I now have dreadlocks.

Ha. No, not really. But, you could imagine what it’d be like, eh, eh, eh?! But something that does hold some truth is that if you’re planning on coming to the Caribbean, don’t forget your insect repellent. Wait, there’s a TV show in that. Where’s Tim Ferguson when you need him? Ouch, did I just say "need" and "Tim Ferguson" in the same sentence?


Grenada National Stadium.


At the Grenada National Stadium for Aus v Sri Lanka. Sorry if you couldn't care less about cricket.


The residents on the hill in the background have the best view of anyone.

In an earlier post, I said that the scent of ganja permeated the entire island of Jamaica. Well, here in Grenada, it’s the scent of cinnamon that saturates the air. Grenada is the self-proclaimed “isle of spice”. If they manufactured donuts here, you’d have no reason to leave (except perhaps to watch Hotdogs and Millsy get beaten to respective pulps back in Oz).

It’s been several days since we’ve been offered mary jane or charlie. However, this all changed after one day in Grenada. We’d just left the Australia v Sri Lanka game and made tracks for the closest rum shop. After about half an hour of tolerating several hundred decibels of incessant Aussie twang in the shop, a local dude wearing a t-shirt so big that it could’ve come straight from Amanda Vanstone’s wardrobe, strutted into the bar. He clicked his fingers Ali G/Jake McCue style, pointed at a bunch of us leaning against the wall and exclaimed, “Charliiiiiiiieeeee????”. We politely declined, but not without an inevitable awkward handshake ordeal. In fact, this was also the scene of the first biff we’ve witnessed so far on tour. It was between two kids squabbling over a plastic bag (black) tied to a string, forming a pseudo-kite. It was a solid hit too, by the older of the two. Weaklings such as Emperor Xumsai or Twig would’ve been comatosed by this blow for shiznit.


Dunny watches on as tension boils between the two kids over the plastic bag kite.


Now, I know Wallaby Bar is known for its underage hiring policy, but this is perhaps a tad too far.


With NZ's Hamish Marshall at Banana's Nightclub in Grenada. Clearly, I didn't make the cut.

Grenada is by far the most picturesque of the islands we’ve visited so far. The fact that the inmates at the Grenada national jail have the best view of any of the residents, sitting on top of the hill overlooking one of its many harbours, speaks for itself. Martin Bryant would be in heaven (bad taste?). The population of Grenada is around 90,000. That’s an entire nation amounting to no more than three Bathursts combined; except, without the daily domestic-violence calls. But, in stark contrast to Bathurst, Grenada has recently adopted a “Community Policing” programme, whereby citizens are encouraged to apprehend or at least reprimand those that appear to be wrongdoing. Apparently it works quite well. But, can you imagine approaching some rum-fuelled redneck at the Eddy on a Satdi noight in Bathurst or some coked-up islander at Empire (Aisea) and gently suggesting, “Hey, I think it’s time you called it a night, buddy”. Now that I think of it, it’s the kind of place that would welcome Greg Richard with open arms.


This is where around a hundred black slaves leapt to their deaths in the 18th century for fear of having to bow, once again, to the rule of the French. One more reason to hate them I guess.


The harbour at Grand Anse, Grenada.


One of the less scenic Grenadian landmarks.

I’m actually starting to believe some of the aforementioned rednecks are beginning to truly blossom over here. Some classic quotes that I’ve overheard between Aussies and locals in bars around town include, “Hey, do you know where the shithouse is mate?” and, “Oi, there’s so much fuckin’ poon here aye?!”. Stand up Australia!

Among the cinnamon and nutmeg haze, we managed to embark on a white water rafting adventure in the centre of the island, which was not only awesome fun, but served as a damn good hangover cure. Conversely, climbing a 1,900-foot volcanic mountain didn’t have the same purifying effect. But being able to plunge into the clear, untainted waters of the Concord Falls made the quasi-anguish undeniably worthwhile. But it wouldn’t be long until we were back on the trail to further anguish, thanks to a visit to the Rivers rum distillery. Following a tour of the facility, we were “treated” to a sample of the Rivers overproof rum. This rum is so fucking strong, that the even fumes would send the seasoned drinker of Australia’s top end into convulsions. It smells somewhere between an Artline marker (now available in xylene free!) and turpentine. As I raised the glass to my mouth, I could feel my nose hairs quaking in their boots and my tastebuds fleeing faster than patrons at a Tamara Jaber concert. I somehow survived the ordeal, albeit scarred. Rivers Rum is roughly 75% alcohol and 138% proof and makes Bundy Rum seem like fairy floss.


Concord Falls, Grenada. Mmmm...just like a spa water jet. Not quite the right angle though.


Concord Falls, overloaded with Poms. Just like Bondi.


Who said white men can’t jump? This caption was purely for comic purposes, and should by no means be interpreted as an admission that I’m white. ‘Cause I’m not. Concord Falls, Grenada.


With Sir Dunny esquire at Concord Falls. Not quite Niagra, but it'll do the trick.

So, with the very lining of my stomach being vehemently stripped by this sadistic fluid, I made some observations about driving in Grenada. Firstly, you must drive with survival in mind at all times. A trademark McGruther microsleep simply isn’t an option here. Also, whereas in Sydney, if someone honks you, it generally asserts, “I’m important and impatient, so get a fuckin’ move on buddy”, however here, it can imply anything from, “One love” to “I’m about to overtake you, man” to “’Sup brother?” to “I’m warning you that I’m intoxicated” to “Ev’ting cool” to “get de fuck outta de way”. Trying to decipher which of these, or other, interpretations is intended, can be a difficult task and I wish I had a formula to help determine the honks. There are also very few street names or road and direction signs in Grenada. While initially this is somewhat inconvenient, it actually encourages social contact with Grenadians, and unlike New Yorkers, these locals actually enjoy offering assistance to lost tourists. One of the directions we received the other day went something like, “Go straight li’l bit till de mango tree, then turn left and ask Ras-man at de second rum shop. He know for sure. If he don’t, ask Mule face at de plantation house and we will know. Probably.”

But despite the relative chaos on Grenadian roads, you probably couldn’t ask for more friendly people. There’s no stigma attached to hitch-hiking in the middle of the night, regular banter between passing drivers and even an disagreement between two drivers at an intersection, arguing over who should turn first – in the way that groups of parents awkwardly fight over who should pay the bill at the end of meals. Except more genuine than those encounters. Actually, you never really know who you’re hailing down when trying to get a ride somewhere. We’re never quite sure whether we’ve been picked up by a bus, a cab or the village rapist. And yes, every island has a village rapist…Dunny.

Most afternoons here seem to involve the inevitable game of beach cricket. The day we arrived, we started a game between the three of us, and within ten minutes we had half the hotel, including the security guard, playing. ‘Twas all laughs and smiles until a couple over-competitive Sri Lankans decided to join in. They were steaming in at 100km/hr to poor, uncoordinated girls (oh wait, all girls are uncoordinated, so excuse the redundant expression) as well as charging and smashing balls over to the next beach. The score was settled once I was introduced into the attack, but not before a few lost balls and cracked bats. Nevertheless, we’ll have revenge on the ‘Lankans in the final in a couple of days. Touch wood.

Mmmmm…. wood.


Trademark McGruther leg-glance. One of the many beach/park afternoon cricket sessions in Grenada.


One of the over-competitive Sri Lankans is currently at the crease.

Now, I may not exactly be a seasoned advertising exec, but I think it’s fair to say that the TV ads in Grenada are shitehouse. I swear I saw an ad on TV last night that was made in PowerPoint – complete with template-based transitions and animations. Even Gerry Boland and Bruce Fell would be appalled. Bill Blakie would probably give them the thumbs up, but that’s probably due to the valium. Some of the ads make some of the COM108 Video Prod work look like Oscar winners. One of the better TV ads here is for safe sex. The slogan is, “It’s your wicket. Protect it”. But even the newspaper and magazine layouts here leave a lot to be desired. Ms Aitken – despite your recent admission that design ain’t your strength, I can assure you that you’d coast into a job here, and still look like the di Vinci of layout.

Ok, the fact that Thirsty Merc is now playing on my iTunes means it’s my cue to wrap this up quickly. Damn quickly. But before I head across the road to watch the local primary school swimming carnival through a peep hole I created in the wall earlier today, here’s the recipe for a sweet-arse drink: Get a can of Guinness, put it into a blender with a small can of sweetened condensed milk, 1-2 eggs, a drop of vanilla and some ice and blend away until frothy. It’s genius.

Next stop Barbados for another coupla days (this time on the south coast), then over to St Lucia.

Love youse eh.

P.S. Who’s going to Splendour? Top line-up, but a tad exi perhaps. Waddya reckon?

Much love.

Some pics of people

We thought this guy was a legend 'cause he had a sweet-arse Australia shirt on. We then realised it was his ploy to sell us shit. He also had an England shirt in his stash for when the Pommy tourists rocked up.


Yes, this one's a tad stalker-esque. Straight outta the shower.


This dude would make the best cartoon character ever.


Breakfast. Sweet.


Me, after a day of fishing in Grand Anse, Grenada.


My two Grenadian girlfriends.


My other Grenadian girlfriend. Wait, sorry... yep, I'm going to hell. Greg and E - I'll see you there.


More jerk chicken in the works. These roadside BBQ stalls are by far the best place to eat. Roughly AU$2 for a meal and a beer. They're the late-night equivalent of Coogee Bay Yeeros, quality aside.


Some poor local kid has been corrupted by the ever-gentle, Australian tourists.

A Barbados thesis

Here I sit at Grantley Adams Airport in Barbados, awaiting a flight to Grenada, with the first of 3 Barbados stints over and both our Antiguan stints now a distant memory. Yeh I know, that opening was kinda gay. Whatever. Barbados is probably my favourite of the islands so far. Jamaica would definitely give it a run for its money, but given the daily death stares and my apparent “white” complexion, I’ll probably settle for Barbados. Less hustlers in Barbados too.

Essentially, it combines the developing and almost ‘third world’ aspects of the Caribbean, with a flourishing, urbanised and heavily tourist based majestic island. Except, there are too many poms living here, who clearly have had their spouse leave them, taking all their possessions too and are now hoping to start again on a remote island. Only problem is that they’ve brought their oafish Newcastle football mentality with them. Egads. In fact, such behaviour was exhibited at the Australia v England game when two moronic, stereotypical Arsenal football fans tried to take on two drunken Aussie dudes for no apparent reason. The security’s reaction to this encounter, for me, typifies the attitude of people in the Caribbean. Three security guards, seated approximately 15m away simply stood up, shouted something to the effect of “Hey. Stop it man”, then when they realised their words were fruitless, the security guards plonked back on their seats and returned to watching the cricket. Genius. Anyway, needless to say, the confrontation ended once I intervened.


The Bougainvillea. Our hotel in Barbados.


The streets of Barbados' north-east coast.

The day we arrived in Barbados, I had an epiphany. I realised that rum is cheaper than beer here. Almost everywhere. Why it had taken me almost three weeks to realise this, I don’t know. Not only will this aid in the prevention of the feared travel beer-gut, but also extend my renowned drinking ability, having the extra cash in the pocket. The only reasonably foreseeable issue is the fact that you can down a rum punch in approximately 11 seconds and before you can say, “Why are Sleepy Jackson so pretentious? I hope Luke Steel breaks his arm so they will stop playing music for good”, you’re more intoxicated than a Mortdale pub regular, after a night at the dog track.

Early on in our Barbados stint, we wondered up to a local rum shack where two locals were drinking. We soon discovered that it’s pretty much acceptable to serve your own drinks and leave the money on the counter – especially when the owner of the place was standing out the front flagging passing cars down – probably selling ganja. Of the two locals in the rum shack, one was pretty straight-up, but the other, Michael, was off his rocker. We could barely understand a word that came out of his mouth – and this had nothing to do with the accent. My ‘black radar’ managed to detect that, amidst his violently drunken slurring, he was using a large amount of local lingo, which of course, was completely foreign to me. He was fiercely trying to pour Mount Gay (haha ‘gay’…) rum down my throat and I was attempting to decline his kind offers, but he wasn’t backing down. I realised I was going to have to skull this large amount of rum, after his words, “C’mon man. Knock back de rum boy. You not soft are you man?”. Of course, I wouldn’t take this lying down so I replied in my feaux West Indian accent, “No, I ain’t no batty boy, man”. This was met with silence. “You know, I don’t put it in the batty hole, boy”, I continued. Still silence. Eventually, he put down the rum bottle and said, “What you talkin’ bout, man?”. My black credibility, once again, was out the window. Apparently the term, “batty boy” is only colloquial lingo in Jamaica – not many other islands. So, I put my tail between my legs, got up and poured myself a beer (well, actually a Breezer, but to maintain my masculinity I will omit this info). We later discovered that Michael was in jail for 5 years – and he wouldn’t tell us what for. So, it needn’t be said that for the remainder of the night, we all complied with his rum-skulling demands. I guess the lesson is to research island colloquialisms before attempting to use them. Especially when adopting the accent as well. Wiggity.


At the rum shack with our mate Michael.

During our Barbados stint we also took a day tour of the island. Not bad being able to drive around an entire nation in a few hours. Among snorkelling with turtles the size of Matthew Newton’s ego, consuming rum punches, eating dolphin (not me – Andy and Mick) and hurling abuse at arrogant South African tourists, we stopped at a district called St James. It’s basically Double Bay transplanted in the Caribbean. The only thing it’s missing is an assortment of intoxicated private school, country boarders stumbling out of the Sheaf, trying to keep their collars upright. We also came across this 75 year-old local rasta who claims to have invented a snorkel that allows you smoke a joint under water. As is procedure in these parts, he wanted a donation to allow us to view this revolutionary device, so unfortunately I can’t confirm its existence. But I can confirm that it’s not advisable to attempt to ride a catamaran while under the influence.

I know from experience dude. (“No, you don’t” / “No, no, no I don’t. But a guy I know – him and her got it on! Woo weeeee!” / “No, they didn’t” / “No, no they didn’t. But you could imagine what it’d be like. Huh?! Huh?! Huh!…NO YELLING ON THE BUS”….first person to correct answer what movie that was from wins a decrepit jar of Vicks Vapour rub)

Speaking of under the influence, we’ve been noticing that everyone in the Caribbean drinks and drives. Initially we thought that citizens simply broke the law, however we’ve since been informed that it’s actually not illegal on most islands. And the few islands on which it is illegal, despite having breath testers available, they’re used about as frequently as a Vanessa Amorossi CD (insert canned laughter). It’s practically as if you must have rum on your breath in order to be deemed roadworthy.


The rum punch orchestra. Right before jumping behind the wheel. Noice.

Other than rum, the locals have quite a penchant for the celebrated Irish stout, Guinness. Nobody is able to come up with an explanation for why it’s so popular in these parts, other than because the drink is black. Perhaps it’s why white rum isn’t as popular either. In fact, even the plastic bags from the supermarkets here are black – I’ll give anyone 100 Barbados dollars if they can find white plastic bags here. Ha. Racial. Comedy.

While I’m vaguely discussing reasonably trivial matters, I want to open the forum on a particular issue that has been close to my heart throughout my lifetime (yes, I realise that segue was fundamentally flawed, because if the issue was close to my heart, as stated, it wouldn’t be classified as trivial... But, I will press on, nevertheless). The issue at hand is that of the direction of the toilet paper roll. This matter presented itself at our hotel here in Barbados. Sharing accommodation with people inevitably opens itself up to compromises having to be made and group decisions agreed to. Normally, this is fine. However, in the case of the toilet paper roll, it’s my way or the highway. Every time a roll would end, I would ensure the roll was attached using my preferred method. However, I would later return to the bathroom to find the direction had been switched, meaning I would have to reverse the roll again. I will confront the group about this soon. Now, I’ve always been a supporter of the ‘backward’ or ‘under’ roll, where you pull the paper from the far side of the roll, and underneath and towards you. I do not condone the “forward” or “top” roll, where the paper comes over the top and it’s pulled from the side closest to the subject. There are many reasons why the latter method is problematic, but the main being that the ‘braking system’ is far more difficult when pulling a chunk of paper off the roll. In order to settle this, please leave a comment as to your preferred method, and if you wish, a brief rationale.

Next time on the blog, are you a scruncher or a folder?


The incorrect "forward" or "top" roll; and the "backward" or "under" roll.

Ok, back to Barbados. At some point, we also climbed aboard the Jolly Roger cruise for a day. The Jolly Roger is essentially a pirate-themed booze cruise. ‘Twas a very sweet day comprising rum punch; break dancing; walking the plank; watching skanky American students on spring break dry-rooting group of Poms in a manner that would normally be reserved for the Cock ‘n’ Bull Bondi Junction or Scruffy Murphy’s; on top of getting hit on by a middle-aged, newly-single, mid-western yank. I probably spent the final hour of the cruise trying to avoid eye contact with her (and then I realised, ‘oh wait, it’s just Soph Fegent,).


Walking the plank on the Jolly Roger cruise.


Play 'spot the spring break whore', upon the Jolly Roger, Barbados.


Andy overboard. Because he is white.

I should also add, that in stark contrast to Bathurst, the ratio here for the Cricket World Cup is roughly 7-1 guys to girls. So, if you were looking to pick up… try Latvia instead.

But, I can’t stress enough how passionate people here (i.e. locals) are about cricket. They even have a chatline that you can ring up and just talk to someone about the sport. Exactly like phonesex. It’s even charged by the minute. Just earlier, Dunny managed to weasel his way out of a minor customs dilemma by initiating a conversation about cricket with the customs officer and was passed right through. Similar to how young Bunto asks, “How ‘bout them doggies aye?”, when he finds himself in a spot of bother.

And yes, I did just say ‘spot of bother’.


No, I'm not a professional photographer. Yes, I know...heard it before. From our hotel in Barbados. Pre rum punches before a hot date with Dunny.


The legendary Gravy at Kensington Oval, Barbados.


A boat.


Well, for now, that’s my mumma (Symons, A. 2006. “A conversation”. Symcard Publications. Sydney). Until next time, I ain’t no batty boy.

Oh, and don’t forget – follow the hand of Gumby and ye shall see the light.

J

And a couple more

Yep, pretty stressed out. At our hotel in Barbados. The phallic gesture wasn't intentional.


What's that? I should be in advertising? North Coast of Barbados.


Why are all sub-continental signs so appalling? They are yet to grasp Western humour. At Kensington Oval, Barbados.


With Monty P at Harbour Lights in Barbados.


Playing the game, "Spot Flemmo and Blewett" in the Caribbean, is rapidly becoming the easiest game in the world.


Jerk-style meat in the worx.

Visual stuff

Pornstar Andy attempts to shed his moontan.


I'm second from the left.


Possibly cliched, but good.


Curtly Ambrose and Richie Richardson's band playing in Antigua. Quite odd to see the world's most feared paceman and the former captain and prolific hooker personally handing out flyers before the gig.




A Jamaican delicacy: the patty.

Home of the Bobsled

Posted April 5, 2007.

I think my nostrils will be forever infused with the scent of ganja after this trip to Jamaica. It’s our fifth day here in Jamaica and whatever stereotypes you may have about this island – multiply them by five. That distinctive odour literally permeates the entire island. But more about this later.

When we arrived at Kingston airport, we were greeted by family friends Gerry Foster and Paul Bitter, Jamaican locals. All it took was a small cough before Paul kindly said, “Man you need some ganja tea for that cough boy.” Nice. We were taken up to Gerry’s place, located in the foothills of Kingston. He has a magnificent view looking down all the way over the town itself and our to the coast.

During our first two days in Kingston we were given a gradual introduction to Jamaica – with rum involved practically every step of the way. We saw the main town of Kingston, and surprisingly, there wasn’t a huge deal to see and do in Kingston itself. We took a tour to the Jamaican defence force base at the peak of the Kingston Blue Mountains (4000 ft above sea level). I don’t know what exactly it is that they’re defending in Jamaica, other than Mary Jane, because when we arrived there, members of the local constabulary were engaged in a cricket game in the car park. We also took a drive around the campus of the University of West Indies. Two sweet things about this uni: they actually have a Bachelor of Rastafarian studies on offer and there’s a KFC on campus. Now, I’m not making any racial slurs about black people and fried chicken, but the conclusion that I’ve come to is that black people love fried chicken. Maccas apparently made an attempt to open up in Kingston and failed dismally. KFC dominates this place. Another favoured local cuisine is “jerk” style meat. You can find this food at places called “jerk centres”. Back home in Sydney, if someone told me they were heading up to the jerk centre, I’d think they were dropping into The Establishment or the Beach Road Hotel (insert canned laughter). Or perhaps they worked for ‘The (Sydney) Magazine’ (insert raucous laughter). And yep, if you work at a jerk centre, that does make you a ‘jerk’,

Ha. Comedy. We’ll be right back after these messages.


a.k.a. Cargo Bar.

Ok, and we’re back. So, on our third day in the home of Rastafarianism, we hired a car and made tracks along the south coast of Jamaica, heading for the town of Negril on the west coast of the island. It’s roughly a 4 hour drive, but the temptation to stop at each town we drove through was too great, with our journey ending up being in the vicinity of 7 hours. Following our host Gerry, who was leading the way, the highway is lined with tiny shacks selling either coconut water, shrimp, fish, souvenirs, beer, rum, jerk chicken or a combination of the above. Pretty much all of them sell ganja too. In fact, we stopped at this tiny shack selling coconut water in a little town called Black River. As tourists do, we were out sampling the local offerings, taking happy snaps, yadda yadda yadda, and just as we were about to leave, Gerry pulls me behind the shack, slips me a rolled up piece of paper stuffed with mary jane and says, “if the cops are behind you on the highway, throw it out the window, man”. Now, this would be fine if Gerry was a youthful young go-getter like us. However he’s 70. Yes, 70 and an absolute champion. While we were sipping coconut water at the stall, Gerry was out the back brokering us a deal. Nice. He’s one of those guys that wants to live his life literally until the day he dies. He doesn’t act a day older than 25. And always so many classic stories to tell. Anyway, I was introduced to “Chris” the shack owner, who gave me his number, presumably in case I need another fix of herb later on. As we pulled back out onto the highway, he kept making hand gestures and mouthing the words, “Call me”. He was either desperate to make some extra cash, or was gay. Since there’s no such thing as a gay black man, I assumed the former.


Coconut stall in the town of Bamboo on Jamaica's south coast.


As above...


At the coconut shack with our 'dealer'/gay friend, Chris.

Within an hour of arriving in Negril, were were hammered on the complimentary rum punches at the beach bar. If it only took a hardcore pisshead like me an hour and a half of drinking to reach that state, imagine how quickly the likes of Symcard, Gabbo or Cam would’ve got there.


The first rum punch in Negril.

Other than the most breathtaking sunset I’ve ever seen, probably the most distinctive thing about Negril and Montego Bay (also on the west coast, north of Negril) are the weed hustlers. They’re unavoidable. You’re sitting at the bar next to the pool and some guy down on the beach will start flailing his arms, signalling you to meet him for a deal. As you walk along the beach at night, dudes jump out of the bushes at you every 15 minutes exclaiming, “Is it smoking time for you yet boy?” or “I got anyting you want man.” And if they have nothing to sell, they’ll say, “Help a brother”, hoping we’ll hand over whatever currency we have. Initially, the whole drug hustling thing was novel, however it quickly wore off when they keep coming back every time they see you along the beach. Nevertheless, a couple decent transactions were made over the course of the trip. When in Rome, I guess.

One of the nights in Negril, after making it through the virtual gauntlet of hustlers along the beach in Negril, we made it to Alfred’s nightclub. A few rum punches were downed and it was probably after midnight by this stage when we saw a dude sitting by himself, rum and spliff in hand watching the local reggae band. It was Gerry. Again, what a legend. A 70 year old out at a nightclub on a Tuesday night, with the ladies all over him. We assumed he’d gone to bed after dinner with the folks back at the hotel. Nup. He’d said his goodnights to everyone, waited until the coast was clear and then bolted up the beach for some rums at Alfreds.


Us with the legendary Gerry Foster at Alfred's in Negril.

Gerry is somewhat of a rum connoisseur. His proven recipe for the perfect rum punch is as follows: 1 of the sour, 2 of the sweet, 3 of the strong, 4 of the weak. Most people’s weak would be tropical juice or lemonade, but Gerry’s ‘weak’ is the ice in the drink. One night we were discussing with Gerry the qualities of a good rum. We asked him what he thought of our proud Australian rum, Bundaberg. His words were, “Bundaberg rum only has one purpose: to use as disinfectant to wash your feet”. I must say that after sampling Jamaican rum, I have to agree. My new drink of choice is rum + water. Not with Bundy though.


This house was being built by a local ganja dealer who got caught during construction, hence the unfinished mansion. As you can see, the scaffolding is made of sticks.

When walking through the towns of Negril and Montego Bay, Andy and Dunny received their fair share of stares from the locals, as generally white people stick to the hotels up on the beach strip. It really was lucky for Dunny and Andy to have a black dude, me, with them to ease the assimilation process. But I was horrified the other night when walking to the fried chicken shop on my own and some huge dude sitting up on a wall called out to me, “Hey whiteboy. You need smoke?”. Whiteboy? Whiteboy?!? Well, I never. I slid into an instant state of depression and am yet to climb out of it. Zac, Chesh and Cam – don’t hold this against me, I think the guy must’ve thought it was opposite day.


Downtown Montego Bay.

Perhaps I would’ve avoided the ‘whiteboy’ tag if I had taken up the ridiculously cheap dreadlocks offer in Montego Bay. If I had the requisite five hours to undertake the procedure, I would have for shizzle. So, it’s probably my only regret from Jamaica. Plenty time left though man.


In Shrimp Country. Forrest Gump lives here.

Coming back into Kingston after our trip to the west coast, we dropped into the Bob Marley Museum (which was also the house he lived in for most of his life). It wasn’t as comprehensive as I’d hoped, but it was extremely fascinating nevertheless, and quite eerie in a way to sit in the very hammock in which Bob wrote ‘Stir it up’. Also, did you know that Bob Marley was voted second sexiest black man in history, a few years back. I guess I must’ve just pipped him at the post for the number one position.


With the Bob Marley statue at the Bob Marley Museum in Kingston. Bob's old house is in the background. Unfortunately no pics were allowed inside the house. If you want an insight into Rastafarian culture, come to my place.

While I’m vaguely on the topic of black culture, I made a concerted effort to learn the local handshake. There’s nothing worse than trying to act all wiggity and then fuck up the handshake. The first few people I met simply went for the closed knuckle punch, followed by the words “Respect, man”. Then others go for the semi-high-five handshake with thumbs interlocking, then twisting the palm around to form the more conventional ‘white’ handshake. I encountered several awkward moments with the latter shake, as I was unsure whether to shift into the locked position where you would both snap your fingers away at the conclusion of the handshake. But whichever handshake was on offer, an inevitable moment of awkwardness would precede the greeting, while each party established which particular handshake was on offer. I let them choose. But on the whole, for probably one of the coolest nations and cultures on the planet, Jamaicans really need to sort out their handshake situation. Not only is it confusing for locals and tourists – especially pseudo black people (not me of course) – but it’s potentially damaging to the credibility of their cultural successors in the Bronx of New York.


One of the few successful handshake ordeals. We opted for the closed-fist greeting. Proof that I am truly black.

Apologies for the essay-blog this time. Our next stop is Antigua again for the Aus v Eng clash and then onto Barbados a few days later. So, for now I’ll leave you with the departing words on life from our friend Gerry Foster as the pipe did the rounds for the last time of our stay in Kingston: “Remember. You are nothing but a fuck. Don’t think you’re anything special, ‘cause you’re nothing but a fuck”. Genius.

Irie.