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.