1975: Jamaica Mistaika

"I don't like reggae...I love it."
Dreadlock Holiday, 10cc

Come to Jamaica, mon. I first heard the faint siren of this tropical island around 1974. A group of friends had made their way down to Miami, where they’d picked up a $99 ticket to Montego Bay (MoBay) and on to Negril, a traveller’s paradise. Tales of cheap ganga, loose women, buckets of booze, white sand and blue seas- in my mind, I’m already there!

After the overall success of the Florida adventure, I made a vow that I kept for the next six years: I would never again spend another winter in Canada (it’s good to have goals!). Winter was brutal and I simply wasn’t cut out for it.

The weather was turning cold, and I was working on the production line for the Chrysler Corporation in a huge factory, producing Cordobas and Valiants. All the while, visions of turquoise blue water and flour-white sand danced in my head. My stomach ached to be on that beach and the thought of another 30 years or so on the line scared the living beejesus out of me. One day, the longing for leaving was so intense, I simply walked off factory floor, punched the clock and left the factory life – forever.

The route south would follow a similar scenario (hopefully) as in my first journey south in 1973, (see posting “Floridays”) with Henry, my new travelling partner. This time, the hitchhiking wasn’t quite so easy, and it took three full days to reach my grandmother’s winter home in Zephyrhills. The craziest adventure on the way south featured a close encounter with the Kentucky state police.

We only managed to get as far as Dry Ridge, Kentucky on our first day of travel- just barely. Dry Ridge is not exactly a prominent tourist destination, featuring a truck stop and a couple of motels. After a night in one of the lower rent establishments, we woke up to a fresh layer of snow on the ground – exactly what we were trying to escape.

Our intention was to grab a quick bite to eat at the truck stop. The waitress was taken aback by our appearance- long hair and backpacks- and we felt some very definite redneck vibrations. So, instead of dining at that fine resort, we decided to walk down to the highway entrance ramp. Like to stay, but gotta go.

Reminded me of Bob Seger:

You feel their eyes upon you as you shake off the cold
Always the same clichés, is that a woman or a man…

In the great state of Kentucky, it is illegal to hitchhike on the interstate; one can only hitch on the entrance ramp- this was plainly stated on a sign right in front of us. However, very few cars stop at Dry Ridge, so to catch a ride from cars entering the “on ramp” in the cold would have been very tough. Contravening the no hitchhiking on the freeway rule, we stuck our thumb out where the ramp met the highway.

Almost immediately, we were harassed by a redneck state trooper, who pulled over, told us to get back up the ramp no “ifs, ands or buts”. As soon as he left, of course, we walked back down the ramp to the freeway, playing a game of cat and mouse with the Trooper.
Apparently it was slow Sunday in Dry Ridge, as Trooper Billy Bob soon returned (all the good Christians being in church, while we, the heathens, had the audacity to tread on his turf). This time, he warned us that we'd be thrown in jail if he caught us on the highway.

I couldn't figure the logic of the “no hitching on the freeway” rule. If he ignored us, we'd soon be long gone from his jurisdiction. Besides, we weren't bothering anyone in Dry Ridge on that cold January morning.

The third time he caught us, he was across the highway, which had a median barrier crossing the four lanes. He couldn't get across the highway at that point, but proceeded to blare over the loudspeaker: "Stay right there, you're under arrest."

We were frozen with fear at this point, but Providence intervened. A car stopped up the highway, and we ran to it, threw our gear into the back, and looking over our shoulder for the next twenty miles, bid adieu to Dry Ridge and the rednecks.

After a brief stay in Zephyrhills once again with my grandmother and Red Roy, we moved on to our eventual destination: Jamaica. We hitched across the great state of Florida to Miami, and caught a jet from Miami International, destination: Montego Bay and Negril.

The First Flight

There's something about one’s first jet ride that remains forever. As the Air Jamaica jet accelerated down the runway, I recall an incredible rush as we gained altitude; this, I thought is a very good way to travel.

We flew over Cuba, which seemed very exotic from the air, with majestic mountains, tiny villages and pristine beaches lying below us. Soon, we caught sight of Montego Bay as we circled over; from the perspective of a frozen Canuck, the scenery can only be described as absolutely spectacular.

When you have lived all your life in an area that is as incredibly flat as Essex County, Ontario, the hills of Jamaica seem mighty exotic. Add in the incredible shades of ocean blue, the most magnificent natural colours imaginable, and it is easy to see why Jamaica remains a very attractive tourist lure.

On the ground, we learned that the Jamaican tourist board provided free welcome Rum Punch drinks, if you knew where to look. It wasn't hard to find, and we met up with three characters from Ohio, who were headed in the same way as us: the mystical beach at Negril, on the extreme west coast of the island.

After a few rum punches, we negotiated with a cab driver to take us to Negril, and on to the highway (if you can call it that) we cruised- five westerners stuffed into a tiny taxi, packs and all. Through our rum punch glazed eyes, we were immediately struck by the large crowds people there were in the streets. In N. America, people do not hang out on the streets the way they do in underdeveloped nations.

In Montego Bay, the streets were alive with vendors hawking all types of wares, women in brightly coloured clothing with great baskets on their heads. It was very exotic and quite heady to witness the parade filing past our car window as we headed out of town. This was my first contact with real poverty, and I was quite mesmerized up by the sight.

And the lushness of the jungle all around. After the cold of the north, the palms and exotic flowers seemed like paradise. We sped along the south coast road, rounding bay after bay, becoming completely enchanted with the scenery. We made Negril just after sunset, which was magical and very surreal.

Way Off the Beaten Track

In Negril, we were deposited at the infamous Negril Beach Yacht Club (NBYC). The NBYC has no yachts or moorings, at least not in 1975. It did, however, serve up some tasty Banana Rum shakes, and it had truly one of the great terraces in the world, overlooking the famed 7-mile sands of Negril Beach.

Negril Beach in 1975 was half hippy outpost, half resort development- it was transitioning from outpost to destination. Most of the development was at the far end of the beach from Negril proper, low-lying bungalows, "none higher than the palm trees, mon", according to the locals. In the surrounding red clay hills, and down the ocean lane towards the famous caves on the western tip of the island, many bungalows were available at incredibly cheap rates.

The beach, of course, was the main draw. The sand was almost pink in colour, and stretched for over seven miles, as noted. The half moon shaped bay began at the NBYC west of "town"- no more than a tightly-packed group of shanty cafes and dirt roads- and spread the length of the seven miles. Palm trees fringed the beach, and it was one of those places that you sensed was too good to last, and yet hadn't quite been hit by the waves of tourism just yet.
This, Henry and I agreed, was a lifestyle we could get used to.

But our troubles in paradise were about to begin.

After a long day of travel, with many rum drinks along the way, we decided to indulge in banana daiquiris at the Yacht Club. I hadn’t eaten much all day except for the airline meal, and I remember drinking too much and spewing my guts out among the plant life- not a pretty sight.

We found an idlyllic place across a tiny bay from the Yacht Club called the Cottage on the Rocks to pitch our tent; we were going to camp next to the Caribbean! The spot was excellent, it had a gracious host, brother George.

George's motto was: "Dey canna stop me mon!", and he worked this into every conversation. He was quite a colourful character in his retirement years, enjoyed running a small guest house and camping place for travellers.

George had sailed all over the world as a cook for His/Her Majesties’ Navy. He regaled us for hours about his adventures and stories, with his thick Caribbean English, beautifully spoken. "Mon, if all my children come to visit me, dey haffta get permission from da queen to close da road, mon. Yes sir, I tell ya true, dey canna stop me, mon.” On so on…

It was going to be a great spot for us to hang out, and the three American gringos rented rooms, while we pitched our tent by the sea. After a long conversation with George that first night, we decided it was time to hit the rack, and dozed off as the water gently lapped at the shore, right at our feet.

Trouble in Paradise

I was a million miles away when a ruffling sound brought me back to reality. We were awoken late in the night by a disturbance, and when I sat up in the tent, I saw someone running out of our tent- a mini-house pup tents that could comfortably sleep three people with packs.

I jumped out of my sleeping bag only to see a shadow disappear into the jungle. When I looked around the tent, I saw clothes strewn about. Then I found my wallet, which until recently held converted Jamaican cash. Hank and I the victim of a robbery- the brazen thief had come right into the tent.

One of the main issues of travel on the cheap is the possibility of getting your goods ripped off, especially when camping. Whenever a robbery occurs (and it would many times in my travels), it is such a surreal feeling, as you enter into denial that the event has taken place. This time, I lost some cash, a pair of jeans, and a specially embroidered shirt, by a friend as a good luck travel gift.

Very disappointed with this turn of events, we awoke George, who was very distressed about the events. There was, however, a lot of thieving going on in Negril, as us rich white Northerners had possessions largely unavailable to locals, especially stylish clothes. And violence was not an unknown occurence, as I would find out first-hand toward the end of our stay. While in Negril, we heard of many other people being robbed, and one day, there was a report that an American was found floating in the bay, with a knife in his back.

Negril was still very much a fishing village, and this influx of white hippies and voyageurs was disconcerting to the locals. The stress of transforming a sleepy village into a hot spot for N. Americans was creating much resentment between those who were capitalizing on the situation, and those who were left outside. Sadly, I would witness this phenomenon time and again in one form or another whenever I traveled off the beaten track.

For the rest of our stay at George's Cottage on the Rocks, we stashed our gear inside the cottage, and had no further thieving to report.

The next day, after reporting our losses to the local constabulary, we decided to put the incident behind us and hit the beach. This was the life we would enjoy on and off for the next three weeks: lying on the beach, eating the wonderful local delicacies sold by vendors, including fresh fruit, snorkeling out to the reef, and basically, "Takin' it ease, mon."

A Slice of Paradise

Negril, despite its growing pains, was a very laid-back place in 1975. There were several really funky restaurants serving delicious local fare, such as lobster curry, which went down well with the cheap local Red Stripe beer. Some of the best food was authentic Caribbean fare served out of little shacks on the side of the road, including the fiery Roti and the jerk chicken, mon, places we patronized with great regularity.

Everywhere you went, you heard the omnipresent reggae beat. This was in an era before the rise of the great Reggae stars including Bob Marley and Peter Tosh, and there was a terrific energy building up around reggae music. I remember the small station wagons that pulled up, and the driver would pull out some speakers, put them on the roof and become an instant disc jockey. These roving dj's would have the locals dancing in the street in no time, and we often joined in.

One of the advantages of staying at George's Cottage on the Rocks was the ability to reef snorkel right out our front doorstep. The giant reef that ran the length of the beach began at George's place, and we often started the day by snorkeling through this incredible underwater garden. I had never snorkeled before this, but was so enthralled with the underwater colours and sights that I'm sure I went everyday.

George's place was very popular among travellers. One guy who was staying at Georges was a scuba diver, and he came in with a catch of fresh lobster. That night, George cooked up a lobster curry that remains the best I’ve ever eaten, and a good time was had by all.

There was a Negril ritual that took place everyday at sunset. The various, freaks, drop-outs, outcasts and reprobates would walk to the west point of the island and congregate at Rick’s Café and Sunset Bar. Symphony music would blare as this ragamuffin group of Westerners paid an almost religious homage to the sunset. We were seldom disappointed, especially since drinks were always 2 for 1 at sunset.

Near the west point, there were fantastic sea caves to explore. To reach the caves, it was necessary to grab a rope dangling from a tree over the water, get a good running start, and swing over the water like Tarzan. Then, as your momentum carried you out from the ledge, you let go and dropped about 40 feet into the water. The next step was to swim into the caves, climb the rocks, and ascend a tunnel by ladder. You emerged across the road from the cliffs, to do it all over again; this was great fun.

One day, while swimming in the caves, a strong wave came in, and I tried to hold to the sides to avoid getting bounced around. I made the fateful mistake of putting my feet on the wall for support, and was foot was racked with excruciating pain. I had stepped on a cluster of stinging barnacles, and I had to be carried out of the cave, the pain was so great.

Somehow, I hobbled back to George's cottage, and was told the best solution was to piss on my foot to ill the pain. I thought this was local mumbo jumbo, and ignored the advice. Later that night, though, as the pain intensified, I decided to forego dignity and soaked my foot in urine. Amazingly, by the next day, the pain was gone.

The Rasta Life

Life in Negril revolved around beach life during the day, and non-stop partying at night. There was the delicious Appleton Rum, which was ridiculously cheap, and came as strong as 160 proof for the heavyweights. Jamaica was famous for its marijuana crops, and much herb consumption was in evidence by both the locals and the foreigners. In fact, for the Rastafarians, smoking ganga was part of their religion. Not wanting to offend a country’s religious rituals, we soon become one with the Rastas.

There was also plenty of psylicibon “magic” mushrooms; the government decreed that the potent sedatives 714 “Mandrakes” could be bought over the counter. Add in the local Red Stripe or Heineken beers and there were a lot of foreigners who were quite literally whacked out of their head.

For those so inclined, it was possible to buy Ganga cake, which increased the potency of already strong marijuana by a factor of ten. Mushroom tea could be had in many establishments, and marijuana was smoked almost everywhere, although not really out in the open, as it was illegal. You couldn't ever walk to the beach without getting asked to buy some "Herbs, mon", or "Ganga, mon", usually at the ridiculously low price of around $25 per pound weight. To paraphrase Robin Williams: "If you can remember Negril Beach in the seventies, you weren't there."

Given the state of mind that most of us were in, it was difficult bother with any touring of the region. I did manage to go into the mountains several times on motorcycle, and found the scenery from up high to be so incredible stunning; I was really enchanted with the island. The people in the hills seemed much more friendly than on the beach, less jaded at the sight of foreigners.

Hank, the three Americans and I thought it might be fun to head into the hills to see what life was like. We met some characters on the beach, Rastafarians who never cut their hair, smoked lots of ganga, herded goats and raised crops in the hills (usually ganga). They invited us to their farm and we took them up on the offer. Soon we found ourselves in a splendid cottage in the green hills in Central Jamaica.

It was very peaceful in the mountains, and we enjoyed a side of Jamaican life completely different than the beach scene. We walked through jungle to huge fields of ganga the size of Iowa corn. I remember Hank, in his Tarzan outfit, stuffing his shorts full of ganga. We swam in the nearby waterfalls, and it was quite idyllic.

After a few days in the hills, we came back down to the beach for our final few days in Jamaica. Things seemed pretty calm in Negril, and one morning we found ourselves sprawled out in the sand with a large group of people, in a very relaxed, Negril state of mind.

One of the hassles of beach life in many Third World countries is the beach touts who will often disturb the peace and quiet by hawking goods. I don't begrudge these people the opportunity to make some cash, and they work harder for a couple of dollars that 99% of N. Americans.

What I don't like is the continuous harassment, especially if the wares hold no interest whatsoever.

We would always look forward to the arrival of the pastry lady who sold us beautiful fresh fruit cakes and other home-made delights. The drink man was always welcome at our little beach camp, and friendly locals would come to sit and chat (especially because we always seemed to be in the company of several bikini-clad women).

We were doing the usual beach routine, still dazed from the effects of the “night before and the morning after” routine. A tout walked up and started harassing everyone to buy some bongs and mugs carved out of bamboo. We politely told him we weren't interested; acting like he didn't hear us, he began to spread his wares on our blankets and towels.

I told him we weren't interested, and he stuck a bong in front of my face, saying: "It's a good bong, mon, I give you good price." I made the fateful mistake of asking how much, and he gave me some ridiculous price. I said I could by the same thing for one-fifth the price across the street from George's, and he said that was impossible. I should have known better than to engage him in dialogue, but I told him his prices were too high, and were, in fact, a rip-off.

I guess he must have thought the words "rip-off" was swearing, because he took the bong and whacked me real hard, right between the eyes. He was a fairly stocky fellow, probably had worked in the cane fields at some point. I was seeing stars, but when I put my hand up to my head and felt the blood oozing out from the newly-formed gash, I went berserk.

Normally, I am a very passive person, and I have walked away from many fights in my travels, because it is always easier in the long run. But when my body or someone I know is threatened, then you've messed with the wrong character. I jumped up and grabbed that sucker by the throat, and proceeded to drag him into the water. I was taking great delight in my delirious state as I was drowning the bastard, when I was pulled off of him by the people around me.

I was more than a bit insane at that point, so I grabbed all of his wares and starting throwing them into the jungle and the water. Finally, I calmed down, and some of the women who were with us began to attend to the wound, which was still bleeding profusely- my face was covered in blood. Once that was under control, I was urged by my companions to go to the police to press charges.

After the bleeding stopped, I walked into town to report the incident to police. Along the way, who did I spot but the same local, selling his goods to an elderly couple (many tourist bused into Negril to see the hippies at play). The sight of this guy caused me to lose control again, and I grabbed his box of artifacts and threw them into a nearby river!

The police were very sympathetic to my plight, and were very interested in having me press charges against the tout. They knew exactly who he was, and claimed he was real trouble-maker who had recently stabbed a tourist, who refused to press charges. The police explained they were worried that many urban Jamaicans, known as “rude boys” were migrating to Negril to benefit from the influx of foreigners.

Unfortunately, to stay in Negril for a trial the next week was impossible, as I had my ticket out the next day. The police even called Air Jamaica to see if the ticket could be extended, but they claimed it was impossible. I had to forego pressing charges, and I still wonder if this guy eventually murdered someone.

It was a sad way for me to leave Jamaica, because the place was so beautiful; it was my first experience in the tropics and the Third World, and 99.9% of the people were fantastic. But I had been robbed and beaten, and I became tired of the beach hustle.

Hand Me the Keys, Please

So, with reservations in our hearts and tickets in hand, we departed Montego Bay and flew back to Miami. Hank and I weren't done with our tropical adventures, however. It was still too soon to head north, so we decided to travel south from Miami to the Florida Keys, to a small island reputed to be a hangout for those seeking to escape the northern cold on the cheap.

We made our way to the Greyhound bus depot in Miami, and were soon heading past such fabled resorts as Coral Gables and Key Largo to the Florida Keys. Of course, the water didn't have the same tinge of Caribbean blue as Jamaica, and the beaches weren't quite as nice, but it was still plenty warm and idyllic.

We arrived at Grassy Key, and sure enough, there was a colony of characters who were squattinbg among the Florida salt water pines. Police raids, however, were frequent, but we decided to give it a go anyhow.

We spent about 5 days on Grassy Key, snorkeling along a reef, spear fishing for dinner, and generally enjoying our blissful existence. One night, about 40 people gathered on the small islet, and everyone brought some food for dinner. We prepared an enormous stew in an old milk can over a wood fire. It was delicious, and the camaraderie among Northerners seeking shelter from the cold was fantastic.

We knew that Florida State troopers would come to evict us sooner or later. One afternoon, they showed up and told everyone to be off the island by sunset or we'd all be arrested. This statement was blared over a bullhorn, but no one seemed too perturbed. We did have to take our tents down, however, which was only a slight inconvenience, since it was glorious weather.

Most of the people departed, and someone left a brand new lawn lounge chair behind. Hank, a few other brave/foolish derelicts and I camped out in the open on the wide beach at Grassy Key. About 2 am, we awoke to a loud blare from a bullhorn: "You're all under arrest, don't move."

I jumped up from my comfortable sleeping bag and faced a State Trooper, obviously a little red in the neck. He had a sawed off shotgun pointed right at my face. It was an interesting sort of sleeping bag ballet I went through: jumping off seeing the shotgun, trying to put my arms in the air, and falling back, all in one motion.

The troopers were seriously pissed that we hadn't obeyed their order to evict the island. After we were roused and lined up, and presented identification, one cop jumped on my lounger with a knife and slashed the thing to bits. Very mellow people, these good old southern boys. Probably let off steam by fishing with dynamite.

Fortunately, they were in no mood to put a few scraggly long-hairs in jail, and after several minutes of harassment, one of the Troopers turned to me and said: "Where the hell you from, boy?”

I, of course, was a proud Canadian, and replied: "From Canada, sir" (always emphasize the sir when dealing with local authorities anywhere on this planet!). He said: "Well, you git the hell on up that old highway to Canada right now, boy".

Even though it was 3 am, I wasn't going to argue how we were going to “git on up that old highway” Hank, two other characters and I immediately made a beeline down the road towards US 1. At the first possible juncture, we jumped off into the bush and found a small beach where we slept in fits with images of state troopers yielding knives and shotguns.

Hank decided to head back to Canada the next day, but I was determined to spend as much time as possible in the south. I stayed in the keys, legally camping in two fine state parks, one called Long key, and the other called Bahia Honda. For about three more weeks, I had a great time eating fresh seafood, drinking a wide range of liquors, going down to Key West to watch the famous sunset and generally having a fine time in the Florida sunshine.

I hitched solo for the first time in my life, from Key West to Detroit, and the road was pretty good to me, as far as I can recall. Most people who pick up hitchhikers are generous, and if you return this generosity with conversation, the miles pass rather quickly.

On my way north, I stopped at Zephyrhills to visit my granny and Red Roy. I guess she was getting tired of seeing me, and she wasn't too thrilled. She kept saying I was living the life of Riley, and who was I to argue?

Despite my best efforts to drag out the winter in the south, I soon left Zephyrhills and hitched north to a still frozen Canada. The next time I returned to Florida and Zephyrhills was many years later, when my Grandmother passed away, and I wanted to see the place one last time on my way to Pampona Beach.