A Few Days in Negril Part II

 

I walked back to the shack soon after sunset.  It got dark fast which made getting back all the more adventurous.  I managed to get back in one piece and decided to take a shower.  I hadn’t taken one on my first night because I was too tired and upset about my situation to even bother dealing with an unfamiliar shower.

I quickly realized that I’d made a good decision.  Had I tried to shower that first night, I know Jamaica would have had me in tears again.  Why?  There was no hot water.  Not in the bathroom sink (I’d learned to just deal with that), not in the kitchen (wasn’t cooking or washing dishes anyway in that dump), and not in the shower (sigh).  But since I was tired, dirty, and covered in sand, I would just have to make it work.

One more day, Jamaica …

After a slightly better night than the last, I got dressed and bounced.  I hit the same café as the day before for a quick breakfast, then made my way back to Arthur’s.

Well, I thought I knew where I was going.  It was a straight shot down the beach, but the more I kept walking, the more I started to think that I’d never get there.  Finally, I whipped out the phone only to realize that I had passed the place by 1.9 km.  What?  How did I do that?  Good grief!

I doubled back with Marshall calling me just before I reached the place.  He was standing in front of the sign with his arms out.  I know I’d only been to the place once, but I even took a picture of the sign the night before.  I still have no idea how I missed it but whatever.

Marshall produced a bottle of rum punch.  He’d noticed that that was the drink I’d had the night before.  He offered me some but since I had made him wait so long, I said we should just get going.  He took me over to another man sitting at the bar then led us out to a car.  Huh?  I thought we were taking a boat from the bar.  Confused and a bit wary, I got in the back seat.

Even in December, the temps were in the high 80’s.  The car had a broken mirror on the driver’s side so I had to believe that the A/C was non-functional.  We were basking in God’s air conditioning (all the windows were down) as we sped up the main road.

Travelling in the back of a car with two Jamaican men I’ve just met, billows of weed smoke coming out of each window (because this is my life now), I started to question my judgment.  What’s stopping these guys from pulling over into a secluded area and taking advantage of the lone female traveler?  No one knew I was with these guys and I had no idea where we were going.  And we just kept going.

I started to get this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Oh yeah.  I’m about to be raped and murdered in Jamaica.

Well, this story had to end somehow.

That’s one of the issues with travel.  I want to throw myself into an adventure, but at the same time, I’m still by myself in a foreign country and would like to not die in that country.  It’s a fine line.

We stopped at a car mechanic and the driver got out to get something he’d forgotten there.  Seeing this as a possible chance to escape, I asked Marshall again where were we going.  I told him I didn’t realize it was so far away, we still hadn’t established a price, and I wasn’t entirely sure yet that I would survive this adventure.  He gave me the puppy dog eyes saying he was hurt I could even suggest that I was in danger.  This was his job.  Everyone knows Marshall.  He’s a stand-up guy.

Okay.

                                                                    That's Marshall

Considering that we passed through several small towns, stopping in one so I could take pictures, I started to relax.  Even on the more barren parts of the road, there were houses, people, and taxis everywhere.  Plenty of opportunities to get help if I needed it.

We made another quick stop at what passes for Jamaican fast food.  It was a line of small stalls set off from the road enough to allow cars to stop briefly.  Once we did, a bunch of folks came to our windows carrying all kinds of food.  Marshall bought a package of bammy, a type of flatbread, and offered me some.  Munching on the bread further served to soothe my fears of being murdered.

After two hours(!) we turned onto this rutty dirt road and parked in what looked like someone’s backyard.  There was a dude grilling near a small house as another dude sat by the water and fished.  We waited for a boat to come in, then Marshall and I set sail for the bar.

Alright.  Now we’re talking.  It’s a gorgeous day in Jamaica. I’m sitting in this small boat, grinning like an idiot, as we speed toward what looks like a bunch of sticks floating in the water. Adventure, not assault.  Cool!

The Pelican Bar is indeed an experience.   The walls are decorated with license plates and memorabilia from around the world. The wood planks are covered with the names of the people who have visited.  With all the marks in the wood and views of the ocean peeking through the planks, I thought the place would be unstable.  I kept expecting the planks to wobble with every step, but they never did.   There’s a small gift shop and plenty of places to just sit and chill.

The bar serves beer and mixed drinks along with a limited food menu.  Marshall had already warned me about the high prices, so I opted not to order food.  I bought us a couple of strawberry margaritas and we sat and watched the waves for a while.  Even with the loud music (more of the American music I’d heard all over Europe but this time with a reggae tempo) the bar was a peaceful way to spend a couple of hours.

Marshall called the boat to take us back to shore where we had some of the fish I’d seen the guy catch earlier.  Then we were back on the road.  Marshall spent most of the trip yelling at stupid drivers.  And there were some doozies.  Like the motorcycle driver with passenger who passed us on the right (next to oncoming traffic) and then did a wheelie (what a nut!).  Or the genius who tried to pass another car ahead of us and nearly caused us to have a head-on collision.

Did I mention that there were no seatbelts in the back of the car?  Or that the two-lane road often had limited visibility, numerous potholes, and plenty of pedestrians, dogs, goats and the occasional cow passing by?  And don’t forget I was being driven by a pot-smoking man who was speeding the whole time.

May the travel gods continue to smile upon me because this could have turned out really badly.

Back in Negril, we stopped at an ATM so I could pay them.  I don’t know the going rate for such excursions, but the $250 I paid is a reminder of why I chose not to book them.  I don’t like spending that kind of money unless it’s for a roof over my head or a plane ticket.  Marshall and I then went back to the chairs in front of Arthur’s to crack open that bottle of rum punch and watch another sunset.  He wanted to have a chat with me.

That ‘chat’ involved him again expressing his pain at my doubting his intensions.  He was also upset that I was leaving the island so soon.  That if I hadn’t met him, I would have left Jamaica with a bad impression of it. 

He asked when I would come back.  I smirked at him and said never. I was rage-quitting Jamaica, something I haven’t done since Athens.  Why on earth would I pay good money to come back here when I could go anywhere else? Now, I know that if I had planned this trip better, spent some more money, and stayed in one of the many resorts that I would have had a better experience.  But I have no interest in returning to test out that theory.

A week and a half on the island actually had me happy to go back to the states – a place I hate.  I looked forward to the simple things like washing my clothes, getting a good night’s sleep, taking a hot shower – none of which I could do in that shack in Negril.

He noticed a black man walking down the beach with a white woman and went off on a rant.  He said that Jamaican men tend to worship white women, but he wasn’t one of them.  He only loved black women.

(good for you)

This line of thought led to him asking me about having a man (because, of course, I couldn’t be happy without one).  I told him how I attract vampires, told him about Zaza and how he only wanted sex and money.  He assured me that Zaza was out of line, that he shouldn’t have asked for so much.  Instead of $3800, he should have only asked for a thousand.

(the f&)#k?)

He again suggested that I stay longer, that my plans to move to Portugal weren’t the end-all, be-all and plans could change.  “I just want to see you happy, D.”

I just stared at him thinking ‘you got a lot of nerve’.  I just met this man and he has already decided that he knows what’s best for me.  That ‘yah, yah, you want to live in Portugal, but that’s not what I want so you should change your plans’.  That ‘you’re still a cash machine, but stick with me and I won’t ask for as much’.

I’d known the dude for a day and now I’m supposed to forget all my plans.  And yes, I know the situation sounds a lot like my encounter with Zaza.  I spent one day with him and a month later I went back to Istanbul instead of going on to Australia.  But there was a difference.  Zaza offered sweet talk and affection.  The only thing I was getting from Marshall was dismissal of my dreams and guilt-tripped for not taking his feelings into account.  I just met you, fool!

Besides which, I was attracted to Zaza.  To Marshall … not so much.

Dude, whatever.  Quit telling me about my life and go smoke another blunt.

I didn’t actually say any of that.  I just smiled and nodded.  When he got up to see to something, I quickly made my exit.  And just because I thought he might follow me, I dipped off the beach, shut off my phone, and headed out on the main road.

I began to question that decision as it got dark. 

There were some establishments along the road, but only for a while.  Then the streetlights disappeared and the gravel on the side of the road grew muddy and uneven.  On a couple of parts of the trip, the only illumination came from the few cars heading my way.  I was not loving that journey but kept going anyway.

Finally, the sky lightened up.  I could just spot the roundabout that marked my turn to the left when I heard someone shouting from the other side of the road. Marshall appeared on a bicycle waving me down.  Seriously, dude?

He caught up to me, again complaining about his feelings.  I’d ruined his night when I left like that since he said he would walk me home (he offered when I refused a third cup of punch since I would be walking home in the dark).  I had tried to tell him that I was leaving after thanking him for the nice day.  He didn’t want to hear it – that’s when I left.  I had already told him I was traveling the next day and needed to get some rest.   Yet somehow, the situation was all about his feelings. 

After way too long of a conversation, by the side of that noisy road that was adding to my headache, I was finally able to get away.  He said he would call me a lot, shaking his head in disappointment as I walked away.

He called me twice when the plane was boarding and I declined the calls.  Once back in the states, I saw that he had called multiple times while my phone wasn’t connected to the internet.  I promptly blocked him.  Unbelievable. 

My trend for picking up parasites continues ...