After leaving the gorgeously maintained and manicured Errol Flynn Marina, it was a bit of a shock to find that exactly zero percent of the town is up to any sort of building code whatsoever. The larger buildings are primarily made of poorly-mixed, and thus crumbling, concrete, some with poorly mixed, and thus crumbling, patches. The rest of the town is built of a combination of plywood or corrugated iron panels that are overlapped in such a helter-skelter way as to ensure that not a one of them is either straight or plumb. Between these are hung lots of ubiquitous blue plastic tarps as sun covers and rain awnings, as Jamaica has an abundance of both. The streets and walkways are pocked with holes full of muddy water of indeterminate depth. In some places, such as the outdoor market, several have been spanned with undersized bits of spare lumber to give a slightly less wet route through. This causes backups in both road and pedestrian traffic as people wait to go through the 'good' spots.
Despite the rather bleak environment, we were warmly greeted with "Good Afternoon!" by polite people everywhere we went, whose second question was almost universally, "How are you liking Jamaica?"
We would respond by saying we love the lush, green jungle and the beautiful flowers that grow on the steep hills above, dodging any question about Port Antonio itself. The people seem nice as well. That is except for the woman at the marina office. When confronted with normal requests like, 'Where should we deposit our trash?' her response would always come with a five-second delay, during which she would look at us as if what we had really said was, "Excuse me, I have a cup of my own spit here and I can't tell if it's gone off. Will you taste it and tell me what you think?"
Anyway, after determining that all the tour operators with shop fronts were non-existant or closed for the day, and pretty sure more walking wasn't going to find us the pretty part of town, we had a good, but very slowly cooked meal out, and then headed back towards the marina.
Along the way, after dodging many people who were trying to sell us cab rides or ganja, or both (it seems everybody in Jamaica sells ganja, which is legal in personal amounts), we met John.
After taking it in good stride that we were not looking for any rides or ganja this evening, we chatted a bit about our respective travels. At some point, Maryanne mentioned that we were hoping to do a raft trip sometime in our next two or three stops. John said that if we decided to stay in Port Antonio one more night (Maryanne had previously told him we weren't sure if the weather was best to go tomorrow or the next day), he would be happy to organize a trip for us in the morning. He said the raft trip would cost $85 for the two of us. We would also need a taxi to and from each end. He told us he would be happy to do it for $40. He said he would even show us a couple of the other sights in Portland (the local district) on the way back, so we could see even more. Great! We agreed to meet him at the marina gate at ten the next morning.
Port Antonio is very different inside and outside of the Errol Flynn Marina complex
We thought that was it, and turned to head for home. John had a different idea, and motioned for us to follow him. We then got an impromptu, and very swift, walking tour of Port Antonio, which included some of the areas Maryanne and I had been too timid to enter alone. John seemed to know everybody. Also in Jamaica all the males seem to go by some nickname; John's was "Black Boy", so we just referred to him as John.
In his company, we were no longer clueless, lost tourists. We were just some other people he knew, which added an air of legitimacy to our presence.
He then marched us under mild protest to what he swore was the best bar in town, on the opposite side of the city center from the marina.
It was actually pretty nice, with the various plywood panels either painted bright colors or varnished. There was also some really nice crafts/artwork for sale, mostly carvings, for those who have more space than we do for such things. We chatted with the artists for a while, none of whom seemed bothered by not making a sale, and then relaxed at the bar, where we got three Red Stripes (local beer) for what the marina bar charges for one. Well done on that local tip, John! He then accompanied us back to the marina and bid us a good evening, promising again to see us at ten the next morning.
We arrived early, just in case, to find John already waiting with a smile and a late-model car. Well, that's encouraging. Maryanne took one of the back seats, insisting I take the front. When I went to get in, I found I was on the wrong side of the car. Jamaica drives on the left. Also, there was already someone sitting there. John introduced him as Macka, our driver.
Huh?! When asked about this, John insisted that he could drive, and allowed that he had a car, but seemed to dismiss as ridiculous the idea that he would be expected to organize the ride and also do the driving.
Anyway, Macka was good-natured. John, who seemed to be teaching Macka the way to get where we were going (Jamaica's road signage is not the best), barked directions and ribbed Macka when he made a mistake. Macka took it in stride and seemed to be genuinely pleased to get out of the house for the day. Between occasional narration by John, he and Macka spoke in such a thick patois that, even though it is ostensibly based on English, the language with which we are most familiar, their conversations were as incomprehensible to us as if they had been in Estonian. Fortunately, like the Scots, the Jamaicans can tone down their accent to a tourist version that can be understood by the larger Anglophone community. It also has a nice lilt to it, Mon.
Macka also introduced us to the other language of Jamaica, the horn. His car was equipped with an aftermarket modification that would activate the horn with a pull chain hanging from the ceiling by where the driver's hand naturally falls when driving with an arm on the doorsill. Jamaicans use their car horns for everything: blind corners, blind driveways, pothole warnings for those approaching, "Thanks!", "No Problem, Mon!", seeing anybody you know (which is everybody), telling people about to step into the road that there is a car coming, letting the pretty girls know that you like their outfits, and any other time it seems like it has been a little too quiet for too long. Now imagine what it must sound like in a town with bad roads, where everybody knows each other, and some of them are pretty girls in nice outfits who inadvertently wandered from the crumbling sidewalk onto the drivable part of the road.
The drive up into the mountains was windy and scenic
After thirty minutes or so climbing narrow switchbacks, Macka pulled off to the side and John announced that we were there. Coming down the road from the other direction was a tall, wiry man with a cushion under his arm. John introduced him as Josh, our raft Captain, which we already suspected because he was wearing a bright yellow polo shirt with the word 'Captain' on the front, and a big '019' on the back, which Josh later explained was his official government Captain number.
Walking down the road, as John and Josh were talking in their thick local dialect, one little bit of the conversation that we did get was that, effective for the new year, the government has raised the mandated price of raft trips to $55 per person. When asked about this, John said that, due to some family issues, he had not yet organized a tour in the current year, so was unaware of the change. Unfortunately, we would have to suck up the new rate. We had no signal, and thus no way to independently verify this, but the way the problem was presented, we had the sneaking suspicion the price bait and switch might have been a well-used ruse.
We then all climbed a short set of stairs to the top of a levee, where we got a view of the Rio Grande River and our conveyance for the next few hours, a fifty foot long, six foot wide bamboo raft with a two-person seat at the back. After a bit of setup, Maryanne and I took our seat, Josh pushed us into the shin-deep water, and we waved goodbye to John and Macka for the time being.
After purchasing a couple of Red Stripes from a convenient floating bar, which was really just another raft with a cool box full of beers, Josh punted us around the corner and in no time at all, it was just the three of us floating on crystal-clear water through dense jungle with no sign of human habitation whatsoever.
A beautiful relaxed ride down the Rio Grande river
Jamaican river rafting is a sedate affair, much closer to inner tubing than adrenaline-pumping whitewater adventure rafting. On average, we were probably averaging two or three knots as Josh punted us through water barely deep enough to float our raft. Occasionally, we would encounter a small rapid, where our speed might shoot up to five knots for a few seconds before ending in a bump as we grazed the final boulder. Along the way, we would occasionally encounter one of the trainee Captains, whose primary job is to tow the empty rafts back upstream while walking on the riverbed where too shallow. Josh says it takes them about five hours to make the trip.
After a while, we rounded a bend into a smooth spot. Josh pulled over and beached the raft. He then explained that the fun thing for us to do was to swim across the current to the other side of the river, climb out onto a specific boulder, and then jump back into the river at a nearby deep spot.
Along the way we stopped off to jump from the rocks into the deeper water, and to enjoy a lunch break with food cooked over wood burning stove
It turned out to be plenty of fun, and was a refreshing way to cool off during the hottest part of the day. When we had our fill, we returned to the opposite bank to join Josh as he rested under a tree. After a few minutes, Maryanne and I were getting restless. That's when we realized that while we were waiting for Josh to say it was time to move on, he was waiting for us to do the same.
An hour so of scenery later, we pulled off again, this time to a makeshift picnic area. It looked like it was set up for the high season, or possibly the crowds of Cruise Ship Day. As the only ones there, we felt quite conspicuous as the cook waited for our lunch order.
Maryanne and I weren't really hungry, but we also knew it would be a while before dinner, so we decided to get something to tide us over until then. The menu was heavy on the meat. We were trying to be good and wanted something lighter. Also, the prices were Cruise Ship-steep, so we agreed to share a large order of rice, beans and vegetables.
The food was delicious. I particularly liked the homemade hot sauce I drowned mine in. Maryanne and I got about two bites in when we both noticed Josh over there by himself, looking at his phone, looking particularly skinny and a little pathetic. We both looked at each other and had the same thought, 'We're jerks."
For some reason, we had assumed the River Captains would have some kind of deal with the cook, but now that didn't seem to be the case. Maryanne motioned to me with her eyes to go and talk to Josh.
I asked him if he was going to eat, to which he replied, "Yeah, Yeah. I will." He did it in a way that made me think maybe he was just busy booking a new client first, before eating. He then called out to the cook, ordering the most expensive item on the menu.
As we were eating and Josh picked at his food, two more rafts showed up. Their passengers seconded that their food was also delicious. We also noticed that their Captains had brought their own lunches. When Maryanne went to settle our bill, she learned that two-thirds of it had been for Josh's plate.
We then continued down the Rio Grande, enjoying our last hour or so of peaceful jungle, complete with exotic animal soundtrack, before spotting the bridge marking the end of the river, where it joins the sea.
This is where Josh asked us to pay up before we got too close, saying something about not wanting to upset any other Captains present with what we paid.
But I thought the government set a standard fare for everyone...
John and Macka were there waiting for us. As we were walking back to the car, Maryanne was pretty sure she saw Josh slip John some of our fee.
We were now only a couple of miles from Port Antonio. We drove into town and then straight through another couple miles to the Blue Lagoon, the place where the Brooke Shields movie of the same name was filmed in the 1970s. It's nice, although there was almost no one there. That's because, like a lot of the nicer places in Jamaica, it's walled off and there is a fee to enter. We, of course, were not made aware of this until we had all walked a long way from the car to the entry point. Then our choice was to fork over the money, or look unnecessarily cheap and walk upstream through the line the way we had come.
We had a couple more of these at other beauty spots, before Maryanne protested to John that we were running out of cash and insisted on no more. John agreed, but said there was one more place we just had to see: Boston, Jamaica, home and originator of Jerk cuisine. Fine.
The drive back from the raft trip was extended to a few additional sights - including the Blue Lagoon (of movie fame), and a Jerk Chicken joint so we could feed John.
You can't come to Jamaica and not have Jerk something! I am, of course, a fan of the spicy foods, so I was keen to give it a try. John picked the place most favored by locals and we ordered a small portion of Jerk chicken.
It was okay. It wasn't great. It wasn't amazing. The sauce was not what I would even consider a strong mild. It tasted like regular barbecued chicken. John ate most of it. At the end, John asked Maryanne to give him $6 so he could bring back two beers. We weren't really up for beer, but we were thirsty, so why not?
When he returned, he handed me mine, and then started drinking the other. Cheeky.
By then, sunset was only an hour or so away, so it really was a relief for us that there was only enough time for us to be getting straight back.
At the marina, we said our goodbyes and I handed John our agreed $40. He looked at it as if it wasn't even real money and said, "What is this?!"
Maryanne answered, "That's the $40 we agreed. Thanks so much. It was a lovely day."
He then gave her a long, cold, hard glare. "You owe me more than that!"
"How much do you think we owe you?" she asked.
"At least $100." He then went on to insist that the $40 was for the ride to the beginning of the raft trip only, not the ride back, and not any of the extras he threw in for us.
"John, that is NOT what you said to us yesterday."
Macka started to chime in that Maryanne was right. John told him to keep quiet. This was between him and Maryanne.
He glared at her some more. She glared back.
Maryanne then explained that, based on our prior agreement, she had brought along enough to pay, plus some extra for incidentals, but with the extra for the raft fare, Josh's lunch, and all the unplanned beach fees, we simply didn't have the money.
He said she was lying.
At this, she opened up her wallet (I was not carrying mine for the day) to show him the contents. Then she pulled it all out and counted out twenty-one dollars.
"This is all I have. Take it." She thrust it towards him.
Knowing that taking the money would constitute an agreement on the price, he opted instead to glower at her some more.
"I want more money!"
"I don't HAVE any more money!"
More angry staring followed.
John tried a different tack. "If I take that, I have to give it all to Macka, with nothing left over for me for a whole day of work."
Yeah, about that. Why is Macka even here? No offense Macka. I don't remember ever agreeing to hire a second guy to come along for the day just because, extra.
"Don't you have more money on the boat?"
"Yes, a little, for our groceries." Maryanne replied, "But since you lied to us and changed the price without asking and never asked us if we would want to do anything else for this price or that, I'm not going to get it for you. Take the $21."
John did not like that. Macka tried again to say that Maryanne had a good point, to which John shot him a very threatening look.
He seethed at Maryanne. "Get my money!"
She responded with her own glare. "Call the Police!"
"Get my money!"
"Call the Police! We can wait all night, John."
Macka squirmed. John looked at me as if I would somehow take his side. I was trying my hardest to suppress my urge to go over to his side of the car, drag him out, and go full barroom brawl on this asshole, which I understand is a really, really bad idea in someone else's country, particularly since Jamaica probably does not have the highest quality jail cells.
Perhaps John could see he was losing the crowd. Perhaps he had his own reasons for not wanting the police to come. In a more measured tone, he said, "Bring me forty dollars so I can pay Macka and we're even."
"Fine."
As we were getting out of the car, John looked at me and said, "I'm not getting paid anything today. I know you're a good man. Bring me a little extra so a man can at least have a drink."
Despite the fact that I was beet red with anger, I realized Macka had been stuck in the middle of all this, so when we got back to the boat, I threw on an extra $10, even though I really didn't want to.
Back outside, John stood at the chain link fence and motioned for me to pass the money through.
"Half those drinks are for Macka," I said. John snatched the money so fast I initially thought he might be throwing a punch, then turned and stomped away without making eye contact or saying anything. I expected him to then flip me the bird, but it never came. Mine was at the ready in my pocket, just in case, but the safety was on, and I never ended up needing it.
Whew! That was over! I took a deep breath and tried to remember the peaceful, green river and the friendly people with big smiles on their faces that we encountered throughout the day, including Josh and Macka. John does not get to ruin Jamaica for us.
The Errol Flynn Marina in Port Antonio - location >> On google maps
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