Some people asked for my old Trip Reports. Here are the five I did during my visit a little over a year ago.

Brasi Trip April 2011 Report #1:
Outside the Buoy: A Day Trip to Grange Hill

Note: Relevant pictures were not included in this report, and names have been changed in order to protect the innocent.

I met a friend on the beach whose alias is Cashman. He's a long time beach guy. We had a few Red Stripes, and began talking about Rasta life, beach life, and the evils of foreign culture, and how government often changes the rules of God to fit its needs. He introduced me to his friend Alaska, another rasta, or at least another guy who knows more about Jamaican politics than I do. I decided these were the guys to take me on my trip to the country, one of my Negril traditions that many would consider ill-advised. So be it. Life is short.

I wanted to see the country without the hindering presence of 15 other tourists, an admission fee, or the guy driving his fourth tour of the week yelling Jamaican cliches through a megaphone.

"Everting Irie mon?" bleck.

Cashman met me on the beach at my resort at 10 am the next day. I introduced him to my security guard and paid him $40. The fee would include my ride to and from Grange Hill, 3 Red Stripes, and a couple of Jamaican cigarettes. It turned out I would need to add 1000J for gas, which I planned on during negotiations.

We route taxied to meet his brother at the taxi stand downtown. An argument insued. Who was taking this white boy where and for how much? How would the money be split? Etc. All part of the fun I experience on this trips. On the edge of my seat, in the trenches of real Jamaica. Cab drivers, angry someone had taken such a cheap fare, the men fighting to make a buck...who would take me cheaper...unintimidated and defiant.

We discussed the trip, nailed down the times, and introductions were made. We stopped downtown and got the Stripes and enjoyed the scenery through the cane fields while smoking our cigarettes. Myself, Cashman, Alaska, and 'mi brother'. The curvy ride through Sheffield, Retreat, Little London, and later the very rural feel of Grange Hill.

Stopping for gas, the young female attendant, neatly uniformed in yellow, looked at me with curiousity. That's usually when I know I'm in the 'real' Jamaica. When white skin and an unmistakable American wardrobe attract attention without cat calls or haggling. I love the exhilaration of being off the grid-away from the expected. It feels a bit like I imagine spacewalking would feel.

I've heard various stories about Grange Hill being a bad place. I thought I was headed into a dmz or something. But the truth is, I met some of the humblest folks I have ever met there. I wasn't haggled or hassled, I wasn't threatened, and I felt comfortable the whole time. They welcomed me, and seemed proud to show me that there is indeed a Jamaica outside of the resorts mostly operated by foreign interests, and a "real" Jamaican way of life.

I walked back beyond a few homes, down a steep hill, as two young Jamaican girls followed me, wondering what a white boy was doing in their yard. I saw the crop, a wonderful collection of variety...and scent.

Alaska brought me to his home and we used a long bamboo pole to knock a few mangos down. I ate one sloppily (obviously, as the juice was all over my hands and face) and afterwards, used a bowl fashioned from a dried gourd (calabash, perhaps?) to spoon water from a collection bucket to wash up. Shortly after "mi brother" drove over to Alaska's place. We left, back the way we came.

School uniforms, people going about their business. The interior of Jamaica. No cooling sea. No tourists. The people live here and work here.

Out in Grange Hill, I didn't see any private cabbies. There are no jerk chicken stands aimed at ripping tourists off at $800J a clip. There are bugs and trees and people living here, doing what they do. People for whom Negril is a place that mostly (and sometimes unbelievable) fables are told.

For example:
'I met a rich tourist one day on the beach. He gave me $40 U.S--a month's wages! to give him a ride to see my crops!'

A tourist for sure, but at least as of this day had been treated to hours of Jamaican culture and scenery that you just won't see inside the comfy confines of most resorts. To me, the best way to see Jamaica is by forcing myself to take off my tourist-colored glasses.

April 2011 Brasi Trip Report #2
Curry Goat and the Cops in Cauldwell

Note: Names have been changed. And I may be spelling Cauldwell wrong! Sorry!

It was 10 AM, and I was applying a little bit of sunscreen in my room. The knock came, and a bit of a butterfly went through me, because I knew it meant "Kamesha," my ex-girlfriend as some may of you may be familiar with from my previous Trip Reports had arrived at my resort.

I had a very intense relationship with Kam in 2004, on a visit to Negril. We met in Cauldwell at her grandmother's store. We'd spent almost two weeks together during my trip, and three months in a long distance, phone call/email/letters-based relationship. Alas, it fell apart, but we still talk a lot-but hadn't seen each other on my last two reaches because I had (mistakenly) brought my girlfriend at the time. It'd been five years.

As I walked around the corner of the resort office to the taxi station, I saw her. Wow. Still beautiful, and still obviously a good-natured and friendly person, as her smile was a mile wide from the second she saw me. "Alex!" she screeched and squeezed me hard in a bear hug.

We chatted nervously for a second or thirty and decided to head to her neck of the woods. We stopped a route taxi and enjoyed catching up on the ride. Her son, now 4, almost school age, her boyfriend, working today, and a good man, her grandmother at home, hoping I'd stop in for a Ting.

The route taxi to Green Island from Negril was $350J (with tip) for the two of us. We stopped at a chicken shack and had curry goat and Red Stripes, next to us, a group of men playing dominoes. They eyed me a bit and then went about their game.

Then: "So this going to be your husband?" a man teased.

Kamesha "No, no, we are friends," she said, smiling ear to ear.

Suddenly, a large Toyota truck pulled up and emptied out--it was filled with 4-5 Jamaican police---all dressed in black with AK-47s. One headed straight for me, walked behind me, leaned over me to crush out a smoke.

Kamesha's eyes got big. As he walked away from our shaded picnic table, I whispered "What's wrong?" and she didn't answer. The police went inside the shack and asked "What white man order?"

"Curry goat," was the reply. Then the police man ordered for his group.

"No problem, don't worry," said Kamesha. The remaining police looked me over as they stood near the truck, and then walked past us to get their food, to go.

I wasn't sure what it was all about, and still don't know why I garnered such interest, but it was soon forgotten as they took off, headed toward Lucea. Whew.

After paying the bill: $750J, we hopped in a route cab to Kamesha's grandmother's house, where her grandmother was overseeing a group of workers building her a mason/rock wall on the western border of her property. I was offered a Ting and declined, and visited for a bit, when Colleen, Kamesha's niece, came by on her way to school in Negril. She would also be my official guide back to the taxi routes.

She got me to where I was going, and suggested, as lots of kids might, that I give her $50J. Smiling, I passed her $100J, hoping it'd help her get to school and back, and not too worried that she'd just taken a bit of a liberty in asking a near stranger for cash!

With her guidance, I hopped in a route taxi back to Negril, with 'Red and Black' on the radio, a gorgeous Jamaican woman on her way to work at RIU in the front seat next to the cabbie, and two middle school boys in the back seat talking music. I stuck out, to say the least.

I got back to Negril around 1 pm, in time to hit the beach, satisfied with my second country trip in a three day span, happy that I'd mastered the solo excursion, and learned something about "long trip" route taxi's and staying cool around Jamaican police.

They may or may not have been hoping to catch a nervous tourist doing something wrong. Who knows?

It was also great to see "Kamesha" in person again, hear her thick accent, and look her in her gorgeous eyes, eyes now more mature and older--the eyes of a mom.

I am relative newbie, with only 7 trips to the rock under my belt. Learning about Jamaica takes time, and I enjoy every second of it. I was already wishing I had booked a longer trip. I was also falling back in love, HARD, with Jamaica and it's people after a two-year break from any reaches.

April 2011 Brasi Trip Report #3
The Jungle, Canadian Girls, and The Judge

I'd had several Red Stripes. I was smoking a Jamaican cigarette on my veranda, and although I had no idea what time it was, I knew it was getting late. Suddenly, like a ghost out of the darkness, someone---a young woman?---emerged. She was wearing a white wife beater and had some pretty awesome tats. TATS guys. LOL

"Hi," she said, as she walked by my veranda. I managed a surprisingly slurred hello back. (Hey: I said it was late!)

"What are you doing," she asked, turning back, leaning her arms over my veranda, obviously feeling pretty good herself. It was at this time I realized she was really hot, and way too young for a guy like me under any circumstance.

"I'm waiting to go the The Jungle," I said, "My friend Judge is coming to pick me up." She asked if she could join me on at the table and I agreed and went and grabbed her a Red Stripe from my fridge.

We made small talk about Canada, her recent student teaching job in the country of Jamaica, and the fact that her group of female friends had apparently been sampling the local "cuisine" of Jamaican males all week. This girl though, seemed to set herself somewhat apart from that and although she was way to young for me, I'd say around 20, she was attractive and well-spoken. Ahhh. In my next life! (I JUST realized I offered a 20-year old a beer. Bad Brasi. I'm embarrassed at my lapse in judgement. Maybe she was 21?).

Just then the Judge showed up. This guy was a wingman for the ages. He'd asked many women back to my room FOR me, bought me beers (with my money lol) anywhere we went, and all-in-all made me feel like a king. I liked the arrangement we'd made early in the week---basically, here's a little something for you. I want to feel safe, and I want to have fun, and I want to be able to trust someone here associated with the hotel. That arrangement had somehow morphed into him becoming my personal Chuck Willary--which was fun, but unnecessary. I wasn't in Jamaica to meet women. I was here to think, write some songs, and relax after a long and ugly divorce was finally complete. After four years, and ten years of back and forth, including my discovery of several affairs and near financial ruin, I was clear. I didn't plan on jumping back into THAT frying pan for awhile...although my on-and-off relationship with "Sarah" back home was starting to get more serious. So I needed to think it out.

"Judge" stopped by and let my young Canadian friend know we were heading out--of course also letting her know that she could stop by my room later (as I blushed about the color of a Red Delicious Apple). We were headed for the Jungle.

"Maybe I will see you on the beach tomorrow," I said, making sure I cleared up and confusion my new Canadian friend had about Judge�s invite.

When we got to the Jungle, I took a deep breath. This was a real nightclub, it was PUMPING. We paid the cover, around $500J, and the Judge slowly introduced me to his friends. He knew lots of people there, and many of the working girls knew him, and made their advances. I am a musician in the states, and although we play a lot of shows in the Northeast. I've never felt like a rockstar until I went to The Jungle. Gorgeous women. Many of them kissing my butt. I knew better than to think it was because I was good looking. I'm not-lol-but it was enjoyable to go with it for awhile. Jamaican women, in general, are the most beautiful creatures in the world.

There are all kinds of other characters at the Jungle. Guys with hair spiked to the ceiling. College kids not aware that the 'perfect 10' dancing with them isn't going to be all that interested when she finds out that he's only got one $20 traveler's check left. I had fun pretending I could guess where people were from-what they did at home-and watching how everyone interacted with each other.

I woke up the next morning with a head that was throbbing---and a smile on my face---as I thought about one more Jamaican experience I'd added to my long list of "want-to-dos" on this, my first solo trip. I'd made it into the Jungle and back! I'd even bumped into ShellyK! This solo trip was a blast.

But oops. It wasn't morning...it was 2 pm. I'd missed the XXXXX (edit! LOL) gathering at White Sands. F#$$$$$$^%&$k! I'm an idiot.

Brasi Trip Report April 2011 #4
Singing with Tyrone Lee and Anonymous Lady

I took a left out of Mariner’s, away from town, looking for a cambio to cash in some traveler’s checks. It was an ill-advised decision to bring my money in this old and outdated format, as I was bound to “cambio time” for my solo vacation/financial well-being. In Jamaica cash is king.

Traveler’s checks, blah.

“Next I’ll know better,” I thought. “This is what ATMs are for. “

Just then: “Hey mon, hey mon, jerk chicken..”

An unshaven and altogether unkempt man was yelling at me from across Norman Manley Boulevard. I could smell his chicken on his barrel-grill. Wow. I crossed the street.

“How are you mon?” asked the vendor. “Jerk chicken, best chicken in Negril.”

“I’m great. I’ll pass for now, but I’ll be back,” I said. I meant it. That smell was too good to pass up!

After the cambio, I did go back. I got a generous piece of jerk fish with rice and a fresh-squeezed OJ…total? 900J. Not dirt cheap but well worth it. There were 15 oranges in the OJ he squeezed for me! He drained it from a bowl into an old (but very clean) rum bottle and capped it. I put the OJ in my fridge for the next morning. It may have been the best thing I have ever tasted…

This simple introduction and purchase, as common as it was, led me to befriend both Dave and his friend Tyrone Lee. Or did they befriend ME? Who knows. But when I was on vacation, I noticed they’d set up their merchandise table and painting nearly almost every day across from Mariner’s. Dave told me he was saving for a new barrel for Reggae Fest. I wonder if he ever got one? In any case, I became a good customer.

By the end of my 12-day stay, I had a routine down. Each day, I’d walk past Dave and stop in to place my OJ and jerk chicken or fish order. I sat and talked with them about things—Jamaican politics, music, Tyrone’s paintings, or the “best way” to buy certain items that may or may not be mentioned in this post.

During one of my visits, a Jamaican woman, whose name is not in my notes, stopped my and asked me if I’d like a massage. I declined. She sat with us for a bit, and as Tyrone and Dave got up to serve hungry visitors or to speak with potential customers, she and began a discussion that remains with me. It was honest, and it was real. Or at least felt that way.

“How much money must an American make to live there?” she asked me.

I thought for a minute.

“I’d say that, bottom line, a U.S. citizen must make at least about $500 a week to be able to live alone in an apartment and have a car, and pay their bills,” I said. “And they’d be almost poor by our standards.”

“Wooohoo, I’d be the richest woman in Jamaica,” she said, flapping her hands, laughing, yet shaking her head in disbelief at the same time. “Dat’s so crazy!”

“But you know what?” she asked me, a more serious tone in her voice now. “I wouldn’t change. I am a strong Jamaican woman, and I came here the same way I will go out in that box. With nothing,” she said. “And that is true for everyone, no matter what car you drive, what you eat, or what you wear while you’re here. Yeh, that is true.” Another Jamaican revelation.

I thought about my job in New York, which I need to have so I can pay for my car, because I need a car to get me to my job, because I need a job to pay for my mortgage in a house I bought because it is near my job.

Get me? MOST Jamaicans I know in Negril don’t live this cycle of foolishness. They work, day-by-day…usually making enough to eat that day and letting the chips fall where they may…so where did we go wrong? Where did I go wrong?

A second or two later, Tyrone broke my wandering thoughts. He came back to our little circle of chairs in the shade under the breezy trees. I was feeling good after a nice sub cigarette.

“Sing with me mon,” he said, standing slightly behind me, patting his hand on my shoulder.

Tyrone and the woman taught me something that day. I know more about the outlook many Jamaicans have. As if to confirm this forever in my memory, my two newest friends broke into “Lean on Me” by Bill Withers. I joined in, happy for these times, happy for my new friends, and blissfully unaware of the clouds brewing back home in NY that would change my life forever.

April 2011 Brasi Trip Report #5
Two Canadians in Negril: A Love Story

I hopped in to the resort's van, and smiled a wide-ass Red Stripe smile.

“After all the waiting, I am finally in Negril again,” I thought. It was my first night. April 2011.

My driver (“my” meaning the guy who waits outside my hotel and offers guests rides, trinkets, what have you 24-7) agreed to let me tag a long on a pick up he was making at Rick’s. Free ride to Rick’s for me…his name? The Judge. Score. he's been a great ally ever since.

He/we ended up being a bit early, so while the Mariner’s guests we'd come to pick up finished eating, I grabbed a(nother) Stripe and checked out the scenery. Lots of tourists. Lots of Jamaican taxi guys outside, waiting for the folks they’d dropped off. A really pretty Jamaican waitress checking me out. Really? Yeh.

Welcome to Negril...too bad I wasn't here for "that"...because THAT would be fun, I bet. (:

A bit later, after a second expensive Red Stripe, Judge signaled to me that his guests were done and waiting to be driven back to the hotel. I jumped in the passenger seat.

Sam and Sally of Ontario (names fictionalized) were a bit “tipsy” and very talkative. I discovered that they’d been married in Negril 20 years ago. Just months after they’d left, they went through a horrific battle with throat cancer…Sam had a tracheotomy…and beat it. This trip was a celebratory one for them. It was obvious they were in love.

I myself was going through an “off again” period with my girlfriend-“Sarah”-of 18 months. This made the trip a bit of a melancholy one for me…and I believe they sensed it, and sensed how much I cared for this person they didn’t even know. They’d both been through rough divorces prior to meeting each other---just like me before meeting "Sarah"---and I really look up to their commitment to each other.

After filling them in about all of the issues I had endured with “Sarah”---cheating, health issues, a large age difference between us…they said “This relationship is not for you…someone you are with should make you HAPPY...there isn't enough balance in that pairing for you.”

But love is stronger than logic. After the vacation, I took up with Sarah again, and due to that suffered a horrific loss in June that marks my dreams almost every night. Like a sinking ship...the water finally became too much for Sarah to bear and she is no longer with us.

Throughout that week or so at Mariner’s I had many beers with Sam and Sally, dinner a pair of times, and was touched by how friendly and considerate they were. My unofficial job became "the beer gopher" for Sam while we all swam in the ocean as he had to be careful with his health issue. I didn't mind at all. I had some really cool new friends.

One day, I was bringing back three beers to my new found Canadian friends and a huge wave knocked off my sunglasses. This had happened to me on a previous trip and I ruined a good hour searching the sand and surf. This time, "screw it," I thought. I continued out to the chest deep water with three cold Stripes.

After finishing them, I decided to go back to my room and get my spare pair of sunglasses while grabbing a few more beers…two birds with one stone, ya know?

So: I have my “spare pair” of glasses on, three fresh Stripes, walking down the sand toward the beach…as I get waist high something hits me…THE SUNGLASSES I had just ‘lost!’ I grabbed them and to this day find that stroke of luck very hard to believe!

It was at least 30 minutes later…”they just took a swim,” I think to myself…haha. And I wasn't even looking for them. What is more amazing is that a higgler hadn't seen it and grabbed them first!

Smiling again, I had a new story to tell.

I still stay in touch with my friends Sam and Sally. Their advice was to end my relationship with “Sarah”...that is hindsight now…but I’ll never forgot them or their kindness and how much fun I had getting to know them on my last reach to paradise.

***the end April 2011 report***

i will read the rest later, but, u made me laugh so hard with " bought me beer with my money" ya, i am sure we all me there a time...peace man, love your style

very nice there man. like your adventure and do not know how u can keep track of all that...i almost went to the jungle, but, lol, fell asleep...old gals are like that.

maybe your next reach, come out to the country side, and i could show u where i hang and go, but, no doubt, before 10 pm

(: tx!

Great writing, Brasi .... I LOVE it!

Tx Gerry, tx Bozz.

Bozz, I am always down for seeing new places and talking to people about living and visiting Ja! (: