Tuesday, February 14, 2012.
Jamaica. Jerk. Up The Falls. Falmouth.
Out first port of call is Falmouth, Jamaica. It's the first time I've been to the distinctive island country since a week-long press trip in 1975. That was my first travel to another country. Everything that happened multiplied its importance in my mind. I loved Jamaica. Snorkeling the black coral reefs off the then-newly developed Negril Beach was to me astonishing. Negril--on Jamaica's western coast--is now overdeveloped. But back then a long ride down a rough road was necessary to get there, and it didn't have telephones yet.
I always wanted to return to Jamaica, but none of my plans in that direction panned out. Meanwhile, the place has acquired a reputation as being almost as dangerous as New Orleans (both sides of this comparison are exaggerated, I think). Talking to people on the ship, I heard tales of overly aggressive street vendors and abductions by cabdrivers of their passengers. The country is poor and getting poorer, with a drug problem on top of that.
That in mind, we went into the town of Falmouth with some trepidation. This proved unnecessary, thanks largely to a cab driver who showed us convincing official sanction from the authorities. Keith Thompson (876-868-5019, in case you want a good guide to Jamaica) was not only friendly and optimistic, but well spoken and extraordinarily knowledgeable, even about trivial questions. "What kind of tree is that, with the orange leaves?" Mary Ann wanted to know. "Almonds," he said. "They grow wild here. They lose their leaves this time of year. The nuts are ready in September."
The buzz aboard the ship had it that it was almost inevitable that an independent cab driver would offer to sell you some marijuana. This never came up with Keith, except when we asked about what looked like a football field. "That used to be an airfield where the smugglers would fly in and out with bales of marijuana for Florida," he said. Then he told a long story of how that wound up getting busted, and how police and criminals sometimes work together, and sometimes not. And that was the end of that sordid subject.
Keith drove us to Dunn's River Falls, Jamaica's most famous tourist attraction. It's well known to James Bond fans (it's featured in two movies). The falls drop 600 feet over smooth limestone slabs. You start at the beach and climb up, through cold, rushing water. With my ankle still a little tricky from my accident a year ago, my climbing the falls was out of the question. Besides, I did it already, as a twenty-four-year-old.
But Mary Ann said that she'd always wanted to climb the falls. She had misgivings, but wound up renting a pair of water shoes and heading up. I followed on the parallel trail, taking pictures, as she conquered the falls easily, moving up the torrent at least as rapidly (no pun intended) as I climbed the trail.
That victory won, we asked Keith to recommend a place for jerk pork and chicken. Of course, he knew that answer: Scotchies, a little east of the falls. It's a chain, a new one operated by Scots who owned property in Jamaica. On one of their visits they went to a jerk cook-off, and hired the guy who won to help them develop the place.
The cooking and dining areas are suitably primitive. Branches of a small local tree form a grill over a charcoal fire. The meats are placed right on the wood, then covered with corrugated tin roofing panels. The wood smolders and the tin traps the smoke. The well-marinated meats pick up a great flavor. It's like barbecue, but with a bit more of a grilling characteristic.
Scotchies's jerk chicken comes off the grill as a butterflied whole bird. The chef chops it into what could only be called chicken steaks, with cross-cut bones in the middle of the meat. He wraps it in foil and hands it over. No sauce--the chicken is juicy and flavorful enough not to need one.
The pork--cooked the same way--was even better. It looked as if it would be dry. Solid was a better word for it, its the colors changing through the interior. It was superbly good, especially the pieces with a little fat clinging to it. We had a side of rice and peas (the Jamaican answer to red beans and rice, with more rice and smaller beans). Scotchies makes its own hot sauce, which was very hot indeed.
At the end of the meal Keith--who joined us for lunch, our treat--asked whether he could have the leftover bones and gristly chunks to bring home to his dogs. He could not have said anything that would have delighted Mary Ann more, and he moved into the top ranks of our All-Time Cab Driver Hall Of Fame. Aside from his great attitude and familiarity with his country, he had an interesting personal story. (Born in Jamaica, moved to England was he was eight, married, four children, divorced, moved back to Jamaica, married again, very happy.) Having him take us around for the day cost us $180 including the tip. Nobody got a better tour.
Back at the port around four. The ship would not leave until five-thirty. Mary Ann will not waste a second of port time, even if it means having to make a running jump for the gangplank as they pull it up. We took a tour of Falmouth on a tram, and re-learned a lot of what Keith had already told us, but this time while passing in front of the historic places. Falmouth--founded in 1769--looks familiar to the Orleanian eye. (Above-ground cemeteries, to name one reason.) Many churches, most of them nearly 200 years old. One of them is considered the place where slavery began to end.
That killed about forty-five minutes, still leaving too much time before we sailed for MA to go aboard. I was ready for a nap, having walked farther than on any one day since I broke my ankle. I'm proud that I walked down that trail at Dunn's River Falls and back up again. But I was ready for a nap.
The cocktail hour had us reunited in the highest bar on the ship, on the fourteenth deck. It wasn't very busy, and that's a good thing, because getting served took awhile. Finally, here came a Manhattan for me and a glass of bubbles for MA. But no bar nibbles. "The ship is on a stage one action to prevent GI problems," said the server. Dishes of pretzels and nuts, handled by multiple people, were being targeted as potentially spreading norovirus. Makes sense to me.
"How about going down to the buffet and getting a plate of cheese and crackers?" Mary Ann asked. I found not only five kinds of cheese, Carr's wafers and walnuts for us, but also some sushi rolls for me. MA doesn't do sushi, but she was happy with the rest of it.
But not with my lack of response to the valentine she left for me in the room. What valentine? "It was right on top of your computer!" she said. Uh-oh. This has happened before to ruin an evening. Turned out that it was actually under the laptop--not a place I'd look. "Oh, well, you made up for it with the cheese and crackers." Score!
Dinner in the main dining room was less interesting than on previous nights, although still better than the one we had in Portofino last night. I started deliciously with some free-form ravioli stuffed with veal, beef, and herbs in a buttery sauce. The chuck mock tenderloin of beef was on the tough side. The cauliflower curry proved to be precisely the same very peppery Indian dish that ran under a different name on Saturday night. As if to extend this deja vu, Mary Ann had the same salmon she did that night.
Dinner broke up at ten. Mary Ann went up to bed. No karaoke tonight. In the Cleopatra's Needle theater an eight-piece assemblage deftly played Big Band classics. They were followed by a three-piece outfit featuring a keyboardist whose instrument could mimic a trumpet, Hammond organ, accordion, and even a human background chorus. The bass guitarist sang with a Spanish accent.
Both these combos were listenable, but what captivated me was the half-dozen couples who were adept at ballroom dancing in the classic style. I wish I had learned this somewhere along the line. Every old boy and girl smiled at each other as they swirled around the floor. I'll bet that people who dance that well together have a low divorce rate.
