A Jamaican Aventure: A Visit to Jamaica as a Tourist
By: Baron Stewart
Back to Jamaica
In 1973, after graduating from LIU, My beautiful Latvian friend, Elsa, had just returned from a vacation in Jamaica and was singing its praises. “Everything is more beautiful in Jamaica than anywhere else in the world. My vacation in Negril was the best I’ve ever taken.”
As Elsa described the white sand beaches, cascading waterfalls, and decadent resorts, I stood there, spellbound, yearning for the experiences she relayed. A wave of envy washed over me. Despite my childhood in Kingston, she had tasted more of Jamaica's fruits than I ever had. I had only heard whispers of these wonders but never felt their embrace. At the end of our conversation, I decided to return to Jamaica, this time as a tourist, and finally claim the beauty of my birthplace.
I booked a ticket to Montego Bay on Air Jamaica, eager to taste that Jamaican flavor from the moment I stepped onto the plane. But at Kennedy Airport, my excitement was met with chaos—Air Jamaica was on strike. The terminal buzzed with angry travelers shouting about lost vacation time and threatening lawsuits. I sat quietly in a corner, fearing my long-awaited homecoming might slip through my fingers. As despair set in, my travel agent called with a lifeline: despite the strike, her agency had secured a chartered plane for us. Relief flooded me, and I was boarding an Air Canada 707 soon. My earlier frustration faded as flight attendants greeted us with drinks and snacks. I let my mind drift to fantasies of warm sun, rich food, and the intoxicating rhythms of reggae filling the air.
We landed first in Kingston, my hometown. Ordinarily, I would have disembarked, but this time, I had a different journey ahead. I stepped off the plane momentarily to call friends, only to witness a scene of sheer desperation. Stranded tourists, furious over the strike, surged toward our aircraft. By the time I returned, they had taken over the plane.
“If you don’t have a ticket, you must leave!” a flight attendant shouted.
No one budged. The flight attendant tried another tactic. “Jamaicans, please exit and give your seats to visitors.”
For a brief moment, I considered it. But my luggage was already on board, and this was my journey—I wasn't giving up my seat. The standoff might have lasted all night had it not been for a sudden outburst.
“Are you crazy?” the flight attendant shrieked, pointing at a man casually smoking. “We’re sitting on gallons of gasoline! Your cigarette could blow us all up!”
That was all it took. The tourists scrambled off the plane, and soon, we were airborne again, headed for Montego Bay.
Arriving late that night at a dark and quiet airport, I retrieved my luggage and searched for a ride to Negril. But I quickly found myself caught between two identities. When I approached the bus drivers, they hesitated. I looked like a tourist, but I spoke like a Jamaican. I could see one of them sizing me up, weighing whether to charge me the high tourist fare or the local price. This moment took me back to my childhood in Kingston, where how you were treated depended on whether people perceived you as poor or middle class. Exhausted, irritated, and unwilling to be cheated, I let a few well-placed Jamaican curse words fly. That settled it—I got the local price.
As we traveled, the distant sound of waves lapping against the shore lulled me into a dreamlike state. I could barely believe it—I was going to Negril, where everything goes. On the outside, I was a tourist. But on the inside, I was still that little boy from the shantytowns of Kingston, lonely and unwelcome.
Then, a sudden jolt. The bus swerved violently. Before I could register what had happened, I heard a sickening crunch—‘Squash, squash!’ Looking out the window, I saw crushed crabs littering the road behind us. The driver chuckled, humming to the gospel music on the radio as he deliberately steered toward more crabs crossing from the beach. My stomach turned. The irony was unbearable: a man praising the Lord while finding joy in needless destruction.
When we arrived at the Hedonism Resort, the other passengers disembarked, but I had no accommodations. Sensing my predicament, the driver offered to take me to a friend’s hotel further down the beach. At the front desk, the clerk barely looked at me before declaring, “Sold out.” But we both knew he was lying. He didn’t want to give a poor Jamaican a room in a resort. The driver intervened. “Give the Mon a place, Mon.” Reluctantly, the clerk handed me a key. Once again, I felt like a stranger in my own home.
The following day, the sunlight streaming through my window was dazzling. Outside, the tropical flowers exploded in red, yellow, and green shades. This—this was the Jamaica Elsa had described. Giddy, I rushed to the front desk to extend my stay. The clerk studied my passport and grinned.
“You’re not a local, Mon,” he announced. “You must pay the tourist rate.”
I argued, but he was firm. The price I had paid the night before was a mistake. My new rate would be double. With a bitter chuckle, I realized that while being a tourist had its perks, it also came at a cost.
Determined to find a cheaper place, I wandered onto the beach. The scent of ackee and saltfish drifted through the air, pulling me toward a woman cooking over an open fire. I ordered a plate and ate greedily, the taste unlocking childhood memories I hadn’t revisited in years.
“You know a place I can stay?” I asked between bites.
“Miss Mary will take care of you,” she assured me.
Following her directions, I arrived at a small compound of wooden huts. A warm, heavyset woman greeted me with a broad smile.
“You can stay here, Mon,” she said.
She showed me a simple hut and gestured to an outdoor shower and an outhouse. “Where can I keep my passport?” I asked.
“Safe with me,” she promised.
I handed over my traveler’s checks and passport, trusting her instantly. She smiled and offered a final word of advice.
“Keep safe, Mon.”
As I walked toward the beach, reggae rhythms and the scent of jerk chicken filled the air. The sun was setting, casting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink. I had returned to Jamaica. But whether as a tourist or a native, I still wasn't sure.