01 April 2006 08:49
Part ThreeBoston Bay is a tourist destination of some repute, it claims to be the jerk capitol of the island (or for that matter, the world). As the source of the original jerk, theirs is of course automatically the "best".
(of course.)
Interestingly enough, most non-Jamaican's I've talked to tend to disagree. The best jerk chicken I've ever had was made by a Kingstonian. Leah maintains the best pork she's ever had was in Toronto, Canada (there's a large Jamaican population there). The general consensus is that Boston jerk is a little over-rated.
Over-rated notwithstanding, I've still had some pretty good food there. All two times that I've been that is. We rattled along the main road until we came to the jerk centre, where four or five establishments are housed in shacks and shelters of various designs and constructions. If you were looking for a single word to describe them, "motley" would be a good choice. Today there was little wind, so we had our choice of places to eat. The time before it was more a matter of choosing to eat upwind in order to avoid hospitalization for smoke inhalation.
Seeing fresh tourists piling out of a taxi brought many smiling faces close. (One will be careful to remember that looking too closely at the array of poor oral hygiene on display can do tremendous moral damage to one's appetite). We did our best to play at being disinterested or indifferent, but the smells of meat basting on every side are mouthwatering. Combined with the smoke in your eyes it makes for a lot of watering going on. We eventually went with the most determined of the group (though it was a rather close call who was most determined to gain our business). He led us to his shelter "Little David's Jerk" and gave us some samples of his jerked pork to try.
Pleased with the samples we argued happily amongst ourselves about how many pounds to buy, then also ordered a few plates of rice and vegetables and some pop to go with. The rice and peas wasn't the best, but then what do you expect? It's about the meat, not the rice. All told, the price tag was $1480 ($4.62 US split five ways) for five people to eat until they were full-up. It was pleasing (if not a little surprising) to note that the man who chopped our meat and served it to us refused the handle the money. With a toothy grin he informed us that "me handle de meat, him handle de bills", pointing to another Jamaican. I guess I've acclimated when I wouldn't've thought twice if he'd accepted the money, stuffed it in his pocket, then continued picking up our meat with his bare hands like he'd been doing.
We lingered for a little while, sipping our drinks and watching the scenery go by. The main coastal road is fairly busy, and taxis are constantly going by honking at people they know. The reggae was blaring from a rack of speakers across the side street we were on, and four or five men were dancing in the middle of the street with beers in hand. Everywhere there's the smell of jerk seasoning, especially when the cook lifts the sheet of tin off the grill to turn the meat. I watched the cook grab the right foreleg and back leg of the pig lying stretched flat and neatly flip him over on his back before replacing the tin on top of him. Mingling occasionally with the smell of jerk comes whiffs of marijuana smoke as lone Rastafarians come by trying to sell knick-knacks, cheap/fake jewelry, beads, etc to the tourists (of which we were the only ones at the moment).
The same man who gave us a ride from Blue Lagoon was still loitering around with the other locals when we made ready to leave. For another $400 he gave us a ride six miles or so further down the coast to Long Bay.
Long Bay is the name of the town, which is situated (believe it or not) along a bay of the same name. Some originality is lacking somewhere, because there are at least three Long Bays on the island (Negril, Westmoreland; Gut River, Manchester; and Long Bay, Portland). Our driver dropped us off by a restaurant with "Fisherman's" in it's name. Sorry, but memory (or lack there of) prevents me from being more specific. Diana had by one means or another arranged some rooms for us with a lady who had a house uphill from the restaurant.
A somewhat blurry shot of Long Bay from a flight I had a couple days later.
We trooped up the hill to lay claim to our lodgings and soon had two rooms occupied, my cost for the night being $600 ($9.50 US). We changed back into our wet swimming gear (which we had prudently shed in favor of dry clothing before leaving Blue Lagoon and spending half an hour scrunched four abreast in the back seat of a Toyota) and headed out the door. It was a long, arduous trek of about two tenths of a mile to the beach; where we immediately set about the task of exhausting ourselves by activity, burning by sun, forcing as much salt water down our nasal passages as possible, dehydrating rapidly, and meanwhile getting sand everywhere.
Have I ever mentioned that I don't like the beach?
We had some good body surfing for a while, but after getting literally tumbled head over heels by a wave before slamming back first into the sand by a wave I found my enthusiasm beginning to wane a little. So I retrieved my frisbee and spent a good while throwing that around. If it didn't get caught and a wave came through, we occasionally had a time trying to find it again. It would go under and come up ten or fifteen seconds later anywhere up to twenty feet away from where it submerged--an interesting reminder that it's not wise to get in over your head (metaphorically speaking) where there are powerful forces involved.
I also managed to lose a pair of sunglasses while making a spectacular catch of the frisbee that involved getting bowled over by a four foot wave while I was still off balance from my catch. I didn't even realize they'd been ripped off my face when I went under until Ryan struggled past me in the knee deep water to where he'd seen them go under. The next morning we looked along the beach to see if they'd washed up but no joy. They'd have been useless by that point, but I was curious to see what the sand abrasion would have done to them by that point.
this is a tangent, but I've been having trouble with sunglasses lately. The week before we went to Long Bay, I was working on the dispersal equipment outside the hangar. I'd set my sunglasses down on the floor, then called Paul to help me move the auger base. Of course they got stepped on. Seeing as they were free, and seeing as I'd put them on the floor in the first place, and (most importantly) seeing as I'd dropped Paul's thermos the week before that and cracked it; I didn't send him a bill. Then at Long Bay I lost the second pair. Seeing as I'd paid $3 US for them in a market in Managua, I didn't shed many tears there either. Then last night I temporarily lost my third pair by leaving it in the back seat of the taxi on the way home from the airport in Mexico. One of Javier's passengers later that afternoon found them and was going to keep them. Javier wound up having to give the guy a free ride in order to prevent him from taking my sunglasses, because his passenger didn't believe Javier was telling the truth about me being a contract passenger (he thought Javier just wanted them for himself). So this morning when Wayne translated the story to me, I gave Javier three bucks (since he lost 30 pesos on the free ride). This effectively doubled my costs, since I'd also picked this pair up for $3 in Managua.
Looks like I need to visit Managua again. Either that or put a leash on my sunglasses.
It was getting fairly late in the afternoon and both Ben and I were needing something to drink. Before heading back to the house, we walked on down the beach to scope out a restaurant that Leah'd recommended (she'd been there before). We got prices then walked back up the road to the house. I kept my eyes peeled for a jelly man, but no such luck. A cold jelly coconut would have hit the spot.
The others returned not long after and we cycled through the one working shower in the house. This was an interesting affair involving an assortment of galvanized pipe and an old tub. One simply ignored the valves on the tub and opened a ball valve set in the showerhead pipe. A hole had been knocked in the lath and plaster wall to install the valve which in turn supplied cold water to the open ended pipe (known otherwise as a 'showerhead') that poured out in a solid half inch stream around eyeball height. The effect is the same as standing under an open-ended water hose...water goes Everywhere.
our house, the guys' room, the view from the porch.
Sufficiently desalinated, I sat on the veranda with Ben and Diana and scratched out a quick letter home. I'd spotted a post office on the way back and intended to make use of it. In the morning I found that I couldn't actually find it. Apparently the PO was actually inside the public library (which was closed on Sundays of course), and didn't even have a drop box. A little crushed, I wound up posting the letter from Manchoniel further down the road on Sunday.
When everyone was good and ready we set off down the road to the restaurant we'd scoped earlier. We ordered our food, received our drinks, then moved back out onto the porch where it was a little cooler. Ben, Diana, and Ryan amused themselves with the checkers board while I grilled Leah on the Haitian refugees here on the island. She works with them occasionally (she was a MK in Haiti for a while and has at least a rudimentary understanding of Creole). Watching the breakers on the beach in the moonlight prompted her to wonder what it'd be like to be out there in the wide open on a makeshift raft for days on end.
The Jamaican government has a refugee camp up somewhere near MoBay, and the human rights organization Leah is working for was chosen to act as defense for the refugees during the hearings to decide the status of the individual refugees. For example, whether or not to grant them political asylum. Interestingly enough, the refugees themselves aren't allowed to attend the hearings. And it's also very difficult to actually discern what the facts of any given case are, since the only evidence they have to go on is the word of the refugees themselves. It's not like the Jamaican's can get on the phone to Haiti and ask various gangs of Aristide supporters (or vice versa) whether they've been trying to kill so and so who escaped on a raft.
Our supper, when served about half an hour later (that's what you call cooked from scratch), was very good. Unfortunately I didn't manage to plow through it all--Boston Bay was still too recent and space for more food wasn't back up to it's usual capacity.
Bed, when it was finally reached, was quite delightful. I'd done a lot of swimming, walking, frisbeeing, and eating.
...In other words, I slept like a rock.
08:49 email me permalink / commentary (1)
I feel I should be making a comment regarding all that jerkiness. The constant sunglasse losing, though, I can relate to. 04 April, 2006 18:49 – 
Samantha
