Jamaica > The bus breaks down

The water pressure in the hotel is not optimal. The shower spray is intermittent—sometimes there’s water, sometimes not. It’s a bit inconvenient, but I manage to wash my hair and shave. Today I cross the island to the northern coast. For this, I traverse the Blue Mountains again, this time via the main road just to the left of the Blue Mountains. I leave the peninsula where Port Royal is located and drive through Kingston for the last time.

Jamaica - The main road through the capital

I begin to recognize some intersections in the city. Outside the center, the road steadily climbs. Turn after turn, Kelly drives the bus into the mountains. The view is magnificent. I enjoy the scenery passing by: the colorful houses, the cheerful people, and, of course, the lush greenery. I notice that the colorful houses are generally well-maintained. Of course, this applies to those who can afford it, as the gap between rich and poor is immense. In front of each house stands a concrete utility pole. At the top, the pole connects to the electricity cables above the road, while the meter hangs at street level. I haven’t seen this setup in other countries before. The road also carries freight traffic, though I don’t see the very large trucks I saw on the west side of the island. All the trucks on the island look remarkably well-kept. Nowhere do I see old or rundown trucks on the road. Just over the mountain pass lies the Castleton Botanic Garden, the oldest botanical garden on the island. This land once housed a sugar plantation. The owner planted special palms and later donated the land to the Jamaican government to create a public park. Patricia leads me around and explains the various flowers and plants. There is some storm damage; broken palm fronds lie along the paths. It seems this side of the island experienced quite a storm two days ago.

Jamaica - Handmade crafts for sale at the market

As I continue driving, I soon reach the coast again—this time the northern coast. In the 16th century, fierce battles were fought here between Spanish colonists and English invaders. The English won, and the island transitioned from a Spanish to a British colony. Many enslaved people fled to the mountains, where they established Maroon settlements. I visit the village of Charles Town. Kim immediately welcomes me as I step off the bus and leads me to a courtyard, where a meal with local vegetables is served in a calabash bowl. Drinks are also served in calabash mugs. Kim guides me through the accompanying museum, explaining the island’s slavery history and its influence on daily life. Her little daughter proudly adds pieces to the story. The tour concludes with traditional Maroon music, and the village children enthusiastically dance along. Each one tries to outdo the others, making my own dance moves seem stiff in comparison. I follow the coastline further toward Port Antonio and the Blue Lagoon. Just as I drive along the beautiful, clear blue waters, the bus stalls. The power goes out. Kelly pulls the bus to the side. It is likely that the diesel filter is clogged. I can’t continue. Another bus from a different company stops immediately to help, and even the police stop. By chance, a small van from Caribic, my tour organization, passes by. With a bit of squeezing and adjusting, we all fit into that van and drive to the hotel in Port Antonio. The trip to the Blue Lagoon is postponed until tomorrow, as we are too cramped to continue.

Jamaica - Climbing the famous Dunns River Falls

Another bus from Montego Bay will come tomorrow. The hotel is about a fifteen-minute drive outside Port Antonio, making it difficult to visit the town. There is no choice but to stay at the hotel and have a drink. Around 5:30 p.m., the luggage is delivered, transferred into a smaller van. In the evening, I also eat at the Bayview Eco Resort. When ordering, there is a surprise. The waitress says another group has a reservation and will be served first. It takes over an hour. There is nothing to do but wait, as there is no alternative. After an hour and a half, it turns out the other group will come an hour after me, and my dish will not be started until their meals are finished. Some of my fellow travelers cancel their meal. I wait. Eventually, my chicken curry with fries arrives after almost three and a half hours. It’s almost laughable. The poor waitress receives all the criticism, but the restaurant simply cannot handle the number of hotel guests—probably because it rarely has so many at once. When I crawl into bed at eleven, I cannot say I am very enthusiastic about the accommodations here. Unfortunately, even though it looks nice.