Red Stripes, Hikes, & some Yikes

I’m grateful to open this blog on a positive note: after hours on the phone with the manufacturers of our lithium batteries, the CEO determined that ours were under warranty and would pay to have them sent back for diagnostics and replacement with the newest version. Slight catch: he’ll only ship from within the continental United States. Rats! We throw around some ideas of Miami or Fort Lauderdale or wherever in FL is cheapest to go hang out for probably a month and get everything repaired. So our plan was in pencil for the time being, might as well enjoy Jamaica while we’re here!

We saw some folks at the marina bar, and given that our new friends from the night before were already heading to Haiti, we needed replacements. Over a Red Stripe, we met Leo, a French sailor here with his father, and Christina, a British herbalist that is here to study (wait for it…) herbs. Christina shared that she travels to Port Antonio often and was thinking about popping down to the beach for the evening. We invited ourselves along, quickly changed clothes, and the four of us took a route taxi to the public Winnifred Beach.

I’d read up on route taxis, as they are an exceptionally economical way to transit Jamaica. They are cabs that run certain routes and the prices are set – a huge bonus for us, as we don’t find pleasure in haggling or being ripped off. We are glad Christina gave us the general information needed to utilize the system. We were dropped off by the route taxi along the main road (it is an extra charge to divert from the set route) and we enjoyed a walk down a large hill towards the beach. Christina informed us that we’d be asked for a donation to use the beach. We were not surprised, assuming it was like going to a free museum with donation jars out front. What we found was a Rasta man with a bucket. Skeptically, we dropped our $200JMD (~$1.50 US) donation each into the bucket. Well, I’ll be honest; I pretended to put $400JMD in for both of us… I really only put $300, knowing darn well the money was not going towards beach clean-up or park maintenance or something worthwhile. We commandeered the last sunny corner of the beach and sat in the shallows, playing with sand and chatting with our new friends. After a nice cool rinse in the fresh water springs that meet the bay there, we all hilariously shared ONE towel, as Nate and I were the only ones that brought one (planning to share with just us). We started the walk back up the mountain in search of dinner. We hailed another route taxi and went about halfway back to town before stopping at a burger joint along the road. Plantain and veggie loaded burgers, yummy! Grateful, yet, again, for Christina showing us the ropes, we all said our goodbyes and Nate, Leo, and I taxied back to the marina and Christina went to her hotel.

The next morning, Nate’s tinkering game was strong! Something wasn’t settling in his mind about the batteries, so he started intricately troubleshooting. Way too many engineering terms and power-loading tests later, he discovered what he suspected: only one battery in our bank of eight was fried. WOOHOO! He adjusted the arrangement to isolate the dead battery from the rest of the bank and yippee, we have power! Enough power to use the bowthruster and whatever electronics aren’t dead due to the surge! Elated with this victory, we realize this means we do not necessarily need to return to the US. Okay, so now what?! We decided to take a walk/hike to clear our heads and discuss our options. I did a little research and found what looked to be a nice hiking trail behind an old, abandoned resort. We walked up a very steep road (a hike/workout alone!) to find the Bonnie View Plantation Resort – one of Errol Flynn’s many derelict properties in Portland.

It was sad to see it so worn down, but we took advantage of the seclusion and tried to find the hiking trail. After following what we believe was an animal trail or someone’s private coconut harvesting area, we ran out of safe path. Bummed, but still happy to be out in nature and enjoying the mountaintop views, we trekked back through the property, veered slightly off course to check out a really neat local yoga/bar/juice joint (closed that early in the day), and finally back down to town. We relaxed during the afternoon, enjoying hot showers and cold drinks. We meandered through the marina complex, local beach, and a little bit of town, then hit the hay early. At some point during the day, we’d decided Panama was still a good plan. Exploring the east coast of Central America after completing repairs in Colon.

Wednesday morning brought rain (in the middle of my dockside yoga session, what a shame) that delayed us on our next adventure, but only slightly. We’d read all sorts of information about Blue Lagoon, given much of its hype from the Brook Shields movie, named the same. We excitedly packed our bags and lunch for what was supposed to be a great day of swimming, snorkeling, and playing in the lagoon and nearby beach. We piled into a hot and crowded route taxi van towards the lagoon (at this point, we didn’t know they came in van form, and boy, was it a different experience than a car). We walked down the hill towards the lagoon, with a “guide” following us, although we said we weren’t interested in a guide. We arrived at the lagoon and were sorely disappointed. Basically, no water access point existed and there was certainly nowhere safe to leave our bags while we swam. Disheartened, we decided to try to barter for a raft ride over to Monkey Island (where we’d read there was great swimming and snorkeling and a little beach!). After some tiring haggling, we finally settled on a price that was still much higher than we’d intended to pay, but decided it was worth it. The raft was roughly 15 feet long, made from bamboo trees tied together. A sort of bench was built similarly, in the rear of the raft for the guests to sit. Two bamboo vases of flowers adorned our feet. The guide then punted us for ~15 minutes towards Monkey Island, not unlike a Venetian gondola ride (except for the obvious scenery difference). We skimmed along past beautiful villas, apparently occupied by big-name celebrities throughout the year. Upon arrival at the island, the guide asked us how long we’d like to stay. We agreed on an hour, thinking the island had more to it than what we could see. Sadly, it did not. It was a very small beach with clear, shallow water. In order to swim out far enough to snorkel or really swim, you risked sea urchin stabbings. Stuck for an hour, we forced ourselves to sit in the water and relax. Enjoying it more than we assumed, as relaxing never made our previously considered activity list, the hour passed as the clouds built. Our raft guide returned to punt us back to the Blue Lagoon and questioned if we were going to the main road after, we confirmed, which led to him punting a quarter of the previous distance towards a ruined/maybe under construction villa along the shoreline. He directed us past the patio construction, up the stairs. We paid him and reluctantly headed towards the gate, hoping it wasn’t some sort of weird trap. I apologize for assuming he was trying to scam us – the gate opened not only to the road, but right near the main road, saving him the extra long punt against the growing winds to Blue Lagoon and us from walking the hill in the rain that started as soon as we got into a route taxi.

Upon return to town, we devoured our first jerk chicken meal and headed back to the marina, still a little disenchanted from the day’s expectations versus reality. Our German neighbors invited us aboard their catamaran and we hastily accepted, thrilled to interact with other cruisers (or just humans, in general, that weren’t trying to finagle money from us!) We spent several gratifying hours chatting, drinking, and eating an inappropriate amount of pretzels… they just kept filling the bowl! Armed with a few suggestions from semi-seasoned cruisers, we felt marginally more informed for our looming decision.

Rain delayed our next morning plans, but gave Nate additional time to tinker and offered me an extended research spell, as I was determined to not have another underwhelming adventure. Armed with the miniscule bits information I could find, hoping like several wee slices could make a fun pie, we donned hiking gear and made our way into town. Although we’d sworn off route taxi vans, it came as no surprise that the taxis into the mountains wait to be fully loaded before departing. Into another smelly, hot, sticky van we went, grateful to have a two-seat section to ourselves for once. A beautiful, scary drive into the mountains was enjoyable enough for us to already not regret this attempted hike. Views were gorgeous and the real-life Mario Cart game became entertainment, with the van dodging tiny cars, banana bunches, and stray dogs. We see the signs that we’re arriving in Moore Town at almost the exact minute the rainforest decided to say “hi.” We exit the van, as it would be 50% more price to continue up the rough road towards the hike and we are there to hike and exercise, not pay a cab to take us halfway into the intended hike (we remind ourselves as we stand under a large tree in the cemetery, waiting for the downpour to relieve at least slightly.) Naturally, within a few seconds of standing under the tree, we see a young man approach us. He yammers on about how he is a local guide and how it is recommended to use a guide and how much he knows about the history, blah blah you’re-not-getting-our-money blah. The rain hadn’t let up much, but you can only force small talk for so long when someone is trying to convince you to pay him to walk in front of you. We mutually agree the rain has lightened up a little, willing to be soaked further than be subject to the annoyance of the beggar-guide standing with us, regardless of whether or not the rain had actually lightened.

Pusher-guide-man far behind us, we are trying to stay confident on finding the trail on our own, as we start to question the choice… we can’t take one more day of underwhelming activities. As we walk up the gravely road, we encourage ourselves that this “has to be the way” we’d see on every map we looked at. We are drenched to the bone, but at least we’re exercising and it’s beautiful in the rain forest! A route taxi comes bumping by us and the white guy in the back says he like’s our umbrellas (giant leaves we’d cut to attempt to shield some rain), we thank him for the compliment and confirm they are going to the same falls we are aiming for. Now we do no longer doubt our direction of choice, but have a back-up plan to confirm we’ll eventually get to the falls (by stalking the paying group, of course).

With pep in our step, we confidently decline a ride and/or guide and bop along up the road until we pass the unloading taxi, during which we pretend we know the way ahead, and will fake it later when we have to backtrack to find the other group and ultimately a guide to the Falls. We ditch the palm umbrellas when the rain finally lightens up. We follow an obvious trail through the beautiful rainforest and are school-kid giddy when we hear the falls. The falls and surrounding water pools and views do not disappoint. We were elated that our third attempt at a self-guided Jamaican adventure succeeded! We spent the next hour or two reveling in the beauty of the falls, taking cross trails until they disappeared or we were satisfied with our flank adventures. Mostly dry from the earlier rainstorm, but now quite muddy and damp from dew and a few slips and slides on the mudslides…. I mean, trails… we practically skip back to town with excitement of a day in Mother Nature’s picturesque foliage and mountainous views. Rain forests truly have healing powers. We were so content that we didn’t even mind that our first route taxi only took us a few kilometers down the mountain road, before leaving us for a side-gig. We flagged down the next route taxi van and crammed in with at least 15 adorable school children. We lucked out that the taxi only stopped three times, each to let the kids off, then back to town we went. After cleaning up, we decided to go out for pizza (because, like good little Americans, we love pizza)…

Jamaican pizza… when you crave pizza, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. We found a little hole in the wall/alley place and after perusing the menu, settled on jerk chicken pizza. Luckily, I was skeptical, and suggested we order a small or medium, in the likely event that it was subpar. Nate orders: “One medium jerk chicken pizza and two Red Stripes, please.” “$1400 JMD” she responds (roughly $10 USD). Not a half bad deal. We give $2000 JMD and wait for change. The cashier takes one $1k note, and the server, whom we’ve communicated with already, mumbles something and hurries off with the other $1000. Hmm, okay… We know everyone in this parish (county/state) knows we are here, and we take pride in quickly establishing that we are NOT made of money. We don’t argue or say anything, as we assume the town will berate anyone that tries to rob us, given tourists are few and far between. We see the young man hustle back towards the bar with a black plastic bag with a few can-shaped objects inside. We laugh and realize they didn’t actually have any Red Stripe (although they were on the menu and one of the best prices we’ve seen)… sure enough, the young man says “I’m sorry, we only have one cold Red Stripe.” “No problem, we’ll just share it,” we respond. We are eventually served one bottle of Red Stripe… and it’s cold… very, very cold. Yep, you guessed it – mostly frozen. Ha! Oh well, we try to have a sip or tree (how you say “three” around here) and finally decide we’ll also take the warm one that’s been in the freezer for at least two minutes. I play mixologist, trying to thaw the frozen and chill the warm one without recreating the classic middle school volcano project. Success! In the end we have two chilled Red Stripes and one exceptionally lame pizza. The dough/crust was tasty, but the toppings were blander than the worst BBQ chicken pizza you’ve hopefully never ordered. I broke one of my cardinal rules that night… BBQ is NOT a pizza sauce, nor chicken a topping… and I’ll now add “homemade jerk sauce” to that rule. We declare to be less careless next time and maybe get the local cuisine like we’d had the night before, not on top of a “pizza crust.”

Throughout the day, maybe thanks to Mother Earth’s serene and blissful energy, we’d reached the conclusion that maybe what we’re looking for in this adventure isn’t necessarily exotic places, but perhaps, vibrant people and cultures. Maybe we yearn for the community of cruising, rather than the worldly destinations.

The next morning (Friday) we woke up feeling a little less burdened, having potentially shed a little more light on our aspirations for this trip. I baked some pumpkin protein muffins and Nate carried on with his normal tinkering. We remounted the canvas-encased whisker pole (so it wasn’t hogging deck/walking space) only to find out the carbon fiber was snapped. Ouch. Nate insists we don’t need the stupid thing anyway and we’ll “float test” it someday. Side bar: to “float test” means to throw something overboard that you are almost certain will sink and you’ll be rid of it’s pain and annoyance forever… a term threatened, but rarely used. We grilled another round of swordfish for lunch, went to town for final groceries, ate some ice cream, then hung out with a newly arrived neighbor, Georg (another German sailor). We had a nice time chatting with him, supporting our new epiphany of community over location, and eventually split off for dinner. We needed to burn our last bit of Jamaican money (Georg was doing the same, but his destination was the club… our was the marina restaurant then grocery for beer). Saturday morning dawned a workout for me, Nate prepped the boat, and we were off before 0930… Bahamas bound!

Hindsight notes regarding Jamaica, from our personal perspective: We chose Port Antonio, as it was recommend by several folks for us to experience the “real Jamaica.” We were awfully sad to actually experience just that. What we encountered was a horribly poor community, with no jobs, no activities, and seemingly no drive to do much of anything at all. The area was destined, at one point, to be a tourist mecca thanks to Errol Flynn (Robin Hood). We learned that it boomed and then crashed hard. Even a new small cruise ship terminal was built to bring in tourism, but the harbor entrance stopped being dredged to keep the required depths. The small city’s culture seemed to thrive on the welfare money from tourist-rich cities and the assumption that every foreigner is rich. We constantly felt as if we had dollar sign tattoos on our white skin. Add the exceedingly thick “Jamaican Creole” accent to the mix and the result is something along the lines of a deeply back-woods coal town communication, where even “natives” from a mountain range over do not understand and are considered outsiders. While the natural beauty was breathtaking, the trash, begging, and dilapidated infrastructure took one’s breath away, too. We’d actually thought the first Monday we were there was a holiday, as hardly any folks seemed to be have a destination for the day. All so odd, all so incredibly different than my previous resort experiences in Montego Bay.

Two exceptionally lazy days of motorsailing later, we arrived in Matthew Town, Great Inagua, Bahamas. I can’t begin to give the lunar eclipse written justice from the sea, but as Earth slowly draped the moon in her shadow, each star exulted and frolicked in the darkened sky’s ether. We were cast in a striking, daring red moon and a million spirited stars, invigorating our essences and humbling us for our seemingly insignificant Earthly existence… yet, feeling so alive. (and Nate made popcorn for the show!) We dropped the hook outside the small harbor/marina at 0400 and settled in for what should have been a few hours of solid sleep. King Neptune had other plans… winds picked up, waves smacked the hull, swell rocked us in the bed. We fought through it until the chain started bouncing at 0600, because it had been so calm when we anchored and we’d only planned on anchoring until the daylight/we got some rest, we didn’t put the snubber line out. Lo and behold, the chain and anchor were bouncing by 0600… all hands on deck! It was a beautiful morning, aside from the windy chop. Nate insisted that it was better to ask forgiveness, rather than permission, when the marina didn’t answer our radio call. We puttered through the small jetty into the tiny harbor and with some direction from another docked sailor, did not dock on the police wall, but chose the opposite seawall. No sooner do we get mostly docked (or shoved up against the seawall by the wind) that a small fishing boat leaves one of the three slips at the actual dock. A gentleman in a jeep quickly informed us that the fishing boat doesn’t pay to stay at the marina, so we are welcome to snag his slip. We do so reluctantly, as it seems awfully rude, but oh so much nicer than the blasted leeward seawall! We tie up and join our neighbors for a quick walk up the road to Customs and Immigration. We’d read that Matthew Town was a favorite for folks checking in and out of the Bahamas and we quickly found out why – all the officials were incredibly kind and helpful, taking Nate to the bank when we didn’t have Bahamian cash, yet, offering us rides to the grocery, marina, etc… all without asking for any money. What a contrast from Jamaica. We met our new neighbors (all three of the sailboats in this six boat harbor) and helped each other with extra lines, as we’re likely weathered in until Thursday (it’s already blowing 20 knots as I’m typing this, likely up to 40 tonight). We walked to the General Store, feeling like we were in Mayberry – everyone is so kind and friendly, reminds me of a small country town in the south. We are relieved to be in a nice, quiet town after the weirdness of schmoozing and quasi-begging in Jamaica. Our attempt to find a local restaurant for dinner turned into a 2+ mile walk in large square. The two restaurants on Google were closed or nonexistent. We started to head back to the marina and were offered a ride. We happily accepted and the lady asked us where we were headed. As soon as we told her we were looking for food, she said “oh! I’ll take you to my sister’s restaurant, she’s very good!” Excellent, food! She drove us halfway back from whence we came and walked us into the shop. We ordered wings, fries, and a whopper burger (having earned them after all that walking!) She hurried to work in the kitchen, although, we’re not sure how she managed to take 45 minutes to make three fried items. However, they were absolutely delicious and worth the wait and additional walk home. Winds have us “stuck” here until the weather passes, but we aren’t complaining!

Thank you all for your kind words of encouragement and support over the past few weeks. We are feeling much more confident in our decision to do more of a test-run of cruising before taking off across the Pacific. Who knows, maybe we’ll go to Europe for the summer, maybe we’ll sail Canada, maybe we’ll go to Grenada… as for now, we are taking it one port call at a time.

PS. WordPress is a nightmare for photos – sorry for so few and so many upside-down 🙁