[Kyle]Feeling like we had seen enough of Port Antonio and not really wanting to pay for any longer than necessary in a marina, we anchored nearby for a night and then made a quick, downwind run along the northern coast to Oracabessa.
The Oracabessa area is where scenes from several James Bond movies were filmed, particularly Dr. No. Ian Fleming wrote most of the scripts at his adopted home just a mile or so away from the tiny harbor. It's now a resort for the five-figure-a-night crowd.
After setting anchor in the pretty harbor, we rowed ashore and checked in with the police, which our cruising permit requires us to do at any port that has police. After that, we had a quick walk around, but were stopped at the fancy resorts on either end by high fencing and signs saying, "Guests Only". Alright; fair enough.
There is a mini market and a restaurant where the highway passes through. We didn't need anything from the market and others have reported that the restaurant has no prices on the menu and thus charges whatever they think they can get away with, on the basis that posh resort clientele looking for a change from their restaurant will think fifty dollars a plate is a bargain. No, thanks.
So, we returned to our boat to spend out our time enjoying the tropical views from aboard, with the occasional swim when it gets too hot. There could be worse ways to spend the day.
Oracabessa (aside from the resort) was a sleepy fishing village where we were able to relax stress-free
We then lifted anchor the next morning to continue to Ocho Rios, the first city along the coast.
Ocho Rios was quite busy, with high-rise hotels, souvenir shops/stalls, and a fine beach. We threaded our way into the harbor past the soon-to-be-occupied cruise ship terminal and dropped anchor between two floating fun parks. It is especially popular with Jamaicans as a holiday and honyemoon location.
Ocho Rios (8 rivers), was much more touristy; we especially loved the long beach and the nearby gardens.
A crew was busy jackhammering away at one of the mooring points for the cruise ships. After a while, we noticed that the day's ship had diverted to nearby Falmouth Harbor instead. Well, this is our chance to see the town when it's not mobbed, we'd better get going.
Ocho Rios is one of those places that serves as a hub for all the nearby fun things to do, more than being a destination itself. If you look up "Things to do in Ocho Rios," almost everything on the list is fifty miles away. Konoko Falls, on the other hand, is just a short, steep climb into the hills above the city. You can swim there, which we thought would feel pretty good after the hike. It turned out to be especially so since the only entrance is at the top of the site. We were walking the empty road and were almost there when we suddenly got passed by about a dozen mini busses. Nooooo! They had all come from Falmouth.
Used to regular cruise ship visitors, some of the tourist attractions we'd been keen to see were extortionately expensive, so we kept to some of the more basic places
The local entertaiment was clearly advertised (gulp!), and the power delivery is "interesting"
Konoko Falls was a strange place. It's part botanic gardens, part zoo and part water park. That sounds nice, but none of those things seemed to be done very well, so it was more confusing than anything, like eating at a Chinese-American-French-Italian taco stand.
The cruise ship crowds didn't turn out to be too disruptive. Their itinerary apparently only allowed enough time for a quick guided tour of the botanic gardens. We had to wait a couple of times for long, slow lines to pass, but by shooting the gaps, we were able to avoid being stuck in line with them, although we crossed paths several times.
Their guided tour was absolutely the worst one we have ever seen. There were several groups with several different guides, but they all did the same thing. As they walked by a particular item of interest, they would just yell out the common name of it without any additional narration. As Maryanne and I walked around fondling leaves and sniffing flowers, there was a constant background shouting, "Pine Tree!...Palm Tree!...Hibiscus Flower!" This was delivered, apart from the volume, with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever. One woman, passing by an aviary with several types of parrots inside, yelled "Birds!" as she sauntered by. Boy, a guided tour can really add context. I had been looking at the rabbits and wondering why their wings were on their heads.
Once we were done being entertained at the gardens, Maryanne and I repaired to the falls for a dip. The falls were also weird. They were real, but had been entirely encased in concrete, presumably to slow erosion and add grip to slippery spots. The effect of this was to take an impressive natural feature and make it look like a manufactured oversized fountain in a big casino. The water felt good, though. Maryanne and I were the only ones partaking today, although there were a couple of Instagram types doing stupid poses in the distance with the falls as a background. I wanted to push them in, but I didn't want to get all of that makeup in the water.
Back in town, we found a restaurant run by friendly Rastafarians and then had to pay to get back on the beach to get to our dinghy.
In the morning, another cruise ship arrived. They were still jackhammering the pier, so it pulled up to the adjacent bauxite loading terminal instead. Their passenger's introduction to the city was via a dusty warehouse, rather than the pedestrianized esplanade of the other place.
Maryanne's and my plan for the day was to park the dinghy for free at the police station and then walk across town to a different beach and have a look. After a hot walk, we were told it would be ten dollars each to go in. Aw, Man! We managed to convince the guy we weren't there for a day of sunbathing and he let us in for free for "a quick look".
On the way back, we found a very basic, hole-in-the-wall Rastafarian restaurant, where the smiling cook piled a mountain of food on each of our plates. We then headed to the market, hoping to find some veggies.
We enjoyed the market and found some new-to-us items: the Otaheite Apple (the half eaten in the picture) and Ackee (that needs to be cooked, but Maryanne knew only as the words to a Jamaican Folk-song she was taught in primary school titled "Linstead Market")
We accidentally ended up in the wrong market. We entered and were immediately given the hard-sell for every kind of Jamaica-themed souvenir you could imagine. We picked up the pace, hoping we could get through quickly, only to find that the whole block was fenced in. One way in. One way out. Now we were at the back. At the exit, when a guy who was trying to steer us back in asked what we were looking for, Maryanne answered, "vegetables". He was so shocked by this that he stood back and let us through. I guess not that many cruise ship people are out looking for the veggie market. After that, any time anybody would see our shopping bag and offer to sell us something to take home in it, showing them the vegetables (and the bolt of cloth we got from the fabric store) always made them back off and wish us a nice afternoon. Who knew? A head of cabbage is like kryptonite to a souvenir hawker.
In the morning, after watching an even bigger ship come in to replace the one that left last night, we upped anchor and headed for Discovery Bay. We thought this was funny, because when Maryanne first came to live with me in America, we ended up staying the first winter with my parents in their housing development, which was called Discovery Bay. It was in the middle of nowhere in central California and, although you could technically get to the Sacramento River from there by water, there was no bay and no scenery, apart from people's landscaping. The one in Jamaica at least looks the part.
We were intending to go ashore to check in with the police, when they came out to us instead on the way back from one of their patrols. Thay explained that the beach was all the "Private, Get Out!" type, but that we were free to land our dinghy by the "Jamaican Defense Force – Authorized Personnel Only" sign and walk through their compound to get to the road.
The next day, we did just that, but not before having a little mishap. We were landing the dinghy on the beach through some pretty big surf. We had timed it pretty well and the moment the bow hit the sand, I jumped out with the intent of grabbing the boat and pulling Maryanne clear of the next wave. That's when I found out how steep the beach was. Instead of shin-deep water, I fell in to my waist. Then a wave hit the dinghy, which hit me and I fell of my feet and went in to my shoulders. Maryanne managed to scramble over the top of me and the dinghy and only ended up with one wet leg as she pulled us both clear.
Now I was dripping with saltwater and covered in sand. Jamaica is a hot country and it actually feels pretty good walking around in wet clothes. The grit was more of a problem, but I hoped that as I dried, most of it would fall off.
We walked a couple miles out of town to The Green Grotto, a giant system of caves, for a tour. This one was way better than at Konoko Falls with plenty of information and places to chuckle. We were even loosely supervised, which allowed us to run ahead or lag behind our group, most of whom were driven in from Ocho Rios today, for some crowd-free shots.
The Green Grotto is a giant cave systems that once was a hiding place for escaped slaves, and more recently a night club. Now-a-days it is much quieter, and they keep it just for tours and to protect the many bats that live there.
When we were done with that, we crossed the street to a Jerk stand, where we just beat the crowds coming across the street by bus. We were shocked to find not only reasonable prices and good food, but the woman at the bar even gave me the real exchange rate for my US dollars. Everywhere we have been in Jamaica is happy to take either Jamaican or US dollars. Both are everywhere. Right now, Jamaican dollars are about 153 to each US dollar. We've noticed that almost everybody uses 100 to one "to make the math easier", giving us a 50% markup on everything. When I got the right change in Jamaican dollars from my part Jamaican, part US dollar payment, I was so shocked that I handed it back to her as a tip.
We took the long way back home via another one of those James Bond shooting locations. It is a big pool with a few arches and underwater caves around the perimeter. I was happy to look at it, but Maryanne stripped down to her undies and braved the steep path down for a swim. I knew she was doing it out of solidarity, so I wouldn't be the only one covered in salt.
The Tear drop "blue pond" offered a calmer spot to swim protected from the outer swell and waves
Now knowing about the beach, we each avoided a second dunking as we launched the dinghy for home.
We were next going to sail to Montego Bay. The yacht club, where boats our size go, is a long way from the actual town. Plus, it was Double Cruise Ship Day. Big ones, too. We decided we just couldn't face it and carried on to Lucea (pronounced: Lucy) Bay.
Lucea was clearly not Montego Bay. Begonia was the only boat anchored there. We landed on the opposite side of the entrance from the town and then made a day out of walking the perimeter of the bay to get there.
Lucea is definitely not on the tourist route. We did see a few minibuses on the road, but none of them stopped. We did get a few looks from people who must have thought we had wandered away from the resort about a mile to the east (Day Pass - $160, pool access for overnight guests only), but otherwise, they let us go about our business as they went about theirs.
We walked all around the bay to the main town to see the old fort, and came across a cricket match (a touch of the real Jamaica)
The highlight of the day was when we popped into City Hall to have a look. They don't do tours, but after telling us that, a plainclothes policeman/security guard welcomed us inside and showed us around the place.
Lucea's Municiple Building and Mayor's office - with its historic clock tower
Our favorite story of his was about the town clock mounted on top of the building. It was built in Germany and was intended for the Island of St. Lucia, but was accidentally brought here, about a thousand miles in a completely different direction, instead (it's easy to confuse your Lucias in the mail!). The ship was in such poor condition on arrival that it had to remain in port for some time for repairs. The town decided they liked the clock so much that they wanted to keep it, so they voted to pay for it instead of having it sent on to the 'correct' St. Lucia. One particular district of the town formed the main voting bloc against the purchase. That's why Lucea's four-sided clock tower only has three faces. You don't pay for the time, you don't get to see the time!
We failed to find anywhere in town that appealed for a break, but on the walk home, we stopped at a nice-looking beach bar for a coldie. It turns out they weren't open for a few hours, but the proprietress ignored that and handed us each an ice-cold Red Stripe to enjoy while we watched Begonia in the distance.
The long walk back to the boat was broken up with various views and entertainment
Since we had put in a few extra miles getting to Lucea, our next leg from there to Negril, on the far western end of Jamaica, was shorter, allowing us to sleep in a little and still make it with plenty of light left in the day. Like in Ocho Rios, we pulled up to the beach until we were just outside of the buoyed swimming area in our section and laid the anchor out in water so clear that we could see almost our whole length of chain.
We rowed ashore, where a man who introduced himself as "Ganja Man" (all Jamaican males have a given nickname it seems) helped us drag the dinghy out of the way and above the high tide line. He was the proprietor of the adjacent Ital restaurant, where Maryanne and I intended to eat dinner after an exploratory walk of Negril's four-mile-long beach (called 7-mile beach for some reason).
We had chosen to stop in Negril for a couple of reasons. The first and most obvious was that it was at the far, opposite side of the country from Port Antonio. The second was that, even though it's not a formally recognized clearance port, rumor was that, with some notice, it would be possible to get Customs and Immigration to come out from Montego Bay (about a forty-five-minute drive) to perform exit formalities.
When we called them to schedule our outbound clearance on a day we had checked would be free of cruise ships in Montego Bay, they sounded a little bit confused by our request. They didn't refuse outright, which we took to be a good sign. Instead, they kept telling us they would check to see if they could find anyone, call back later. For two days after that, we kept getting the same answer: call back later. We were literally on the walk to a rental car place to give them $100 so we could drive to Montego Bay ourselves, when Immigration called and said they would meet us at the Burger King in Negril the next morning. That was great news, but then we had to get Customs to do the same thing. During our stay, they had also told us several times to call back, with the additional proviso that we get Immigration to agree before they would commit. In hindsight, Maryanne and I both agreed that it would have been a lot less stressful for us to have never counted on clearing out from Negril.
Negril is an interesting place. It is not so much a town as a four-mile tourist zone along the long beach. There are some actual town type businesses at the southern end, but almost the entire remainder is made up of beach bars, restaurants, and souvenir shops. The good part of this is that the infrastructure is actually in pretty good shape. Best of all was a very wide pedestrian/cycle path that is removed from the vehicle road and is almost as wide. This alleviates the need to dodge cars and potholes if you want to get from one end to the other without walking on the beach. It's actually a rather pleasant stroll that keeps your shoes from filling with sand. Day or night, we felt perfectly safe wherever we went.
Negril has a very long beach full of hotels and bars, but quite laid back, and is otherwise a small fishing port with the local boats enjoying the protection of the river
The downside to the Negril tourist zone is that it feels so deliberately manufactured to cater to the type of first-world tourists who want to spend their entire vacation on a beach. We could have been in Cancun or Fort Lauderdale or anywhere else where visitors outnumber locals ten to one.
There were two main things that gave away that we were actually in Jamaica. The first was that nearly everybody was stoned on ganja. The second was the embarrassing tourists. These came in two main groups. The first and smallest were the new people. Most of them were fantastically underdressed, leaving as much skin as possible available for what was soon to be the worst sunburn of their lives. The second, largest cohort are the people that have gone completely native, so to speak. Every single item they wore was in Jamaican black, green and yellow and emblazoned with some combination of "Jamaica", "One Love", or "Irie". My favorite stuff was from the Harley Davidson shop, where you can buy a whole wardrobe that simultaneously says you have been to Jamaica and that you have a cool motorcycle at home, so that people won't think you are as lame and insecure as you feel.
My leading theory for the above is that, when arriving into Jamaica by air, Biosecurity, under the guise of spraying for invasive pests, actually applies a concoction that dissolves the contents of people's luggage. That explains both the threadbare first day and why every single item of clothing (including underwear) must be replaced in haste at souvenir shops.
We actually spotted a very rare third type of tourist on our second day. This was the lone example of a middle-aged American of stereotypical midwestern build. He was covered head to toe in official University of Michigan football team merchandise, as if he were on the way into the stadium to cheer on his favorite team as we speak. He seemed so hopelessly conformist, but then I realized that his bit of blue in a sea of green, black and yellow made him the biggest rebel around. He's gotta be him!
It was in Negril that we learned about "Nice Shirt!" This one got me because on the day I first encountered it, I was wearing one of my nicer shirts.
It goes like this: Someone calls out, "Nice shirt!" to you, but they do it just a little too quietly under all the background noise. This makes you come to them to find out if they were actually talking to you and to see if what they were actually saying was, "Nice shirt!" which, of course it must be.
This has the benefit of bringing the mark – uh, customer – to them rather than having to chase people down the beach. Then it invariably transpires that what was really meant was "I sell nice shirts, my new best friend!" Also, lots of other things that you must buy from my store/table/cart/kiosk/station wagon right now or you will suffer from either the humiliation of not being dressed like everybody else on the beach or possibly even the guilt at knowing you let me starve to death tonight because I couldn't make a sale today. Shall I wrap it all up for you?
After that, I started paying attention and noticed that "Nice shirt!" is a preferred tactic for touts all up and down the beach.
Once Maryanne and I had walked the length of Negril one too many times, we did two more on the round trip to Burger King for our outbound clearance. Then we had one last dinner at our local restaurant and returned to Begonia, where we were looking forward to at least a few days of the solitude of the open sea.
Anchorage location in Oracabessa >> On google maps
Anchorage location in Ocho Rios >> On google maps
Anchorage location in Discovery Bay >> On google maps
Anchorage location in Elgin Town (Lucia Harbour) >> On google maps
Anchorage location in Long Bay, Negril >> On google maps
