The Best Tours & Excursions

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler -in Jamaica 12

July 8, 2007

Here’s the thing. We had to attend Scott and Denese’s wedding at 4 p.m. Truth is, I didn’t know it was 4 p.m. because I had misread the invitation, and I was aiming to be there at 7 p.m. But then, Kenita and her husband, who were part of the wedding party, pointed out that we were to be at The Ruins at 4.

So because of all the preparation they had to undergo (apparently, Kenita had to do her nails, hair, makeup, and ensure that she didn’t have any tan lines), they couldn’t spend the day with us. I didn’t mind unwinding at the resort, although it was day 7 of our trip and I was getting bored with the scenery, no matter how ravishing it was. But Deuce had a better idea: River tubing.

KnowJamaica was once again at our service. Javia picked us up bright and early, and he drove us up the hill to Calypso’s River Tubing site. I was having déja-vu. It was the same hill, the same route, the same river that we had been rafting on, and although I came out of the initial experience feeling empowered, I still couldn’t beat the little butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I didn’t know what tubing was like. I had never seen it done before, I didn’t know what to expect, and I was hoping that it wouldn’t involve water coming up to my chin. Javia and Marva had explained, however, that it would be mellow and wonderful. Deuce was excited about leaning back on the river, sitting in his tube with a drink in his hand and a smoke in the other

The guides were already waiting for us under the little kiosk, and they sold us a bottle of Ting, Jamaican carbonated soda with a whole lot of lime, as well as some water. I couldn’t keep calm, especially when I heard the river flowing further down in the forest. I took a look around and noticed the large bamboo rafts that we so often see on T.V. with lovers riding on Martha Brae’s calm green waters. I couldn’t wait to come back to Jamaica and do that. But it was my last day here, and I didn’t have time for much. Soon, Deuce and I were changing into our bathing apparel and going down the steps that led to the river.

Javia went down with us. He knew the guides and was feeling right at home. We drank some Ting and water (water was perfect for me since my throat was already dry at the sight of the river), and waited for the guides. Soon, we were joined by a large group of British tourists (a whole family, apparently), who couldn’t wait to get on with this adventure. The guides followed, carrying the large tubes with them and life jackets. AH! I felt slightly relieved and requested one for myself.

One of the guides secured one on me and helped me strap my flip flops onto the vest. We were ready to go. At least, everybody else was but me. I was nervous, and it took me a good five minutes to get in the icy water and sit on the tube. I also held on to the rocks for dear life, afraid that the current would take me away. The Brits were an excited bunch. They couldn’t wait to take off. They joked around and talked a lot, and I was almost flustered because I needed some peace and quiet to practice my breathing techniques.

Then, our guides introduced themselves. Rafael was the leader, a tall, lean and muscular man who pushed us down the stream while singing “Rockin’ Robin” with his partner. Soon, we were taking off and I was screaming. Deuce had told me I could hang on to his foot, and I didn’t see his foot. I couldn’t hold on to anything and I screamed for a good while, especially when I noticed what seemed like a drop straight ahead. I nearly fainted, but realized the drop was not a big, serious one and the tube just eased on down as if nothing could stop it. All the while, some women were screaming, laughing, smiling. I relaxed when I finally got a hold of Deuce, who was more interested in snapping shots of what we saw on the way. Little houses, a reggae park, lots and lots and lots of trees and leaves, and ahead, the beautiful blue river.

Every now and then, we would crash into something if we drifted to the borders of the river: a log, a boulder, an actual tree (I did and was quite scared), a bunch of bamboo, or who knows what. And when we did, we were stuck. One fo the women there kept on crashing in the trees, and screaming every time but laughing as well. But never fear: our savvy guides were here. They always pulled us away and pushed us forward, and the whole time, they were singing popular classics like Bob Marley’s One Love and the favorite, “Day-O (the Banana Boat Song).”

My favorite part of this tubing experience was when we saw a Rasta man bathing in the river, naked, unfazed by the group of curious and amused tourists headed his way. He was washing his hair and body with a bar of soap, and all we could see were his eyes, and the fact that the water level rose just above the parts of his body that made most uncomfortable. One of the men in the group was quite tickled.

“Oh please, sir. Don’t let us stop you.”

The Rasta kept on bathing. We made eye contact for a minute, and I smiled but turned away. The man was naked, after all. I couldn’t possibly have a conversation with a man in that position. (Deuce's Note: As the tourists passed, the tubing crew nodded at the Rasta, who replied, "Me naw say a ting!")

We stopped mid-way at this breathtaking park, untouched, overlooking the river. It was surrounded with tall breadfruit and almond trees, and all sorts of plants. We rested for a while, and the tourists walked down to a shack nearby where a photographer, who was standing in the water at some point, was selling souvenir photos of us screaming down the stream. Deuce and I stayed back and took in the glory of the entire fauna around us. I was in heaven. And the thought of hopping back on a plane to return home was already depressing to me.

We stayed there a good half-hour. Then, we were back on the tubes again, singing our way down the stream. Soon, we made it to the end of the river. Our guides helped us disembark while singing the traditional “Jamaica Farewell,” and the fun was over. Javia was already waiting there, listening to music, enchanted that we had a big smile on our faces. He was especially happy that I had enjoyed the ride, knowing I had been so nervous about it.

On our way back, we stopped at a duty-free shopping center known as the Taj-Mahal.  There, we purchased our fill of local rum, shirts, cards and other souvenirs. (Deuce's Note: Taj-Mahal Duty Free in Ocho Rios is too expensive!  Don't wait till the last minute to shop. Go to the markets. For alcohol, wait till you get to the airport. Why? Because they won't let you bring liquid carry-on through security, you'll have to check it.  But if you wait until after security, you can purchase it at the airport and carry it on. Our checked luggage was so heavy with the added alcohol, we had to pay an extra fee!) 

Javia waited for us while we made our selections, and in the end, he drove us back to RIU. We said our goodbyes to him, knowing we wouldn’t see him in a while. I was missing Jamaica already, even though we weren’t leaving till the next morning. I had had some of my most memorable experiences here on this island, and I couldn’t wait to return.

But ahead, there always lies more destinations. There are so many places on this little planet waiting to be explored. I was excited about the prospect of flying to other Caribbean islands. However, Jamaica had been on top of my list for a long time, and knowing that I had achieved that dream felt really good to me.

(End)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler -in Jamaica 11

Finally, we made it up to the site. There, three guides were waiting: Vanessa, Scott and Devon. They strapped us in our harnesses and helmets, and that’s when I felt the fear overpower my whole body. Devon helped me get ready and adjusted my helmet for me, and I confessed how nervous I was.

“It’s normal to be nervous,” he said. “But you’ll be fine.”

Devon then proceeded to brief us on safety and demonstrated how we were to move down the zip line. I was registering everything he was saying: put on gloves; hold the rope, never the cable; hold your feet up for a safe landing. The more I listened, the more I tensed up. We were warned that we had to walk a long trail before reaching our first platform, so I was glad I had bought my sneakers. Unfortunately, Kenita wasn’t, and Deuce didn’t take my advice earlier that day, so they both suffered during the walk, him especially because he was wearing his water shoes.

Finally, we made it to the platform. There, my fears are concrete. I feel the sweat trickle down my back and arms. My deodorant has melted in the heat, and I’m not so nervous that I start to ramble and turn around.

“I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can do this.”

One of the guides went first, and glided down the line, hands free, leaning back and shouting joyfully. I closed my eyes. Perhaps if I didn’t see it, then it wasn’t real. Stephen went first. He had the excitement of a little boy, but tried not to show it. He went soaring at the speed of light (not really, but it seemed like it to me) and didn’t say a word the whole time. No screaming, no grunting, nothing.

Then, his wife followed. When she took off, she let out a yelp, and my heart sank. I had known this girl since my college years. She was serious, calm, composed, just like me. If she was screaming on her way down, then what would it be of me? I was so scared that I refused to go on.

The guide, a lovely young lady with a soothing voice, kept nudging me.

“Come on, let go. You’ll be fine, I promise you.”

I couldn’t move. I could see my own sweat trickle down my arm, I could feel myself drenched, my heart racing uncontrollably, and every time I looked down, the task before me seemed unachievable. I held on tightly to my rope and said a thousand little prayers, but all I could think about was the ground that seemed so far beneath me. I was all the more nervous knowing that if I did this and didn’t like it, I couldn’t go back. The only way to do this was by zip line, and there were a total of nine traverses to go through, including two surprises. I didn’t know what that meant, but the word surprise filled me with terror.

Finally, I had to calm myself down. I took a deep breath, reasoned with myself that this had to be safe, that everyone knew what they were doing, and that if I didn’t do this, I’d be upset at myself for being a wimp. I could do this. I had to do this…

“Hold your feet up. Up!” I heard the guide speak to me and I found myself obeying.

Next thing I knew, I was one my way down the zip line. I heard the hissing of the cable under my weight, and I literally zipped from one platform to the other, where another guide was waiting to catch me. I must have screamed out to all the saints I ever knew in my 28 years of Catholic upbringing: God, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and even Buddha, whom I had recently come to call upon in my Buddhist studies.

What a thrill! It was amazing for me to feel such a rush, with the wind against my face and surroundings as beautiful as this. This forest was untouched by man, and Chukka took its time to build its platforms and steps around this corner of heaven. Instead of cutting down trees, Chukka bypassed them with precision, installed plates around trunks, and tied cables securely around the branches instead of nailing material into the wood.

I was almost at the landing when the guide shouted at me:

“Keep your feet up! Feet up!”

If I hadn’t listened, I would have crashed into the platform. Thankfully, I landed perfectly. I was still whole, still alive, and ready for my next traverse, except that my legs (and everyone else’s) were shaking uncontrollably.

Traverse #2 was the surprise. It wasn’t horizontal like the others. No, it was vertical. So we basically had to drop down at 65 miles, with our legs spread apart so not to sustain rope burn. I understand why it was called a surprise. Everyone zipped down screaming. Imagine being in an elevator that suddenly drops down due to cable breakage. You go down fast, like those outrageous roller coasters, and your heart seems to follow after. Even the guide dropped screaming.

“I’ve been doing this for two years, and it still gets me every time,” he said.

The other traverses were just as fun, but you wouldn’t judge so by my picture. The photographer snapped just as I was making my worst fear-face. I know I look as if I’m in the midst of a Sasquatch attack, but I was holding on tightly because that last traverse was the longest of them all. But when we stepped off the platform, the first thought that ran through my mind was: “That was fun. Let’s do it again!”

At the end of our journey, we walked past a scintillating river in the forest, and followed our guides down the trail among the giant bamboo trees. Devon showed us what a baby bamboo tree looked like, and informed us that they can grow to be as tall as _____ feet tall. Again, I was impressed that he knew so much about his surroundings, and not just about zip lining. I thanked him for his calm demeanor. He knew exactly how to put me at ease and never lost patience with me, and that’s very important. If I was a guide and I had to put up with me, I’d slap me in a New-York minute.

After a drink of water, we turned in our harnesses and met up with our driver who rode with us back to Chukka Farms. At our arrival, a group of tourists were riding their ATVs, ready for their adventure. I was eager to get home simply because I was hot and sticky from sweating so much. But once we boarded off the bus, I found myself enjoying the setting at Chukka Farms. We were hungry, so we ate from the little bar where finally, we were served some delicious jerk chicken with a side of bread. The bar served up some beers while playing some Bob Marley songs. We were in the shade, a cool breeze was blowing, and I just wanted to sit there forever.

But all good things come to an end. We had to take off, so we all boarded Daniel’s vehicle. Before leaving the property, he took us to his villa, a unique tropical marvel erected on a cliff, overlooking the ocean. The yard was planted with fruit trees and flowers, and his home built to reflect a warm, elegant feel. We even got to meet his nanny, a charming, quiet woman with long braids and a sweet smile. Daniel had to pick up some flowers for his wife, and we waited patiently outside for his return while absorbing the glory around us.

We were all in a state of elation. We were feeling blessed to have been granted such a wonderful experience, through a sublime connection with nature and people like we had never done before. I was thankful for that. Zip lining and rafting were the most fun adventures I’d ever had, and I was regretting that we were now at the end.

Or were we? Deuce was mentioning river tubing…

(Continued)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler -in Jamaica 10

July 7, 2007

I found myself getting nervous by the minute on that day.

Although I was proud of myself for overcoming my fear of water for whitewater rafting, I kept thinking of my other fear: heights. The more I thought about it, the more I felt my muscles tighten. We were going on a zip line canopy tour, which literally consists of soaring high in the wooden forest, more than 45 feet above ground, with harnesses clinging from cables.

We woke up early, and I found that a large, ugly, purple bruise had spread on my arm. I couldn’t figure out how it had gotten there, or when during our rafting adventure I had hurt myself. I didn’t remember hitting any rocks or anything of the sort. But that bruise hurt, and it looked like someone had hurt me badly.

We weren’t sure how many people were going zip lining with us. Kenita and Stephen had talked about bringing their parents with them, and we tried to call, but to no avail. Since our driver was picking us up at 10 a.m., we had breakfast and waited in our rooms for our friends to come. Then, they called and said they were downstairs. I left Deuce in the room and went down to the lobby where I found Kenita and Stephen, and her parents. But we found out they wouldn’t be coming along. The ride would probably not be appropriate for her mother.

So we were left to go again, the four of us, and wouldn’t you know it? We missed the driver. Somehow, we got sidetracked (Deuce's Note: They were sidetracked by the food at the breakfast buffet! No matter how much I tried to get them to hurry up, they walked and ate like they couldn't possibly move any faster. They acted like they were on vacation!) and by the time we made it to the pick-up section, we found out that our bus driver had already come and gone.

We scrambled to find a ride, and finally, we called a taxi to take us to Chukka's farms, hoping that we would still meet the bus that was heading up into the mountains. Then, Deuce had an idea to call his contact at Chukka Caribbean, Daniel Melville, to let him know we had missed our ride. Mr. Melville told him he was in route for Chukka Farms and had just passed our hotel, so he turned around to come and pick us up personally.

When the drivers and hotel personnel found out we were being picked up by Daniel Melville, we had the sense that we were receiving the royal treatment. (Deuce's Note: They would just stop and stare, without saying a word, whenever I would mention "Melville"!) Daniel was the young, smiling manager of tour operations at Chukka Farms who everyone seemed to know and recognize. We rode with him to the Farm site, and he took it upon himself to ensure that we would get to the zip line site.

On the road, Daniel points out some horses on the side of the road riding on the sidewalk. Apparently, some individuals like to make their money that way, owning a couple of horses (some looking quite malnourished and weak) that they make available to tourists outside the hotels. According to Daniel, they are running a “yahoo cowboy operation” that does not take in consideration the safety of their clients.

Chukka Farms, on the other hand, was the real deal. This vast property spread on ____ acres, and hosted a multitude of excursions, including ATV and Jeep safaris, and their famous horseback ride and swim tours. We parked by the stables, where the horses were lined up for duty, all looking healthier and more appealing than the ones we saw earlier on the road. A bar was set up by the entrance, and I was able to get a drink of water for my throat that had dried up during the drive. Then, I had to rush to the bathroom, a charming backhouse with ladies and gentlemen doors appropriately labeled “stallions” and “mares.”

Then, we were ready for our drive up the mountain. We had to catch up with the group that had left us behind, and Daniel rode with us in the bus. The driver knew the road by heart, of course. The ride, like all other we’ve taken up to the mountains, was bumpy and visually appealing.

Finally, we made it up to the site. There, three guides were waiting: Vanessa, Scott and Devon. They strapped us in our harnesses and helmets, and that’s when I felt the fear overpower my whole body. Devon helped me get ready and adjusted my helmet for me, and I confessed how nervous I was.

(Continued)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler -in Jamaica 9

...At the site, we get briefed for safety, just like the General did at Caliché’s Montego Bay site. In fact, it was pretty much the same speech. But it was delivered with the same authority and knowledge. These guides commanded attention, and once they started talking, you had no other choice but to listen. We were told how to sit, how to respond, how to row, and all the other details I never thought were important when rafting. Soon, I was outfitted with my life-jacket (life-jackets became my best friend on this Jamaican trip) and my helmet was adjusted on my head.

We went in two by raft. So Stephen and Kenita paired up on the yellow raft, guided by Guy, and Deuce and I went in the red one, led by Dee. He once again reassured me that I didn’t need to be nervous, because he was right here with me and would keep an eye on me.

So off we went, gliding on blue water. I was absorbing the glorious surroundings, but couldn’t help shaking the images in my mind of a twenty-foot drop waiting ahead. We were leading, and our friends followed. Soon enough, we were applying our newly acquired knowledge in rowing. Left back meant I had to back paddle because I was sitting on the left side of the raft. Right forward meant Deuce had to paddle forward. So our directions were usually as follows: “left back, right forward” to turn the raft around, “all forward” to keep moving, and so on. Often times, Dee had to get out of the raft and move it around, since there were so many boulders in the way and we continuously got stuck.

Then, the water calmed down. Dee had us row near a boulder, and we came to somewhat of a stop. Then, he looked at us.

“Okay, listen up. There’s a drop straight ahead. We call it Demon Hole.”

When he said those words, I didn’t have time to cry. But my blood turned ice cold really fast, as if my body was registering what he was saying before my mind did. I was dead…

“It’s the place where most of our accidents happen. Cuts, bruises, all of those things. We don’t have to go through it. You can cut through this little path over there and meet us at the other end.”

Everyone looked at me. I wanted to wet myself. The path laid before me, calling my name. I was drawn to it like a magnet, but the funniest thing happened. I sat in the raft.

“This is your way out. You want to get out?”

Deuce was looking at me, expecting me to bail. And that’s probably why I didn’t. I wanted to prove to him, and everyone else, especially myself, that I was not a coward. I wanted them to know that I could have as much fun as they did, even when I was terrified. I didn’t want to miss this and regret it for days to come.

“No. Let’s do it.”

I didn’t recognize my own voice when I spoke up. We took off quietly, and soon, I head the sound of the waterfall. My muscles were tense, my throat clogged up, and I was clutching the rope alongside the raft for dear life. The boulders were even more pronounced in that area, and right before the drop itself, we got stuck. Dee got out of the raft and gave it a little push to move it forward. We were now at the drop, a torrent of water rushing between a boulder and a cliff. I was holding my breath. Right then and there, I knew, clear as day, that we were going to fall. I couldn’t fathom how we would glide down that waterfall easily. I couldn’t see it. All I saw was me drowning.

We got stuck again, and the icy water splashed against my body, awakening all my senses. At this point, I was already gasping for air. Deuce and Dee pushed, moved, wiggled, trying to get the raft out of the tight spot. We started tipping, and I felt tears in my eyes. We were going to fall in. I was going to fall in, hurt myself, and drown. I remembered Dee’s initial instructions: do not let go of the rope! I didn’t. I held on, I sucked for air, and finally, Dee was successful at moving the boat. I knew because I heard him yell. Or was it Deuce? I heard a scream. “OOOOOHHHHH!”. I fell in the water.

That sucker was COLD! I was under water and didn’t even have time to catch my breath. So I had nothing in my lungs to hold on to. I was under water, and the boat fell right on top of me. To make matters worse, I was still holding on to the rope, so the rounded edge of the raft fell on my head, pushing me down. I couldn’t come up for air right beneath the shallow sitting pit of the raft.

I had to get myself out or I would swallow water and get it in my lungs. I remembered what I had learned from my ephemeral swimming lessons, and I kept hearing my coach’s voice, Cecilia, yelling at me from the edge of the local college campus pool: “Blow bubbles. Blow bubbles.” I blew hard, making the biggest bubbles I’d ever felt against my skin. Bubbles literally came crashing on my face as I kicked up and waved my arms to push the boat away.

My eyes were closed, but I could feel light on my face. I was close to the surface, and soon enough, with one last kick, I made my way up just in time, too, since I had no more air left in my lungs to blow bubbles. It took me a few minutes to realize that my life jacket was allowing me to float. I held on to the raft and tried to catch my breath. I could hear Deuce and Dee talking to each other and looking for me.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I finally saw Deuce come around the raft.

“Yeah, she’s okay,” he said.

I felt tears sting my eyes, and I tried not to cry. But I wasn’t sure why I wanted to cry. I was afraid, I was upset that I had fallen, but then I think part of me was just glad and proud that I had pulled myself out of the water without help.

Dee made his way around the raft and took me by the hand, pulling me to the side. He asked me to hold on to a rock while he flipped the boat. I was left alone, and I tried to regulate my breath. When they got back, I was still in the same spot. Dee got me close to the raft and had me hold on to the edge. Then, he leaned in, grabbed me by the life vest and pulled me into the boat. He pulled Deuce in, too, and I clutched my paddle while he stirred the boat in the right direction.

I turned around to see where Stephen and Kenita were. They were about to hit the drop themselves, but right up in that spot where we first got stuck, Kenita fell in the water. She fell hard, too. I heard it from a distance, and I got worried for a minute, as she didn’t come up. Stephen worried. She was stuck between the raft and a rock. But she was laughing, and soon, she was sitting back in, paddle in hand. Their guide maneuvered the raft with agility, and they went down smoothly, without a hitch. No flips, no turns, nothing… They were ecstatic.

Dee was smiling at me.

“Look at me,” he said.

I obeyed.

“Are you hurt?”

I shook my head. At least I didn’t think I was hurt, aside from the fact that my lungs, throat and ego were shaken up.

“What happened to you? Did anything bad happen to you?”

I guess not. I was alive. Had I died, then he wouldn’t be smiling.

“No, nothing bad happened. I told you it wouldn’t be too bad. I told you I would be here. You fell in, you got out. Everything irie?”

I smiled. Everything was irie! The worse case scenario had happened, just as I had rehearsed it in my head over and over again. Now that I had fallen in, gulped down some water, and gotten myself out of it, I felt I was ready for pretty much anything. Especially when he informed us that the Demon’s Hole was the worst of all the rapids. Now I could truly enjoy this ride…

Dee showed us how to high-five with our paddles: touch the paddles together, then slam them forcefully on the surface of the water. The sound was invigorating, and soon, we were all slamming our paddles. We even used the paddles to splash other.

The rainforest was breathtaking, rich with greenery and colorful splashes of flowers. We drifted towards a couple more drops, but we went down smoothly. Dee took the time to point out some of the local treasures to us as we glided on the water, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that he was truly knowledgeable about rafting and other things. He knew the surroundings by heart, just like he knew the river like the back of his hand. We learned about the Jamaican cotton tree (not really a cotton tree), the wicker tree (he broke a creeper and showed us how it was used for arts and crafts), the little bridge we paddled under that separates St. Ann’s parish from St. Mary’s, and even the local water management company that taps into the river’s water.

(Image from Caliche's Montego Bay Rafting)

We then made it to the famous rope, where Dee said I would be able to swim. I have to admit, it frightened me. The rope was hanging over a waterfall, and while I was looking for a way around this obstacle, the guides were demonstrating how to swing and dive. Soon, Deuce was swinging and hollering before he took his big dive. That looked like so much fun, I could not pass that opportunity either, especially when everyone was about to do it.

Dee was happy. He asked Guy for the rope, and Deuce was swimming in the pool below with a big smile, waiting for me to jump. I was nervous, and I wasn’t sure I could do this. But Dee kept on pushing.

“Come on. You have your life vest on. It’ll bring you right back up!”

Then, he pointed out that Deuce was down there, waiting for me, and that I should make him proud. When he said that, I definitely had to do it. Again, my competitive spirit was taking over, and I had to do this to prove something. He counted for me: one, two, three… I wasn’t ready. I had to breathe in and out first, convince myself that I wasn’t going to die, that I would be fine, and I held on to the rope like he showed me and I counted to myself. One, two…

I took off yelling, swung back and forth, hesitated a bit, yelled some more, and I let go. The water didn’t seem so cold anymore, and I fell right in, coming right back afloat. Even when I was in the water, I was still screaming. I couldn’t believe I had done that. I was proud, and Deuce as proud. Even Stephen and Kenita were proud. And I was happy.

We swam for a few minutes in the pool with Guy. Under the waterfall was another cave, smaller in size but with forming stalactites. I had never seen dripstone like this up close. We swam in the cave with Guy and took pictures before continuing our journey down the river.

(Image from Caliche's Montego Bay Rafting)

We finally made it to destination, where our driver was waiting for us with a smile. His car was ready to take us back, and he allowed us to take one final picture on our rafts before disembarking. Getting out was tough for me. My shoes were hurting and I had no balance on the numerous rocks that paved the river. But Dee and Guy were able to help us out, proving once again that they were always here to assist in every way possible.

After drying up and changing, we tipped our guides generously. I truly appreciated their help and their professional attitude. I wouldn’t have made the end of that journey without Dee’s calming words, and I was really impressed with his knowledge and experience. I realized, as we boarded the car, that I had had the most fun I’d ever had. WHAT A BLAST!

We were hungry, so Romeo took us to a little road-side bar he claimed was the “best jerk chicken” in town. Although we disagreed with him, we enjoyed sitting in the backyard under the metal tin roof, pouring hot sauce on our jerk chicken and pork. Every now and then, an almond or breadfruit would fall on the roof, startling us and reminding us that we were in the Caribbean, that things like that were bound to happen. I had accomplished a tremendous feat, and if I could do that, then what else could I do? I was ready to find out! I was ready for a canopy tour.

(Continued)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler -in Jamaica 8

July 6, 2007

The big day had arrived, and I was already guzzling down rum creams to calm my nerves. What on earth ever possessed me to agree to white water rafting? I hated myself for it, but more than anything, I wanted to go because I didn’t want to be a disappointment to myself. Our friends Kenita and Stephen were going, so why would I sit in the bus and let them have all the fun? I would really hate for them to come back, soaked from head to toe, with a smile on their faces, raving about their amazing experience, while I sat in a car fanning mosquitoes away and drowning my sorrow in more rum cream. I had to go for it! I had to prove to myself that despite my self-appointed title of nervous traveler, I could still have fun… Even if I risked death… Now was the time to risk everything. Not later. There may never be a later…

A driver from Caliché Rainforest River Rafting was picking us up at 9:30, and we had left a message for Stephen and Kenita to meet us in the lobby at 9 a.m. We hadn’t heard back from them, so after we had breakfast, we went looking. No sign of them. I started to worry that they weren’t showing up, so Deuce went checking our emails for any messages. I waited in the lobby, and just as I approached the front desk, I saw them, wandering aimlessly. I flagged them down. Friends! The first sign of hope of the day.

In the room, we worked the mini-bar for Kenita, my ever-lasting drinking partner. She wanted a good rum and coke, and I sipped on coconut rum and pineapple. Then, the time came for us to go to downstairs.

Our driver’s name was Romeo, and thank God Stephen could speak patois. We all let him sit up front and control the conversation, since he was the only one able to communicate with the driver. Deuce and I didn’t understand a word he said, and while Kenita understood, she wasn’t as fluent as her husband. Soon, we were pulling up by a little road-side shop where I exchanged my sneakers for some wa-ta shoes. Deuce bought his shoes, a pair of black, green and gold shoes, as well as a pair of waterproof cameras that we both knew were excessively priced.

Then, it was up the hills through another thick, green forest. The drive was once again frightening, but I was used to it by now, and besides, I was too busy regulating the rhythm for my heart. Every now and then, a sign would announce that the white water rafting site was near, and every time I saw it, I felt as though I was taking a step towards death.

Finally, we made it. The site was there, spreading before our eyes, an open field of green glistening under the blazing sun, still untouched. Caliché was just launching its Ocho Rios’ rafting, so the buildings, tents and toilets were not yet installed. Instead, I saw two rafts, one red and the other yellow, sitting on the grass. Two guides were leaning against the rafts, smiling at us, clutching their waiver forms, prepared for the journey ahead. My eyes darted in all directions: where were the life jackets? The helmets?

Suddenly, I had to pee.

I heard them speak of waterfall that we first had to visit before we headed to the river itself. So we followed our guides, Dee and Guy, through the thick bird of paradise and red ginger plants, tall bamboo trees and thick grassy bushes in the rainforest. My water shoes were too tight, and I could feel them pinch my toes as we stepped on rocks, wood chips, dirt, grass and leaves. During our ascent, I could hear the water rush furiously in the distance, but I couldn’t see it until we made a stop on the way. We stood on a cliff, and a few feet underneath, a glorious lagoon fed by a waterfall.

“Almost there,” our guide informed us.

We followed quietly, hiking up little steps carved into the ground, then going down steep ones further into the forest. And the, again, we descended steps delimited by wooden branches and covered in green moss. We were there. I could tell because the mighty roar of the water was closer than before. I looked up, and what I saw took my breath away. The waterfall was right before us, fifteen feet tall, cascading into a pool of glittering lapis-colored water. This had to be paradise! Had to be… If paradise was more beautiful, than I had to die right now just to go check it out. 

This was where we were starting. We had to see the waterfall, experience it, bathe in it, and then walk back to our original starting point for rafting. The fun, for explorers of the waterfall, was to dive into the water from the top. I knew right away that wasn’t happening for me. NO WAY!

Deuce and Kenita decided to go for it. They make their way down to the border, however, because jumping from the fall itself seemed too risky. The rocks glistened under the sheet of water and seemed slippery to them. The last thing they wanted was to lose balance and fall in. One could seriously get hurt going down.

Stephen and I were less adventurous. Him, because he didn’t like the idea of diving in deep waters unless he knew the exact depth. Me, because I didn’t swim well and I was way too nervous. We stayed on the steps and watched Deuce plunge, followed by Kenita. She went in feet first, and Stephen complained that she dove way too close to the cliff. The guides were somewhat disappointed that we weren’t diving, and saddened that the other two didn’t dive from the fall itself.

Dee, the main guide, asked me if I swam.

“I don’t,” I admitted.

“Ok, don’t worry. I’ll get you a life jacket. You’ll have your chance to swim when we get to the pool. You can swing from the rope and everything. I’ll take care of you.”

I try to smile. I’ll get my chance to swim? Who said I wanted to swim. He must have noticed the fear on my face, because soon after, he asked me:

“Would you be okay swimming on my back?”

I nod: “Yes, maybe…”

He promises once again to take care of me. I don’t know what that means but I’m too nervous to speak up. Dee and Guy go up to the very top of the fall, and make sure we have our cameras ready. Without even prepping, catching their breath, or counting, they take off one after the other and dive into the blue lagoon.

The guides showed us a cave that was nestled right behind the waterfall. Everyone went in crawling, and once they were inside, they could actually stand tall. I waited out on the steps while they had fun crawling in and out, forward and backwards, and took pictures with their waterproof cameras. Then, we went back to the rafting site. Walking back, my toes hurt tremendously inside the water shoes. If there’s something I really hate, it’s a pair of shoes that is too tight. My toes were begging for relief...

(Continued)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler -in Jamaica 7

July 5, 2007

Resorts can be dangerous, for the main reason that they offer all the temptations you can dream of. We had already eaten breakfast at the St. Ann’s, and I was already looking forward to lunch. We wanted to take it easy and not overdo things, especially since we had a big day coming: the next day, we were going rafting.

I was nervous the whole day, and the only way I could relax was to go to the beach and roast in the sun with a rum cream by my side. It had become my favorite drink on the island, especially the Sangster’s Brand. On the other hand, Deuce, who is already in love with coffee liqueurs (his favorite drink is the Black Russian) was besotted with the Blue Mountain Coffee Liqueur.

The ocean in Jamaica, I noticed, was never cold. Rivers were probably icy, but once you got in, the discomfort subsided quickly. Salt water, however, was always lukewarm. Even when we reached the area delimited by RIU, the water was still shoulder-high. There were very few pebbles in the water. All the area was smooth, white sand, and some occasional sea-weeds. My day consisted of tanning, dipping, tanning, dipping, and more tanning. Along side the beach, local men and women offered to braid or bead my hair, or sell me shells, coconuts, mixed CDs, and other items.

In preparation for my big rafting day, I had the great idea to go out jet skiing. A group of guides were already waiting at the end of the beach with their life jackets and jet skiis, and they showed Deuce how to manipulate the wave runner. I don’t know why I volunteered for this activity, but when it came time to hop on board, I had to practice my Lamaze breathing techniques.

We took off immediately, and already, I had a hard time keeping my butt glued to the seat. I was screaming sporadically, hysterical each time the Jet Ski bounced off the waves and sent me flying up. I tried desperately to keep my feet and my derriere grounded, and the best way to do this was to hold on to Deuce with one arm, and grip the seat with my other hand.

Things got a bit better, but I was still screaming because I couldn’t believe I was actually out on a Jet Ski. The last time (and first time) I had done this, it was in Puerto Rico near Gilligan’s Island with my friend Mayra while I was under the influence of three pain-killing rum and cokes on an empty stomach. Thankfully, I was drunk enough to not care when the jet ski died in the middle of the ocean, and I couldn’t yell out for help loud enough when a few boats passed us on their way to shore (they actually interpreted my screams for salutations and waved back cheerily). Then, Mayra decided we had to push the Jet Ski because it was actually stuck in a big, thick patch of sea weed. I protested, of course, because I was already seeing my feet tangling in slimy sea weed, chomped off by sharks, and drowning in the middle of nothingness. But since I was completely inebriated, and since she convinced me it was the only way out, I got out and pushed. I actually stood in the middle of gross algae and pushed the darn thing until it started again. That’s when I decided that all my water-related activities, if I had to do any, would take place once I had quaffed a dozen rum and cokes.

I started screaming for mercy at some point. Deuce was somehow excited by my banshee shrieks and was going faster, jumping over waves, and engaging in those dreadful, dizzying turns which made me sick to my stomach. Finally, I had to beg him to slow down on those turns unless he wanted me nauseated and unconscious.

Overall, I enjoyed the Jet Ski ride. I’m glad I went for it, even when I yelled and screamed. I found the ride thrilling and it did the trick in building up excitement for the next day’s feat.

When we were done, I was back on the lounge chair, soaking up the sun and sipping on some booze. Then, it was time to be back in the room, shower, and dress up. We had a dinner date with our friends at KnowJamaica, for their wonderful and unrivaled service. Marva Shaw and her son wanted to take us out to dinner at one of Ocho Rios’ most famous spots, The Ruins, which turned out to be our upcoming destination for Sunday afternoon. We were looking forward to discovering the site, since our friends Denese and Scott were to get married in that very location.

Marva and Javia picked us up and drove us to The Ruins, which is famous for its Chinese and Jamaican cuisine. Jamaica’s population also includes a good number of Chinese and Indians, who first made their debut as indentured laborers on the island in the mid 1800s. Their influence is notable in much of Jamaica’s culture, and once we arrived at The Ruins, we could detect the Chinese flair a mile away.

What makes The Ruins’ reputation isn’t the food, I found out, but the setting. This restaurant has the great fortune of boasting an impressive, seductive waterfall, and a lush tropical jungle trail. Tables are set outside by the rushing waters and ponds of Koi fish, and one literally has to speak up to be heard. As night falls, thousands of lights are turned on in the tree branches and illuminate the courtyard, turning this raw, untouched setting into one of romance.

For appetizers, we ordered samosas, while Marva and Javia ordered a soup. Then, we had curry goat, Escoveitched fish, and two different lobster dishes. We were thankful for their help in discovering Jamaica, and dinner was a token of our appreciation. Still, while we ate, Marva gave us a crash course on Jamaican history.

After dinner, we went out for another drive around town. We got to see how Jamaicans really party: down a narrow alley, someone or some place was blasting loud dancehall music; someone was grilling jerk chicken or pork; and hundreds of people conglomerated in that very spot, selling, buying, hanging out, talking, laughing, dancing. That’s how the locals did it.

Driving back to our hotel, I was feeling anxious about rafting the next day. So I naturally found myself speaking lovingly to Marva as if I were seeing her for the last time, and saying goodbye as if I was not planning on seeing her again. She tried to reassure me that it would be fine, that I would have fun, but somehow, I couldn’t quite believe that to be true.

The only problem we found with RIU, and this must be an island issue in general, was how complicated communication was. Our messages were never delivered on time, and sometimes were written on a piece of paper akwardly slid under our doors while we were out partying. Reaching our friends at their hotel was quasi impossible, forcing us to use RIU’s gift shop where internet use cost up to nine dollars for a half hour.

Our friends had sent an email and were meeting us in the lobby at 9 a.m. Deuce was excited, but didn’t have any problems getting in bed and relaxing for the next day. I was scared out of my wit’s ends, so sleeping was difficult for me. I tried to close my eyes but I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that was overwhelming me.

I tried to express to him what was making me nervous, and I was literally imagining the worse case scenario: I’d fall in the water and drown, the current would take me away, no one would find me, or I’d hit my head against a boulder and be knocked unconscious. I didn’t want to die in Jamaica. It was way too early for my death. I hadn’t seen the world, I hadn’t published my novel which was years in the works... I was imagining my mother wailing in Miami and my family crying because they had lost me on some exotic island. I was already seeing myself on the news as the school teacher who mysteriously disappeared in Jamaica’s white rivers… I don’t know when or how I fell asleep...

(Continued)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler -in Jamaica 6

Negril

Business was over. Now it was time for fun! We were off to Negril, which is another hour drive from Mo Bay. The drive was smooth and enchanting. KnowJamaica was at the wheel, and we were softly humming Bob Marley’s most famous jams before switching to some more modern music. After we stopped for a bathroom break at a little rest stop area, I fell asleep. When I woke up again, it was raining…

I tried hard not to be upset, but I couldn’t believe that the rain was actually interfering with my discovery of Negril. I was looking forward to this for so long! The sun was well-tucked behind dark clouds, and when we arrived at destination (a little beach-side hotel opened to the public), it still wasn’t out.

However, when I saw the beach, I naturally decided to put any hard feelings behind. My swimsuit was already on. We dumped our towels on a few chairs, claiming our seats at the restaurant/bar, and we ran into the water. By then, it was drizzling. I had stopped fussing and appreciated the charming splashes of raindrops on the water surface. The rain fell like a crystal curtain on the ocean, which was surprisingly salty. And then, timidly, the sun came out to play, caressing the surface of the water. For a minute, it was like swimming (or in my case, hanging on to Deuce for dear life) in a pool of mirroring gold. There were very few people on our side of the beach, and in the distance, two lovers swam circles around a fisherman’s boat and played hide and seek. I fell in love with the cool, laid back atmosphere that surrounded me. And I fell in love with Negril.

We stayed in the water for hours, just floating and observing our surroundings. Next door was another Jimmy Buffet’s MargaritaVille, and they were having a great fourth of July bash, jumping up and down on trampolines that were built into giant floating devices. The shore was all lined with little local beachside restaurants and hotels, and the more the hours flew by, the more people came out, walking hand in hand or strolling with their children.

Hunger finally lead us out of the water and drew us back to our table. We ordered some food and ate, and watched the sunset. Again, it was the best I had seen in a long while. Negril is famous for its sunsets. Located on the west side of the island, it’s where tourists and locals all go to watch the sun come down. We witnessed an amazing phenomenon: we saw the sand become pink. Then, it slowly became blue. Then, lavender… What was going on, we wondered? When we looked up, we understood the method behind the madness. The sunset was painting the sky in all different hues, and the sand was reflecting all those changes right before our eyes.

Once the sun had set completely, we went for a walk down the beach. The air was cooler, and everyone seemed more prone to party. MargaritaVille was alive, with a live band playing some well-known tunes. Further down, we encountered beachside villas and hotels, one more luxurious and quaint than the other. And straight ahead, we had a perfect view of the city, lit up like a Christmas tree in the dark. The high tide was in synch with the music around us, and every minute on the dot, the waves came crashing and foaming at our feet. It was night, and we were about to leave Negril.

The drive back was quiet, almost melancholic. The moon was out, and the stars jostled each other up in the midnight sky. We opened our windows to feel the breeze. If you thought Jamaica was splendid by day, you should see it at night. It will take your breath away. The foliage, the glistening waters, the tall coconut trees all seemed to be part of a corner of heaven Rastas might refer to as Zion. This must be the promise land. There was probably no reason to look elsewhere.

I stayed awake until we touched base at RIU. By then, we were exhausted. I was amazed at Javia’s ability to spend a whole day with us, driving, laughing, joking, enriching our minds, opening our eyes, and in the end, staying awake to take us to destination. It was about two p.m. when we got back to our hotel. That was definitely a true example of KnowJamaica’s commitment to its customers. He still had to drive back home…

RIU was still alive with laughter, drinking, and the discotheque was blasting music, inviting us to join the party. But we had had our fun, and our loyalty now lied with our beds…

(Continued...)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler -in Jamaica 5

Montego Bay

KnowJamaica, our selected driver for our stay in Jamaica, took us to MoBay for our meetings. On the way, he drove through little towns where the Jamaican life suddenly burst before our eyes. We passed Martha Brae, famous for its breathtaking bamboo-river rafting, and we entered the towns of Lucea and Falmouth. There, Javia, our driver, stopped for gas. It was a hassle pulling in front of the right pump, since the taxis had taken over and stalled us plenty. At the station, drivers pay an attendant to pump their gas, old-school style.

Deuce falls asleep for a minute while we drove to Mo Bay. But a lengthy slumber proved difficult. The roads were quite impractical, and we couldn’t quite lean back with our eyes closed. There was so much to see on both sides of the road, anyway, including my favorite: a little wooden and metal sheet shack, brightly painted, as big as a matchbox, called “Future Walmart.” Hilarious!

In Montego Bay, we passed the airport and made our way to the Freeport Shopping Center, which is not an actual shopping center but more of an industrial/office space (I should point out here that Jamaica has more KFCs than I’ve seen in one American city alone. You can smell them a mile away and they’re always crowded, and on the way back, the biggest one was lit up and packed at 10 p.m., on both its stories, drive-thru and courtyard!). After stopping to ask directions and being pointed towards different destinations (passersby literally pointed left and right together), Javia got us to our meeting at Chukka’s office on time. There, we met with heads of marketing who gave us a clear understanding of Chukka Caribbean (who they are, what they do, why they do it the way they do).

The fun part really began when Marlon McPherson, responsible for Chukka’s e-marketing, drove us to the heart of Mo Bay city to Doctor’s Cave, a charming little beach front hotel with tourists flock to for a five-dollar admission. Parking proved difficult, so once we passed Jimmy Buffet’s MargaritaVille and the Coral Cliff, we were dropped off at the entrance where we waited for Marlon. We were there to see one of Chukka’s most talked-about excursions: Sea Trek.

There was one of the first evidences for me that Chukka was one of the best excursion companies in the Caribbean. Once we met Nelson, the tour manager at the site, we knew he not only knew his job well, but he also had the ability, whether he knew it or not, to put his clients at ease. He greeted us in his wet suit, soaked from head to toe, and gave us a tour of the compression chamber, where the tanks and machineries were regulated and checked thoroughly on a regular basis before they took anyone on their sea trek tour.

Sea Trek literally is a stroll underwater. That’s my definition of it. After we are shown exactly how the compression chamber work, we follow Nelson who points out how the cables run from the chamber to the diving spot. There, a maximum of eight guests receive a safety training, sign a waiver, and are outfitted in their gear, mainly a helmet that sits on your head with edges that act like suction cups on your shoulders. The helmet does not, however, stick in the front, leaving an empty space where, amazingly enough (truly through the laws of nature), water does not seep. In other words, the air fills in your helmet so that you are breathing natural air while you’re under water. It’s like walking under sea with an air bubble around your head.

The reason why I was thrilled about this tour is that it is perfect for a wuss like me! You do not need to know how to swim, snorkel nor scuba dive to do this, and you can come as close as any diver can to the marine life. You are under 14 feet of water with two professional, knowledgeable, well-trained assistant divers, who make you feel secure and who keep an eye on pressure, comfort and all those little things that you worry about (there’s a ratio of three guests to one safety diver. If there are more than four guests, then two divers and a guide are needed). Whether you’re claustrophobic, hydrophobic, thalassophobic or God knows what, you’ll feel better with Nelson and his fellow guides at Chukka’s Sea Trek tour. Plus, the oxygen tanks and first aid kits are always handy.

As part of your underwater stroll, you will come up close to Jamaica’s marine life and even simulate feeding the fish. I say simulate because as part of Chukka’s motto, nature remains untouched. According to Dominique Peterkin, director of marketing, Chukka’s goal is to “leave nature the way it is and take you into it.” That’s why they do not feed the fish, so they won’t interfere with their eating habits. Also, Chukka grows new coral in the Sea Trek area so that the fish can feed onto natural reefs instead of human food.

By the end of our visit, we were elated. I was excited about coming back to Doc’s Cave to try their Sea Trek adventure. By the way, they call it Doc’s Cave for a reason. There’s an actual cave where locals believe the waters to hold miraculous healing powers. Hence the name…

Back at Chukka, Marlon and Dominique arranged for us to meet with the tour manager of the Zip Line Canopy Tour in Ocho Rios, where we were expected on Saturday for our actual chance at soaring in the jungle. Then, Javia was whisking us away to the town of Redding, in Mo Bay, where we were meeting Gilbert Byles, owner of Caliché Rainforest River Rafting tours.

In his office, pictures and posters of the actual rafting tour cause my heart to flutter. That looked frightening to me… We wanted to see the actual site in Mo Bay, and we wanted to meet the guides, and witness the prepping process. So we got directions to Nature’s Village, ways up in the hills of Montego Bay, where we were to rush and beat the bus loads of cruise ship passengers who were headed the same way to go rafting with Caliché. The directions?

“Go up the long hill, all the way till you reach the third crossing on the right where there’s a grocery shop and a car repair shop on the left. You turn right onto Lethi crossing and from there you travel downhill. You’re looking for Nature’s Village. If you pass the bridge, you’ve gone too far. If you pass the little church made of plywood, you’ve gone too far. Nature Village is on the right.”

After that confusing bit of information, we attempted to follow his directions. The drive uphill was both intimidating and breathtaking. The road was narrow enough for one vehicle. So it was a wonder to me how two cars made it, somehow creating an imaginary set of lanes. On the right of us, the mountain. On the left, cliffs. But I could hardly dwell on those precipices when my eyes kept traveling up to those tall, imposing leafy bamboos, the thick fern forests and other foliage that grew everywhere and formed a fragile semi-barrier between the cliff and the road.

Mr. Byles’ direction turned out to be right on the money. We go to the car repair (more of a junkyard, really) and the shop on the right, where two men were sitting, contemplating the wonders of life (namely us gracing them with our presence). We asked them where Lethi road was, and they both pointed (surprise, surprise) to the right. The drive up was even scarier and more amazing. No matter how desolate and impractical the road, the scenery was always glorious and entertaining. A farmer’s land was planted with banana trees and dead coconut trees (apparently, a rare and peculiar disease had ravaged thousands of coconut trees in Jamaica years back), yet was not at all fenced off. Little shacks on our right served as homes to many, and in their front yard, goats chomped nonchalantly on the green grass. Under his colorful hut, a Rasta was hatching coconuts open with a machete and selling coconut water while his little boy played out front.

Javia showed us what locals referred to as a “pipe stand,” which resembles a faucet firmly planted in the ground in front of a house and serves the same functions as a well. According to Javia, that’s where they come out to tap their water from. That’s why we love KnowJamaica. Even when they’re not cruising down their habitual route, they still use their knowledge to guide their clients. They know their island well and they want to share its beauty with us.

At some point, the road forked into two paths: one going up hill, the other going down. Both looked impractical, and the sign with the red arrow that pointed to Nature’s Village was slanted enough to generate confusion. We opted to drive downhill, and soon, we encountered a group of women making their way uphill. Javia stopped for directions in patois, but made the mistake of calling her “princess.” She sucked her teeth and kept walking. Deuce rolled his window down and asked her again, and finally got her attention. We were on the right path.

Soon enough, we arrived at Nature’s Village. The location was simply splendid. The vast yards sprawled in green, dotted with coconut trees and other exotic plants, and little outdoor tables and benches. Steps away, a few cabins and gazebos indicated that many events, other than rafting, could be conducted onsite. In the midst of all this, we heard the powerful roar of rushing water. The river beckoned below, commanding all visitors to gear up for the ride. It was the most beautiful river I’d seen in a long time, cascading over rocks and tree trunks, forming occasional pools of jade green water, then flowing again right between the wooden rainforest.

At our arrival, the guides were sitting on their rafts on the grass, expecting cruise ships passengers any minute. The man we were meeting, Veryl, welcomed us with a smile and was more than happy to introduce the guides to us. The most impressive one was of course the head guide, Mackell, also known as The General. Mackell was a tall, reserved man who greets us quite politely. We dipped our feet in the river. Even its texture felt different. It truly felt like velvet against my ankles, more caressing and tender than it sounded mean and merciless.

As soon as we were introduced, the buses arrived, carrying loads of tourists in their bikinis and water shoes (pronounced wa-ta in Jamaica). There, we witnessed first hand The General’s prowess. He had morphed from the quiet individual he seemed to be into a serious, imposing and quite experienced guide. He briefed his group of rafters with all the necessary safety measures (how to sit, how to hold a paddle, how to move, how to respond to commands). Everyone listened quietly. Not a fly flew by. Not a pinned dropped. It was serious business, especially for me who was about to pee in my pants.

 

Seriously? We had to sit on the side of the raft? Not in it?

 

As soon as the groups were geared up in life jackets and helmets, and as soon as they took off paddling, “all forward,” I rushed to the bar and requested a bottle of rum cream to calm my nerves. But it didn’t do much: Veryl came in and showed me the video, on his cell phone, of one of their rafting tour. On the tiny screen, the rafts descended down steep, monstrous, hostile drops where the water seemed unforgiving, and the rafters’ screams as they made their way down filled me with dread. I requested a second rum cream for the road.

(Continued...)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler -in Jamaica 4

RIU Ocho Rios

Back at RIU, it was back to having drinks and cooling off in the lobby. I give my vote hands down for RIU’s lobby as the best I’ve ever seen. I do have an eye for interior design and décor, and even architectural touches, and this resort flaunted the most handsome receiving space one could ask for, especially in the Caribbean.   It was spacious enough to hold a thousand guests, and opened up so that the island breeze flowed from the entrance to the other end of the lobby, which lead to the ocean. Here and there, agents settled at little tables to set up their tours, and guests engaged each other in chit chats and card games while reclining on wicker sofas.

We had to drink. Every day. It was inevitable because we could not go up to our room without passing a bar. And they had many: the Reggae pool bar and the Rastafari swim up bar (in the pool, literally, and you can sit around different little tables), the Blue Mountain bar salon (my favorite, because it is hosted by the most joyous and friendliest bartenders of all who take advantage of every opportunity to engage you or dance together while they serve up my Jamaica Rum Cream), the Dunn’s River Plaza bar, and the Sports Bar, open 24/7 and located right underneath us.

And of course, we had to eat. How could we not. RIU boasts six different restaurants to suit all eating habits. Most require reservations, but the St. Ann’s Buffet was surprisingly pleasing and was not as high-brow. The Pizzeria Piccola Italia was opened until two a.m., perfect for my midnight-cravings (their pizzas are small but have quite a kick to them, especially the jalapeno and pepperoni ones).

By the time this vacation would be over, I would need to make it to Mo Bay’s airport in a wheelbarrow. Thank God, RIU’s gym was available for us to work out, and the RIU staff had an extensive list of physical activities for its guests to select from, including water aerobics, soccer, tennis and dance. The real question was, did we work out?

 

July 4, 2007

Wednesday. On the agenda: visiting different tour operations and finding out what they’re all about. It’s a drive to Mo Bay to visit Chukka Caribbean, a mogul in tour operators in the Caribbean.

Chukka is known for its professional, thrilling and eco-friendly tours throughout Jamaica, including Negril, Montego Bay and Ocho Rios (that’s a total of 25 tour sites in Jamaica alone), and in other islands such as the Bahamas, Belize, the Cayman Islands and Turks and Caicos. In fact, they are pinned as the Caribbean’s Leading Nature Adventure Excursion Operator and are one of the top five operators nominated for the 2007 World Travel Awards. Plus, they offer an endless variety of tours: ATV Safaris, Jeep Safaris, Zion Bus Line tours, Horseback Ride and Swim, Zip Line Canopy Tours (which are Green Globe certified), Dogsled experience, Sea Trek Tours, River Kayak, Mountain Bike Adventure, Sting Ray Swim experience, Air Boat tours, Jungle Buggy tours, Dune Buggy Tours and River Tubing. I say endless because they actually launch a new exciting adventure every year. This way, you’re guaranteed to find a tour you really want. There’s something for everybody.

Next on our list will be Caliché Rainforest River Rafting, a company whose white-water rafting is so thrilling, it keeps you on the edge of your seat. Literally. You’ll learn why a little later. But if you’re looking to add a kick to your otherwise smooth vacation, then Caliché’s rafting would be perfect for you. Besides, why wouldn’t you opt for rafting in Jamaica? Caliché will take you on the best, most gorgeous rapids on the island, and this adventure is both fun and educational.

Then, if we had time after our meetings, we would dare a drive to Negril. I could not wait! I had heard so much of Negril’s natural beauty that I initially wanted to dedicate a whole day to it. But since we had so much on our agenda, we had to squeeze it in.

(Continued...)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler -in Jamaica 3

Next stop was the Dolphin encounter. My body was tensing up again at the very thought of swimming in deep water with some animals I had never been close to before, life jacket or not. “Deep water” was the key word here, and it’s all I could think about. So when we gathered by the water to learn about our interaction with these lovely sea creatures, I was literally on the verge of a breakdown. You see, I had observed a group of swimmers earlier during their encounter, and I had heard them yell and scream and splash and laugh hysterically. Could I do this?

No. I chickened out. I found a way out of this experience as soon as I found out that Dolphin Cove has a program for “touchers,” which only requires for guests to be in knee-high water and touch and kiss the dolphin. THANK GOD! The lovely guide quickly escorted me to the front desk so I could change my plans. I finally could breathe again. And as I waited for my group’s turn to touch the dolphins, I watched Deuce plunge in the blue waters and wait in line for his turn at adventure. First, Misty and Pepe (his dolphins) performed some clever tricks. Then, they swam with the guests who held on to their dorsal fins and let themselves be pulled around. Deuce fell in love with a dolphin and thoroughly enjoyed petting her.

Later on, it was time for the big event. Floating on the surface of the water, Deuce spread his legs and let the dolphins push him with force with their beaks against his heels. Soon enough, he was coming up from the water, standing on their beak. Then, they push with full force and let you fall into the water. That looked like pure, genuine, awesome fun. They were having a blast. And here I was, just touching…

My dolphin encounter was rewarding. I came close enough to a dolphin without having to deal with my greatest fear, and that turned out to be alright. My group was assigned Calypso, one of their Mexican dolphins (Dolphin Cove has 14 dolphins altogether). She was a true beauty, with dreamy wet eyes and amazing agility. Her skin was the smoothest thing I had ever felt to the touch, smoother than velvet or silk. I too had fallen in love with a dolphin.

Calypso danced, splashed, twirled, and swam at the speed of lightening. When she was done, she let us pull her head out of the water and kiss her on the lips. What an experience! I was thrilled. For the first time, I was touching a dolphin, and I could tell everyone I knew about it.

On the other side of Dolphin Cove, the school children who came in for a field trip were having a blast. Two little school boys were dancing and playing the maracas with the drummer, while little girls pulled up their uniforms to dip their feet in the water. They sat under the huts and share some treats, and the girls who didn’t sit were running from the boys who chased them around vigorously.

Lunch time was upon us. I was hungry, and a warm, Jamaican meal was all I wanted to taste. Dolphin Cove had that covered, too: rice and beans, greens, and a choice of chicken or pork with potatoes. Right next to us, staff members were holding the beverages in their cooler. In this thick Island heat, what better to cool you down than a bottle of Red Stripe? And this is coming from someone without much taste for beer. It was the perfect conclusion to a day in the life of a nervous traveler. Little did I know that the worse (or best) was yet to come…

(Continued)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler - in Jamaica 2

July 3, 2007

It’s there, but you can hardly see it. Not from the street, anyways.

To get to Dolphin Cove, you first need to tell your driver where you’re going. Then, once at destination, they pull over to the side of the road, let you out and escort you past the entrance door down a set of numerous steps, all leading to a corner of paradise. Because that’s what Dolphin Dove is. Paradise on earth.

Once you’ve made your way through the exquisite tropical foliage into the main office, the front desk guides you to your orientation, where you are offered several different tours to choose from. If you’re like me, then the orientation guide’s beautiful smile and sweet voice won’t suffice to soothe your sudden heart palpitations (the minute she said the words swim, deep water, and dolphins, I quietly hyperventilated).

After you sign up for your tours, then you’re in for the experience of a lifetime. We take a lengthy tour of the property, visiting the shark tanks, the stingray tanks; the dolphins’ swim area, as well as the mini-boat and kayak section. Along the pier, you can stop and shop for souvenirs at the gift shops, peak into the jewelry store where a pirates’ treasure chest is appropriately nestled in a cave, fitting with the name Treasure Reef, which Dolphin Cove is being re-branded as. Dolphin Cove is a part of Treasure Reef, and will soon adopt the name Treasure Reef, namely because of its vast array of activities found onsite. If you have a taste for the spirits of Jamaica, the rum shop is an excellent destination.

When you’re ready to start your adventure, you can start with the Jungle Trail, which takes you straight into the tropical rain forest that surrounds this four-acre property. Hiking through the woods, you’re headed for encounters with magnificent iguanas  in their petting center, goats and geese, snakes, macaws and other exotic species. You can even head for a cup of coffee under the Jablum Coffee Hut. Every stop is a learning experience, as the well-trained guides and trainers offer you a wealth of information on the subject.

My first nerve-wrecking experience at Dolphin Cove was with the mini-boats. Those three-seaters are fast and the ride can be a bit bumpy for a fraidy cat like me when cruising on the waves. They’re powerful, and yes, you will get splashed. I was clutching my towel the whole time. A little after we passed the reef area, the guide hands the wheel over to Deuce, who finds it amusing to take steep turns that churn my stomach. The guide looked over and smiled.

“Ya not drivin’ ?” he asked.

“No. Not me.”

There were only so many words that could come out of my mouth. But after a few minutes, I found my muscles relaxing, and all the tension slowly melting away. Our guide made sure we were comfortable the whole time while showing off the exquisite scenery around. Jamaica is truly a gem, as it spread before my eyes like a splendid emerald, flaunting its lush foliages and diamond waterfalls (Rio Chico is right next door, offering luxurious villas; its waterfall cascades down into the ocean and can be seen from Dolphin Cove).

(Continued)

Fabienne - The Nervous Traveler - in Jamaica

 

I like to think of myself as a traveler, not a tourist. I like to go where the locals go, eat where they eat, party where they party, and all that good stuff. However, I often find myself paralyzed with certain fears, and that unfortunate fact always interferes with my enjoyment of a location. For one, I am terrified of water. I am not a skilled swimmer, and I’ve been plagued with hydrophobia all my life. I am also terrified of heights, movement, spiders, onions cut the wrong way to look like spiders, whole octopus on a plate, and reptiles.

So when we decided to head for Jamaica, Deuce and I, I figured it would be the usual deal: eat at local restaurants, discover the rural areas, purchase artifacts… Then, he mentioned whitewater rafting. I felt my throat clogging up instantly. I’ve been paying my local instructor for as long as I could remember to teach me a few strokes, and I still go into panic mode as soon as the water level reaches my chin. I can’t even sit still for eye drops. The feeling of water on my face usually strips me of common sense.

And then, he said zip line tours, and I had to catch my breath. The very thought of dangling from a cable more than 40 feet above ground was as terrifying to me as riding the Pharaoh’s Boat roller coaster ride at the fair. Last time I did that, I was deprived of oxygen and sanity and vowed never to do it again…

I had always wanted to go to Jamaica. It was a life-long dream. But now that we were close to embarking on the journey and realizing this fantasy, I was a nervous wreck.

This is the tale of two adventure-lovers as they explore the essence of new, exotic locations. Starting with the Caribbean, Deuce and I are mixing with the locals and finding out exactly what this wonderful world we live in is about. First stop: Jamaica, Jamaica…

 

July 2, 2007

We arrive in Montego Bay airport, and I have a smile on my face. Ah, Jamaica. I was ready to hit the beach and drink coconut water by the shore with locals as we listened to Bob Marley. I had envisioned the stereotypical vacation in this island made famous for its rich culture, namely reggae, rum, jerk seasonings, and most of all, the laid-back attitude of its inhabitants. I was given fair warning: “Yeah Man” and “No problem, Man” would soon become part of my language. I was ready.

Boarding off, I was greeted by the source of my very fear. Tour operators like Chukka Caribbean and Dolphin Cove seemed to follow us down the windy halls as we made our way to customs, inviting us to be submerged underwater on a seatrek tour, horseback ride and swim, and surf in the ocean aboard dolphins. Already, I was dreading the experiences.

At the airport, the heat was on. A few fans hummed in the hall, missing us by a hair, barely cooling the thick air that wrapped around us. We slowly realized that we were no longer in the U.S.

“Welcome to the islands,” I said to Deuce as the customs officer stamped our passports.

Down at the carousel, it got worse. There were no fans there, so we stood in the heat, waiting for luggage that never came. My armpits were slowly melting in to a warm swamp of deodorant. In addition, every woman at that airport who flew in from Miami had the same discounted Macy’s luggage in hot pink, making the search for mine a true mission. When I finally zeroed in on mine, I understood that I could no longer make the mistake of buying cheap in order to save, especially when the culprit persisted on falling over under the weight of my assorted underwear.

After minutes of struggling with defective luggage, forgetting to properly fill out and sign our customs forms, and absent-mindedly walking into the men’s restrooms, we were on the bus to Ocho Rios, where we would be staying. There, Deuce and I exchange dreadful glances when our driver announces that the drive to Ocho Rios (Ochi, for the locals) from Mo Bay is actually two hours long. We all assumed it was only minutes away, and Deuce had arranged for meetings early in the morning from Ochi to Mo Bay.

“I messed up,” he said.

Our driver gave us a very lazy semi-tour as he attempted to negotiate the bumpy road. We pass the Ritz Carlton and Half Moon, a destination famous among celebrities. After a couple of these, our driver only speaks to tell us that we can use the rest stop for restrooms and drinks. There, a man asks me if I have dread locks. I tell him no, my hair is simply twisted. He nodded and kept smoking. I was no longer interested.

We bought a box of Pringles of five dollars, and we then spent five more trying to purchase jerk chicken, which turned out to be pieces of poultry cleverly hatched to look like jerk cuts but were smeared in barbecue sauce.

We stopped to drop off tourists to their resorts. Some, like the FDR (Franklin Delano Roosevelt resort), are quaint, charming, hidden among tree branches and blossoming flowers. Others, like the Grand Bahia Principe, are monstrous palaces erected on the ocean shore, with lobbies flooded with travelers.

Ocho Rios

Finally, we reached our destination: RIU Ocho Rios, another giant in St. Anne’s Parish, close to Ocho Rios. RIU is a beauty. The enormous lobby is crafted in fascinating Caribbean architecture, adorned with wrought-iron, wooden signs and chandeliers. This new development is the size of a palace, and as soon as we are settled in, we took off in a search for food. Mammee Bay, one of their venues, was about to close shop when we grabbed a bit to eat.

Later that evening, we were to experience our first tour operator encounter. Know Jamaica, who would be our main driver on the island, met with us to take us in the heart of downtown Ochi. Cruising through this little town, on the left side of the street (in Jamaica, the left side is the right side and the right side is suicide-that statement was validated with the numerous accidents we encountered, most of them involving tourists), we listened to Marva Shaw, director of KnowJamaica, and her son, Javia, as they showed us around.

In Jamaica, every town or parish has their own clock tower marking its center. The one in Ochi was a tall blue tower overlooking the shops, eateries and local businesses. Public transportation consisted of taxis that pick up about five passengers on a route, and inside the vehicles, passengers were hunched up to make room. We passed several arts and crafts shops, and arrived at a big, duty-free shopping center called the Taj Mahal. Marva explained that many tourists visit the Taj Mahal area for their shopping-frenzy.

Ochi was only about 20 minutes away from RIU. Because the town is really small, we made our way around it in about 10 minutes and drove back to the hotel. But this was nothing but a prelude. The excitement was only just beginning. Tomorrow’s destination? Dolphin Cove…