Day 6

A travelling day. Never fun. Miami airport was quite difficult to negotiate, with various steps which were not obvious. We flew with American Airlines, which involved checking-in at the airport (using a screen, but it needed a person to verify our documents so not possible to check-in ahead of schedule in the hotel). Then we had to add the labels and drop our bags ourselves, which always makes me nervous. But all was fine. The security check was as rude as most security checks in the US, with officials snapping instructions, and our stuff whisked away on the conveyor belt before we were ready, and then it arrived in a heap the other side, with no time to snatch our belongings before the rude person operating the machine dumped another lot of belongings on top—so we lost a nail (but not a finger) and nearly lost a passport, and the man next to us couldn’t find his backpack and all was confusion and stress.

To enter Jamaica we needed to complete an online form—the website was at the airport (though not advertised in advance, so was unexpected). We used our phones to complete the form while we waited for our flight, and then when we landed in Montego Bay we used the machines to scan our passports, and it photographed us and printed out a thin document, which allowed access to the country. It was very efficient.

One of the declarations on the form asked whether we had an fruit or veg. I had a packet of walnuts and almonds to snack. Did that count as fruit? I seem to remember that the outbreak of foot and mouth in the UK a few years ago was due to a lorry driver throwing away a ham sandwich. But I don’t know how anyone would know that, so possibly a myth—though the fact I had heard it made me wonder whether it was possible, and therefore whether carrying nuts—even processed ones from a supermarket—might be a problem. I decided I was too scared of security guards to not declare it, and too scared of Husband being annoyed because we would be delayed at the airport if I did declare it, so I threw them away before we left Miami. What a waste.

We arrived in Jamaica, picked up a hire car, drove to Jamaica Inn. Beautiful spot. It was like giving birth—instantly forgot the pain of travel in the wonder of being somewhere beautiful. I won’t remember it properly until I have to travel again, and then the horror of airports will come flooding back!

Day 7

I am writing this in our outside sitting area. We have never had one of these before, the hotel room is a suite, with the doors from the bedroom leading to a covered patio with sofas, dining area, fridge and lamps. The open side looks across the garden to the beach. Rather lovely. It’s currently raining. It seems to rain a lot here—warm wet showers that make the banana leaves glisten. In a few minutes it will stop, the sun will break through the clouds and the air will be warm and moist. Easy to relax in a place like this.

After breakfast on the terrace, we went to find a supermarket. Most were shut (it’s Sunday) but we found one online with a big car park, about 10 minutes from the hotel. Driving there was easy but we needed to be aware—lots of potholes in the road, fast drivers coming towards us and the car behind sitting inches from our bumper. We are the only people in Jamaica who obey the speed limits (but we’re foreign, I don’t expect they would be kind if we were caught speeding).

The supermarket was a mini adventure in itself. Supermarkets in other countries are always unfamiliar; this one had high shelves, and narrow aisles. We took a shopping trolley from outside, and searched the shelves for bottles of water and bread for lunch (because the hotel provides breakfast, tea and dinner, but we didn’t want to pay extra for lunches too). I felt very foreign, I was the only white person, and I was aware that people spoke very fast in a dialect that was hard to understand, so I walked round smiling at people but trying to look as if I knew what I was doing. At the checkout, the shop assistant told us we couldn’t take the trolley outside, there were other ones for going to the car. I went outside, found a metal trolley, started to take it into the shop, but a man stopped me, said it wasn’t allowed. I explained the situation, apologised, went back inside. The assistant told me I could not take the trolley outside. Another assistant appeared with a metal trolley, said she would push it, customers were not allowed. Now, this was difficult. In all probability, there was a system which we did not understand—but it was possibly a scam and the person pushing the trolley for us would expect to be tipped and be nasty if we refused. Difficult. Husband (who also spotted the possibility of a scam) politely refused, said we were fine, he could carry the water, our car was nearby. They looked confused (which probably indicates it wasn’t a scam) and let us carry our groceries. At the door, we were stopped by the man who wouldn’t allow me to move the trolley, and asked for our receipt. He took it, wrote something on it, handed it back. Husband checked it, we said thank you, left. I noticed as we left that the man who was behind us in the checkout also showed his receipt as he left. There was obviously a system here, which we didn’t understand. Maybe if you pack your own bag you need to show your receipt before you leave. I don’t know. We left, feeling foreign, got in the car, locked the doors—though nothing had been at all threatening, we just didn’t know the system. Drove back to the hotel without incident.

The hotel is lovely, too beautiful to describe though I’m hoping the photos give some idea. It’s not cheap—it’s Husband’s birthday treat, a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Most of the guests are English or American, and mainly white. The staff are all local, and I can’t help wondering what they think of us, a whole hotel of mostly white-skinned guests visiting their lovely island. I don’t know why I am noticing this. In SriLanka we were the only white people, and on some of our trips to India and to China. But it feels different here—I wonder if it’s because I know there was a history of slavery here, or because in the UK some of the dark-skinned people at university talk a lot about the history of slavery and systemic racism—whereas those of Chinese or Indian ethnicity do not, so I am less aware of the difference, less worried about how they view me, a white person. I don’t know.

We are right on the coast, but behind us are mountains. Everywhere is lush with plants. The coast seems to be full of resorts, with private coves and fancy hotels. The roads are less plush, and many of the buildings are either half-built or falling down (it’s sometimes hard to tell which one). There are brown dogs wandering around (not sure of the breed—maybe thin golden retrievers) and goats, and thin horses. Not sure why the horses are thin, as there’s lots of grass, maybe they are naturally lean, like the herd of cracker cows we saw in Florida which survive the heat because they are thin and muscular rather than fat. The road is lined with large billboards, often faded by the sun.

The island is very beautiful, and the people seem friendly and helpful. I will tell you more in another post. I have never stayed in such a luxurious resort, it’s such a treat.

Hope you have some treats planned too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x