As many places are in that part of the world, Jamaica is an extraordinarily lush and beautiful island, with soaring coconut trees, white sandy beaches and deep blue waters. The scenery is nothing short of breathtaking at almost every turn and what with the perceived “chilled out” nature of Jamaicans and their lax stance on certain recreational activities that are usually deemed as inappropriate in western culture, it's no wonder that thousands of tourists come flocking there from all over the world for a week or two of partying like you probably couldn't get anywhere else on earth. Here is possibly one example as to why Jamaica is so popular.
I was lucky enough to stay in a very nice 5 star resort in Montego Bay: an exquisite, all-inclusive vacation bubble where you would see no reason to leave the resort for much and, in most places in the world, certainly wouldn't expect to find any “dodgy dealings”, or similar goings on. The reality is that I had not been off the plane for 4 hours before I was offered a sample of Jamaica's biggest (illegal) export whilst enjoying my jet-lagged insomnia on the private beach at 2am. There I was, all by myself: when suddenly, out of the blue, a shadow comes skimming across the water towards me. I heard a distant, heavily-accented call of “Reeeespec mon. Won lov. You lookin for a likkle bitta Ghanja, ma frien’?” The figure came closer and revealed himself to be a Rastafarian, dreadlocks thick and black flowing halfway down his back, travelling on a hybrid surf board/kayak along the shallows of the sea by the beach, which he propelled with some sort of makeshift oar that appeared to be made out of a sugar cane and a pizza box. Attached to his vessel was a medium-sized wooden compartment in which, presumably, he stowed his wares.
This was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life.
It might have been down to the sleep deprivation but, having politely declined the gentleman's offer, (along with the several counter-offers he levied in order that he might change my mind after my initial settlement), I left the beach feeling, I'd say, equally bewildered as a Victorian housemaid would be if Jamie Oliver travelled back in time and started attempting to “revolutionise” her dinner menu. Don't get me wrong, this wasn't the first time I'd been offered drugs; but to have the stereotypical Jamaican thrust in my face all so soon to the beginning of my trip really surprised me, as I was expecting to find that Jamaica had its own culture outside of western presumptions. If I was to find any shred of evidence contrary to this notion, it certainly wasn't going to be on the resort, or anywhere in Montego Bay for that matter. From freely available weed and 'Hedonism' - a renowned sex resort for singles - to the Reggae-themed clubs and Jamaica's Bobsleigh Team café bar... oh, and Bob Marley's grinning Cheshire Cat face EVERYWHERE you looked, from t-shirts and mugs to on the toilet paper and tattooed to cats (OK, not that extreme)... life in this part of the country was, if anything, an apparent parody of Jamaica itself. It was not until halfway through the trip, when we got to leave Montego Bay and take a trip to the other side of the Island, before I experienced the real Jamaica.
From what I saw the Island is, in general, extremely poor. There are some incredible mansions with acres of well-kept land here and there, but the locals told me that these mostly belonged to wealthy Americans, or remnants of the old slave dynasty. However, most of the land is dotted with houses – shacks really – that look either half built or half destroyed; it's hard to tell which. Whereas on the coast the locals will make their living from exploiting Jamaica's infamy, inland they get by mainly by trading food stuffs. I saw very little in the way of service industries – perhaps the odd hairdressers and petrol station – but little more. The locals seemed to spend their leisure time... well... just sitting around and doing nothing. No wonder they smoke so much weed there, right?
This is another curious thing about Jamaica – the cannabis culture. Westerners may hark to their romanticised visions of Jamaica and the infamy of Bob Marley and the Rastafarian movement’s fondness for the “holy herb”; of the tropical inlands of the country smattered with vast cannabis fields and friendly dread-locked tour guides, stoned off their faces, smoking up on the job. The reality is that those days of Jamaica are over. In the 70s, yes, this would have been a common sight, but the “war on drugs” that big brother America began in the 80s has totally changed the Jamaican relationship with the herb. Army helicopters circle the main production areas and are quick to root out any large and obvious harvests so that growers are forced to plant their crops in disguise amongst tall trees. This being said, cannabis is still thought to be Jamaica’s biggest export; I even came across a billboard advertising Appleton Estate Rum as “Jamaica’s biggest (legal) export”. Add to this the fact that the use of the herb is so engrained into the culture and one can see that Jamaica has no escape from its weedy past – even if it wanted one.
So why does Jamaica pander so much to the American will? Why doesn’t the Jamaican government legalise the plant? In this respect, there seems to be a great deal of saying one thing and doing the other. I went to a great club in Montego Bay which surely stated “NO DRUGS” as one of its rules. Yet, one only had to stand out the back of the place for a minute and you would get passively mashed from the amount of smoking going on – right in front of the bar! I asked a local partier whilst at the club about the legal status of weed. He replied that the police turn a blind eye to any local who uses; but that it’s a different story when it comes to tourists, as the police know that a westerner would rather part with his dollars than spend a night in a Jamaican jail. And you can’t blame them. If you were that poor there’s no doubt that you would resort to bribery also. There’s also no doubt that you’d fill your shops with Bob Marley and Bobsleigh team merchandise. Money is money, after all.
But what a sad state of affairs. For the thousands of westerners that travel to Jamaica for their holidays, all they see is a land of whimsical escape, sapphire seas, Red Stripe and spliffs on the beach and, if they’re staying at Hedonism, probably a relaxing genital wart or ten. In the real world though, Jamaica is plagued with violence, poverty and debt and has been forced to prostitute what little is left of its culture to an ever-hungry consumerist machine. Even in the hotel I was staying at there was a very real and obvious hatred emanating from the staff who, as is their complete right, probably have as much a skewed idea of the west as we have of Jamaica. But even though not all of us are obnoxious, drunken, foul-mouthed, lurid, American money puppets, most of us are, so it’s no wonder that we’re all forced into that bracket.
Jamaica is like a 20-something-year old gold digger who has just married an ageing millionaire. It has a beautiful face. But an ugly heart. A truly wasted paradise. What a shame.
