Way back in the summer of 2006, I spent a week in Jamaica. Memories came flooding back last week when Hurricane Melissa devastated the island nation.
My travelling companions and I flew overnight from Nashville to Montego Bay and entered what was, for me, a whole new world. I’d never been to the Caribbean. Never stayed in an all-inclusive resort. Never snorkeled above a coral reef or been sung to sleep by whistling tree frogs or had anyone try to sell me ganja. (I didn’t even know what ganja was. It’s marijuana.)
I also tasted Red Stripe beer and jerk chicken for the first time. That happened at eight o’clock in the morning when, about an hour into the journey from the airport to the resort, our van driver asked if anyone needed a rest stop. The answer was yes, and he soon pulled over beside a small building made of concrete blocks.
The restrooms, such as they were, were out back. Inside the restaurant, the chalk-on-blackboard menu offered three items: Coca-Cola, Red Stripe and jerk chicken. Though I wasn’t in the habit of drinking beer first thing in the morning, I did that day. It was ice-cold and wonderful beyond words. And the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten was their hot-off-the-fire jerk chicken, served on a paper plate, its juices sopped up by a slice of stale white bread.
Then it was on to our resort. Because our rooms weren’t ready when we arrived and—as it turns out—wouldn’t be ready for some time, we were invited to stroll the grounds or relax on the deck overlooking the Caribbean Sea. I noted the shards of broken glass imbedded in the mortar of the tall rock wall that surrounded the property. I also noted that, after finally being allowed to check in, we were handed towels and soap and toilet paper.
“The maids steal this stuff,” I was told when I raised an eyebrow in question. “We can’t let them near it.”
Thus began a vacation filled with conundrums. Beauty that boggled the mind. White sand. Blue water. Lush forests teeming with exotic birds. Waterfalls. Farms where coffee and cocoa and sugar and tobacco and every kind of tropical fruit imaginable were grown.
And poverty that boggled the mind. Old men smoking cigarettes while squatting in the shade—for they had no stools to sit upon—outside tin-and-cardboard shacks. Barefoot women toting water on their heads. Children on school playgrounds where the only play equipment was old tires, swarming us with excitement as we handed out wooden pencils and worn-out tennis balls brought from home because we’d been told how much they needed them.
Then there were the animals. Goats wandering untethered. Dogs. So many dogs, all the females pregnant. Cats, wiry and wily and almost of all them young, at the resort. “The guests’ children like the kittens,” one worker told me. When I asked what happened to the older cats, he shrugged and pointed to a small rowboat tethered to a pier. “They disappear.”
Now, much of what I witnessed all those years ago has been destroyed by the biggest landfall hurricane on record. What wasn’t flattened by the wind was ruined by rain and mud. I can scarcely wrap my head around the suffering I see on the news. And my heart breaks for beautiful Jamaica all over again.
Sometimes, the only thing that helps is to try and remember the happy stuff. Learning to say “Yah Mon,” which I still sometimes do. Water aerobics in the pool every morning, during which the instructor played only Bob Marley songs. Tour guide Anthony, who asked us jokingly whether we wanted him to drive on the left side of the road or the right. Shrimp omelets at the breakfast bar, with fresh mangoes on the side. The movie “Cool Runnings,” which I never tire of watching.
And Red Stripe, served icy cold in chunky brown-glass bottles.
(November 8, 2025)