It was a good idea though, so I was going.
A couple days after that I heard of an organic farm on Jamaica and contacted them. They said I could stay and work there while I was in the country. I decided I would use it as my base while traveling. A couple of days after that, I took off for Jamaica.
As per the usual I did almost no research about the place before heading in that direction and I did most of my studying while in transit. This would come back to me several times while in Jamaica.
Once I was finally on the island, clearing customs was awful. My first taste of what I would come to know as the overall flavor of Jamaica. The service in Jamaica is infamously bad, and the country does nothing to change this reputation. It was the most difficult country for me to get into. After a very long encounter with customs, who refused to believe someone would come to Jamaica to backpack, I finally made it into the country proper. It was suggested to me to exchange my money for Jamaican dollars, so I did. Learned a lesson. The Jamaican government and economy are so fragile they may as well not have any. Yes, technically it is a third-world country… but barely. It’s less of a country and more a piece of land with people living on it. The American Dollar is king (Ironically), and if you don’t have any and go to pay in Jamaican, you are usually looked at like an asshole.
I made my way to the bus-ticket counter and handed them the directions I had. “Credit card.” I don’t have one. They looked at me as if I was from outer space. “How do you pay then?” Cash. “We can’t take cash” the lady behind the counter said, then looked around with shifty eyes. She whispered “Slip me the cash, but don’t let anyone see.” I did. “Don’t tell anyone.” Got it. I was corralled onto a bus of already drunk tourists from New Jersey. After a couple hours I made it from Montego Bay to Ocho Rios. From Ocho Rios I got a taxi and took it a little inland. This would be my first encounter with Jamaican Driving. Nothing brings your mind into focus faster than very real and imminent death, which I was sure was coming my way courtesy of Jamaica’s horrible roads and worse drivers. The 15 minute ride probably shaved a year off the end of my life, but I made it to the farm. An organic permaculture farm named Durga’s Farm, owned by a French Canadian woman ,Lise, and her Jamaican husband ,Michael. Aside from taking in the occasional drifter, every once in a while the place plays host to students from Penn State’s Sufficiency classes.
I had come to Jamaica to clear my mind and get away from things and get back to myself, but as I looked up at the stars that night I was struck by how similar to Thailand everything seemed. I was flooded with memories, and then I began to wonder: If places where starting to become this similar and blend together, was I running out of places to escape to? I quickly decided the answer was ‘No’.
As I was becoming acquainted with the ins and outs of the farm, Lise told me that her brother was in town for the holidays, and that all the guys should head into town for the giant Christmas eve party and live it up. So, we did. The streets where packed with people dancing and eating, and the music was loud. A unique-to-Jamaica kind of loud. I took the opportunity to eat my first Jerk Chicken, the signature food of Jamaica. It was every bit as good as I’d hoped. The signature drink? Rum. The stereotype that Jamaicans drink rum all the time…. Seems to be entirely accurate. Lise’s brother, Claude, asked me if I had ever had Jamaican Rum. Yes, I replied. “Ever drank it IN Jamaica?”. No. “Had overproof rum?” What’s that?, I asked. “Real Jamaican rum. What Jamaicans drink to get drunk.” Most l rums are around 15% alcohol, but Jamaicans drink it often enough that they have guilt up quite a tolerance for it. That’s where overproof rum comes in. Overproof rum is 63% alcohol, and up. Claude bought us a bottle (They serve it by the bottle). Needless to say, I wasn’t prepared for it. As Claude and I drank together I learned that he was a cop in Montreal for 21 years, was on a Canadian airport Swat team, and was in the U.N. in Haiti. He said “After living life like that you can never do a normal job. It’s too boring. You’ve got to make your own way to keep going. I teach security tactics.” His words were surprisingly appropriate. He ordered another bottle of overproof. We talked about how cops in Montreal must pass a PT test every few months or be relegated to desk work. I told him that sounded like a great idea. Again, he ordered another bottle of overproof. Like drinking Butane. The party wore on and on until finally Michael, Claude, and myself wound up back at Lise’s house. I managed to get a couple hours of sleep before the wildlife started making noise, and the sun hit me…. It was now Christmas Morning.
I had stayed at Lise’s house. Though she owned the farm, her and Michael didn’t live there. They had a house about 20 minute’s car ride away. The only people who lived on the farm where: Mario a Mexican permaculture expert who only spoke Spanish, Me, and Saya. Saya was Michale’s Jamaican friend who is an expert farmer with feet thicker than most shoes(literally, he walks and works barefoot- a man after my own heart), speaks little English, mostly Patois. If someone tells you the main language of Jamaica is English, they are lying. Patois is the Real Language of Jamaica, and it is not English. The lonely planet guide book describes Patois as a language that evolved from French creole, and mixed with several African languages, Spanish, some Rastafarian slang, and a few English words.
When we got back to the farm it was discovered that their two dogs had gotten into the kitchen the previous night and eaten Lise’s 100$US Christmas ham. She was furious. Michael told me there was to be several political rallies in the next few days as the following week was the election for prime minister, and he wanted to see if I wanted to go to watch one. I had just read “Jamaica has the world’s highest murder rate of any country not in the middle of a war. Do not travel to Jamaica during elections, especially Prime Minister elections, as politics exacerbates the warring crime rates.” Like always, I just discovered I did the exact opposite of what was recommended. Jamaica also has world’s highest concentration of churches, and AIDS…
I spent that day doing regular things: Corralling goats, I lit the pilot light on the stove (probably almost blew myself up), ate sugar cane cut from the farm while working and listening to the neighbors very loud music. The reggae echoing through the mountains makes a nice soundtrack to working. I got used to the reggae and was anticipating more of the same, as that’s usually all there is musically in Jamaica. Just when I’d become complacent I was hit with a thunderously loud Rick Astley song… Jamaica Rick Rolled me…
After the first day’s light work we all went to the beach and relaxed. When we came back for Christmas dinner we discovered one of the goats had given birth. A Christmas baby. Lise named it Noel. Christmas dinner was delicious and consisted of Lobster Rice, Chicken, Plantains, Veggies, and More. A fantastic day.
The next few days where farm life as usual. Wake up at 5:30 and do morning exercises, breakfast at 6. Work starts between 6:30 and 7. Work until 11, then lunch break for an hour, then work from 12-5. At 5 it starts to get dark, so we would stop and shower up with recycled water in an outdoor shower with an amazing view! Dinner at 6. I would normally lie down and read at 7. I was staying in the dorm, which looked very much like a dojo. I was basically sleeping outdoors, but with a roof over my head; my alarm clock was the sun rise over the horizon. I couldn’t have asked for more.. except maybe a mosquito net! I was eaten alive a few nights by very hungry mosquitos and the like. I even tried to build my own mosquito net out of scrap wood and sheets once, but it collapsed on me in the middle of the night. After a few days the mosquitos became disinterested in me, and all was well.
I’ve always enjoyed farm work, because I find it to be great training. This was no exception. For example, carrying a 5 gallon bucket of dirt in each hand up hill for hours on end. Or shoveling. Working at the goat stable was a typical experience; whenever I do something like that I have the fantasy that I won’t get wet or covered in poop. First day working the stables saw a water pipe break near me as I was shoveling goat poop. Both of those fantasies went right down the drain.
Another benefit to farm life besides the training is the tea. We made bush tea on the farm, meaning you pick what grows and brew it on the spot. They have spearmint, peppermint, and thyme growing; so if you want tea you just walk over, grab a few leaves and boil them. Delicious. The work is also diverse. Whether you’re building a chicken coop, tending crops, herding goats, building a house from clay, or making clay to build a house from, there’s always something to learn from and capture your interest.
The food’s great too. So great that I wanted some recipes. I got them, but was informed by Saya I would never be able to make them. “you can’t cook Jamaican food.” When I inquired why I was told “You can’t cook Jamaican food, because you are not Jamaican.” Quant. Offensive, yes, but not surprising. In fact, the thing that could be said to ruin Jamaica is the Jamaicans. When I realized this, I was worried that constant harassment because of my perceived difference in race and financial status, multiple pick-pocketings, and the general obnoxiousness of the place had made me racist. I’m not. I’m prejudiced. Big difference! Prejudiced against jerks, which Jamaica happens to be full of, which has nothing to do with their nationality or race. Yes, the fact I don’t like to be around large crowds of people has something to do with it. I dislike most squanderers and those that refuse to help themselves. Yes, Jamaicans ruin Jamaica, but in all fairness the English ruined if before them, the Spanish before them, and the Caribs before them. Before the Caribs where the Arawaks who where by all accounts laid back people and the inventors of the hammock, so they’re fine by me.
The stereotypical Jamaican(Those who never left the island, or don’t know anyone who has) are abrasive to say the least. I met a man from Holland (mentioned later, his name is Jared) who said “you know those burnable coils for keeping mosquitos away? I wish there was a Jamaican coil!” That should paint a decent enough picture. The problem is not that Jamaica depends on the tourist dollar, many island nations do. The problem is that they act entitled to it. I had a man curse me for not being black, tell me he was bitter about white people and that he wanted nothing to do with them, then in the same breath demand I give him money because “we can’t survive without you, so we must wait for you to give us everything to live.” He’ll be waiting a long time. I’m sure more people would come and give them more money if they worked on their “bedside manner”.
Of course that only applies to the major city areas, once you get into the country (not recommended!) many people don’t see them often, so they seem to look at a non-black person like a magic creature that lives on the moon who’s blood turns things to gold.
My time on the farm though was great. I learned so much, made new friends, and had an all around good time using it as my base to backpack from.
My first order of business was to go climb famous Dunn’s River Falls. It’s proximity to the farm meant I could get there and back in a day. The falls are a major “to-do” on most’s Jamaica trip, so I wasn’t going to miss it. The problem with this place is the other thing that’s annoying about Jamaica besides Jamaicans: non-Jamaicans! Scores of tourists flock to the place and clog up what is normally a beautiful mountain river flowing into the ocean. They get guides, and the guides have the tourists hold hands in groups of 30! 30 people holding hands, slowly ascending the waterfall, prattling on about their cruise. There where 4 cruise ships docking that day, holding thousands of people… I knew I had to get there before them! I set out early and made it to the falls by 7:30am. I was informed they didn’t open until 9, so I just laid on a bench and relaxed. At 8 they decided to let me in.. an hour before opening! I had the place to myself. Well, me and the vendors who were constantly trying to sell me things. “you need a guide!” Nope. I’m fine. “You’re only wearing flip flops; you can’t climb like that!” You’re right. I’ll go barefoot. “You can’t!” I did. Not only did I get in before anyone, I climbed to the top barefoot and didn’t get taken by hustlers in the process. By the time I had finished I was just in time to watch the cruise goers flooding in. I climbed down and into the ocean and people-watched for a while in the relaxing Jamaican sun.
The day was going great and I made it back to the farm in time to do a bit of work. That’s when the winds changed.
As I was working I was walking along and took a heavy step with all my weight on one leg. It was the moment my foot came down with all my weight on it that I was overcome by a feeling I wasn’t used to. Pain. I jerked my foot up to find that I had stepped on a nail. Not lightly either. The nail went ¾ of the way through my foot, and was just shy of coming out the top of my foot. It also wasn’t just any nail. It was a rusty, poop-covered nail, on a farm, in a third world country with the world’s highest concentration of AIDS. A perfect storm for disease. When I ripped my foot off the nail, my body began ejecting blood from the hole like a Quentin Terintino movie. I lost a surprisingly large amount, and there was nothing to treat the wound with. My body was now hard at work at converting AIDS, hepatitis, and tetanus into one super disease. I am patient zero. Luckily there was a bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the farm which I used to flush the site until the bleeding stopped. Once I got the bleeding to stop I looked inside the wound to find large pieces of debris lodged up deep into my foot. I knew I couldn’t’ leave them there, and I knew what I had to do. I took a nail file and, after sterilizing it, used it to lance my foot and dig out all the debris. I then used some gauze I brought and field-dressed my foot. It didn’t hurt much… until the next morning. Walking was intense; there was no doubt I was alive, as each step was a pretty good reminder I could feel things. There was nothing I could do now… except climb to the peak of Jamaica highest mountain!
It was New year’s Eve-eve. Every new year’s eve I train into the new year to fill the coming year with training and adventure. This year was no exception, and it was my plan to celebrate on the peak of Blue Mountain –Jamaica’s highest mountain. Of course I was going to make a few stops along the way, since I had a few days until new year’s.
Before I left properly I took a day trip to Port Maria. A town famously owned by Captain Henry Morgan. An infamous privateer (or pirate, depending on whom you ask) featured on his own brand of rum, who had a fort in Port Maria. I had read that pieces of the fort still stood somewhere near by. When I arrived, I found the streets to be flooded with people screaming at each other. Worse than usual. This was the beginnings of a riot. Large hummers full of fully garbed military personnel with automatic rifles patrolled the streets. The election was happening right then! I had forgotten all about it. I wandered around looking for anyone who might be able to help me. “Captain Morgan? Never heard of him.” He live here? “Nope.” He owned this town. “Not familiar.” He’s on the bottle you’re drinking from. “Still no.”
I wandered until I came upon some very old people fishing. They knew of Captain Henry and told me that there was almost nothing left of the fort. They pointed me in the direction, but cautioned I wouldn’t find it without a ride and a guide, and that today was not a good day (obviously). I set off anyway, but after several hours the election forced me to turn back to catch the last transport back to the farm so I could begin my journey towards the Blue Mountains. First stop was Ocho Rios.
After I got to Ocho Rios I hopped a bus to Kingston. Kingston is the capital of Jamaica and seems to often be described as one of the world’s largest “bad neighborhoods”; that being said, it really wasn’t that bad, if you don’t mind people peeing in the middle of crowded streets in broad daylight, and I certainly enjoyed myself(most of the time). There where street markets to peruse and plenty of cheap food to be had, if you looked carefully. Downtown Kingston is a bit rough, yes, but uptown (or “New Kingston”) is like a completely different city. Everything is new and clean, skyscrapers and minimarts dot the streets. It’s almost difficult to believe that just a click away are the sprawling slums of downtown. After I’d had my fill I hopped a bus for Port Royal.
Port Royal was known as the “richest and wickedest city in the world”. It was a pirate haven, and gathering place for the fat-walleted and debaucherous. Apparently it was a bit too rich and/or wicked as a great earthquake destroyed and sunk most of the city a hundred or two years ago; This event led to the founding of Kingston and the all but complete abandonment of Port Royal. Now it’s a kind of run-down fishing village. Skeletons of buildings hint at an adventurous past, and Fort Charles stands at the ready, though now a maritime museum. A maritime Museum I couldn’t get into because the place had been rented out for a new year’s concert. Oh well, I had bigger mountains to climb. After I was done with Port Royal I made tracks for Blue Mountain, and a place called “Penlyne Castle” where I heard there was a lodge to stay at to begin my climb in the morning.
I didn’t know how to get there though… I had heard that the town of Hagley Gap was just before Penlyne Castle, so I took a route-taxi in that direction. Several transfers later, I found myself lost, exhausted, and in the middle of the night… but miraculously I made it to Hagley Gap. That was the good news. The less good bit was that Penlynne Castle wasn’t as near the town as I’d hoped. There was no way to walk there, and all public transport had stopped. However, being that things seem to work out, this worked out. A women found out where I was headed and got a couple guys out of a bar and sweet talked them into taking me to the lodge, for a price of course. The two guys where extremely nice, and just as drunk and high. They smoked weed and chugged rum liberally on our way up the mountain. To say there is a road there would be an exaggeration if not a lie, and again I was certain I had made a decision I wouldn’t live to learn from… but I made it. The two guys where friends with the owner of the lodge, Whitefield lodge, and woke them up to get me a room. Even though it worked out for me, I wouldn’t’ recommend hitchhiking in Jamaica (though I did several times…). The guys and the owner kept asking me if I was cold on account of only having shorts and a T-shirt. “We’ve adapted to the cold, we’re stronger than average Jamaicans, so we can handle this cold. You must be freezing though, no?” No, it was till 70 degrees… that’s what passes for cold in Jamaica. At least there was no mosquitos up there! The lodge itself was completely empty save for me; apparently no one wanted to stay there and climb a mountain on new year’s eve. When I was shown the room to sleep in, I noticed several travelers had written their names on the rafters. Before I went to sleep I added my own name to the “adventurer’s log”.
When I awoke from my refreshing slumber it was New Year’s eve, sun rise. I performed my morning exercises and then headed to the attached bar to try the famous “Blue Mountain Coffee.” While I was waiting for my coffee, I saw a bootlegged DVD on the counter titled “American Street Fighter”. I grinned. My coffee arrived, I savored it, and then I set off. I had made it only a few steps before a lodge employee implored me to hire a guide. “But you don’t know the way! You don’t know where you are going!” he pleaded. I replied – sure I do, the top. I can see it from here. Straight up, got it. He looked puzzled at my simplification of the situation. “You’ve only got flip-flops and no close, you’ll get cold!” I’ll be fine, I said with a wave, and began my accent.
I hadn’t made it far before I was hit with the all-to-familiar tropical jungle rain. I trudged on knowing it would leave just as quickly as it had arrived. The slippery grounds wasn’t helping my foot with the hole in it, which had made worse by hitchhiking in sandals, since one of the cars got my flip-flop strap caught on a seat and proceeded to saw into my foot for a couple hours. My right foot had seen better days, but at least I had flip flops.
I plodded on, and after a couple hours I came upon a girl and a U.S. marine heading down the mountain. They told me it was tough, and the marine suggested I better get some shoes. I shared some of my past experiences with them, and assured them I wasn’t worried. “Wow, that’s impressive” said the girl. It shouldn’t be to a marine though, I said back. Subtle zing!
After about 4 and a half hours of travel time I made it to the peak, with flip flops and no guide. Of course my original idea was to climb barefoot, but the current state of my foot made that a bad idea. He peak was calming but cloudy, so I didn’t get a panoramic view of the island. I did find a nail up there though! I didn’t step on it.
Once I had situated myself I began my New Year’s ritual. I trained on the mountain top for a couple of hours. The training was good and the height made even basic exercises difficult. I worked out until the afternoon, meaning I had transitioned into the New Year (Japan time). afterwards I sat down to have a New Year’s celebratory meal which I had brought up with me: spiced bread and ginger wine.
The bread was delicious but the wine I had never had before. I had been drinking rum non-stop since I got to the island, so I wanted to mix it up. I like ginger so I thought it sounded good. It was not. Each sip was like licking a 9-volt battery. Luckily there was a spring half-way up the mountain where I had gotten some water, so I decided to mix the two. Kill two birds with one stone. The water was being disinfected by the alcohol, and making the ginger wine more drinkable. I was making grog! When in Jamaica eh?
After my picnic I began my decent down the mountain. A couple hours in I ran across a gaggle of Jamaicans who looked like they were about to pass out from exhaustion. There were maybe 6 of them, each with a backpack, full grocery bags, full cooler, gallon jugs, and some wheeled luggage. “How much longer!?” one screamed when they saw me. About 2 hours. “Not to the top, to the half-way meadow!” That is to the half-way meadow. They were going up the mountain to have a picnic on New Year’s but had never been there before. They were most certainly doing it wrong. If the road had been downhill they still would have been carrying too much, let alone this very steep grade. They looked like they might die where they stood. I pressed on.
Once I was about a mile away from the start I passed three Japanese girls just beginning their climb. They stopped and chatted at me in English, amazed I had just climbed a mountain in sandals. I told them about my original plan of being barefoot, and how I had climbed Mt.Fuji barefoot, Dunn’s River Falls, the 88-temple pilgrimage, and so on.
“Wow!” one said “you are amazing…or crazy…” I remarked “It’s amazing how often the two go together isn’t it?” They laughed. Then asked if since I’d been in Japan if I could speak Japanese. I replied by speaking Japanese. “Ha! He’s got a Tokyo accent!” They then explained that they were in the Japanese version of the Peace Corps, teaching gym class here in Jamaica! They all took turns taking pictures with me, and then a few moments later we parted ways.
Shortly thereafter I arrived back at the lodge and got another Blue Mountain coffee in celebration. I drank it and headed out. “Where are you going now?” one of the staff asked. Wherever the wind takes me, I laughingly replied. “Ha. Travelers. Crazy bunch. You need a ride?” I was feeling invigorated, so I declined and began hiking down the mountain. I remembered Hagley Gap being pretty close. It wasn’t. I didn’t even get to Penlyne Castle until a couple hours later, and it’s nothing but a shack and a sign on the ground. I kept going. Eventually night began to fall. The fates smiled on me though, and someone drove by and picked me up. I was able to hitchhike all the way to Kingston harbor so I could watch the New Year’s concert and Fireworks display with 100,000 other people… and I did! I always though I liked Jamaican music, but it turns out I like Bob Marley…big difference. The music at that concert was some of the worst off-rhythm gospel noise I’ve ever hear. The fireworks where awesome though, and I only got 20$ picked from my pocket. (Pro Tip: Keep a little money everywhere: pockets, shoes, money belts, swallow some, tie some around your wiener, put some in your rectum, ect.)
I had now rung the New Year in twice, and was stuck in downtown Kingston in the middle of the night. I decided I didn’t want to be any combination of raped/murdered/mugged, so I made for a hotel. The West Indies hotel. I walked in and asked “what can I get for 40$?” Their reply? “Nothing”. I bargained with them for a while, and the manager finally said “look, we’ve got a room that has some kind of mold all over the carpet and we can’t rent it out. Want it?” I told her I’d give her 35$U.S. “Done.” After I’d filled out the paperwork, complete with fake name and information, I went to my room which turned out to be the nicest place I’d stayed in Jamaica. Air Conditioning and hot water! I did a room perimeter sweep to make sure there weren’t any thieves, spies, or assassins in it, took a shower, then went to bed.
The next day I set off for the Bob Marley museum. It was closed for New Year’s. I moved onto the craft market. Closed for New Year’s. I then caught someone trying to pick pocket my bag, but I caught them early enough that they didn’t physically have anything, so I didn’t beat them to death on the spot in the middle of the day.
I decided to cut my losses and return to the farm. Upon my return I discovered I now had a roommate. A girl from Holland who was also backpacking around and decided to stay at the farm for a little bit. Her name was shire and she had studied Shotokan Karate for 13 years, so we had some things in common. I also learned about the “Aqua de Yamaica” or water of Jamaica in Spanish. It’s made from Hibiscus flower juice, sugar cane juice, and overproof rum. Delicious.
The next few days where business as usual at the farm. I would do my morning exercises while Sharee did Yoga, and then the two of us would join Mario and Saya. Sharee spoke English, Dutch, and Spanish, so now the four of us could communicate with each other much better, and we all traded proverbs and advice. Sharee taught us that the sound of seeds clacking is supposed to imbue things with new energy; and Michael taught us a Jamaican proverb that states “ A promise is a comfort to a fool”. He also said that he was glad to see me out adventuring because it’s something he wishes he had done when he was younger, and now can’t because he’s married. Priorities….
It was life on the farm as usual: long days, good food, and lots of rum. Ever couple of night Mario and Saya would want to walk into town and go to a bar and drink the night away. On one such night things became exceptionally adventurous.
On the way to the usual haunt, Saya decided he would stop off at a bar one of his friends owned, say hi, and get us free drinks. Saya, Sharee, and myself said ‘hi’ (Mario was waiting for us at the usual place) and where offered some drinks. Sharee got Rum Cream, which I had never heard of before, which I found delicious. I decided I wanted some. I told Saya to get me some. “Too late, Mon. I order us special drinks already.” The two cups arrived, one for him and one for me. We cheersed and I drank. It was horrible. He told me it was a combination of Red Bull, Overproof Rum, and some mystery drink. I told him I really didn’t like it, especially because of the red bull, but I would drink it because he got it for me. There isn’t much of anything to go around in Jamaica, so to receive anything is an honor. I choked the last of my drink down. No more, I told Saya, I don’t like it. “Well,” he said “the one I’m holding I also got for you. I just made it look like they were for both of us so we get it for free.” He handed me the concoction I had just had such a difficult time drinking. I stared in disbelief for a moment, half-heartedly thanked him, and drank it as fast as I could, trying to avoid the taste. We then left for our regular bar.
On the way Sharee started talking about how she wanted to buy a coconut, so she could make special Jamaican hot chocolate in the morning. She said she would have to get up around 6 to make it in time for breakfast, but she wanted to try it. “I love coconuts!” I drunkenly shouted. “I like to chop them open with my hand, then fill them with drinks and drink out of them. Then you can eat the meat. Coconuts are great!”, The alcohol only enhanced my enthusiasm. Saya crinkled his face. “Break a coconut with your hand?”, he asked. YEAH! “Without a machete?” Yes. “No machete?” yes. “You can’t break a coconut with your hand!” Can to. I do it like once a week. “Maybe some kind of weak United States Coconut, but not a Jamaican Coconut.” Well, if they’re not different then I can do it. I replied. His disbelief at someone being able to break a Jamaican Coconut with their hands showed on his face, like when he said I couldn’t cook Jamaican food because I wasn’t Jamaican….
The conversation dropped when we got to the bar. We all relaxed, and Sharee and I talked about life and vagabonding. After a couple hours we all headed back. On the way Mario stopped and went over to a huge bush, maybe 5 meters tall. On it where large pink flowers shaped like a bell. “Bell Flowers”, he said picking two especially large ones. “When get back, make good tea. You drink?” Yeah, I love tea. Have a nice hot cup of tea then off to bed. Sounds good. “Is Hallucinogen”.
…
Yeah, why not? Ride the lightening! By the time we made it back to the farm though it was 11pm, and I was tired and drunk, which meant I was double tired. I’m going to go to bed. You two (Mario and Sharee) have fun with your special tea. Saya went to bed as well. I was just too tired for whatever that tea had to offer… plus, I’m not the type of person who should be taking hallucinogens anyway, what with the night-terrors and such. Unbeknownst to me, I was about to take a ride anyway….
At about 1:30 I awoke from a particularly bad night terror: My heart racing I sat up with a jolt, my eyes darting everywhere. Normally when someone wakes from a night terror they are still mentally within the horrible dream they just had, even though they are awake. This usually lasts between a few seconds and a minute or so. Recognizing I was coming off of a night terror, I did my best to talk myself down and become relaxed. Despite my best efforts, the adrenaline would not subside. I felt anxious and in the midst of danger; I noticed fluid gushing out of my left ear and running down my shoulder and side down to my lap and the bed. I couldn’t tell if this was a delusion brought on by the night terror or not, so I convinced myself it was. After about 15 minutes I was able to lull myself back to sleep…
At 2:30 I awoke from a much worse night terror. I leapt from bed screaming and flailing, survival rage coursing through my veins. After a minute or so I realized I was coming out of a night terror again and again I began calming myself, to no avail. Minutes dragged on, and my condition did nothing but escalate. I had never had one last this long before, and certainly not become worse the longer I was awake. I watched in horror as shadows peeled themselves from the surfaces on which they were cast and become 3D replicas of the objects they were from. For example, a pencil’s shadow looked like an actual pencil, but made of shadow. Every shadow did this, and all where sentient and out to get me. There was almost nothing but shadows because of my current geographical location. My only thoughts now where of survival. I braved a field of shadow demons to make for the light on the other side of the room; I knew it was my only chance! Turning it on I made a hasty retreat to my bed and established a parameter with which to defend myself. My head pounded as fluid gushed from my left ear with every hard body shaking beat of my heart.
It was here I realized something wasn’t right. I knew I was having irrational thoughts, but my mind was too groggy to figure out which ones where the irrational ones. I only knew to survive. It was at this time that Sharee, the girl from Holland, came into the room. I remember thinking “Oh, she’s going to help me. Everything will be ok now.” She walked right up to me, looked me in the eyes and began yelling at me in Dutch. I tried to tell her I didn’t understand, but she kept going. I then remembered that she drank the hallucinogen tea! She probably couldn’t understand me, and I couldn’t understand her. We had no hope of communicating well with each other with her in her current state and me in mine.
At about this time it occurred to me that the only hope I had of beating the shadows was to brush my teeth outside in a clearing. I grabbed my toothbrush and made for the outdoors. Standing looking up at the sky I brushed my teeth. Hard. Way too hard and far too long for it to have been healthy. About 10 minutes in I yelled for Sharee. She came outside. Can you see this!? I asked in a panic. She said something in Dutch. I pointed to the sky and said “The stars… they’re melting! We’ve got to get ready!” She said something in Dutch.
The time was now 5:30. I ran back inside and sat on the bed. I was starting to come down, and the realization that it was now time to start my day began to sink in. A more realistic sense of dread now filled me as I thought of spending the day farming. I went outside to do my morning exercises. Slowly. Outside looked ridiculous. I don’t know what happened the previous night, but there where two lawn chairs in a field with a candle a single shoe on a doorknob, and clothes everywhere. I saw Sharee preparing her ingredients for her special hot chocolate. “Good morning” She said, “How did you sleep?” Awful, not really at all. We saw each other several times. “I don’t remember that.” For a second I wondered I any of last night had actually happened, but then I looked left. I saw the crust that had formed from the fluid that had apparently actually been coming from my ear. How was the tea? I asked. “Good. Relaxing. I don’t have any near vision though.” For 24 hours, both her and Mario could see nothing within arms length. The tea had temporarily messed up their pupils ability to dilate and contract. That doesn’t sound good, I said. Sharee seemed fine and chipper as always, nothing like what I felt like. She went to the room to get something she’d forgotten. I went in about 10 minutes later to find her night had finally caught up with her. Though she was spry just minutes before she now lay curled up asleep in bed with several layers of cloths and blankets. She was out for about 5 hours. I myself took a 2 hour nap.
Farming that day wasn’t easy. When lunch came around I confronted Saya, finally putting two and two together. ‘Your drinks you gave me last night gave me horrible nightmares!’ I said accusingly. “Oh yeah, they do that” he said with a laugh “I hope you had someone to watch you through the night. No one who drinks that and tries to sleep makes it through the night.” He continued laughing. HE KNEW! I told the cook, Sunshine, about drinking what Saya gave me. She laughed and said “ I hope you had someone with you all night, no one ever makes it through the night!” They all knew! Apparently this is a thing in Jamaica; sneaking Absinth’s evil cousin to people. I wasn’t warned I was going on that trip, and I didn’t have Liam Neeson to guide me through my fear-based spirit journey. “Fear will not wait for you to be ready!” , indeed. In that regard it was fantastic training. Then it hit me, what if I had drank the tea? I was already unknowingly full of something, mixing the two could have killed me, or worse!
I sat contemplating the previous night when Saya approached me. “Nash….Chop this.” He held up a coconut. I looked up with tired, confused eyes. “Chop this.” He said again. What? “Last night, you said you could chop open coconuts with our hand. Chop this.” You do realize that if I break this coconut, it may not be able to be used for cooking right? Even if I do it perfectly, some of the water will be wasted. “I don’t care. I want to see you do it. You cannot. “All right, I’ll give it a go. “Oh, try? What happened? Last night you were so confident!” Well you did say Jamaican coconuts where different! Maybe they are, I’ve never broken a Jamaican coconut. Plus, I had a rough night. Don’t worry though, I’ll hit it.
Saya grinned. I took the coconut and placed it on the ground, holding it still with one hand. I squatted down and raised my other hand steadying myself. Everyone at the farm gathered around. “Whack!” The coconut split beautifully in two. “What!?” The look on Sayas face was priceless. I had just destroyed his entire perception of reality. “That be amazin’! No machete!” See? I do this all the time. “You be a dangerous karate man!” Well, anyone can do it. They do say that it takes the same pressure to break a human skull as it does to break a coconut though. “You mean if that was a head, you could do the same thing?” Of course, I replied. His whole world shook. In that instant I became the fighting chief of his Jamaica. “You are super human!” Well good, next I’m going to cook Jamaican food! He laughed and said “you may be able to break anything, but you still can’t cook Jamaican food because you are not Jamaican.” We laughed. At least that hadn’t changed.
That night a women from Chile and her 10 year old daughter came to stay at the farm. I was told I “eat like a farmer’s horse’. It was fitting that this girl should show up on this night, as her first night there would be my last. I said my farewells and readied myself. With the rising morning sun I Began my journey off of Jamaica. I had farmed, climbed to the peak of Jamaica’s highest mountain, drank lots of rum, gone to various historic pirate locations, engaged in any number of cultural activities, climbed Dunn’s River Falls barefoot, celebrated Christmas, rang in the new year twice, donated much of myself to mosquitos, and gone all over the island. I had made several new friends and had a fantastic couple of weeks backpacking around; though I would offer this bit of advice to most people who find themselves on Jamaica: Leave Jamaica.
My training mission was a success, even in ways I hadn’t expected it to be. That’s the kind of special growth that training missions afford you. I was now ready to face the New Year.
The year is 20.X.2….
-Nash
Click on the picture below for the gallery:
I’m jolted awake by a blast of sunlight and the unmistakable call of a rooster. I sit up suddenly and through a window I catch a glimpse of a donkey eating leaves. My mouth tastes like I’ve been drinking rocket fuel, and despite it being very early in the day the heat is stifling. It’s Christmas… and I’m in Jamaica…
2 Weeks Earlier:
My friend had just broken up with his longtime girlfriend and was taking it pretty hard. He asked me what I was doing over Christmas and New Year’s. “We should go on a Nash-style adventure.” I thought the idea was great, especially considering I was planning on going on one anyway… “Where to?” I hadn’t a clue, but I was still reeling from my Granddad’s death and needed a New Year’s training mission because I, much like Sherlock Holmes, can only function while on an adventure.
He and I narrowed our options. “We’ve got two weeks, then I have school.” What about heading through South America? “We need to skip Mexico. I really don’t want to go there.” We can’t skip Mexico without flying. Cheapest ticket is 1,500$... “No way. What about kicking around the Caribbean for a couple weeks?” Sounds good. Let me see what I can do.
The next day I informed him that our two most accessible places, given time and money constraints, were Puerto Rico and Jamaica. “Good. Where will we stay?” Don’t know…;Hey, he wanted a Nash-style adventure, and those involve lots of improvisation… We where to leave in a week and a half.
One week to go, and we still had no way to get anywhere and no place to stay. My friend comes to me and says “Hey, I don’t have a passport… is that a problem?” Yes, but we can take a trip to the main office and get an expedited one, in about a day. It’ll cost a couple hundred though. “I don’t have any money…” I ask if he means for the passport of at al. “… at all.” How where you going to do this then !? “You’re Nash. I just figured you could make this work out…” Yes, but you can’t travel the way I do, with no money or passport – and a time budget – AND be within the law. At least one of those things has to go. He didn’t want to borrow in money either. “I won’t be able to go…” he said reluctantly.
A couple days later he asked me what I was going to do over Christmas and New Year’s. I’m going to spend a couple weeks backpacking around Jamaica was my reply. He was surprised I was going, since it was his idea. It was a good idea though, so I was going.
A couple days after that I heard of an organic farm on Jamaica and contacted them. They said I could stay and work there while I was in the country. I decided I would use it as my base while traveling. A couple of days after that, I took off for Jamaica.
As per the usual I did almost no research about the place before heading in that direction and I did most of my studying while in transit. This would come back to me several times while in Jamaica.
Once I was finally on the island, clearing customs was awful. My first taste of what I would come to know as the overall flavor of Jamaica. The service in Jamaica is infamously bad, and the country does nothing to change this reputation. It was the most difficult country for me to get into. After a very long encounter with customs, who refused to believe someone would come to Jamaica to backpack, I finally made it into the country proper. It was suggested to me to exchange my money for Jamaican dollars, so I did. Learned a lesson. The Jamaican government and economy are so fragile they may as well not have any. Yes, technically it is a third-world country… but barely. It’s less of a country and more a piece of land with people living on it. The American Dollar is king (Ironically), and if you don’t have any and go to pay in Jamaican, you are usually looked at like an asshole.
I made my way to the bus-ticket counter and handed them the directions I had. “Credit card.” I don’t have one. They looked at me as if I was from outer space. “How do you pay then?” Cash. “We can’t take cash” the lady behind the counter said, then looked around with shifty eyes. She whispered “Slip me the cash, but don’t let anyone see.” I did. “Don’t tell anyone.” Got it. I was corralled onto a bus of already drunk tourists from New Jersey. After a couple hours I made it from Montego Bay to Ocho Rios. From Ocho Rios I got a taxi and took it a little inland. This would be my first encounter with Jamaican Driving. Nothing brings your mind into focus faster than very real and imminent death, which I was sure was coming my way courtesy of Jamaica’s horrible roads and worse drivers. The 15 minute ride probably shaved a year off the end of my life, but I made it to the farm. An organic permaculture farm named Durga’s Farm, owned by a French Canadian woman ,Lise, and her Jamaican husband ,Michael. Aside from taking in the occasional drifter, every once in a while the place plays host to students from Penn State’s Sufficiency classes.
I had come to Jamaica to clear my mind and get away from things and get back to myself, but as I looked up at the stars that night I was struck by how similar to Thailand everything seemed. I was flooded with memories, and then I began to wonder: If places where starting to become this similar and blend together, was I running out of places to escape to? I quickly decided the answer was ‘No’.
As I was becoming acquainted with the ins and outs of the farm, Lise told me that her brother was in town for the holidays, and that all the guys should head into town for the giant Christmas eve party and live it up. So, we did. The streets where packed with people dancing and eating, and the music was loud. A unique-to-Jamaica kind of loud. I took the opportunity to eat my first Jerk Chicken, the signature food of Jamaica. It was every bit as good as I’d hoped. The signature drink? Rum. The stereotype that Jamaicans drink rum all the time…. Seems to be entirely accurate. Lise’s brother, Claude, asked me if I had ever had Jamaican Rum. Yes, I replied. “Ever drank it IN Jamaica?”. No. “Had overproof rum?” What’s that?, I asked. “Real Jamaican rum. What Jamaicans drink to get drunk.” Most l rums are around 15% alcohol, but Jamaicans drink it often enough that they have guilt up quite a tolerance for it. That’s where overproof rum comes in. Overproof rum is 63% alcohol, and up. Claude bought us a bottle (They serve it by the bottle). Needless to say, I wasn’t prepared for it. As Claude and I drank together I learned that he was a cop in Montreal for 21 years, was on a Canadian airport Swat team, and was in the U.N. in Haiti. He said “After living life like that you can never do a normal job. It’s too boring. You’ve got to make your own way to keep going. I teach security tactics.” His words were surprisingly appropriate. He ordered another bottle of overproof. We talked about how cops in Montreal must pass a PT test every few months or be relegated to desk work. I told him that sounded like a great idea. Again, he ordered another bottle of overproof. Like drinking Butane. The party wore on and on until finally Michael, Claude, and myself wound up back at Lise’s house. I managed to get a couple hours of sleep before the wildlife started making noise, and the sun hit me…. It was now Christmas Morning.
I had stayed at Lise’s house. Though she owned the farm, her and Michael didn’t live there. They had a house about 20 minute’s car ride away. The only people who lived on the farm where: Mario a Mexican permaculture expert who only spoke Spanish, Me, and Saya. Saya was Michale’s Jamaican friend who is an expert farmer with feet thicker than most shoes(literally, he walks and works barefoot- a man after my own heart), speaks little English, mostly Patois. If someone tells you the main language of Jamaica is English, they are lying. Patois is the Real Language of Jamaica, and it is not English. The lonely planet guide book describes Patois as a language that evolved from French creole, and mixed with several African languages, Spanish, some Rastafarian slang, and a few English words.
When we got back to the farm it was discovered that their two dogs had gotten into the kitchen the previous night and eaten Lise’s 100$US Christmas ham. She was furious. Michael told me there was to be several political rallies in the next few days as the following week was the election for prime minister, and he wanted to see if I wanted to go to watch one. I had just read “Jamaica has the world’s highest murder rate of any country not in the middle of a war. Do not travel to Jamaica during elections, especially Prime Minister elections, as politics exacerbates the warring crime rates.” Like always, I just discovered I did the exact opposite of what was recommended. Jamaica also has world’s highest concentration of churches, and AIDS…
I spent that day doing regular things: Corralling goats, I lit the pilot light on the stove (probably almost blew myself up), ate sugar cane cut from the farm while working and listening to the neighbors very loud music. The reggae echoing through the mountains makes a nice soundtrack to working. I got used to the reggae and was anticipating more of the same, as that’s usually all there is musically in Jamaica. Just when I’d become complacent I was hit with a thunderously loud Rick Astley song… Jamaica Rick Rolled me…
After the first day’s light work we all went to the beach and relaxed. When we came back for Christmas dinner we discovered one of the goats had given birth. A Christmas baby. Lise named it Noel. Christmas dinner was delicious and consisted of Lobster Rice, Chicken, Plantains, Veggies, and More. A fantastic day.
The next few days where farm life as usual. Wake up at 5:30 and do morning exercises, breakfast at 6. Work starts between 6:30 and 7. Work until 11, then lunch break for an hour, then work from 12-5. At 5 it starts to get dark, so we would stop and shower up with recycled water in an outdoor shower with an amazing view! Dinner at 6. I would normally lie down and read at 7. I was staying in the dorm, which looked very much like a dojo. I was basically sleeping outdoors, but with a roof over my head; my alarm clock was the sun rise over the horizon. I couldn’t have asked for more.. except maybe a mosquito net! I was eaten alive a few nights by very hungry mosquitos and the like. I even tried to build my own mosquito net out of scrap wood and sheets once, but it collapsed on me in the middle of the night. After a few days the mosquitos became disinterested in me, and all was well.
I’ve always enjoyed farm work, because I find it to be great training. This was no exception. For example, carrying a 5 gallon bucket of dirt in each hand up hill for hours on end. Or shoveling. Working at the goat stable was a typical experience; whenever I do something like that I have the fantasy that I won’t get wet or covered in poop. First day working the stables saw a water pipe break near me as I was shoveling goat poop. Both of those fantasies went right down the drain.
Another benefit to farm life besides the training is the tea. We made bush tea on the farm, meaning you pick what grows and brew it on the spot. They have spearmint, peppermint, and thyme growing; so if you want tea you just walk over, grab a few leaves and boil them. Delicious. The work is also diverse. Whether you’re building a chicken coop, tending crops, herding goats, building a house from clay, or making clay to build a house from, there’s always something to learn from and capture your interest.
The food’s great too. So great that I wanted some recipes. I got them, but was informed by Saya I would never be able to make them. “you can’t cook Jamaican food.” When I inquired why I was told “You can’t cook Jamaican food, because you are not Jamaican.” Quant. Offensive, yes, but not surprising. In fact, the thing that could be said to ruin Jamaica is the Jamaicans. When I realized this, I was worried that constant harassment because of my perceived difference in race and financial status, multiple pick-pocketings, and the general obnoxiousness of the place had made me racist. I’m not. I’m prejudiced. Big difference! Prejudiced against jerks, which Jamaica happens to be full of, which has nothing to do with their nationality or race. Yes, the fact I don’t like to be around large crowds of people has something to do with it. I dislike most squanderers and those that refuse to help themselves. Yes, Jamaicans ruin Jamaica, but in all fairness the English ruined if before them, the Spanish before them, and the Caribs before them. Before the Caribs where the Arawaks who where by all accounts laid back people and the inventors of the hammock, so they’re fine by me.
The stereotypical Jamaican(Those who never left the island, or don’t know anyone who has) are abrasive to say the least. I met a man from Holland (mentioned later, his name is Jared) who said “you know those burnable coils for keeping mosquitos away? I wish there was a Jamaican coil!” That should paint a decent enough picture. The problem is not that Jamaica depends on the tourist dollar, many island nations do. The problem is that they act entitled to it. I had a man curse me for not being black, tell me he was bitter about white people and that he wanted nothing to do with them, then in the same breath demand I give him money because “we can’t survive without you, so we must wait for you to give us everything to live.” He’ll be waiting a long time. I’m sure more people would come and give them more money if they worked on their “bedside manner”.
Of course that only applies to the major city areas, once you get into the country (not recommended!) many people don’t see them often, so they seem to look at a non-black person like a magic creature that lives on the moon who’s blood turns things to gold.
My time on the farm though was great. I learned so much, made new friends, and had an all around good time using it as my base to backpack from.
My first order of business was to go climb famous Dunn’s River Falls. It’s proximity to the farm meant I could get there and back in a day. The falls are a major “to-do” on most’s Jamaica trip, so I wasn’t going to miss it. The problem with this place is the other thing that’s annoying about Jamaica besides Jamaicans: non-Jamaicans! Scores of tourists flock to the place and clog up what is normally a beautiful mountain river flowing into the ocean. They get guides, and the guides have the tourists hold hands in groups of 30! 30 people holding hands, slowly ascending the waterfall, prattling on about their cruise. There where 4 cruise ships docking that day, holding thousands of people… I knew I had to get there before them! I set out early and made it to the falls by 7:30am. I was informed they didn’t open until 9, so I just laid on a bench and relaxed. At 8 they decided to let me in.. an hour before opening! I had the place to myself. Well, me and the vendors who were constantly trying to sell me things. “you need a guide!” Nope. I’m fine. “You’re only wearing flip flops; you can’t climb like that!” You’re right. I’ll go barefoot. “You can’t!” I did. Not only did I get in before anyone, I climbed to the top barefoot and didn’t get taken by hustlers in the process. By the time I had finished I was just in time to watch the cruise goers flooding in. I climbed down and into the ocean and people-watched for a while in the relaxing Jamaican sun.
The day was going great and I made it back to the farm in time to do a bit of work. That’s when the winds changed.
As I was working I was walking along and took a heavy step with all my weight on one leg. It was the moment my foot came down with all my weight on it that I was overcome by a feeling I wasn’t used to. Pain. I jerked my foot up to find that I had stepped on a nail. Not lightly either. The nail went ¾ of the way through my foot, and was just shy of coming out the top of my foot. It also wasn’t just any nail. It was a rusty, poop-covered nail, on a farm, in a third world country with the world’s highest concentration of AIDS. A perfect storm for disease. When I ripped my foot off the nail, my body began ejecting blood from the hole like a Quentin Terintino movie. I lost a surprisingly large amount, and there was nothing to treat the wound with. My body was now hard at work at converting AIDS, hepatitis, and tetanus into one super disease. I am patient zero. Luckily there was a bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the farm which I used to flush the site until the bleeding stopped. Once I got the bleeding to stop I looked inside the wound to find large pieces of debris lodged up deep into my foot. I knew I couldn’t’ leave them there, and I knew what I had to do. I took a nail file and, after sterilizing it, used it to lance my foot and dig out all the debris. I then used some gauze I brought and field-dressed my foot. It didn’t hurt much… until the next morning. Walking was intense; there was no doubt I was alive, as each step was a pretty good reminder I could feel things. There was nothing I could do now… except climb to the peak of Jamaica highest mountain!
It was New year’s Eve-eve. Every new year’s eve I train into the new year to fill the coming year with training and adventure. This year was no exception, and it was my plan to celebrate on the peak of Blue Mountain –Jamaica’s highest mountain. Of course I was going to make a few stops along the way, since I had a few days until new year’s.
Before I left properly I took a day trip to Port Maria. A town famously owned by Captain Henry Morgan. An infamous privateer (or pirate, depending on whom you ask) featured on his own brand of rum, who had a fort in Port Maria. I had read that pieces of the fort still stood somewhere near by. When I arrived, I found the streets to be flooded with people screaming at each other. Worse than usual. This was the beginnings of a riot. Large hummers full of fully garbed military personnel with automatic rifles patrolled the streets. The election was happening right then! I had forgotten all about it. I wandered around looking for anyone who might be able to help me. “Captain Morgan? Never heard of him.” He live here? “Nope.” He owned this town. “Not familiar.” He’s on the bottle you’re drinking from. “Still no.”
I wandered until I came upon some very old people fishing. They knew of Captain Henry and told me that there was almost nothing left of the fort. They pointed me in the direction, but cautioned I wouldn’t find it without a ride and a guide, and that today was not a good day (obviously). I set off anyway, but after several hours the election forced me to turn back to catch the last transport back to the farm so I could begin my journey towards the Blue Mountains. First stop was Ocho Rios.
After I got to Ocho Rios I hopped a bus to Kingston. Kingston is the capital of Jamaica and seems to often be described as one of the world’s largest “bad neighborhoods”; that being said, it really wasn’t that bad, if you don’t mind people peeing in the middle of crowded streets in broad daylight, and I certainly enjoyed myself(most of the time). There where street markets to peruse and plenty of cheap food to be had, if you looked carefully. Downtown Kingston is a bit rough, yes, but uptown (or “New Kingston”) is like a completely different city. Everything is new and clean, skyscrapers and minimarts dot the streets. It’s almost difficult to believe that just a click away are the sprawling slums of downtown. After I’d had my fill I hopped a bus for Port Royal.
Port Royal was known as the “richest and wickedest city in the world”. It was a pirate haven, and gathering place for the fat-walleted and debaucherous. Apparently it was a bit too rich and/or wicked as a great earthquake destroyed and sunk most of the city a hundred or two years ago; This event led to the founding of Kingston and the all but complete abandonment of Port Royal. Now it’s a kind of run-down fishing village. Skeletons of buildings hint at an adventurous past, and Fort Charles stands at the ready, though now a maritime museum. A maritime Museum I couldn’t get into because the place had been rented out for a new year’s concert. Oh well, I had bigger mountains to climb. After I was done with Port Royal I made tracks for Blue Mountain, and a place called “Penlyne Castle” where I heard there was a lodge to stay at to begin my climb in the morning.
I didn’t know how to get there though… I had heard that the town of Hagley Gap was just before Penlyne Castle, so I took a route-taxi in that direction. Several transfers later, I found myself lost, exhausted, and in the middle of the night… but miraculously I made it to Hagley Gap. That was the good news. The less good bit was that Penlynne Castle wasn’t as near the town as I’d hoped. There was no way to walk there, and all public transport had stopped. However, being that things seem to work out, this worked out. A women found out where I was headed and got a couple guys out of a bar and sweet talked them into taking me to the lodge, for a price of course. The two guys where extremely nice, and just as drunk and high. They smoked weed and chugged rum liberally on our way up the mountain. To say there is a road there would be an exaggeration if not a lie, and again I was certain I had made a decision I wouldn’t live to learn from… but I made it. The two guys where friends with the owner of the lodge, Whitefield lodge, and woke them up to get me a room. Even though it worked out for me, I wouldn’t’ recommend hitchhiking in Jamaica (though I did several times…). The guys and the owner kept asking me if I was cold on account of only having shorts and a T-shirt. “We’ve adapted to the cold, we’re stronger than average Jamaicans, so we can handle this cold. You must be freezing though, no?” No, it was till 70 degrees… that’s what passes for cold in Jamaica. At least there was no mosquitos up there! The lodge itself was completely empty save for me; apparently no one wanted to stay there and climb a mountain on new year’s eve. When I was shown the room to sleep in, I noticed several travelers had written their names on the rafters. Before I went to sleep I added my own name to the “adventurer’s log”.
When I awoke from my refreshing slumber it was New Year’s eve, sun rise. I performed my morning exercises and then headed to the attached bar to try the famous “Blue Mountain Coffee.” While I was waiting for my coffee, I saw a bootlegged DVD on the counter titled “American Street Fighter”. I grinned. My coffee arrived, I savored it, and then I set off. I had made it only a few steps before a lodge employee implored me to hire a guide. “But you don’t know the way! You don’t know where you are going!” he pleaded. I replied – sure I do, the top. I can see it from here. Straight up, got it. He looked puzzled at my simplification of the situation. “You’ve only got flip-flops and no close, you’ll get cold!” I’ll be fine, I said with a wave, and began my accent.
I hadn’t made it far before I was hit with the all-to-familiar tropical jungle rain. I trudged on knowing it would leave just as quickly as it had arrived. The slippery grounds wasn’t helping my foot with the hole in it, which had made worse by hitchhiking in sandals, since one of the cars got my flip-flop strap caught on a seat and proceeded to saw into my foot for a couple hours. My right foot had seen better days, but at least I had flip flops.
I plodded on, and after a couple hours I came upon a girl and a U.S. marine heading down the mountain. They told me it was tough, and the marine suggested I better get some shoes. I shared some of my past experiences with them, and assured them I wasn’t worried. “Wow, that’s impressive” said the girl. It shouldn’t be to a marine though, I said back. Subtle zing!
After about 4 and a half hours of travel time I made it to the peak, with flip flops and no guide. Of course my original idea was to climb barefoot, but the current state of my foot made that a bad idea. He peak was calming but cloudy, so I didn’t get a panoramic view of the island. I did find a nail up there though! I didn’t step on it.
Once I had situated myself I began my New Year’s ritual. I trained on the mountain top for a couple of hours. The training was good and the height made even basic exercises difficult. I worked out until the afternoon, meaning I had transitioned into the New Year (Japan time). afterwards I sat down to have a New Year’s celebratory meal which I had brought up with me: spiced bread and ginger wine.
The bread was delicious but the wine I had never had before. I had been drinking rum non-stop since I got to the island, so I wanted to mix it up. I like ginger so I thought it sounded good. It was not. Each sip was like licking a 9-volt battery. Luckily there was a spring half-way up the mountain where I had gotten some water, so I decided to mix the two. Kill two birds with one stone. The water was being disinfected by the alcohol, and making the ginger wine more drinkable. I was making grog! When in Jamaica eh?
After my picnic I began my decent down the mountain. A couple hours in I ran across a gaggle of Jamaicans who looked like they were about to pass out from exhaustion. There were maybe 6 of them, each with a backpack, full grocery bags, full cooler, gallon jugs, and some wheeled luggage. “How much longer!?” one screamed when they saw me. About 2 hours. “Not to the top, to the half-way meadow!” That is to the half-way meadow. They were going up the mountain to have a picnic on New Year’s but had never been there before. They were most certainly doing it wrong. If the road had been downhill they still would have been carrying too much, let alone this very steep grade. They looked like they might die where they stood. I pressed on.
Once I was about a mile away from the start I passed three Japanese girls just beginning their climb. They stopped and chatted at me in English, amazed I had just climbed a mountain in sandals. I told them about my original plan of being barefoot, and how I had climbed Mt.Fuji barefoot, Dunn’s River Falls, the 88-temple pilgrimage, and so on.
“Wow!” one said “you are amazing…or crazy…” I remarked “It’s amazing how often the two go together isn’t it?” They laughed. Then asked if since I’d been in Japan if I could speak Japanese. I replied by speaking Japanese. “Ha! He’s got a Tokyo accent!” They then explained that they were in the Japanese version of the Peace Corps, teaching gym class here in Jamaica! They all took turns taking pictures with me, and then a few moments later we parted ways.
Shortly thereafter I arrived back at the lodge and got another Blue Mountain coffee in celebration. I drank it and headed out. “Where are you going now?” one of the staff asked. Wherever the wind takes me, I laughingly replied. “Ha. Travelers. Crazy bunch. You need a ride?” I was feeling invigorated, so I declined and began hiking down the mountain. I remembered Hagley Gap being pretty close. It wasn’t. I didn’t even get to Penlyne Castle until a couple hours later, and it’s nothing but a shack and a sign on the ground. I kept going. Eventually night began to fall. The fates smiled on me though, and someone drove by and picked me up. I was able to hitchhike all the way to Kingston harbor so I could watch the New Year’s concert and Fireworks display with 100,000 other people… and I did! I always though I liked Jamaican music, but it turns out I like Bob Marley…big difference. The music at that concert was some of the worst off-rhythm gospel noise I’ve ever hear. The fireworks where awesome though, and I only got 20$ picked from my pocket. (Pro Tip: Keep a little money everywhere: pockets, shoes, money belts, swallow some, tie some around your wiener, put some in your rectum, ect.)
I had now rung the New Year in twice, and was stuck in downtown Kingston in the middle of the night. I decided I didn’t want to be any combination of raped/murdered/mugged, so I made for a hotel. The West Indies hotel. I walked in and asked “what can I get for 40$?” Their reply? “Nothing”. I bargained with them for a while, and the manager finally said “look, we’ve got a room that has some kind of mold all over the carpet and we can’t rent it out. Want it?” I told her I’d give her 35$U.S. “Done.” After I’d filled out the paperwork, complete with fake name and information, I went to my room which turned out to be the nicest place I’d stayed in Jamaica. Air Conditioning and hot water! I did a room perimeter sweep to make sure there weren’t any thieves, spies, or assassins in it, took a shower, then went to bed.
The next day I set off for the Bob Marley museum. It was closed for New Year’s. I moved onto the craft market. Closed for New Year’s. I then caught someone trying to pick pocket my bag, but I caught them early enough that they didn’t physically have anything, so I didn’t beat them to death on the spot in the middle of the day.
I decided to cut my losses and return to the farm. Upon my return I discovered I now had a roommate. A girl from Holland who was also backpacking around and decided to stay at the farm for a little bit. Her name was shire and she had studied Shotokan Karate for 13 years, so we had some things in common. I also learned about the “Aqua de Yamaica” or water of Jamaica in Spanish. It’s made from Hibiscus flower juice, sugar cane juice, and overproof rum. Delicious.
The next few days where business as usual at the farm. I would do my morning exercises while Sharee did Yoga, and then the two of us would join Mario and Saya. Sharee spoke English, Dutch, and Spanish, so now the four of us could communicate with each other much better, and we all traded proverbs and advice. Sharee taught us that the sound of seeds clacking is supposed to imbue things with new energy; and Michael taught us a Jamaican proverb that states “ A promise is a comfort to a fool”. He also said that he was glad to see me out adventuring because it’s something he wishes he had done when he was younger, and now can’t because he’s married. Priorities….
It was life on the farm as usual: long days, good food, and lots of rum. Ever couple of night Mario and Saya would want to walk into town and go to a bar and drink the night away. On one such night things became exceptionally adventurous.
On the way to the usual haunt, Saya decided he would stop off at a bar one of his friends owned, say hi, and get us free drinks. Saya, Sharee, and myself said ‘hi’ (Mario was waiting for us at the usual place) and where offered some drinks. Sharee got Rum Cream, which I had never heard of before, which I found delicious. I decided I wanted some. I told Saya to get me some. “Too late, Mon. I order us special drinks already.” The two cups arrived, one for him and one for me. We cheersed and I drank. It was horrible. He told me it was a combination of Red Bull, Overproof Rum, and some mystery drink. I told him I really didn’t like it, especially because of the red bull, but I would drink it because he got it for me. There isn’t much of anything to go around in Jamaica, so to receive anything is an honor. I choked the last of my drink down. No more, I told Saya, I don’t like it. “Well,” he said “the one I’m holding I also got for you. I just made it look like they were for both of us so we get it for free.” He handed me the concoction I had just had such a difficult time drinking. I stared in disbelief for a moment, half-heartedly thanked him, and drank it as fast as I could, trying to avoid the taste. We then left for our regular bar.
On the way Sharee started talking about how she wanted to buy a coconut, so she could make special Jamaican hot chocolate in the morning. She said she would have to get up around 6 to make it in time for breakfast, but she wanted to try it. “I love coconuts!” I drunkenly shouted. “I like to chop them open with my hand, then fill them with drinks and drink out of them. Then you can eat the meat. Coconuts are great!”, The alcohol only enhanced my enthusiasm. Saya crinkled his face. “Break a coconut with your hand?”, he asked. YEAH! “Without a machete?” Yes. “No machete?” yes. “You can’t break a coconut with your hand!” Can to. I do it like once a week. “Maybe some kind of weak United States Coconut, but not a Jamaican Coconut.” Well, if they’re not different then I can do it. I replied. His disbelief at someone being able to break a Jamaican Coconut with their hands showed on his face, like when he said I couldn’t cook Jamaican food because I wasn’t Jamaican….
The conversation dropped when we got to the bar. We all relaxed, and Sharee and I talked about life and vagabonding. After a couple hours we all headed back. On the way Mario stopped and went over to a huge bush, maybe 5 meters tall. On it where large pink flowers shaped like a bell. “Bell Flowers”, he said picking two especially large ones. “When get back, make good tea. You drink?” Yeah, I love tea. Have a nice hot cup of tea then off to bed. Sounds good. “Is Hallucinogen”.
…
Yeah, why not? Ride the lightening! By the time we made it back to the farm though it was 11pm, and I was tired and drunk, which meant I was double tired. I’m going to go to bed. You two (Mario and Sharee) have fun with your special tea. Saya went to bed as well. I was just too tired for whatever that tea had to offer… plus, I’m not the type of person who should be taking hallucinogens anyway, what with the night-terrors and such. Unbeknownst to me, I was about to take a ride anyway….
At about 1:30 I awoke from a particularly bad night terror: My heart racing I sat up with a jolt, my eyes darting everywhere. Normally when someone wakes from a night terror they are still mentally within the horrible dream they just had, even though they are awake. This usually lasts between a few seconds and a minute or so. Recognizing I was coming off of a night terror, I did my best to talk myself down and become relaxed. Despite my best efforts, the adrenaline would not subside. I felt anxious and in the midst of danger; I noticed fluid gushing out of my left ear and running down my shoulder and side down to my lap and the bed. I couldn’t tell if this was a delusion brought on by the night terror or not, so I convinced myself it was. After about 15 minutes I was able to lull myself back to sleep…
At 2:30 I awoke from a much worse night terror. I leapt from bed screaming and flailing, survival rage coursing through my veins. After a minute or so I realized I was coming out of a night terror again and again I began calming myself, to no avail. Minutes dragged on, and my condition did nothing but escalate. I had never had one last this long before, and certainly not become worse the longer I was awake. I watched in horror as shadows peeled themselves from the surfaces on which they were cast and become 3D replicas of the objects they were from. For example, a pencil’s shadow looked like an actual pencil, but made of shadow. Every shadow did this, and all where sentient and out to get me. There was almost nothing but shadows because of my current geographical location. My only thoughts now where of survival. I braved a field of shadow demons to make for the light on the other side of the room; I knew it was my only chance! Turning it on I made a hasty retreat to my bed and established a parameter with which to defend myself. My head pounded as fluid gushed from my left ear with every hard body shaking beat of my heart.
It was here I realized something wasn’t right. I knew I was having irrational thoughts, but my mind was too groggy to figure out which ones where the irrational ones. I only knew to survive. It was at this time that Sharee, the girl from Holland, came into the room. I remember thinking “Oh, she’s going to help me. Everything will be ok now.” She walked right up to me, looked me in the eyes and began yelling at me in Dutch. I tried to tell her I didn’t understand, but she kept going. I then remembered that she drank the hallucinogen tea! She probably couldn’t understand me, and I couldn’t understand her. We had no hope of communicating well with each other with her in her current state and me in mine.
At about this time it occurred to me that the only hope I had of beating the shadows was to brush my teeth outside in a clearing. I grabbed my toothbrush and made for the outdoors. Standing looking up at the sky I brushed my teeth. Hard. Way too hard and far too long for it to have been healthy. About 10 minutes in I yelled for Sharee. She came outside. Can you see this!? I asked in a panic. She said something in Dutch. I pointed to the sky and said “The stars… they’re melting! We’ve got to get ready!” She said something in Dutch.
The time was now 5:30. I ran back inside and sat on the bed. I was starting to come down, and the realization that it was now time to start my day began to sink in. A more realistic sense of dread now filled me as I thought of spending the day farming. I went outside to do my morning exercises. Slowly. Outside looked ridiculous. I don’t know what happened the previous night, but there where two lawn chairs in a field with a candle a single shoe on a doorknob, and clothes everywhere. I saw Sharee preparing her ingredients for her special hot chocolate. “Good morning” She said, “How did you sleep?” Awful, not really at all. We saw each other several times. “I don’t remember that.” For a second I wondered I any of last night had actually happened, but then I looked left. I saw the crust that had formed from the fluid that had apparently actually been coming from my ear. How was the tea? I asked. “Good. Relaxing. I don’t have any near vision though.” For 24 hours, both her and Mario could see nothing within arms length. The tea had temporarily messed up their pupils ability to dilate and contract. That doesn’t sound good, I said. Sharee seemed fine and chipper as always, nothing like what I felt like. She went to the room to get something she’d forgotten. I went in about 10 minutes later to find her night had finally caught up with her. Though she was spry just minutes before she now lay curled up asleep in bed with several layers of cloths and blankets. She was out for about 5 hours. I myself took a 2 hour nap.
Farming that day wasn’t easy. When lunch came around I confronted Saya, finally putting two and two together. ‘Your drinks you gave me last night gave me horrible nightmares!’ I said accusingly. “Oh yeah, they do that” he said with a laugh “I hope you had someone to watch you through the night. No one who drinks that and tries to sleep makes it through the night.” He continued laughing. HE KNEW! I told the cook, Sunshine, about drinking what Saya gave me. She laughed and said “ I hope you had someone with you all night, no one ever makes it through the night!” They all knew! Apparently this is a thing in Jamaica; sneaking Absinth’s evil cousin to people. I wasn’t warned I was going on that trip, and I didn’t have Liam Neeson to guide me through my fear-based spirit journey. “Fear will not wait for you to be ready!” , indeed. In that regard it was fantastic training. Then it hit me, what if I had drank the tea? I was already unknowingly full of something, mixing the two could have killed me, or worse!
I sat contemplating the previous night when Saya approached me. “Nash….Chop this.” He held up a coconut. I looked up with tired, confused eyes. “Chop this.” He said again. What? “Last night, you said you could chop open coconuts with our hand. Chop this.” You do realize that if I break this coconut, it may not be able to be used for cooking right? Even if I do it perfectly, some of the water will be wasted. “I don’t care. I want to see you do it. You cannot. “All right, I’ll give it a go. “Oh, try? What happened? Last night you were so confident!” Well you did say Jamaican coconuts where different! Maybe they are, I’ve never broken a Jamaican coconut. Plus, I had a rough night. Don’t worry though, I’ll hit it.
Saya grinned. I took the coconut and placed it on the ground, holding it still with one hand. I squatted down and raised my other hand steadying myself. Everyone at the farm gathered around. “Whack!” The coconut split beautifully in two. “What!?” The look on Sayas face was priceless. I had just destroyed his entire perception of reality. “That be amazin’! No machete!” See? I do this all the time. “You be a dangerous karate man!” Well, anyone can do it. They do say that it takes the same pressure to break a human skull as it does to break a coconut though. “You mean if that was a head, you could do the same thing?” Of course, I replied. His whole world shook. In that instant I became the fighting chief of his Jamaica. “You are super human!” Well good, next I’m going to cook Jamaican food! He laughed and said “you may be able to break anything, but you still can’t cook Jamaican food because you are not Jamaican.” We laughed. At least that hadn’t changed.
That night a women from Chile and her 10 year old daughter came to stay at the farm. I was told I “eat like a farmer’s horse’. It was fitting that this girl should show up on this night, as her first night there would be my last. I said my farewells and readied myself. With the rising morning sun I Began my journey off of Jamaica. I had farmed, climbed to the peak of Jamaica’s highest mountain, drank lots of rum, gone to various historic pirate locations, engaged in any number of cultural activities, climbed Dunn’s River Falls barefoot, celebrated Christmas, rang in the new year twice, donated much of myself to mosquitos, and gone all over the island. I had made several new friends and had a fantastic couple of weeks backpacking around; though I would offer this bit of advice to most people who find themselves on Jamaica: Leave Jamaica.
My training mission was a success, even in ways I hadn’t expected it to be. That’s the kind of special growth that training missions afford you. I was now ready to face the New Year.
The year is 20.X.2….
-Nash
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