A Few Days in Negril

My host told me about the local bus service, so I bought a ticket online to Negril.  The research I did while there told me that this would probably be a better fit for me.  The only problem was it was all the way on the other side of the island.  The trip would take 5 hours.

I wasn’t looking forward to that, but the alternatives were even worse.  There were no direct flights from Kingston to the more popular Montego Bay airport.  A cab would be insanely expensive and there was no way I was about to rent a car.  I refuse to drive on the other side of the car on the other side of the road on those narrow, rough, unfamiliar streets.  Forget about it.

I used Uber to get a cab and was deposited at the Kingston bus station.  Within a few minutes, we were on our way.

Surprisingly, I enjoyed that ride.  I got to see more of the island and the seats were comfortable.  The driver played R&B music from the 60’s and 70’s which gave the trip a nice vibe.  The island is truly beautiful with all the greenery and the views of the ocean.  It wasn’t the smoothest ride because of the pot-holed streets and the sometimes crazy drivers, but still it was a good trip.

It started to rain just as we made it into Negril meaning I had to flag down a cab in the damp.  Again, not the best intro to a new city on this island.  My host had not provided an address, only directions.  I showed the cabbie and he asked me to call the host so they could speak directly.

This cab ride was also my first intro on how the cabs work in Jamaica.  For 5 USD, the cab will pick up as many passengers as it can.  I found this out when, minutes after I got into the car, the cabbie pulled over and picked up two more ladies.  There was already a dude in the front passenger seat.  While I knew from YouTube that this was normal, it was still annoying to have to unbuckle my seatbelt and scoot over as the woman opened my door and just stared at me. 

The irritants of this place just kept piling up.  And it was about to get worse.

The cab dropped off the three other people at the same place, then pulled up to the gate in front of my new place for the week.  He got my bags out and honked the horn to get someone to open the gates.  I appreciated the gesture, but already knew that the host had provided instructions for self check in.

My last place in Kingston was just okay.  The hosts were lovely and I enjoyed some time by the pool, but it was still just okay.  The new place made me long for that place.

To call this place rustic is being generous.  I don’t know the worst part.  The calcified dog turd right at the front gate? The rusty lock on that same gate that took forever to get open and closed?

The warped inner gate that it took me a while to realize also had a lock on it?  The electronic lock on the front door with the stupidly long combination?  The fiery winds that greeted me when I opened that door?  The non-responsive remote for the A/C?  The mini fridge that wasn't even plugged in? The shaky bathroom sink with the spitting faucet? 

The sloping wood floor?  The lack of soap in the entire house?

Oh, it’s official.  I f#$^&ing hate this place!

And I don’t just mean that shack.  I mean Negril, Kingston, and the whole of Jamaica.  My entire experience had been a pain in the ass that just kept getting worse.

I tried to use the remote to operate the A/C, but it was locked.  Keeping the door open since it was cooler outside than it was inside, I messaged the host for help.  She sent out a dude who unlocked the remote and got the A/C running.  I pointed out the wobbly sink in the bathroom and he said they’d get it fixed later.  He also assured me this was a nice quiet place.

Yeah right.

The best things I can say about the place are it was clean, the internet connection was consistent, and the hosts were responsive.  That’s about it.  As for the rest …

The shack was located down a rutty white stone ‘road’ that led to the main thoroughfare.  The abundance of traffic made it too loud to walk along the tiny two-lane road (screw those sputtering motorcycles).  Every store/restaurant was crowded.  There were people everywhere just hanging out and blocking the sidewalks (usually talking loudly).  The heat did not help with anything (and to think the weather was why I chose to go to Jamaica in the first place) nor did sailing through constant clouds of weed smoke (it is Jamaica).  No, sir, I don’t need any ackee (local fruit that grows everywhere), shells, or joints, thank you very much.  I’d like to just walk down the street in peace, but it wasn’t happening there.

I found my way to the famous 7-mile beach that first night but didn’t have much time to explore as it was getting dark.  Just like in Kingston, every fast-food joint in the local strip mall (Burger King, Little Caeser’s, and Popeye’s) had lines out the door.  The other local restaurants/bars were either deserted or equally as crowded.  I initially left Burger King for this reason but ended up going back for the long wait since everywhere else was so crowded.

That first night was the worst.  Jamaica is crawling with stray dogs and one of them was highly agitated.  It barked for a solid two hours and when it finally stopped, there was booming music to take over the noise pollution.  The bed had no top sheet and was very uncomfortable which meant I was tossing and turning the entire night.

Yeah.  I ain’t playing with you anymore, Jamaica.  We’re done.  I’m out of here.

Even though I’d booked that shack for a week, I began looking for a flight out the next day.  The only reason I didn’t leave that day was because I couldn’t get a bus ticket to Montego Bay, the closest airport.  My original plane ticket was scheduled for 1/11/24 (cheapest flight I could get at the time) out of Kingston.  But after all the trouble I’d had on the island, I had no interest in taking a bus back to Kingston or staying any longer than I had to.

It took some finagling, but I managed to cancel my original flight and get a bus ticket for 12/29/23.  I arranged for a flight back to Atlanta, non-stop this time (lesson learned – I will pay good money now to avoid the state of Florida).  I would just have to figure out my next move from there.

In the meantime, I still had Negril to explore.  Wouldn’t change my mind about high tailing it out of there but … beaches.  The water is lovely and the shore is lined with restaurants, souvenir shops, and hotels.  After breakfast at a seaside café, I walked along the beach for some of those 7 miles.  Had a drink at one of the many bars

and did some more walking.  Until I started slowing down.

I do this to myself way too often.  I’ll be going along after a meal feeling fine.  Time passes … I’m fine.  I’m fine.  I’m fine.  Oh my God!  I’m about to pass out!  I’m getting lightheaded!  Now I have a headache!  If I don’t eat now, I’m gonna die!

(I really need to snack more)

I stopped at a place called Arthur’s which is supposed to be historic for some reason according to the sign.  I didn’t care as long as they served food.  They did, and I was treated to a tasty meal and a glass of rum punch.

As I was finishing up, one of the two men hanging around the bar approached me.  He introduced himself as Marshall and offered me a hit of his blunt (no, thank you.  Even in the land of the perpetually high, I had no interest in that vice. I’ll stick to my mixed adult beverages.) He asked me what I had seen on the island or what I might want to see.  I told him I only had one day left and didn’t know what I should see.  He suggested an excursion to The Pelican Bar, a famous floating landmark.  I said sure and he said he would arrange it.

We sat in front of the bar and watched the sunset as we solidified our plan for the next day.  I gotta admit, the place is lovely at sunset.  Still not staying, but …