Driving in Jamaica
Bill and I first visited Jamaica more than twenty years ago, when some friends bought a condo there and invited us down to stay. In exchange for free accommodations, Bill has always spent some of his time there fixing things around the condo. We visited several times in the early 1990s; Erin and Meagan got to go along three times. Meagan and Andy were standing right next to us earlier this summer when Russ and Lisa asked when we were coming to Jamaica again. Well, Meagan recruited Erin to her cause, insisting that Victoria and Levi needed the chance to experience Jamaica, just as she and Erin did when they were kids. They carefully coordinated schedules to find a time that would work for everyone, and made all the travel arrangements. That's how we came to spend the last week in beautiful, exotic Montego Bay.
A few things have changed since our last trip to Jamaica seventeen years ago. In recent years, the Montego Bay airport has expanded into a large, clean, modern international facility. We used to be able to travel to Jamaica with just a driver's license and a birth certificate but, this time, even the children needed passports. We seemed to wait forever to get through immigration and customs, both in Jamaica and Charlotte. (Levi doesn't wait well, but his behavior in line was much better than we expected. Overall, he was an excellent traveler.) As Meagan said, it's nice to know that it's so hard to get back into our country, because that means the terrorists will have a hard time getting in, too.
Montego Bay used to have only one stoplight, but the city has added stoplights to many intersections; the number of cars has increased greatly, too, making for some unexpected traffic jams. However, enterprising locals still urge stopped motorists to buy air fresheners for their cars, or steering wheel covers, or gnips (pronounced "ga-nips," it's a rather strange, green Caribbean fruit that we have to buy whenever our children are with us). There were lots of new buildings and resorts in the Montego Bay area, and plenty of on-going construction wherever we went. To me, it seemed as though some of the areas were cleaner this time; we actually saw several groups of Jamaicans picking up trash beside the road.
Many Americans are vocal about their great dislike of Jamaica. It's true that some areas are filthy and littered with trash, and some of the people are pushy, crowding around and getting right in your face in their attempts to get you to buy something. But Jamaica is little different from many countries in this world, where some of the natives are so poor that even America's poorest are rich in comparison. Jamaican farmers grow sugar cane and fruit and coffee, but tourism is the island's main industry. Luxurious resorts stand right next to crumbling ruins or makeshift shacks. Jamaica is an island of contrasts, of "haves" and "have-nots;" there is no middle class. With few exceptions, the Jamaicans we have met were friendly, industrious, and eager to help.
Driving in Jamaica is always an adventure. We rented a purple Mitsubishi mini-van with the steering wheel on the "wrong" side. When Bill drives in Jamaica, he has to concentrate to make sure he stays on the left side of the road; the numerous roundabouts don't make driving any easier. Roadkill in Jamaica usually includes stray goats, but we've been fortunate to never hit one. We really appreciated the newly-constructed road from Montego Bay to Ocho Rios. The old road was treacherous, not much more than one lane at times. On past trips, Bill had to follow the local custom of sounding the horn whenever we drove around a blind curve, so any oncoming cars, or pedestrians, could move out of the middle of the road before we plowed into them. This time, Meagan and Levi both lost their breakfast on the new road to Ocho Rios, so I hate to think what would have happened if we had been traveling on the old road. (Thank goodness we brought along so many beach towels.)
This trip, after climbing Dunn's River Falls, we hit a pothole, on the outskirts of Ocho Rios, that immediately flattened the front passenger side tire and caused an audible, not-so-slow leak in the back tire. Bill pulled over, and we all piled out of the van. Several locals were right there within a few seconds to help change the front tire and direct us to the nearest place where we could have both tires repaired. A couple of tour buses stopped, too, to see if we needed any more help. One of the bus drivers supplied Bill with a band-aid after he scraped his forehead while looking under the van. Levi and I crossed the busy road so we could stand in the shade of a small tree while we waited, watching three tethered goats nibble the succulent, tangled grass on the hillside adjacent to our disabled van. We all chuckled a little bit when we realized that another car had pulled over right behind our van, after it met the same fate. We wondered just how many tips the helpful Jamaicans earned on an average day because of one convenient pothole.
As soon as the front tire was replaced with the dusty spare, we all climbed back into the van and drove a short distance to the place that repaired "tyres." The kids and I scouted the area for lunch, unsuccessfully, then sat on a retaining wall while we waited. Levi was content to stand at the top of a steep, shady lane, rolling tree seeds down to the bottom. It didn't take more than half an hour for both tires to be fixed and re-installed-- pretty quick, when you consider that no power tools were involved. (Afterwards, the girls commented on the perfect physique of the old man who repaired the tires; we wondered if he was a former Olympian, or if he developed such muscles just from changing tires. I guess we'll never know.) The whole escapade cost us less than twenty American dollars, including tips. The picture alone was worth the cost.
A few things have changed since our last trip to Jamaica seventeen years ago. In recent years, the Montego Bay airport has expanded into a large, clean, modern international facility. We used to be able to travel to Jamaica with just a driver's license and a birth certificate but, this time, even the children needed passports. We seemed to wait forever to get through immigration and customs, both in Jamaica and Charlotte. (Levi doesn't wait well, but his behavior in line was much better than we expected. Overall, he was an excellent traveler.) As Meagan said, it's nice to know that it's so hard to get back into our country, because that means the terrorists will have a hard time getting in, too.
Montego Bay used to have only one stoplight, but the city has added stoplights to many intersections; the number of cars has increased greatly, too, making for some unexpected traffic jams. However, enterprising locals still urge stopped motorists to buy air fresheners for their cars, or steering wheel covers, or gnips (pronounced "ga-nips," it's a rather strange, green Caribbean fruit that we have to buy whenever our children are with us). There were lots of new buildings and resorts in the Montego Bay area, and plenty of on-going construction wherever we went. To me, it seemed as though some of the areas were cleaner this time; we actually saw several groups of Jamaicans picking up trash beside the road.
Many Americans are vocal about their great dislike of Jamaica. It's true that some areas are filthy and littered with trash, and some of the people are pushy, crowding around and getting right in your face in their attempts to get you to buy something. But Jamaica is little different from many countries in this world, where some of the natives are so poor that even America's poorest are rich in comparison. Jamaican farmers grow sugar cane and fruit and coffee, but tourism is the island's main industry. Luxurious resorts stand right next to crumbling ruins or makeshift shacks. Jamaica is an island of contrasts, of "haves" and "have-nots;" there is no middle class. With few exceptions, the Jamaicans we have met were friendly, industrious, and eager to help.
Driving in Jamaica is always an adventure. We rented a purple Mitsubishi mini-van with the steering wheel on the "wrong" side. When Bill drives in Jamaica, he has to concentrate to make sure he stays on the left side of the road; the numerous roundabouts don't make driving any easier. Roadkill in Jamaica usually includes stray goats, but we've been fortunate to never hit one. We really appreciated the newly-constructed road from Montego Bay to Ocho Rios. The old road was treacherous, not much more than one lane at times. On past trips, Bill had to follow the local custom of sounding the horn whenever we drove around a blind curve, so any oncoming cars, or pedestrians, could move out of the middle of the road before we plowed into them. This time, Meagan and Levi both lost their breakfast on the new road to Ocho Rios, so I hate to think what would have happened if we had been traveling on the old road. (Thank goodness we brought along so many beach towels.)
This trip, after climbing Dunn's River Falls, we hit a pothole, on the outskirts of Ocho Rios, that immediately flattened the front passenger side tire and caused an audible, not-so-slow leak in the back tire. Bill pulled over, and we all piled out of the van. Several locals were right there within a few seconds to help change the front tire and direct us to the nearest place where we could have both tires repaired. A couple of tour buses stopped, too, to see if we needed any more help. One of the bus drivers supplied Bill with a band-aid after he scraped his forehead while looking under the van. Levi and I crossed the busy road so we could stand in the shade of a small tree while we waited, watching three tethered goats nibble the succulent, tangled grass on the hillside adjacent to our disabled van. We all chuckled a little bit when we realized that another car had pulled over right behind our van, after it met the same fate. We wondered just how many tips the helpful Jamaicans earned on an average day because of one convenient pothole.
As soon as the front tire was replaced with the dusty spare, we all climbed back into the van and drove a short distance to the place that repaired "tyres." The kids and I scouted the area for lunch, unsuccessfully, then sat on a retaining wall while we waited. Levi was content to stand at the top of a steep, shady lane, rolling tree seeds down to the bottom. It didn't take more than half an hour for both tires to be fixed and re-installed-- pretty quick, when you consider that no power tools were involved. (Afterwards, the girls commented on the perfect physique of the old man who repaired the tires; we wondered if he was a former Olympian, or if he developed such muscles just from changing tires. I guess we'll never know.) The whole escapade cost us less than twenty American dollars, including tips. The picture alone was worth the cost.
In this picture, a Jamaican native replaces our repaired front tire, while Bill stands in front of the van. Meagan, Victoria, and Andy watch from their perches on the retaining wall.
Comments
Post a Comment