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Walk Good: Travels to Negril, Jamaica

by Roland Thomas Reimer

269 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0684; ISBN 1-55369-871-1; US$23.50, C$26.83, EUR19.50, £13.50

'Walk Good' is an adventure travel story chronicling the experiences of the author in Negril, Jamaica. It's an escape to the sunny beaches, the seas and the mountain back roads of the island. The culture of the island, including the food, the music, a smattering of history and the character of the people form the backdrop of the story, which includes a visit to the notorious Hedonism resort, a scuba dive in the waters off Negril, a mass nude wedding on the beach in Runaway Bay and a trip to Bob Marley's mausoleum in the high hills of St Ann's.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts or Table of Contents      catalogue info

About the Book 'Walk Good' is an adventure travel story chronicling the experiences of the author in Negril, Jamaica. It's an escape to the sunny beaches, the seas and the mountain back roads of the island. The culture of the island, including the food, the music, a smattering of history and the character of the people form the backdrop of the story. Walk Good, a Jamaican colloquialism, means 'have a safe and comfortable trip'. Come on along! Ride the bus on the infamous long and bumpy road from Montego Bay to Negril. Take in the sights, sounds and smells along the way, enjoy the rustic beauty of the roadside villages. Lassive, our driver, deftly directs our bus around the myriad obstacles that are common to Jamaican roads; cows, goats, potholes, big ladies with baskets on their heads and oncoming traffic in our lane. A large boulder careens down an incline from a construction site, just missing the bus, one of the passengers rolls a ganja spliff and passes it around. On the beach in Negril we talk to an old minstrel who sings a Bob Marley tune during a glorious Caribbean sunset. We laugh with the vendors who work on the beach, including one tall thin cigarette vendor who looks like The Cat in the Hat (Cigarrrreeeeeettts!). In a small I craft stall we come face to face with Reddie Freddie, a wooden carving common in Jamaica that features a little man with colossal erect penis and a big smile pasted across his woody face. A bartender in a run-down shack of a bar introduces us to a local drink called Joncrobatty, which literally translated means 'Buzzard's Ass'. The drink lives up to its name. Observe the hilarious stumblings of the debauched neighbors, we call them 'The Jerks', that share the room next door. Relax on a sunset cruise on 'Wild Thing', a party boat where a couple of tourist girls have a bit too much from the open bar and do an impromptu strip show. Pose live on the World Wide Web (the camera is mounted on a coconut tree on the beach), taunt work colleagues, tuned in via their desktop computers back in the frozen Canadian tundra. Leslie, one of the chambermaids at the hotel is startled when she finds something unexpected in the bed ("I t'ought it was a dead mon!"). Experience Negril's night scene, complete with beach bonfires, flares out over the water, live reggae music and an incredible canopy of starts above. Are you up for a wedding on the beach? Join friends and family at the resort where they help my fiancée and I tie the knot. My daughters spot their first real Rastaman, complete with long dreadlocks and carrying a large ganja bud. The wedding is on the beach just before sunset in an idyllic setting, we dine in the slanting rays of the setting sun beneath the thatched canopy of a seaside restaurant. Our honeymoon is at the notorious Hedonism resort in Negril. It's a no-holds-barred, full-tilt adult fantasyland, complete with toga parties, nude hot tubs, wet T-shirt contests and ... well, you'll have to read the book. Take a trip to the north shore of Jamaica, where we arrive after a crazy ride with a wild-man cab driver. Attend a mass nude wedding on the beach on Valentines Day, complete with the media, helicopters overhead and placard carrying protesters. Make the pilgrimage up into the hills to visit the spiritual sanctuary where Bob Marley, Jamaica's legendary reggae music star, lays. On the way take in the sights in the pastoral rolling countryside. Back at the seaside go for a scuba dive in the crystalline waters of Runaway Bay. Trek up the highway to the famous Dunns River Falls, join in a human-chain and climb the cool cascading waterfalls. Return to Negril, our little slice of paradise. Feast on a steaming mound of spicy jerk chicken, do battle with a large and Herculean centipede (called 'forty legs' by Jamaicans) that lurks in the bathroom. Encounter a pack of beach dogs, dodge the aloe gel ladies on the beach, who try to rub you down with aloe gel and then charge you after-the-fact. Talk to an old fisherman friend (a Hemingway-esque Santiago) as you peruse his collection of shells and things from the sea. Jump off a 35-foot cliff into the sparkling emerald waters at The Pickled Parrot, a sunset café. Each chapter of 'Walk Good' is introduced with a Jamaican proverb. There is also an appendix of Jamaican Proverbs, which are pointed and humorous little gems of wisdom that are steeped in the local culture but apply equally as well to Western society.

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About the Author Roland Reimer lives in eastern Canada with his wife and children. By trade, he is an air traffic controller, having spent his career controlling aircraft and instructing new recruits. Currently, he develops computerized air traffic control systems. He is a licensed pilot and sport parachutist. His interests include sailing, scuba diving, fishing, photography and mountain biking. His love for Jamaica was initially formed on a trip to the island in the mid '70's. Since then he has visited many islands, but always returns to Jamaica, just because it feels like home. Roland is working on his second book, an adventure novel situated in Montego Bay and, of course, Negril.

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Sample Excerpts

Excerpt One:       I find myself walking down the road towards town and the Yacht Club. There are several jerk barrels and patty stands along the road here. The smell of curry fills the air intermingling with the scent from the sea.       The Negril Yacht Club is my last stop of the night. Curiously, there aren't any yachts here and there's no place to tie up if one did come, but the name beckons. Walking in from the parking lot I see a huge island style bar that's three deep with people. The barmen are hopping trying to keep everybody happy, but they're falling behind, way behind. The Red Stripes, rum and pina coladas are disappearing as soon as they're put down. The club has a large open-air bandstand and patio that overlooks the sea. There's a good-sized crowd out on the patio too, grooving to the band. Many are up dancing. The island girls are up there rolling their hips like only they can, it must be genetic, because I've never seen any white girl make moves like that. Beyond the patio is a great view of the sea. Along the sea wall that rims the patio are several tables covered with necklaces and small carvings. An entrepreneur has set up a gambling game at one end of the plaza. The action is fast, wads of Jamaican money are rapidly being handed back and forth across the table.       The night air is filled with music, laughter and the jumbled banter of a hundred conversations. I sit on a stool near the bar, lean up against a bamboo post, sip on my beer and take in the crowded scene. Beyond the bright lights of the club, a spray of stars, like glittering diamonds on black velvet, decorate the night sky. I look out over the dark sea, just then a BIG fireball meteor glides across the sky leaving a long lumpy orange trail. Its passage leaves me awestruck.       'Is this place for real?'       I look around to see if anyone else at the bar has seen it, but apparently no one has.       From the corner of my eye I catch a flash of red near the bar. Whoaa! A beautiful young Jamaican woman in a short skin-tight red dress is looking at me. She smiles. She's gorgeous. I can't help but smile back. She slinks over, locking her shining eyes with mine. She lays her small warm hand lightly on my bare thigh midway up.       Okay, I'll admit it, I know she's a working girl, but I am enjoying the moment purely for its face value, I can't help it, I was born male . . remember? The gold straps on her dress flash against her perfect chocolate skin. I feel like biting into her shoulder. She is an African queen.       "Hi," she says, pushing closer to me.       Pheromones drift up from her skin triggering my basal instincts.       "What's you name?" she coos.       "John," I say, "yours?" But I already know; it's Temptation.       "Exotica," she says. Well, I wasn't that far off. She rubs my inner thigh, higher this time. We exchange small talk. I wallow in her beauty. She moves beside me, placing her free hand on my shoulder, then she rests her head there. Delicate waves of scent from her perfume wash through my nostrils, it's like breathing ambrosia. This is pure torture.       Then she pops the question that I knew inevitably would come. "Do you want some company tonight handsome?" 'Oh yes, I thought you'd never ask, lets go,' I think, but I don't vocalize it.       Beelzebub: 'Go for it!' Remember what they say -- 'what goes down        in Negril stays down in Negril'.       "Don't tempt me darlin'," I say instead.       Virtue: 'Good boy.'       She backs away a little and looks up at me, tilting her head and pouting slightly, "Come on."       "I really can't . . . honestly . . my wife is back at the room . . and she's expecting me."       This doesn't discourage her. Instead, she carefully purses her lips, redistributing her red lipstick, and then puts her ringed index finger on my chest making little swirling movements, "Maybe I should come back to your room with you and we can both wake her up?;quot;       Several images filled with intertwined naked torsos, one of them black, immediately and involuntarily flash through my mind.       Exotica, seeing my hesitation, raises her eyebrows, "Hmmm, how about it?"       "Ahhh, nono, thanks, I don't think so," I sputter, but the images persist and become increasingly more erotic. She presses a small scrap of paper into my palm.       "Call me if you change your mind honey, we'll have fun." She moves away, her hips catching the humping rhythm of the Ark Band.       I take this as my cue to leave.       The parking lot is a jumble of rent-a-bikes and taxis. There's one with the name 'Salti Bwoy' stenciled in big silver reflective letters across the top of the front windshield. I grab it for the quick ride back to the hotel.       I fall asleep to the gleeping sounds of the little tree frogs.

Excerpt Two:       I creep tentatively to the edge of the cliff, my toes clutching mightily at the rough cement pathway. There's a circular platform at the edge of the drop-off. I crouch down and lean forward to peer over the precipice. Thirty-five feet below is the sparkling blue Caribbean.       It looks more than thirty-five feet to me, much more. The water is crystal clear and I can see down to the sandy bottom another twenty feet below the surface. When the height of the cliff is added to the depth of the water and my six feet are thrown in, I'm looking sixty feet straight down, but even from this height the water looks so very inviting, and in spite of the slight vertigo that I'm feeling, I really do want to jump.       It's calm today. The sun, high in a cloudless sky, massages my shoulders, already brown from weeks under its hot gaze, with familiar, comfortable heat. I look through the spangles of sunlight sliding over the surface of the water to the bottom. It's mostly light colored sand, broken by the occasional darker patch of eelgrass and the pink of coral heads.       I'm standing on the cliff diving platform at The Pickled Parrot; a restaurant nestled in the belly of Pirate's Cove in Negril, Jamaica. Amy and I had come here to swim, have a few Caribbean cocktails and catch the sunset. The Pickled Parrot is our number one, all-time- favorite spot for watching Negril's glorious sunsets.       I retreat a step from the drop-off, turn and, for the third time, read the cautionary sign propped against the seaward-facing wall of the thatch covered, gazebo style restaurant-bar. In bold white lettering on a bright red background it proclaims;       CLIFF       JUMPING       IS DANGEROUS       DO AT OWN RISK       Pickled Parrot       I recall the words of the young rope swing attendant when I asked him about jumping off the cliff. "Keep yu feet togedder," he said (I had already thought of that). "Hit de water feet first," he told me, "doan belly flop or yu split yu belly wide open." Not exactly words of encouragement but it's nice to know what you're getting into.       I look across the cove to the diving platform at the Pirates Cave, another cliff-side restaurant about one hundred yards away. The drop there is forty feet. A young Jamaican man executes a perfect swan dive from the platform. He knifes into the water with hardly a splash. A few seconds later he bobs to the surface, lets out a war cry and gives his dreads a shake. It looks easy enough from here.       Except on days when the water is too rough, which are few and far between in this nook of paradise, there are always a few tourists who dare to jump the cliff. It's fun and provides a sideshow for the patrons of the restaurant. There's a rope swing too, and I'd done that quite a few times, bellowing like Tarzan as I arced out over the water. But the rope swing is situated on a lower terrace and the drop doesn't look anywhere near as scary as does my present view from the cliff top. Two days ago Amy had finally gotten up enough nerve to go off the rope swing. She squealed when she let go of the rope, limbs flailing like propellers. She crashed into the water making a surprisingly big splash for someone her size. When she came back to the surface she was minus her bikini top.       Today we had watched several cliff jumpers, and as usual, every one of them survived the plunge. There was one kid, who looked to be about fifteen, who jumped. He took a long time out on the platform, but he finally did it. He survived too. It makes me wonder if the odds are for me or agin me. That's how it all got started. After the kid surfaced I said, "If that young buck can do it,then so can I."

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Catalogue Information

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