Port Antonio
Port Antonio
This weekend, we complete our first couple-weekendtrip here from Durga´s Den. Saturday through Sunday, we visit and experience the city of Port Antonio on the eastern part of Jamaica. After we have surprisingly welcomed and showed Rafi, a new volunteer from Bavaria, around the farm, we pack our small bags and leave the farm behind, while Miki drives up Orange Hill with the big truck: “Have a good trip!” “Yaman!” Our original plan of taking the comfortable but still fairly cheap bus (Knutsford Express) is knocked out by our departure later than 11:20 am, and luckily Lise is fast with an alternative solution on phone. Some moments, I´m thinking about cancelling the trip due to the fact that we are far behind on the blog and have experienced so much already; but like last Tuesday, we choose to drink the sweet fruit punch of life while it´s still refreshingly cold (Ok, maybe enough metaphors for now and I´m kinda thirsty while writing), and feel like its now or never and grab our bagpacks.
We will take the “local” way of transportation: the minivan from the Ocho Rios transportation centre. Sounds like a good idea, and an even better one when we ask for the fee. “500 Dollars.” Another passenger tells us while waiting on old concrete benches in the noon-sun shade among dust, vehicles, and traveling people among vendors. “Jamaican.”, I ask with a small incline in tone while ending my reply. She grins and nods. 500 Jamaican roughly equal 4 US Dollar for 2 hours of drive. “How is that even possible?!” we ask ourselves.
Later, we´re 17 passengers gathered in the Isuzu i-van after the first three minutes onboard my right thigh is sweating being pressed against Rieke´s leg. And the driver has not even finished his take-away fried chicken yet. We´re still parked in the route-taxi- and bus centre. Through the open door, I suddenly observe to women with lighter skin colour than the surrounding crowd and a massive bagpack -and they obviously want to go to “Portie” (Port Antonio) as well. “Tough luck”, I think to myself, “they´re too late.”
But, Jamaica!, and we´re 20 souls rumbling on the Northern Coastal Highway eastward, luckily without one closed window. The driver, who is conversating with two passengers in the double passenger seat and is looking them into the eyes way too often, is staying tuned to a dancehall-reggae-mix that´s blast out of a speaker under my seat. The two woman who enter the bus as the last passengers are from Germany, and after we´ve smalltalked a little, Rieke and I listen to music selected by ourselves through headphones the leftover trip.
It´s a beautiful ride along the coast. Sometimes there´s nothing but few feet of grass in between us and the surf and at other times, the entire van is getting car sick by the winding road up into small hills. All we see is green, blue, and sunshine.
At one point, a minivan coming in our direction flashes it´s lights signalizing an event further up the road. The driver is completely relaxed, so “it cannot be police control coming”, I think, “cause this MUST be illegal”. I mean, it´s against the law to be unbuckled while driving here.
The driver buckles up.
*inner shm at the Jamaican laws and their enforcement*
So, the police doesn´t mind 19 unbuckled people in a 9 seat vehicle, AS LONG AS THE DRIVER IS USING HIS SEATBELT! :D
Thank God and Jah that we arrive at the Port Antonio transportation centre 2.5 hours later. I get out and think, it´s just a small stop, cause I´m looking right onto endless miles of Caribbean Sea. But what great spot for a ZOB.
Accidentally, I confuse East- with West Palm Avenue and our trip to the hostel (“Porty Hostel”) turns into a small hike where a nice local tourist guide and a (“surprise!”) German crewmember of a docking sailboat are so kind to share their experience and knowledge regarding this town while we walk in the right direction.
The heart of the city is marked by a clock tower that´s out of order and the townsquare´s smaller brother is missing a tooth; the monument for all fallen Portland Parish soldiers in World War´s is missing World War II. However, this first impression of slopiness is drastically drowned by the vibrance of people in the streets, shops, market stands, and traffic.
Feeling a bit insecure about a for us unknown part of this Island in the beginning, during the next 24 hour we get closer to the feeling of what our traveller´s guide describes as a good approximation of real Jamaica. Here are some pictures and attached descriptions of our weekend adventure:
