Jamaica for Real by James Henderson

There is something satisfyingly lyrical and laconic about the Jamaicans. It’s a combination of their undoubted style and economy with words.

‘Everyting criss’, says a passer-by in the Blue Mountains. ‘Criss’ means ‘as crisp as a brand new banknote’, a perfect world in other words.

A perfect world Jamaica is obviously not, particularly when you hear of its fairly regular troubles, but the island does have so many wonderful places and people that it shouldn’t be written off. In fact, Jamaica has a stronger romantic hold than almost any other Caribbean island. To let it work on you, though, you have to venture beyond the seaside screen of coconut oil and palm trees.

One man thoroughly smitten by Jamaica is Oliver Foot. He is a long time Jamaican hand - he was born there, the son of the last British Governor - and he has set up a company, Jamaica for Real, which aims to make the island accessible.

‘I accept that Jamaica has problems,’ he says ‘but there are so many good things there too. Through Jamaica for Real I hope to show visitors sides of Jamaica that they wouldn’t normally see.’

Trenchtown for one. It’s a place that I haven’t dared to visit on my own in ten years of travelling to the island. Jamaica for Real had us on ‘the Borderline’ as 7th Street was known in the 80s, the notoriously violent dividing line between the PNP (People’s National Party) and JLP (Jamaica Labour Party) neighbourhoods. Actually I was surprised by Trenchtown. I had pictured a relentless clamour of tin shacks. Instead there are broad streets with small 60s tenements. Nearby, Foot pointed out an abandoned theatre where Noel Coward used to take him to the pantomime.

Pastor Bobby Wilmot of the Covenant Community Church, speech peppered with religious references, talked about their efforts to improve things, about breaking the ‘freeness mentality’ as he put it. It’s the old argument: ‘give a man a fish and he can eat today; teach him to fish and he will feed himself tomorrow’. Wilmot has helped the community start a banana chip factory and, on the Borderline itself, a school for all comers. His organisation assists, but the pupils’ parents must contribute too. It’s cruel sight to watch a ten year-old being sent home for want of the £20 fee for the term.

‘De reality is, it will tek many hand to mek it work’.

Next we are due to meet Ziggy Soul at the Bob Marley Culture Yard. Pastor Bobby asks if Ziggy is in.

‘Ziggy down ‘pon him gates,’ comes the reply. He’s at home apparently.

Ziggy Soul is refitting Bob Marley’s old house for visitors. (Marley lived here as a young man; remember Trenchtown Rock). He shows us the broken down guitar on which Marley is supposed to have composed ‘No Woman, No Cry’ and then sings us a wistful rendition of Psalm 116 (the ‘Soul’ of Ziggy’s name has a dual religious and musical edge). Moments later we are whisked up-town, to Tuff Going Studios, Marley’s later residence, where his golden discs and other memorabilia are on view. From there it’s a short hop to the grandeur of King’s House, the Governor General’s residence set in sumptuous lawns, where Foot lived as a child.

The Blue Mountains were pretty crisp, altogether. A leisurely day visiting a coffee factory and a plantation, and time spent watching the clouds roll over the ridge. Dinner was at Mistress Pat’s alarmingly named ‘Hanging-Tree Location’ - boil’ chicken, yam and rice ‘n’ peas. We perched on traditional, impossibly uncomfortable bamboo benches under the tree, discussing the day’s events, as Jamaicans have for centuries. Finally we made a late-night visit to the recording studios of Jamaican reggae hero Freddie MacGregor. We chatted with him in the smoke-filled recording room to a background of his sound engineer playing the same line again and again, perfecting the balance.

Jamaican music, listened to in situ, is enough to make you just sit back and smile. Next day we crossed the island to the sound of Gregory Isaacs and Barrington Levy. Along the Wag Water Valley, impressions burned themselves into the brain, tangled inextricably with the easy lilt of reggae: the densest greenery, translucent in the powerful sunlight, glinting river-water, rich smells of fertility, topped with true Jamaican eccentricity (body-popping at the bus stop to hail a mini-van). Lunch was a fish cook-up on Bryan’s Bay, a fisherman’s beach just outside Port Antonio.

Port Antonio is one of the most beautiful and fertile parts of the island. After a morning exploring Reach River and swimming in its waterfall (unexpectedly, some of Jamaica’s best water is inland rather than on the coast), we headed down to Frenchman’s Cove, which is simply one of the prettiest beaches in the whole of the Caribbean. Crab-claw headlands nearly touch at the mouth of the bay, pinching the sea swell into large breakers, which then fan out calmly and lap on the shore. The whole place drips with fantastic greenery.

Which makes it all the more surprising that the southern side of Jamaica, just fifty miles away, is like dry savannah, grassland with prickly scrub and flat-topped trees. Alligator Pond is a truly Jamaican fishing village. Colourful boats stand, hauled up onto the grey sand, and frigate-birds, black and angle-winged like pterodactyls, cruise on the sea breeze. We were shown around by Blackie, something of a local don. There was momentary activity. The catch was just in. Scales were out, people were gutting, de-scaling, buying and selling. Minutes later it had subsided and the calm returned.

Lunch was local lobster in one of Blackie’s beached fishing boats. Feeling it an equitable life again, I found myself lying back to doze.

‘Hah,’ intoned Blackie, deep and resonant. ‘Im get niggeritis. Im belly full an’ ‘e sleep.’

Not far away, in the small town of Treasure Beach, is Jake’s, Jamaican tourism at its somnolent best. Just eight rooms stand in curiously coloured cottages are hidden among shore-side grass and trees. Nothing is better suited to this place than sitting in the fan backed Adirondack chairs and gazing into the angled, golden light of the late afternoon and sunset. Reggae pulses from the bar and Fabulous, the gardener come lifeguard and barman, circulates rum, Red Stripes and whispers of the latest scandal. Apparently a local fisherman has had an unusual haul - 80 kilograms of cocaine. He has gone into hiding and a peculiarly Jamaican chaos has erupted as everyone - police, local yardies and hoods from afar - are after him, trying to track it down. It might have been comic were it not for the fact that someone was likely to end up being killed.

There certainly is a different side of Jamaica. The island doesn’t have to be sanitised, corralled hotels. These have their place, admittedly, but the island love affair can begin so easily if you just set out to explore.

From Jake’s it was back to the airport. When it comes to saying goodbye, the Jamaicans have a single word for it, delivered, usually, with a light nod or a hint of a wave:

‘Later.’