Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, January 16, 1994 TAG: 9401190002
SECTION: TRAVEL PAGE: F6 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: DAVID HERNDON NEWSDAY
DATELINE: NEGRIL, JAMAICA LENGTH: Long
I had spent a fairly grueling evening the night before at a reggae club nearby with my friend Frank, an expatriate American who lives near Montego Bay. The spacious outdoor waterside dance hall would have been perfect for a concert, except that:
A: The headliner Josey Wales failed to show.
B: During the 21/2 hours we spent waiting for his performance, there was a barrage of approaches by hustlers offering everything from drugs and sex to favorable exchange rates for dollars.
C: Someone in the crush of vehicles and people outside the venue stabbed a hole in a tire of our rented Jeep, presumably because we had declined to participate in some shakedown or another.
The next day, tire patched, cruising the north coast road from Negril to Montego Bay, we slowed to negotiate an intersection. A shirtless man approached the passenger side holding a baton that looked to be a length of sugar cane. He waved it in the window offering it for sale, and it turned out to be a 11/2-foot long stalk of ``ganja'' (marijuana), almost as thick as the loop made by your thumb and index finger.
A few miles farther along the road we hit a roadblock of police, and saw them searching through a backpack belonging to a tourist representing the neo-tie-dye generation. Bummer, man.
Stories like this earn Jamaica a mixed reputation. Tourism is one of the country's top industries, but it's one that tends to corrupt; the relationship between the haves and the have-nots is too dramatic for the situation to be otherwise. The American dollar now brings about 30 Jamaican dollars, an imbalance that particularly pains poorer residents. Per capita income in the country, according to the Planning Institute of Jamaica, is roughly the equivalent of $1,200 - which might be about as much as you'd budget to spend on your vacation, depending on your approach.
So to separate the monied tourists from the mendicant or bothersome islanders, Jamaica has gone ``all-inclusive.'' About half of the rooms are let according to the plan in which the customer pays up front for all goods and services and remains on the campus of the resort for the duration of the vacation. (An alternative is to rent a villa; five years ago I spent a week with a group of friends in a fully staffed party palace in Ocho Rios that was so comfortable we rarely strayed from the property.)
Certainly, some of these north coast resorts provide a sane, restful environment, and the opportunity for good sport. And there is much to be said in favor of open bars, endless buffets and a break from the nuisance of currency.
But many of the package deals are selling noisy, forced fun-in-the-sun for adults trying to recapture the rapture of yesteryear's spring break.
The all-inclusive plan has been effective - the number of visits has been rising by about 8 percent per year the last several years, and more than a million people a year now vacation in Jamaica. But it's also a strategy that enforces neglect of all but a sandy sliver of the island's vast natural and cultural richness; some 90 percent of tourism clusters on the coast from Negril to Ocho Rios.
I recently spent a week poking around the western third of Jamaica - a couple of days sailing in Montego Bay, a couple of days on the beach, a day-trip tour in the hill country, a couple of days road-tripping to the south and west coasts - with the benefit of entree provided by native hosts.
To beat the rush, one needs to be armed with a sense of exploration, and a hardy vehicle with high suspension. For both of those, I could hardly have done better than hook up for a day of bushwacking with Ian Robinson.
Robinson came to Jamaica from Britain as a do-good volunteer 25 years ago, and since that time he's had a hand in numerous endeavors: teaching, planting, building, metalwork, woodwork. Now, among other pursuits, he gives tours customized to the interests of his clientele. He asked me my interests - flowers? history? - and I responded ``people.'' So he picked me up in his Land Rover at 7 a.m. and we set off from Montego Bay and up into the hills.
As we climbed away from the coast, it seemed that we were going back in time. Robinson pointed out orange and banana groves planted on former sugar plantations dominated by formidable Great Houses situated on the highest points of the farms.
Palm trees and bushes, bamboo stands and breadfruit trees announced that we were in tropical terrain, and every so often we'd pass through a cluster of ramshackle wood and tin huts that made up a village.
Wending deeper into the country, along a ridge and through ever more remote villages, we were skirting along Cockpit Country, a region of astonishing terrain through which no roads pass. From an airplane, the Cockpits look like a moss-covered mogul field; on the ground, one simply sees ridge after ridge of humpy, jungle covered hillocks several hundred feet high. Some two-thirds of Jamaica is quite hilly, Robinson said, and from the looks of all the people by the side of the road waiting for buses and begging rides, transportation is a big problem.
A train used to run from MoBay up to Catadupa, but no longer does, and the square by the depot in the town of Kensington had the silent, pregnant air of a Spaghetti Western town. Robinson and I went into the general store, bought a Red Stripe beer and a soda, and Robinson asked around for the whereabouts of a painter named Albert Artwell whom he knew to live locally.
When we met up with Artwell, he didn't have any completed paintings to show us - his work is in demand at the West Indian Gallery in Montego Bay and elsewhere - but his protege and companion, Deloris Anglin, had several pieces on hand. Artwell led us into his music room, a large shed with a DJ booth and several big guitar amps, where Anglin was keeping her naive, Haitian style (flat images, primary colors) paintings of scenes of village life: schoolgirls playing net ball, a burial in a cemetery, a Rastafarian jam session. She was asking $1,000J (about $40 U.S.), and later in the week when I saw by coincidence that her work was so nicely decorating my cottage at Tensing Pen in Negril, I kicked myself for not having bought one.
by CNB