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Location: Jamaica, Western Caribbean
i was already on p.28 of the in-flight mag's article "straight
talk" when we were cleared for take-off. my row 4D seat
made this airbus a320 seem like the closest I was going to
get to first-class, and p.28, right there in tahoma font,
the closest i was going to get to understanding communication
of the sexes. I broke away from the page as the flight attendants
were queued.
the couple - clearly retirement age - in 3C/D were separated
by the blue carpet of the aisle. linking them was mister's
hand reaching across to the frozen missus' on the 3C's arm.
"gentle touches, backrubs, hugs, kisses, and hand holding
all make men feel loved, and appreciated" (Airborn magazine,
p. 28). The sight strangely brought a lump to my throat. We're
all, no matter where we find ourselves in this awesome world,
longing for the sharing of common experiences.
The past two weeks had been an excited myriad of emotion and
culture. Jamaica, in it's lush greenery and warmth provided
a comforting haven and mellow atmosphere. The "pineapple
mon, coconut mon, fruit plate mon, get your fruit plate mon,
right here, right now" wound, with obvious tired, dried
feet, through hot sand from faded lawn chair, to shaded palm.
his deep, black, 60-year-old eyes were serious, the pain alleviated
by the brightness of the fuchsia-oleander-topped pineapple
he balanced on his black baseball cap. He walked religiously
up and down the shoreline overlooking clear waters and the
daily-anchored cruise ship in the distance. He macheted through
fruit with expertise. The finished fresh product costing $9
was to cool the palates of the "thirsty". The continuous
feverous smacking of dominos and argumentative plays in course
patois at the picnic tables drowned his sales pitch
every now and then. A day at beachside for me anyway, was
far from routine - broken by the triple-shot iced creations
of smiley, the famed hotel bartender. over-proof jamaican
rum ceased not to frighten his quick-pouring right hand as
much as spices, ackee, calaloo, yams, jerk anything, and fresh
fish ceased not to entice my curious-wanting for any traditional
cuisine.
The drive through four parishes southeast to the 2255m of
the Blue Mountains hugged saddened diseased palm-tree
coastlines, plentiful hectares of banana plantations, tiny
cultural-historical-remnant villages and tight single-laned
winding roads through mist broken by heavenly sunrays. the
trek to the top was as equally interesting as the rickety-brake-backward-on-the-bicycle-pedals
coast back down. Blue mountain coffee is boasted to be one
of the best in the world; a two-cup sampling later, my jolted
reflexes wouldn't argue. The trick is to avoid the brakes
and carefree goat crossing your path.
Scattered against the verdant backdrops, the scent and whiteness
of the clouded smoke contrasted the sun-faded blackness of
funky dreads. Toothless "tuoni" with a vibrant smile,
has created his own little oasis living comfortably in his
wooded haven - property value and square-footage unknown.
Backyard: waterfall. Front yard: waterfall. He survives off
the fruit of the land, where any medicinal plant, including
iodine, is an arms-reach away. Fertile soil would no doubt
be the great harvesting factor. The run-and-take-quick-shelter-arriving
helicopter would indicate that the famous blue mountain coffee
is merely a secondary yielding crop.
"it is illegal to smuggle drugs" signage screamed
at my lazy eyes while going through jamaican customs onto
the cruise ship. The four officers that decided on searching
only the shoe bag eased the pit that was instantly created
in my stomach. "tuoni" would undoubtedly flash a
toothless grin. "no problem mon, irie giarl".
The geritol cruise, as i quickly dubbed it, needed a flash
re-vamping if my party well-being was to continue on due-course.
with the surround-sound of reggae, this would not be a task
too difficult. i shook my ass to the beat and scaled the territory.
Reggae was drowned by the quicker time of salsa as we arrived
into Cozumel on the last day of carnival. Vibrant coloured
floats, and costumes rainbowed the streets. Pickup trucks
housed speakers and children dancing a storm. Vendors sold
churros, empanadas, and habanero pepper-laced grainy meatball
treats for 50 cents-a-pop from clear-plastic boxes. Tiny,
tanned, mayan faces raved simplicity and zest for fiesta.
Workers, in the distance, wiped their brow from the baking
sun. They hand-picked away at the streets, having clearly
a different plan for Shrove Tuesday.
Text © Cinzia Simoneschi, All Rights Reserved |
Travel Writers: Airborn by Cinzia Simoneschi
