Fanta Kouyate

Bringing up Jamaica commonly evokes notions of a dreamy tableau replete with endless blue sea, expansive white sand beaches, palm trees, rum, and the warm golden sun. If you’re jaded like me you might immediately think of the tourist experience of Jamaica, cliché attractions, horse riding on the beach, zip lining through the trees, sunblock, cornrows, and a shallow sense of place. And until now, this had been an accurate representation of my experiences on the island. As I planned my trip nearing Montego Bay, Jamaica’s primary tourist city, I sought to ensure that I stayed far far away from the above in my search for the real Jamaica.

Jamaica is the third largest island in the Caribbean (about 146 miles long, 51 miles wide) but it is still relatively small; roughly the same size as the world’s largest glacier. Though I had been to the island multiple times before, I hadn’t had a chance to touch down in Montego bay, Jamaica‘s second city. Historically, Montego Bay was a town known for sugar and banana production. These days, Montego Bay is known as a resort hub within the Caribbean and the tourist capital of Jamaica. Being that the city is so easily accessible by both commercial and private jets as well as seafaring vessels, it is known to be a playground both for the rich & famous and for us plebeians alike. On brand with the contra I am, I was intent on knowing the authentic side of the city.

I left America at 5 AM, stopping at a connection in Atlanta and heading for Sangster Airport as my point of entry to Jamaica. I used to feel excited about flying but as I got older and began to fly more frequently all I’d come to feel was a sense of obligatory dread and the need for a non-prescription anesthetic. The first flight came and went but, by the time I departed from Atlanta, my bullshit threshold was low. I sensed the day was only going to get longer so I purchased a single bottle of Belaire rosé champagne at duty-free before I boarded. I was disappointed to hear the gate agent announce that my flight was completely booked because that meant there would be no way to annex myself a row apart from the other passengers after takeoff. As I made my way back to my seat I was irritated to find a young Caucasian couple, donning camo and gym shoes sitting happily in my assigned row. I was even more irritated when they offered to shift over towards the window so that they didn’t have to get up and give me my window seat, which I pettily demanded. I was sequestered at a window in the very last row of the plane and I stared out for the duration. Arriving to Jamaica has always been a notably picturesque experience and I stared out in awe as upon our landing. The plane seemed to fly so low over the bright blue ocean that I thought landing in Jamaica must necessitate amphibious aircraft.

Through my noise-canceling headphones, I heard murmurs from the couple to my right that brought my reverie to a screeching halt. As my row mates surveyed the landscape they concluded that the area may turn out to be “sketchy“, comparing it to the Dominican Republic. Though a case can be made in favor of this argument, they were quite unlikely to ever encounter any criminals, thugs or even legitimate Yardies from their thoroughly secured resort property as all Jamaicans on the property would be acting as staff and nothing more. Thus, For this slander, I would not stand. I was compelled to remove my headphones and engage the woman who spoke the words first by asking her frankly, “are you conflating the ideas of poverty and being sketchy?”. To my surprise, she took a moment and apparently did some honest reflection because she responded, “yes, I guess so“. This sent me into a tirade about how she should leave her western thoughts at home and start conjuring up a great deal of gratitude for these people who were happy to have her. As deplaning concluded I walked quickly, trying to put as much distance between me and the hordes of travelers as I could. I approached the first Jamaican man with a uniform and a wheelchair that looked at me long enough to show that he liked what he saw and I asked him to get me through customs as quickly as possible. He placed me in a wheelchair and sped me through the humid and crowded terminal, making beeping sounds with his mouth and overtaking old ladies with no remorse; he knew exactly what I wanted. After a detour to Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville, he delivered me to my shuttle with a piña colada in hand so I gave him my number & a $20 bill then I was on my way.

It was dreary and drizzling in Montego Bay. The drive from Sangster airport to Lucea (the location of my resort) can realistically take 25 to 30 minutes on a weekday, but on Fridays and Saturdays, the drive can take up to two hours. As I arrived on a Friday The drive was long and was made even longer by the fact that the couple from the plane subsequently boarded my shuttle with three of their buddies followed by four Caucasian women in their 50s. I suppose these women had a few drinks because they made it their business to mention how nice they thought my floral Selkie sweatsuit was; Even going to the lengths of venturing to the back of the bus, where I reclined, to cop a feel. They spoke loudly and behaved as if they were 18, making tone-deaf bets for $100 and lamenting the lack of Chick-fil-A, for which I interjected “Why don’t you go get some jerk chicken and be happy?“ and they made no argument. Actually, they began to extol the beauty of Jamaican food.

Bumbling down the Jimmy Cliff Blvd. AKA the ‘Hip Strip’ we passed the statue of Usain Bolt, a Starbucks, and a coffee shop AKA a cannabis store. Colorful and lively pastel gingerbread architecture sitting side-by-side with freshly built modern buildings and dilapidated concrete structures in a row. I felt a sense of recognition as we passed the famed Doctor’s Cave. In 1906 Dr. Alexander James McCatty allowed his beachfront property to be turned into a bathing club which became known as Doctor’s Cave; as the beach could previously only be reached by way of a cave that had been destroyed by a hurricane in the 1800s. The cave had previously only been used by the doctor and his physician comrades. 20 years later the British osteopath Sir Herbert Barker Visited doctor’s cave during a bout of illness and after bathing in the waters of Doctor‘s Cave, he emerged cured and went on to write an article touting the benefits of the cave and its magical waters. The story caught fire and subsequently the rich and famous migrated from far and wide to test the waters. Hotels began popping up around the famous cave and soon enough Montego bay was a burgeoning tourist economy.

Doctor’s Cave sat juxtaposed by adjacent abandoned buildings with Caucasian men in oxfords standing on barely standing balconies, peering out, surveying the dilapidated property much like the security guards at the bathing club. Outside of Margaritaville stood a man on stilts, donning a long striped suit and a matching hat next to a colorfully dressed Jamaican woman with a fruit basket on her head. I contented myself with staring out of the window and watching the scenery change as the bus left Montego and traversed less populous roads. The greenery began to peek over the walls again, a small greeting for me. I’d gaze out the window every time the roads neared closer to beaches on waterfronts. My heart felt warm as we passed the elderly doing commerce under plastic awnings, packs of stray dogs, and hundreds of school children pouring out from concrete buildings with barred windows donning brown and yellow school uniforms. The natives waved, delighted to see another dark face visiting and I cheerfully waved back. Looking out the window I was elated peering into the dense, verdant bush. Natural embellishments of bougainvillea growing prolifically over the tops of seemingly every wall and traveler palms standing tall amongst the concrete jungle; seemingly to symbolize the triumph of the wild in Jamaica. The sun began to set, imparting an even duskier hue to the sky.

After an hour and a half of driving, we made a pit stop at a no-frills waterfront restaurant nestled in a beautiful aqua enclave named Mosquito Cove. I was the first off of the bus and when the bus driver suggested passengers use the bathroom. I made a beeline for the bar and began ordering red stripes, Ting, ginger beer, soup, and jerk chicken. After placing my order at the kitchen window where the chef was cooking on an open fire, I asked the chef where I could find some ganja and he pointed me to a dock where I could spy two silhouettes blowing smoke by the water. I made my way over to them and told them that I would like to purchase as much weed as I could get for $50. The taller and quieter of the two remained seated, silently smoking a joint and smiling. The shorter one pulled out three little sacks of weed and informed me that they would usually be $20 each but he would give them to me for $40. He smiled again, taking my money without looking down to count it and telling me that he was sure it was all there. I asked his friend if I could hit his joint and after he obliged I strolled onto the dock to look out over the water. After a few moments, I felt a presence behind me, then hands on my waist, and a subtle embrace. Honestly, I can’t remember what he said but his deep patois and kindness left an impression on me. He gave me his number and assured me that he’d be around when I needed something. I returned the joint to his friend, collected my food from the kitchen, and boarded the bus in a first spliff of the day kind of daze. I couldn’t help but pick pieces of hot crisp chicken from the rib bones, seasoned and charred to perfection, drizzled with a sugary jerk sauce, undeniably ethereal. This half chicken set atop a bed of the classic peas and rice side-by-side with a bit of cabbage and carrots- Absolute bliss, it was.

Within minutes The bus bumbled up to a set of brushed white metal gates and a security post. The security guard stepped out sleepily and lumbered around the vehicle peering into the windows after consulting the driver about the number of occupants. After taking a downhill turn through rows of palm trees and a small parking lot I could see the white pillars and a small crew awaiting our arrival. As I departed the bus, I was disturbed to find that instead of the obligatory parkling wine being served from flutes to new guests, this resort was serving rum punch in paper cups. I’d made a grave error.

After a long check-in, I found myself back in my room lighting a spliff and devouring jerk chicken in my bed like a raccoon in the dark. It was the kind of good that makes you ravenous and feral, your most bestial self. I washed it all down with two pineapple Tings. The spice and sweet carbonation delivered the most pleasurable kind of punch: My own personal masochistic culinary satisfaction. Feeling stuffed, I reclined and turned on the television to peruse the Jamaican channels. I don’t often watch television but it’s a curiosity when I travel. I want to know what they’re watching, what language they’re watching it in, I want to know what their culture deems important enough for mass consumption. Within minutes I drifted off into a torpor.