Escape from Jamaica

 

Finally, the day had arrived!  Time to leave that god-forsaken island!

Getting packed up was easy seeing that I never really unpacked.  I locked up the shack and tried to get an Uber to no avail.  Of course.  So I hauled all my crap down the white stone road to get a taxi on the main street. 

It was yet another ride in one of those group cabs.  I asked the guy to drop me off at the bus station, but, my bad, I didn’t shout for him to stop when we reached it.  I wasn’t paying attention for most of the ride then consulted my phone to find out we’d passed the place.  When he stopped to drop off a passenger, I asked him if we were going back towards the station.  Nope, he was going forward, but he could hand me off to another driver.  He did just that but I told him I only had cash for one taxi.  He waved me off and drove away.  A last nice thing to happen on the island.

I told the new driver to take me to the bus station.  He also proceeded to drive right by it!  I finally shouted to please stop the car, my voice joined by the other people in the cab until dude stopped.  Got my stuff out and began to trudge the 1/4 mile back to the station, muttering some choice curse words along the way.  The cleaned-up version: “I rather do dislike this place.  Jamaica needs to have sex with itself and I’m quite perturbed that I stayed this long”.

Got to the station, got checked in, and settled myself on the bus.  Ahh.  Sigh of relief.  I just sat there during the 2-hour ride, listening to some more smooth R&B, with a huge grin on my face that I was getting out of there.

Montego Bay Airport was busy with the after-Christmas rush.  I had plenty of time before my flight, so I wandered into the gift shop.  Honestly, I didn’t want a physical reminder of this trip.  I had my photos and enough memories to forever haunt me, but ... despite my experience, I knew I’d feel differently later.  I settled on a spoon rest, something I needed during my travels anyway.  That, along with the coffee I’d bought, was enough for me.

I checked my bag and got in line for security.  While I waited, I saw numerous signs pointing out that any souvenirs in powder form were subject to confiscation, including the coffee I had in my bag.  Now you tell me?  This couldn’t have been explained before I checked my bag? Like I needed another hassle from this place.  Thanks, Jamaica! 

Fortunately, my coffee wasn’t an issue.  The security check went off without a hitch and I headed to my gate. 

The gates are surrounded by more gift shops and bars, not unusual for an airport.  Montego Bay stood out though because it's decorated to look like a typical Jamaican street.  Everything is colorful and covered with artwork.  Bob Marley's presence is still everywhere as well as the dive bar esthetics.  One bar near my gate looked like another version of the Pelican Bar, a huge wooden structure covered with signs and license plates.

It was a two-hour direct flight from Jamaica to Atlanta.  Why did I even have a layover getting to the island?  Even if it did cost more, it was worth avoiding the hassle of going through Florida (seriously, stay away from that state!).  I landed, collected my bag, collected my rental (another sweet Mustang), and went back to the Airbnb in Roswell I’d visited in December.

I really do love that place.  It is very cozy and the hosts are lovely.  They even offered me a plate on New Year’s Day, collards and black-eyed peas, a traditional meal in the south to bring good luck for the year.  I had already eaten when they offered so I declined, but it was still a nice gesture.

While not as warm as the island, Georgia was still sunny and dry which was nice.  Every time I’ve visited the states, the weather has been cooperative.  It’s much appreciated particularly since I’m driving a strange car every time.  After spending most of the year in Europe, I was also glad to return to a place where everyone speaks English and I don’t have to worry about visas or immigration.

Everything else though …

Rental cars are pricy, food is stupidly expensive for the quality, it takes too long to get anywhere, I still don’t have health insurance which just makes me anxious, and, most importantly, it costs too much money to leave.

As eager as I was to get out of the country again, there were some issues I had to take care of while in the states.  I’ve mentioned using Charles Schwab as my main bank while traveling and they’ve been great.  Except once I got to Jamaica, the website no longer wanted to recognize my computer.  I couldn’t check my balance online and it was really bugging me.  I can’t receive SMS texts while out of the country and trying to call them required my account number – which I couldn’t access without the website.  It was an annoyance that was easily solved once I was back on American soil.

My phone still had the sim card from Jamaica.  I had limited service with it, but quickly realized that the woman who installed it hadn’t given me back my original sim card.  Sigh.  Jamaica:  the pain in my a$$ that just keeps on s*&^^ing.  Google will ship out a replacement totally for free, but the card wouldn’t arrive until after I was out of the country again.  I had to bite the bullet and buy another one from Best Buy for $10.

When in Alabama, my stepmom commented on my pants not fitting.  I had (gleefully) noticed but hadn’t really made an effort to buy any new ones.  I’m still not European skinny, so I didn’t bother to look for anything in my size overseas.  I had lost my first 50 pounds deliberately on Weight Watchers then quit the program once I’d reached my goal in early 2023.  I knew I wouldn’t be paying attention to my diet while in Europe, eating all the French fries, all the bread (Türkiye!), and drinking more alcohol than I ever drank in Georgia.  Yet the weight kept coming off.  The food is just better in Europe, there’s no getting around that.  All the more reason to keep working for my visa.

On this unexpected trip back to the states, at least I was able to find some pants that fit (a novel concept).  Made the suitcase a little lighter.  With that done, I just hoped that by the time I got on my next flight, the numerous bug bites I’d acquired on the island would have healed up. 

Thanks, Jamaica!

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 ...

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 …

Christmas in Kingston

 

This tree was from the last place I had in Türkiye.  That was the only apartment that had any decorations for the holidays. It was only one of the things that made that place better than this new one. 

Josef briefly showed me around and let me know that I have access to the pool out back.  He lived on the property so he was available for any assistance.  He wished me a good stay and left me to it.

I’m not a fan of studio apartments.  I don’t like seeing my unmade bed when I’m eating or cooking – that’s just a me thing.  While the kitchen in the place was decent enough (lots of counterspace which is a rarity outside of the U.S.) the rest of the apartment was only okay. 

I will say that the little accent chairs were comfortable enough for a rest while I calmed myself down.

And, yeah, it took a minute.  The okayness of the place just wasn’t making me feel any better about this trip.  But it was what it was.  I would have to figure it out.

This wasn’t my first choice of Airbnb.  That first host never confirmed my reservation.  It wasn’t my second choice.  That host sent me a message saying that he couldn’t accommodate me.  This was my third choice when I just wanted to have a place to stay.  I should have taken that as a bad omen.

The internet worked the first night I arrived … then refused to work for the next two days.  I had purchased an esim for my phone for the island as I had for Türkiye, Costa Rica, and Portugal.  Except this one refused to work.  Sigh.

Kingston isn’t a pretty city.  It’s kind of run down and everything is covered in chains with bars on the windows.  It reminded me way too much of San Jose.  The city is surrounded by beauty, though.  The mountains rise around the edges and there are gorgeous flowers and plants everywhere. 

There’s a shopping center in walking distance to the apartment.  It’s not an easy or fun walk as you have to cross a very busy street with few crosswalks, no pedestrian lights, and traffic that drives on the other side of the street.  But once I reached the local internet store and waited in a stupidly long line, I tried to buy a couple of sim cards for the phone and for the WIFI hotspot I’d bought in Portugal.  The lady was able to install the card in my phone but couldn’t get it to work on the hotspot.  Okay.

I messaged the host to let him know about the WIFI and began using the phone as a hotspot.  Not ideal, but it would have to do. 

That shopping center also hosts a decent sized grocery store.  It seemed very Americanized with more variety in products than I’ve seen in most places in Europe.  While U.S. currency is accepted by cabbies and some restaurants, it’s still best to use Jamaican money in the grocery stores.  Tap to pay is accepted in most places as well.  1 USD = 156.08 JMD

I visited the Bob Marley Museum one day as it was about a mile from my apartment.  I just looked around the outside since I wasn’t that interested in going in.  Yes, that man’s legacy is all over the island, but since I’m not that big of a fan, I passed on giving him any money.

Popeye’s is big there as is KFC.  I was stunned to see a Wendy’s not far from my place.  Out of sheer nostalgia, I had to have lunch there once.  The wait times for these places (and for everywhere) are insane.  It’s just expected that everything will take a long time.

Case in point: I went to the other major grocery store in the area.  It was another cramped space full of people shopping for the Christmas meal the next day.  I was only there to pick up a few items but since there is no 10 items or under line (and certainly no automated checkouts) I had to wait.  And wait.  And wait.  I kid you not, it took me an hour to get through the checkout line.  And again, everyone just expects long wait times.  I heard a woman pass by saying she should have gotten there before 9.  This was early in the morning but apparently it still wasn’t early enough.

The apartment came with a set of knives sharp enough to cut through time.  I’m not complaining – most places barely have a single decent knife.  This only became an issue when I was doing the dishes one night and sliced a big chunk out of my finger.  Blood everywhere on the day before Christmas. 

(Uh, sidenote: a small first aid kit is essential during long-term travel.  You’ll never know when you’ll need a band aid and some anti-bacterial ointment.)

The whole experience was just draining.  The air felt heavy in my lungs as I walked.  The constant honking of horns on the busy streets quickly gave me a headache (cabs would honk at every pedestrian they saw looking for a fare).  The beaches in the area were miles away.  As the week progressed, that wrong foot that me and Jamaica started on quickly grew gangrenous.  I contemplated cutting it off with one of those samurai swords disguised as kitchen knives.   

Still, there were a couple of … I won’t call them highlights, but at least they were something.  I’d gotten the last of the American food out of my system that week so no more funny tummy (thank goodness).  The cough was slowly going away.  I did get some writing done between bouts of sitting by the pool to read.  The internet eventually came back on and I had no more problems with it for the rest of the week.  I slept surprisingly well in that place – so much so that my bedtime slipped from 10 p.m. down to 8.  I was not feeling Kingston at all and just wanted to sleep.

Josef, the host, messaged me on Christmas morning saying he had a present for me.  We arranged for him to come to the apartment that afternoon to deliver it.  Before that time arrived, he asked if I would be interested in some of the brunch his family had served.  That was such a nice offer!  I said sure and he later came down with his sister-in-law carrying some chocolate, homemade punch, and a plastic container full of food.  A highly appreciated Christmas present.

December 26 was moving day.  After agonizing for days, I decided to give Jamaica another shot.  Kingston was not the right choice for me, but that was my fault for not planning better.  I figured I’d take a chance on a part of the island that was known for its beaches.

The Tenth Country

The travel part of this journey is really working my last nerve.

I really just want to go back to Portugal.  The soonest I can go back is sometime in February.  Until then, I still have two months left on my Turkish visa.  I figured I’d stay there until my Schengen days reset, but I didn’t want to deal with any more rain.  January is the coldest month for that region.  Since I was already in the states, I figured I’d dip down to the Caribbean and soak up some sun for a few weeks then return to Istanbul.

Arranging the flights, though, was just … ug.  My flight out of Huntsville was at 7 pm to return me to Atlanta.  The next flight was at 6 a.m.  So, yeah.  From 9 p.m. to boarding, I wandered Atlanta airport along with a bunch of other holiday zombies.

It sucked. 

Then, somehow, despite being at the airport for hours, I still ended up caught in numerous lines for baggage drop off and security.  One minute the place was nearly deserted and then suddenly it was full of folks, including dozens of military troops on midnight deployment.  I also had to check my carpet bag as well as the rolling bag for the first time this year, at my expense, of course.

I’ve had this persistent, phlegmy cough for days now.  American food no longer agrees with me so I also have a mild stomachache most of the time and some tricky bowels.  Not exactly in tip top physical condition to withstand the lack of sleep and a general air of I’m-tired-of-this-B.S.

Finally boarded the short flight to Ft Lauderdale.  Yeah, I know.  Florida.  It couldn’t be avoided.  Then it was onto the next two-hour flight … if I could figure out the lines.  The place was packed with people, none of whom knew what was going on, including a little girl who insisted on wailing the entire time.  I knew how she felt, but I still didn’t want to hear it.  We stood in a cluster for a full ten minutes after boarding should have started with no sign of progress and no word from the attendants.  I tried to move forward only to have a man with an apparent Napolean Complex put up his hand and shake his head.  Well, then tell us what’s going on, you little sh -- 

Apparently, there was a medical emergency.  Some guy had passed out and we had to wait for the med staff to show up with a gurney.  I felt for him, but still couldn’t figure out why that was stalling our boarding.

We got on the plane.  Yay!  And then … nothing.  We just sat there for around two hours.  The captain would periodically come on to say that the ground crew was still calculating the weight of the plane for takeoff or that sitting on the tarmac had depleted our fuel so they had to call a fuel truck.  It was only after an hour of loud complaining were we finally allowed to unbuckle our seatbelts and were offered some water.

Just my luck, the loudest complainer was the man sitting next to me in the middle seat.  While I agreed with his outrage, I still didn’t need his loud, accented voice in my ear.  I just closed my eyes and tried to keep myself calm.  Yes, this delay sucked and the airline could have handled things better, but at least I was out of that airport and away from all those people. 

The way I saw it, I’d brought this on myself.  I put Florida on the no-fly list earlier this year for a reason.  But, no, I just had to go to Jamaica.  Since I couldn’t find a non-stop flight, I had to go through Fort Lauderdale.  During the Christmas season.  This was entirely my own boneheaded fault.

Even after finally taking off and landing safely on the island, the trip didn’t get any better.  It actually got worse.

Just as a refresher, I’ve had the privilege of traveling through nine countries this year; Portugal, Greece, Ireland, The Netherlands, Bulgaria, Türkiye, Thailand, Singapore, and Costa Rica.  I say this with zero hyperbole – Jamaican immigration is the worst experience I’ve ever had entering a new country.  Even worse than my first trip into Türkiye. 

Americans don’t need a visa to enter the country.  Everyone coming off the plane is required to fill out a form online after landing.  Okay.  I scanned the QR code and started inputting the usual stuff like name, passport number, duration of stay.  Then the questions got a bit intrusive.  They asked occupation (I don’t have one – you gotta problem with that?), what pharmaceuticals I brought in (do my prescriptions count?  The attendant couldn’t answer that), what did I intend to declare (my computer, maybe?  The attendant couldn’t answer that one either), what countries had I visited in the last six weeks (a couple – all better than this country even, God help me, the U.S.).  The questions just went on and on.

When I was finally okay with my answers and showed the attendant my confirmation, he then sent me onto a kiosk.  This part seemed pretty standard as I had done it in multiple other countries.  I tried to scan my passport but kept getting an error message.  One of the roving attendants saw the trouble I was having and scanned it himself with no problem.  

Then there were more questions.  Where was I staying (answers must be in a specific format that I couldn’t get right the first time)?  Was it a hotel or a residence?  What was the airline and flight number that brought me here? Jamaica, I’m already tired.  What else do you want, a blood sample?

The attendant saw my progress and directed me to take my glasses off and look up for the camera.  The kiosk then spit out a receipt full of info, including a grainy black and white photo of a haggard looking woman.  I took the receipt to stand in line for a woman sitting at a desk.

I handed her my passport and receipt and she asked to see my phone.  I glared at her.  I just spent 10 minutes entering all my info on their website.  THEN I did it again on their kiosk.  Why the #%#% would she need to see my phone? 

Before I could hand it to her, she waved me off as the info had appeared on her screen.  Goody.  She checked my passport and info, then sent me off to the next hoop I’d have to jump through. 

The hallway leading to baggage claim passed through a brief shopping area.  Women tried to entice me with perfume and booze while I shook my head and kept walking.  Then it was time to jostle for position to find my checked bags.  Now, I know that Jamaicans are a very laid-back people, but with as long as immigration took, the bags should have been unloaded by now.  Still, I stood there watching for my bags on the conveyor belt, getting more upset and frustrated.  One of the women beside me commented that they were taking bags off the belt on the other side of the room, so I went to try my luck.

I found my bags quickly, breathing a sigh of relief that they hadn’t been lost.  Ignoring the time I’d wasted watching the belt, I grabbed my stuff and looked for the exit.  Only I couldn’t find one.  Instead, I saw desks headed by signs for Declare (in red) or None to Declare (green).  Taking a guess, I got in the green line. 

I noticed an x-ray machine up ahead and sighed again for other reasons.  Like I haven’t been through enough machines to permanently fry my organs at this point.  A woman met me before I got there and checked my passport.  AGAIN.  She asked me what was in my bags.  Things to cover my nakedness, why do you ask?  I made a show of opening my carpet bag to show her the mess of everything that wasn’t clothing or my computer.   She walked away with my passport (not the first attendant to do that) and I dragged my stuff over to the x-ray machine.  She gestured me to stand to one side as my info was checked then handed back my passport and waved me on.

Finally outside and able to breathe some fresh air, I was faced with even more confusion.  Why the hell was everyone just hanging around outside of the airport?  The road in front was loaded with cars. but no buses or taxis to be seen.  It was the same chaos from inside just out in the hot air.

With most of the benches full, I found a ledge to sit on and finally lost it.  Fatigue, frustration, lack of sleep, too much noise, too many people, and too little food had me at the end of my rope.  I just sat there and cried for a while. 

Yanking up my big girl panties, I pulled it together and went off in search for a cab.  By some miracle, I spotted one and ran over.  He was indeed available and accepted American currency (my host had already informed me that the ride over should be about 35 USD).  I told him the location and we were on our way.

What to say about the ride over?  At least in Istanbul, they drive on the right (usually)?  In Jamaica – yeah, no.  There were plenty of abrupt stops, dodgy turns, and rough streets to rival Türkiye.  I looked out the window and tried to be excited to be in a new place, but I was just too damn tired to care.  When my driver asked about my trip to the island, I told him it had been awful and that I was wiped.  He told me it would take a few days to get acclimated and he was sure I’d enjoy my stay.  If you say so, pal.

He got me to the place with no problem (didn’t even need to use my phone) and charged me the $35 as expected.  I handed him a 50 and he asked if I had something smaller.  I did not.  The bill was a Christmas gift from the father, so I told him to just keep the change.  He would end up earning it.

The Airbnb I rented is in a gated community and the gates closed just as we pulled up.  I knew it wouldn’t take much more to have me in tears again.  And, look at that.  My phone won’t connect to the internet.  No access to Airbnb and the instructions I’d need to get into the place.  Pushing the button on the intercom was useless and the woman in the car behind the cab honked at us to get out of her way.

Well, that did it.

I went from cursing to crying in about three seconds.

My cab driver, lovely man that he was, asked my name and used it repeatedly to get me to calm down.  “You’re in Jamaica on vacation.  Just relax.”

The gate opened and we drove through.  He got out, again telling me to breathe, and asked a nearby woman about the Dr. Thomas I’d been told to ask for.  A man soon appeared, calling me by name.  Since I was still a weepy mess, I’m sure he, Josef, had no idea what he was walking in on. 

The driver handed off the hysterical woman onto the new stranger.  I thanked him as well as I could while gulping for air and followed Josef to my new home for the week.

Do I have to explain that Jamaica and I are already on bad terms?  The island will have to do a lot to make me not regret this trip.