Jamaican me crazy
We all know that feeling that rolls around mid-January, the awful sinking feeling of winter that’s only relieved by buying a ticket to somewhere tropical. Even if you’re in Florida in mid-February, you’ll surely at some point think, “I could be warmer.”
So where to? Somewhere quick, a bang for your buck timewise. The Caribbean—naturally. Lay out a map. Immediately dismiss all islands you’ve already been to. Though I do love to live by the I’ll-try-anything-twice-motto when it comes to islands, I feel the more the merrier. You would have to pay me to return to Puerto Rico. Don’t @ me Montaukers, I’ll come visit you in the motherland. Also scratch Tortola—that time we flipped our car off a cliff in 2013 still has me a little skittish of mountain roads without guardrails. St. Thomas was too quick to properly judge and St. John had no waves.
Okay, okay. Somewhere new. Cross-check flight prices with convenient timing and lack of layovers and out of nowhere Jamaica very quickly floats to the top of the list. Jamaica, huh. What connections do I have with Jamaica? None at all really. Well, except that time my mom called me from Jamaica when I was 20 to tell me she had just gotten married on Bob Marley’s birthday to a man who would fairly soon become my second ex-stepdad. Good riddance Steve.
Oh. And well of course I’m extremely familiar with Seacrets, Jamaica USA. My dad tended bar there for the first third of my life. For those of you who haven’t been to a Mid-Atlantic-based bachelorette party, I’ll tell you, Seacrets is the largest bar on the east coast and it just so happens to be in my beloved hometown of Ocean City, Maryland. I spent plenty of my childhood there eating jerk chicken and chasing the lizards that hitched rides up the coast on imported palm trees and many young adult days there drinking literally anything but their infamous frozen drink, the Pain In De Ass. The place is basically Disney World for adults and I’ll just leave it at that because this story is not about Jamaica USA it is about the real Jamaica in the Caribbean which now I guess is apparently somewhat in my blood.
So I boarded a plane in North Carolina and flew south to relieve the winter doldrums. Landing in Montego Bay I rented a car and (shocker) drove across the entire island more or less to Bull Bay where I spent most of my time surfing with the lovely Wilmot family who I suggest you look up if you ever plan to travel to Jamaica in search of waves. I did not stay at their surf camp, Jamnesia, but again, highly recommend if you’re in the neighborhood.
Being that it used to be a British colony, Jamaicans still drive on the left side of the road and the right side of the car. Which is wildly convenient for holding a camera out the driver’s side window with your right hand though I severely don’t encourage it and neither did the taxi driver who yelled at me mid-roundabout to “put that camera down and drive” in a perfect Jamaican accent that I will not even try to butcher with my keyboard. Still got the shot, don’t worry. Until next time mon.
It’s 2023 and, yes, we’re still trying to convince Gunner not to take photos while driving moving vehicles—but the best-laid plans and so on. The Anywhere But Here series follows the exhaust fumes of somehow-unscathed photographer Gunner Hughes through adventure and misadventure across the country (and sometimes other countries). Usually finding the backwater towns, roadside religions, old-salt locals, cash-only dive bars, and much more character than you might see off the main highway.