On the hill above Negril

We spent a couple days in Negril, returning today. There was a bit that was ordinary (I'll report a little later). There was a bit that was unusual. That is the subject of this post.

Uncle Paul had heard about a house up in the hills. He had an idea where it was, but no specific directions. We headed out of town in the supposed direction, but found no landmarks or clues to the place. So we took a turn up toward the hills, hoping to find it.

Along the way we passed the shacks where the hotel workers live. There is not much proper housing to be had in Negril. As we went, we asked frequently where this place was. The first guy we asked (a bottom of the hill guy if I ever saw one) told us "It's on the top of the hill, in the flat part. But don't go up there! There are really bad men up there. They will attack you!" We ignored him and went on.

So, past the curly wires of distribution...

and past the thicket of electric meters (each and every one must pay),

and past Scrub-a-dub car wash and striptease club (with its Thursday night pyjama night). Something tells me not too many tourists make it up here.

On up the hill we went.

Soon we had reached near the top. Along the side was a rum bar. These are frequent in Jamaica. They are small shacks with a couple of stools and a plank bar. The windows are open, with a shutter to close at the end of the night. We shouted up to the people inside "Can you tell us where this house is?" A middle-aged bredda maan (brother man - a Rastafarian) came out, eyes red and inflamed. He told us, "Yes, man. It's down the 'ill, back that way a likkle. Go on up the 'ill, man. There is plenty ganja up der. Smoke a stick. Enjai yu life. We got yu baack if police come."

Jamaicans often substitute "k" for "t" in double "t" words. They also don't pronounce their 'h's. After we drove on, Uncle Paul told me "That guy was weighed down by a quart of white rum." We went down the hill, if you want to know.

Next guy we saw was starting a fire alongside the road (in a kind of cave in the limestone). It was hard to tell the purpose of the fire. It may not have had one, given all the smoke (ganja smoke, that is). This guy was smoked out of his gourd. He concurred, though, telling us "Gwan down the 'ill. The 'ouse down der."

Next we stopped by somebody's front porch. These people knew the house, but told us "It burn down long time now. You can still see it, though. It's just down the 'ill. Fin' de football field, then turn."

Then we started getting more specific directions, finally getting "Turn right at that sign, then drive on." So, we turned right and drove up a goat track in Uncle Paul'x BMW X5. As we drove we dodged rocks and looked out for the very bad men. We didn't find them, but pretty soon we found a dump truck and and old guy leading a young guy on a horse. Then we saw the house. No kidding!

We asked the old guy if we could look at it. He said "Sure. There is a guy doing a survey there." So, in we drove, then parked. And, sure enough, there was a house. Sure enough, it was burned out. But what a house!

It was huge, with lots of rooms and passageways. The walls were limestone and thick - maybe 3 feet thick in places! The inside looked like it had been fancy.

It had really nice tiles and lots of windows. It had been two stories tall, at least. It was so old that the benchmark in the yard looked like it might have been put in by the British. Sure enough, right over the top was a modern theodolite with GPS hanging on the side. Later on we drove past another unit down in town.

The view ranged from mountains

to the beaches of Negril.

The grounds were planted well - huge almond trees, a giant rubber tree, and what we would call locusts in America. Giant seedpods, at least a foot and half long...

Outside, under the almond tree was a patio. "Watch yu 'ead!" The nuts hurt when they hit.

While we were looking around a couple of denizens approached. They wanted money, but they did not offer to attack us. Both of them had fairly gigantic spliffs in hand. There was a distinct odor of skunk weed around the whole time we were there.

Apparently one of these guys had lived in the house before it burned down. He attributed the fire to a hash oil operation that got out of control. What a shame! None of the hash oil was saved.

I snapped some tiny flowers...

This yellow one was only about 1/4 inch across.

Then we looked at the cistern. It didn't look too appetizing. Not much choice, though, sitting on top of the hill.

This plant look a bit like ganja, but wasn't.

We took off, leaving the rubber tree to guard the house. Kind of puts your college apartment rubber tree to shame, doesn't it?

Going down the hill was no where near as fun as going up, though.