I’ve lost many things before: keys, jackets, my mind (on the odd occasion) but never six hours. I’ve never done a trans-Atlantic journey before, so I settle into my chair and ready myself for a nine-hour flight on the aptly named Air Jamaica.

In my furious rush to prepare for the holiday I left all entertainment material at home and didn’t have time to stop off at the news agent. Boredom sets in and after a few re-reads of the in-flight magazine I run out of literature.

Fortunately a man behind me — dressed in full Muslim attire — hands me a pamphlet to read. The title scans something like “Terrorism, Hijacking and the Muslim religion”. I read the first few extracts which turn out to be a bit on the apocalyptic side so I put it down and attempt to have a nap.

Yes… sleep… coming… never… before… on… flight…

“Excuse me sir! Would you like some Jerk Chicken?”

Rats! Robbed of slumber but my stomach sends a signal to my brain to visualise a well spiced piece of chicken. My eyes send a signal back to my brain that the chicken is slightly green and the spice looks like something the chicken once rolled in. My hands unpack the plastic knife and fork and my mouth opens.

Finally we approach the Montego Bay airport and I pray for a smooth descent as my bowels have had a bumpy ride over the last couple hours. Fortunately there is no turbulence and everything is calm and quite relaxing — except for the incessant chanting behind me.

My pamphlet distributing friend has begun praying loudly and banging his head with his knuckles. Now I’m an open-minded guy, but this was slightly over the top considering the frayed nerves of Londoners these days. Things get even more uneasy when he pulls out a gigantic Koran and a device which resembles a compass and begins shaking and chanting.

I hope that he hadn’t had any of the airline food because if he didn’t want to blow up the plane, he might do now.

Touch down

It is eight in the evening and about 35°C. I board a bus which leaves about half-an-hour late and head off to my digs in Montego Bay. I always feel like an excited child when travelling on a bus at night, especially in a new country.

A sparse collection of lights blink in the distance and dimly lit shacks bounce by as we travel along an uneven road. The sky is clear and sparkling with stars. Reggae plays in the background and, happily, after a hard few months it sinks in that I’m on holiday in Jamaica.

An impressive gate swings open to the colonially named Wyndham Rose hotel and the bus drives into the open arms of a massive fortress clearly built for very rich people with very fat pockets — actually it turned out to be a lot of very fat people in small bathing suits, but that’s beside the point.

After checking into my room I repeat to myself the wonderful mantra of this holiday, “All Inclusive”. Psychologically I prepare myself and head of to descend upon the free food and booze with all the restraint and decorum of a common locust.

I’m still excited and awake and quickly head up to the bar for my first glass of Red Stripe. It’s the only lager on tap so I’d better get used to it. It hits my tongue with a dry, watered down fizzle. Not to worry, it’s free so might as well get a jug. Five bachelors who are part of the wedding to which I’ve been invited finally emerge from their rooms and meet me in the bar. They’re also jet-lagged. but after forcing down a few jugs of fine Jamaican brew we drink and plan our activities.

Natural High

The next day, hung over and sticky — from the combination of Red Stripe saturated sweat and severe humidity — I peel myself out of bed and head off to the swimming pool. The plan today is to relax in the resort and indulge in some water sports.

The resort offers many activities including massages, diving, snorkelling, kayaking and parasailing – all at an additional cost; between $50 and $100. Three of us decide upon parasailing and before I know it I’m whisked up high up by the blustery Jamaican winds.

The sensation is calming and I observe grand cumulo-nimbus clouds building in the distance. It’s the second rainy season, which lasts from August to October, (the first is in May) and every day around 3pm storm clouds roll across the island and we’re treated with a fierce electric battle in the sky.

Another kind of natural high

Getting high naturally is great, but we are in Jamaica after all and, well, it would be rude not to. Fortunately, our green friend is easily acquired from the hotel porters. I learnt that “Do you have everyt’ing you need?” actually means “Would you like to celebrate part of our culture and get blasted out of your mind?”

Three hours later, after painful fits of laughter, I can’t speak. I stumble off to my bed to recover and try to avoid eye contact with the frightening chevron designs on the hotel carpet. I start surfing through the wide selection of American TV channels. I have a realisation that America is truly a world unto itself. They have their own sports, their own perspective on current affairs and Taco Bell, which at that point in time looked incredibly tasty.

I stop on American Football and am perplexed. Nothing makes sense to me and I’m confused why the commentator is yelling at a pitch full of crumpled bodies. It’s too much for my baffled brain to deal with so I flick on and hit Sean Paul, which is just the ticket to get me in the spirit for Margaretville — Montego Bay’s hottest night clu.

Wha’gwan at Margaretville

I was never going to get through the 50 flavours of Margarita on offer so decide to stick to rum and coke. We’re all enjoying the open deck of the club and I watch the inky black surface of my drink vibrate to the heavy bass of the ragga music playing downstairs. Every now and again loud sirens blare and I eventually realise that they and other random sound effects are being crow-barred into the music. Curious, we all venture down into the heart of Montego Bay’s hottest dance spot to see wha’gwan.

Bums, hips, legs and pelvises thrash around on the dance floor, many of them grinding into each other like some kind of bizarre, fleshy machine room. This is ‘bump and grind’ — the Caribbean dance phenomenon of simulating sex on the dance floor. The two requirements to being a bumper-and-grinder are…

A) you have to be black, and…
B) you need booty.

I watch as a local Jamaican woman, on all fours, fantastically rotates each butt cheek in opposing directions whilst her dance partner thrusts his groin into her ample cushioning. I carefully pick brief gaps between flailing limbs on the dance floor and dart my way to the bar to order a drink and watch the stage show which is about to start.

Death of a white boy

A buxom Jamaican woman stands on stage and as part of the show she has to pick out a partner to join her in a dance competition. She looks around the club then says huskily into the microphone, ‘I want a white boy.’

Surreptitiously, I step behind a large, Jamaican gent and pray to Jah that she doesn’t spot my white, trembling, presence. She doesn’t, but another — probably the only other — white boy is within arm’s reach. She calls him over and the crowd roars for more. He takes a few steps in, looks at the horde through petrified eyes and makes the fatal mistake of backing out. The walls reverberate with the cacophony of boos. I down my rum and coke and immediately start bumping and grinding like Shaggy on amphetamines. Shaggy from Scooby Doo that is.

My moves must have been appreciated because at about 4am I notice three beautiful women eyeing me out at the end of the bar. I stumble over and as the haze of the smoke clears I notice something not quite right about these lovely ladies. The main thing that bothers me is that they are men in drag, and rather muscular, frightening looking men at that.

“You want to play?” one asks me. Too afraid to speak I shimmy my body backwards whilst incorporating a light sprinkle of bump and a just a touch of grind.

Red, Green and Yellow

The next day, bright and early, we pile into a bus en route to The Bob Marley Museum. It takes us about an hour to get there and conversation is sparse, because we are all very hung over. The bus pulls into the entrance of the museum which is introduced by a huge red, green and yellow painted facade and ‘No Woman, No Cry’ blares out of a nearby sound system.

We’re met by our Rasta guide who calls himself ‘Captain Crazy’. He takes us through Bob’s childhood home whilst giving us a commentary interspersed with a maniacal laugh which I’m could either be born out of real craziness or a simple desire to keep the tourists engaged. I look at the exit sign which — like most objects — is painted in green, red and yellow and decide upon the latter.

The highlight of the tour is Bob Marley’s resting place and we walk around the cold, marble stone of his grave adorned with pictures and musical paraphernalia. We’re told we don’t like Bob Marley’s wife, Rita Marley, because she plans to rebury him in Ethiopia, his spiritual resting place and the origin of Rastafarianism. I think to myself that maybe she is wrong and that maybe Jamaica is heaven is under earth.

Then ask myself why I’m constantly trying to incorporate lyrics from Bob Marley’s songs into nonsensical and slightly rubbish philosophical musings.

Our next leg of the day trip is to Occo Rios — a region located on Jamaica’s northern coastline famous for its waterfalls. We bundle back into the bus and ready ourselves for another hour-long drive. Fortunately, a friend brought along our green merchandise and we feel it would be ceremonial to smoke it after being in such close proximity to the King of Reggae.

“Would you mind if we smoke?” we ask the driver. 
“No Maan.” 
“Do you know the kind of smoke we mean?” 
“Ya maan, marijuana!” Our good driver even procures us Rizzla papers from a real-life Rastafarian on the side of the road: “Hey Rasta, you gat sum skins?” 

I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect local Jamaicans refer to Rastas as, well, Rastas. It all seemed so …Jamaican!

We’re very stoned again and reggae is playing on the bus. We’re silent, staring out the widows at the lush, mountainous scenery float by. This is the moment that sums up Jamaica: Bob Marley, reggae, marijuana, a Garden of Eden and a feeling of complete relaxation that everyting’ is gonna be alright.

Then we start pretending we’re on a roller coaster and taking fake “hands up in the air” pictures.

Dunns River Falls — the road less travelled

The group activity at Dunn’s River Falls is to form a human chain and slowly be led up a gushing multi-tired waterfall by a local guide. This seemed rather dull for adventure-seeking guys so we went up the action route, solo — climbing up sheer walls of rock and water. OK, slight exaggeration, but a friend climbing above me did lose his footing and as I laughed as he zoomed past me.

After finishing our refreshing ascent I lie on a bench and look up at the forest canopy. Shards of white light pierce the foliage and between the gaps I see massive hawks circling in the sky. I listen to the waterfall gushing and gurgling in the background and I get the sense that this is so good it has to be fake.

I curse Sun City, the Lost City and Monte Casino for tarnishing my appreciation of this beautiful place. Relaxation overpowers me and shopping malls, busy tubes, hooting and human congestion are carried away by the waterfall and into the warm Caribbean Sea.

I do

I’m here for a wedding though and the ceremony is picturesque with a handsome couple uniting in front of a resplendent backdrop. The wedding party was also very special except for the moment when, mid-conversation with a relative, I took a bite on a nut which shattered my tooth.

We also went back to Margaretville with a few American girls the single lads hooked up with who were terrified at the thought of leaving the resort. They also weren’t told that they would have to dance with large Jamaican men and work their booty like employees at a Nike sweat shop.

One had to be ‘talked into’ Margaretville.

I don’t (want to go)

Sadly, I’m about to check out of the hotel and head off to the tourist shop for some trinkets to take home. We’ve unsuccessfully attempted to finish of the remainders of the weed, but in the process of trying I’ve become rather fuzzy headed. I fumble around for my wallet and apologise to the woman at the till for being so slow.

“That’s ok,” she says. “Sometimes we’re a bit like that too.” I laugh and say that this is a good place to be. “Ya, maan,” she replies. “You’re in Jamaica Maan.” Yes, she is right.

For more information
• Go to www.visitjamaica.com for more on the island.
• Discover more on the Bob Marley museum.

http://travel.iafrica.com/destin/islandvacations/1055560.htm