Jamaica

Our flight to Jamaica began with a little excitement, being seated in Row 1, Seats A and B - we thought we'd been upgraded! However once we were lead out onto the tarmac, it became apparent there was no first class on our 30-seater midget plane. There was also an actor seated opposite us. Don't ask me what his name was or what he was in, but I swear it was him! I spent most of the flight trying to catch a glimpse of his luggage tags. Stepping off the flight... well it was basically downhill from there. I had a little trouble through customs, not having written a place to stay on my immigration card (because it was true) and was sent back through the gates by a cross-eyed crossing guard(!), being told I must look up a travel agent and organise a hotel. Knowing Matt had just made up a hotel name on his card, I scrawled the same lie and went through a different gate no worries. Being prepared to be hassled and mobbed in Cuba, and then having it not happen, gave us a little confidence and made us unprepared for the horde of touts, taxi drivers and 'travel advisors' waiting for us at the airport gate. Every person we passed from the gate to the car park, hassled us about our destination and means of transport. Annoyed and with little money on us we settled for the cheapest quote to Negril Beach we'd had yelled at us (I'm talking auction style) and pushed through the crowd to follow the guy to his car. We were lead to the most beat up, patch worked, rickety rust box wagon in the lot (obviously he was cheap but unofficial) and after fondling for seat belts that weren't there (except in the driver's seat), we took off. And boy did we take off! Matt disappeared into the huge bucket seat in the front and with me crouched down in the back, we sped through the streets of Montego Bay and on to Negril Beach. We could tell when the corners were coming up as 'Barny' clasped on his seatbelt, undoing it again on the straights. This especially assured us of his driving skill. The whole trip took about 2 hours, including a short stop for Barny to "Pick something up".

Arriving shaken but safe in Negril Beach, Barny dropped us off at a place he knew was cheap, but good. I toddled off to our hut (basically a box with a verandah and a cold shower out the back), while Matt tried to settle our account. Walking back to the car to get the rest of our stuff I could here Matt yelling at the guy stuff like "That wasn't part of the deal" and "I don't want it!" I peered around the corner to find Barny trying to shove a 'baggie' into Matt's hands and yelling that we owe him about double what he quoted us at the airport. Turned out he was cheap, but tried to make up the difference in extra sales. Needless to say I put on my 'angry eyes', snatched Matt's wallet out of his hand, doled the price we had agreed on into Barny's hands, repeated that we didn't want any and that he should 'go away now' (a little more colorfully than that). Matt grabbed the pack and we hussled back to our hut and slam the door. Very dramatic. I was pretty proud of myself (but glad the windows had bars on them!)

Later that afternoon (when the coast was clear), we tried going for a walk down the main street to find a supermarket, however even that was an unpleasant experience. Every second car was a taxi driver and they all tried to get your attention by tooting really loudly yelling "Taxi! Taxi!" out the window. Some even swerved off the road in front and behind us to do it! Every shop keeper tried to heard us into their shop and if people weren't trying to sell us something they asked us for money anyway. After stocking up at the supermarket, we scurried back to the hut to make use of our fully equipped kitchen, away from harassment.
Very tired and uninspired we sat on the verandah, read and played cards all day, and devised harebrained schemes of ways to get the cigars back to Australia. It suited me fine as I was still feeling the after effects of the bug I got in Cuba, but it was a little depressing feeling like we couldn't go any where or do anything even if we wanted to. We couldn't even go to the beach for fear of our tiny pack towels being stolen. We managed the gauntlet one more time up and back from town where I had my hair braided at the market. It wasn't without hassle though. I had enquired about it the day before and not seeing the same lady again, I asked another to do it. The original lady seeing me being set up with someone else, threw a hissy fit and demanded to the women (not me) that I am hers and I should go to her shop. Not wanting to get involved Matt and I stood back as they fought it out, the original lady (blue shirt) winning, so I moved back to her stall. Her, her friend and at one stage a third lady worked on my hair for about 3 hours, while Matt and I continued to read our books and Matt chatted with guy in the stall opposite. After meeting another colorful character on the walk back, namely an 80 year old hippy with a 2 foot machete tied to his belt who felt the need to explain, in detail, where his crop was stashed out in the bush so the cops would never find it, who followed us most of the way back. It was when we returned, that we decided we'd had enough and wanted to fly out early...but we still had the cigars... We'd tried to plain old post them, eliminating plans to use the German guys we met next door to take them back to Germany to post them, or wrapping them up and hiding them in our dirty socks and jocks so the sniffer dogs wouldn't find them, but the day (Friday) was 'emancipation day' public holiday, no post office, so we had to wait until the morning to go back in to town.
Early Saturday morning we went back into town, only to discover the post office was still closed. Traipsing back to the hut, we decided to pack up our stuff anyway and head back to Montego Bay. We headed back into town to the taxi rack and sardined ourselves into a taxi with 3 other locals. This ride being the absolute scariest of the whole trip (we've had a few). Again, we didn't even have seatbelts for comfort as the madman overtook on blind corners at 100 doing no less than 140 on the straights, weaving in and out of traffic. The 40km trip took just under 20 minutes (no joke). This taxi only took us halfway though, so we would have to negotiate another once we arrived at Lucea. We should have known we had no choice in the matter as, as soon as we pulled into the taxi rank, another driver had lifted the hatch, taken one pack and ran to his taxi, before we could even blink. Matt running after the pack that disappeared and me demanding his side kick put down my pack (on which I promptly sat) I waited until Matt returned (packless), explaining that the man who had his pack was running a good deal. Resisting the "Don't worry mun" line, Matt was keen to negotiate exact price up front, refusing to get slogged later. I followed Matt to mini bus (fully equipped with movie screen playing the latest James Bond) and we waited until the driver and his side kick had filled the bus and we were off to the airport....slowly. While driving a tropical storm hit. Arriving around 11am, we checked whether the airport post office was open, which didn't exist after all, and so upon the advice of a customs lady we walked from the airport to a DHL office about 10 minutes away. In the rain. A whole lot poorer, but relieved we were rid of the cigars, we walked through ankle deep water in our tevas back to the airport. Missing the last flight to Miami by only half an hour, dowsing our hopes of escaping on standby, we decided to sit out the storm in the airport.
The storm continued with some of the loudest thunder we have ever heard. Getting late, with no option to sleep in the airport overnight, we decided to high tail it to a hotel. We negotiated yet another taxi, and asked to be taken to the closest, cheapest hotel. The hotel we were dropped at was cheap, however all the cheapest rooms were gone. Matt offered to look for another hotel, while I sat out the front with the packs. Matt trudged through the rain and now very flooded streets (he said up to knee deep in some places.... my hero...) to no avail. He returned, just as the bell hop from the expensive hotel came over to where I was sitting. He gave us directions to 'Ms Foster's house' because she would 'look after us'. With no other option, off we went again. We arrived at 'Ms Fosters' after negotiating the back blocks, to discover she was about 100 years old and ran a missionary next door to the house she was born in. She took "what ever money we can spare" for the room and summoned her black servant to ensure our gas was turned on. Matt went back to the house with our passports, and reported that she lived with another lady, just as old but completely insane (unlike the partially insane Ms Foster) and the house was wall to wall trinkets and books. She twigged that we didn't have the same surname and remarked that they prefer their guests to be married. Matt told her we would be soon! We had some plain pasta for dinner and hit our separate sacks on opposite sides of the room, the alarm set for 4.30am. Packing our packs in the early hours of the morning, we discovered the above creature scurrying across the lino. Once he'd disappeared behind the fridge, we (ironically) walked all the way back to the airport (about 45 mins) in the dark and not hassled. And if you think our troubles are over, think again.....

We arrive at the airport at about 5.15am to discover the storm has knocked out all the power, they are manually processing every passenger, including bag checking and ticket issuing. Unimpressed we line up with the others, having our packs unpacked and repacked and our hand luggage checked three times (very ineffectively due to the fact I later discovered my nail scissors were in my hand luggage and had not one question about the contents of the Cohiba box wrapped in towels and hidden in my luggage). Quite delayed we miss our connecting flight to Washington from Miami and were stuck in Miami until the next flight. We chat with another Aussie bloke who loved Jamaica, later in the conversation discovering he'd stayed in an all inclusive.

If you can afford at least $200US a night, than Jamaica might be a nice place, but from a backpacker's point of view, it wasn't worth the relentless hassle and constant pressure placed on you by the locals. But hey, it's all part of the experience!