Diana McCaulay, Contributor
FOLLOWING LAST week's article concerning the "Road Closed" sign on the Linstead Bypass, I received a number of telephone calls politely calling my literacy into question.
My informants told me that the sign said the road was closed between 8 p.m. and 6 a.m., and not 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. as I'd thought. Being numerically challenged - I am the kind of person who is not entirely sure whether a centimetre is a measure of distance, volume or weight - I figured I must have misunderstood the sign. However, my fellow travellers are adamant that the sign said the road was closed during the day. More mysterious Jamaica. Could the sign have been wrong on the first day of the road works and corrected since? (Pause for scary music?) We will never know. I am sure of one thing, though. Having been on the detour in bright sunshine, I am devoutly grateful I've not (so far) been detoured that way in the dead of night.
I've been driving around Jamaica quite a bit recently, what with looking at the Schools Environment Programme, last week's circuitous trip to Lucea and a bit of shameless lotus-eating this week. The lotus-eating began with a stop at YS Falls on the way to Negril. I'd heard the plan was to put Highway 2000 near the falls (Shriek!), so I thought I'd better have a look before the place was Dunns Rivered. Happily, YS is still magical; the owners seem to understand development should not destroy. I did swallow hard when I saw some kind of purple turret through the trees as we approached. It turned out to be a children's playground, which was sited far enough away from the river not to be intrusive, but close enough to be welcomed by tired parents and exuberant kids. I decided it was tolerable.
Glorious sight
The rest of YS is giant guango trees adorned with bromeliads, inviting hammocks, mossy wooden railings, unobtrusive litter bins, grassy lawns, a slate-grey river foaming white over wide ledges. Near the big fall, the air is filled with spray and a rainbow arches over the valley. It's glorious. A highway anywhere near YS would be a crime. Even the bathrooms at YS are perfect, housed in a charming wooden building on stilts. The toilets are composting toilets, so there's no chance of river contamination by human waste. I left wondering what it would take to ensure all our attractions were protected and managed so well.
But for most of the drive, I observed and loathed the relentless uglification of Jamaica, particularly in the towns. Savanna-la-Mar and Santa Cruz are especially awful. Sav distinguishes itself by having buildings without architectural or aesthetic merit jammed next to graceful old structures, the latter generally falling into disrepair.
As for the town of Negril, well, I need my thesaurus. Squalid, crowded, dirty, chaotic, ugly, garish, unpleasant. The roads are terrible, there are few sidewalks, hordes of taxis block the streets, signs of all sizes and shapes scream from buildings and trees, there are the usual piles of marl and plastic bottles and rusting vehicles which are becoming more Jamaica's trademarks than hummingbirds.
Of course, this is not the whole story of Negril. If you are lucky enough to be closeted in an all-inclusive hotel as I was (Grand Lido is gorgeous, even though I always thought Rutland Point should've been a park), you will see a very different Negril. One morning I paddled a kayak over a calm and shining sea to the far end of Bloody Bay, where, I gather from the news today, a murdered man was found. Arms aching, I floated in my kayak, looking at the rocks and turtle grass beds and colonies of sea urchins. There were few fish, too much algae, and pretty as the water was, it had lost its crystal clarity. Still, Bloody Bay is beautiful Jamaica. Back on the beach, I found a hammock under a sea grape tree, closed my eyes and tried to forget Jamaica-outside-the-gates.
Rational way
I've always hated the Jamaica of dichotomy; bountiful and bereft, alluring and abhorrent. And I've never been any good at insulation, which, increasingly, seems the only rational way to live here. Lock yourself away. Don't watch local TV, skim the newspapers. Turn your face from ragged children at traffic lights.
But I cannot stop seeing, perhaps this is a writer's curse. This morning I noticed the New Kingston Information Centre had been landscaped; flowers bloomed in the sun. Beside them, a homeless man lay prone on the concrete, the flowers of the plumbago touching his face lightly. And I wondered with great sadness if he could remember any other kind of touch.
