Jim Finnel
Fallen Cannabis Warrior & Ex News Moderator
A trip to the singer’s mausoleum is to touch the soul of the island
NINE MILES, Jamaica - The Caribbean island of Jamaica is a place of contradictions and conundrums. It has incredible beauty. It has rain forests, waterfalls, verdant hill country and mountains dense with bamboo, sugar cane, fabulous coffee, exotic flora and fauna and all manner of fruit trees.
The ocean is turquoise, the beaches pristine, the sunsets spectacular.
This is the Jamaica seen in brochures and travel magazines, the one sold by all-inclusive resorts in such tourist havens as Montego Bay, Negril and Ocho Rios. These manicured and well-maintained resorts efficiently assure that life is to be savored without effort, sustaining paradise found.
Kept at bay is the all-too-real Third World poverty that dominates Jamaica. Rural Jamaica is a reality that operates on its own rhythm. To understand it, visitors must be willing to embrace it at face value.
It is into this life that the late reggae icon Bob Marley — a devout Rastafarian and a man of profound, socially charged music, more prophet than pop star — was born, tucked high in the jungle hill country of St. Ann's Parish in a tiny village of shacks named Nine Miles. It is also where he is laid to rest, atop a hill facing Mount Zion, 6,000 feet above the beaches of Ocho Rios, two hours from "Ochee" by car.
The Honorable Robert Nesta Marley, the "Tuff Gong," died of cancer in 1981. He was 36. To Jamaicans, he is a symbol of socioreligious — and economic — importance. His image and his music with The Wailers are the island's most recognizable exports, and, for the tourist trade, a most marketable commodity. It is impossible to go anywhere in Jamaica without hearing Marley's name or music — or seeing his face on every conceivable manner of souvenir, some licensed by the Marley estate, most not.
Around the globe, he is synonymous with the island. And throughout the Third World, he remains a hero who dedicated his life to his religion, his music, black pride and human rights.
Marley is special to my wife and me, as we have regularly visited Jamaica for nine years. We cherish the island, its culture, its food, and, most important, its people.
We are no longer tourists. We are visitors.
This year, we went to Ocho Rios to mark the end of my wife's successful treatment for breast cancer. First on our agenda was a visit to Marley's tomb, not to gawk, not to buy a T-shirt, but to pay genuine respect. We had intended to make the journey on previous trips. It now seemed necessary, if not mandatory, given the life-changing experiences of the preceding few months.
The trip to Nine Miles is an adventure, as is everything on the island outside the gates of a resort.
Ride, don't drive, is a must when traveling in Jamaica. The traffic is unforgiving and scary. Roads are narrow, bumpy and pocked with unexpected hazards such as stray goats, scrawny cows, chickens, dogs, donkeys or dreadlocked pedestrians carrying fruit or spears of fresh fish. Trucks that seem as though they can't possibly pass will squeeze by, horns blaring, inches to spare.
We have found it beneficial to hire and befriend a driver, as needed. Rates can be variable — just about everything in Jamaica can be negotiated — and Jamaicans prefer to operate in U.S. currency, as the exchange rate is about U.S. $1 to $72 Jamaican. Citizens will gladly accommodate American dollars if you run into situations outside the cities in which goods are sold only in Jamaican dollars.
Our driver fetched us at the airport in Montego Bay and took us to Ocho Rios. We mentioned during the trip that we had specifically chosen Ocho Rios to go to Nine Miles, as it is the closest major city from which to make the journey. He immediately volunteered to handle everything — "no worries."
He arrived on the appointed day, not in a car, but in a small bus. We were the only passengers. "More room, same good price, mon," he said grinning. The cost of our trip — two passengers, total driving time just shy of four hours — was $130, round trip. Our driver provided cold beverages — we could also bring our own food and beverages — and he happily talked (we can understand moderately paced Jamaican patois) about places we passed on the drive. He was eager to accommodate all desires to stop at various stands and photo-worthy attractions.
He was wholly on "it soon come" island time. Everything moves slowly in Jamaica. "No hurries."
If a tight schedule is a factor, there is also Chukka Tours, which offers the Zion Line, an organized tour to Nine Miles — they call it "the Graceland of reggae" — in a colorfully painted bus known as "the reggae bus." It collects from all the resorts and costs $73 a person, with lunch, drinks and admission included. It is not air-conditioned, which can quickly be a problem if you are not used to the summer heat and humidity in Jamaica.
In Jamaica, summer is the off-season for tourism, so rates are lower. Expect to pay more during peak tourist season, which runs from December through May.
From Ocho Rios, The Zion Line tour is 4½ hours, round trip. It is tightly scheduled to accommodate the patrons of the cruise ships docked in Ocho Rios. Chukka also offers guided 4x4-vehicle tours. These are not recommended for pregnant women because of the bumpiness of the ride.
The winding road up to Nine Miles is crazy narrow and curving. Motion sickness is a common complaint, so prepare, if prone. Much of the road cuts through Fern Gulley, a rain forest, and the views of the hills, thick with trees and plants, are gorgeous. Primitive gardens are everywhere. Vividly painted stands — hill-country industry — sell fruit, jerk chicken or pork, icy Red Stripe beer and intricate wood carvings at good prices.
Our favorite stop, pointed out by our driver, was The Flower Mon, dressed in a colorful hand-sewn outfit, regal in a towering headdress, made of fresh flowers picked from the rain forest every two days. Each day, he puts on the floral suit and stands outside his shanty. This is his livelihood.
We were glad to pay $5 to take his picture.
We finally pulled up at the Marley compound in Nine Miles. Rastafarian guards stood outside a gate adorned with Marley's image, the Jamaican/Rasta colors (combinations of red, yellow, green and black), and Marley-influenced slogans. The gate opened, we were ushered inside, then it closed behind us. "This is sacred place, no foolishness," a Rasta explained in greeting. "People who pay respect come here. What go on this place is Rasta bidness."
All around, Rastas were smoking ganja, Jamaica's potent marijuana and a religious sacrament for Rastafarians, who cultivate it in the hills. They smoke to meditate, pray and "reason." Visitors are encouraged to smoke. At the fence, a hand poked through a hole at the bottom, clutching "spliffs" — the fat Jamaican cousin of a joint. Obtaining ganja, if one wished to do so, was definitely "no problem," mon.
The tour of the grounds cost $20. Our guide — all the guides work for tips — was named "Crazy," and he had a shtick that supported his name. He literally laughed like a donkey, cracking jokes as he brayed, and was so immaculately stoned that it took him a good while, even by the island standard, to climb the steps to the modest gift shop where the tour began.
First stop was the mausoleum of Cedella, Marley's mother, who died this year. It sits up from the house in which she lived, the one in which Bob was born and raised. The house is little more than a neat, simply appointed shack, a reflection of a no-frills way of life still led by the people of the village that is built into the hillside outside the compound.
To enter Marley's birthplace, visitors must remove their shoes. It's a sign of respect.
A short walk through the gardens, past assorted outbuildings painted red, green and yellow, led to the mausoleum where Marley's body is kept, flanked by Jamaican and Ethiopian flags — Ethiopia being the promised land of the Rastafarian religion. Outside the crypt, which is enshrined by a nice, chapel-looking building, is the primary tourist photo-op — a rock, now painted Rasta colors, where Marley is purported to have rested his head as a child. It's as factual as you want it to be — no worries.
No cameras are allowed in the mausoleum. Shoes and hats must be removed. Even the Rastafarians, who keep their long locks under knit caps, take off their headgear in respect — "serious bidness."
The sides of the tomb hold artifacts to Marley left by visitors; votives flicker softly. It is peaceful. Light streams from the east through two glass windows adorned with stars of Judah. The ambience is powerful, spiritual — almost healing, a special place.
As we were leaving, a friend of our driver's, upon learning that we were on a pilgrimage of sorts, asked if we would like a tour of "the plantation" for $10. Our driver nodded. Respect.
We drove for a bit and were given to our new guide, enormous spliff in his hand, a machete in his belt, covered by his shirt. He began to lead us through the expanse of thick jungle. It didn't take long for our cerebral warning systems to start blaring that this may not have been our best idea. Nervous looks were exchanged. A visitor or two could … disappear in jungle such as this.
Picking up on our unease, our guide brushed aside some foliage, pointed out our driver in the distance, then began a botanical tour, pointing out different fruit trees, talking about certain flowers, then, pushing through brush, led us to acres of tall, well-cultivated ganja plants. We gawked as we walked. He smoked. He explained the cultivation process of certain potent hybrids — "AK-47" was one. We stared. To our disbelief, he told us to take pictures, and then offered to show us "the big field."
We politely declined. He led us back, wished us "much respect and blessings," and said, when asked, that he had "no worries" about his field's security. He smiled. He knew what we could not see.
We headed back, moved by and reeling from the whole experience, happy in the knowledge that we had seen another part of the real Jamaica. It had been a sharing of culture, some of it most unexpected, with experience and knowledge gained that no resort could offer.
No problems. At all.
Author: Ed Bumgardner
Source
NINE MILES, Jamaica - The Caribbean island of Jamaica is a place of contradictions and conundrums. It has incredible beauty. It has rain forests, waterfalls, verdant hill country and mountains dense with bamboo, sugar cane, fabulous coffee, exotic flora and fauna and all manner of fruit trees.
The ocean is turquoise, the beaches pristine, the sunsets spectacular.
This is the Jamaica seen in brochures and travel magazines, the one sold by all-inclusive resorts in such tourist havens as Montego Bay, Negril and Ocho Rios. These manicured and well-maintained resorts efficiently assure that life is to be savored without effort, sustaining paradise found.
Kept at bay is the all-too-real Third World poverty that dominates Jamaica. Rural Jamaica is a reality that operates on its own rhythm. To understand it, visitors must be willing to embrace it at face value.
It is into this life that the late reggae icon Bob Marley — a devout Rastafarian and a man of profound, socially charged music, more prophet than pop star — was born, tucked high in the jungle hill country of St. Ann's Parish in a tiny village of shacks named Nine Miles. It is also where he is laid to rest, atop a hill facing Mount Zion, 6,000 feet above the beaches of Ocho Rios, two hours from "Ochee" by car.
The Honorable Robert Nesta Marley, the "Tuff Gong," died of cancer in 1981. He was 36. To Jamaicans, he is a symbol of socioreligious — and economic — importance. His image and his music with The Wailers are the island's most recognizable exports, and, for the tourist trade, a most marketable commodity. It is impossible to go anywhere in Jamaica without hearing Marley's name or music — or seeing his face on every conceivable manner of souvenir, some licensed by the Marley estate, most not.
Around the globe, he is synonymous with the island. And throughout the Third World, he remains a hero who dedicated his life to his religion, his music, black pride and human rights.
Marley is special to my wife and me, as we have regularly visited Jamaica for nine years. We cherish the island, its culture, its food, and, most important, its people.
We are no longer tourists. We are visitors.
This year, we went to Ocho Rios to mark the end of my wife's successful treatment for breast cancer. First on our agenda was a visit to Marley's tomb, not to gawk, not to buy a T-shirt, but to pay genuine respect. We had intended to make the journey on previous trips. It now seemed necessary, if not mandatory, given the life-changing experiences of the preceding few months.
The trip to Nine Miles is an adventure, as is everything on the island outside the gates of a resort.
Ride, don't drive, is a must when traveling in Jamaica. The traffic is unforgiving and scary. Roads are narrow, bumpy and pocked with unexpected hazards such as stray goats, scrawny cows, chickens, dogs, donkeys or dreadlocked pedestrians carrying fruit or spears of fresh fish. Trucks that seem as though they can't possibly pass will squeeze by, horns blaring, inches to spare.
We have found it beneficial to hire and befriend a driver, as needed. Rates can be variable — just about everything in Jamaica can be negotiated — and Jamaicans prefer to operate in U.S. currency, as the exchange rate is about U.S. $1 to $72 Jamaican. Citizens will gladly accommodate American dollars if you run into situations outside the cities in which goods are sold only in Jamaican dollars.
Our driver fetched us at the airport in Montego Bay and took us to Ocho Rios. We mentioned during the trip that we had specifically chosen Ocho Rios to go to Nine Miles, as it is the closest major city from which to make the journey. He immediately volunteered to handle everything — "no worries."
He arrived on the appointed day, not in a car, but in a small bus. We were the only passengers. "More room, same good price, mon," he said grinning. The cost of our trip — two passengers, total driving time just shy of four hours — was $130, round trip. Our driver provided cold beverages — we could also bring our own food and beverages — and he happily talked (we can understand moderately paced Jamaican patois) about places we passed on the drive. He was eager to accommodate all desires to stop at various stands and photo-worthy attractions.
He was wholly on "it soon come" island time. Everything moves slowly in Jamaica. "No hurries."
If a tight schedule is a factor, there is also Chukka Tours, which offers the Zion Line, an organized tour to Nine Miles — they call it "the Graceland of reggae" — in a colorfully painted bus known as "the reggae bus." It collects from all the resorts and costs $73 a person, with lunch, drinks and admission included. It is not air-conditioned, which can quickly be a problem if you are not used to the summer heat and humidity in Jamaica.
In Jamaica, summer is the off-season for tourism, so rates are lower. Expect to pay more during peak tourist season, which runs from December through May.
From Ocho Rios, The Zion Line tour is 4½ hours, round trip. It is tightly scheduled to accommodate the patrons of the cruise ships docked in Ocho Rios. Chukka also offers guided 4x4-vehicle tours. These are not recommended for pregnant women because of the bumpiness of the ride.
The winding road up to Nine Miles is crazy narrow and curving. Motion sickness is a common complaint, so prepare, if prone. Much of the road cuts through Fern Gulley, a rain forest, and the views of the hills, thick with trees and plants, are gorgeous. Primitive gardens are everywhere. Vividly painted stands — hill-country industry — sell fruit, jerk chicken or pork, icy Red Stripe beer and intricate wood carvings at good prices.
Our favorite stop, pointed out by our driver, was The Flower Mon, dressed in a colorful hand-sewn outfit, regal in a towering headdress, made of fresh flowers picked from the rain forest every two days. Each day, he puts on the floral suit and stands outside his shanty. This is his livelihood.
We were glad to pay $5 to take his picture.
We finally pulled up at the Marley compound in Nine Miles. Rastafarian guards stood outside a gate adorned with Marley's image, the Jamaican/Rasta colors (combinations of red, yellow, green and black), and Marley-influenced slogans. The gate opened, we were ushered inside, then it closed behind us. "This is sacred place, no foolishness," a Rasta explained in greeting. "People who pay respect come here. What go on this place is Rasta bidness."
All around, Rastas were smoking ganja, Jamaica's potent marijuana and a religious sacrament for Rastafarians, who cultivate it in the hills. They smoke to meditate, pray and "reason." Visitors are encouraged to smoke. At the fence, a hand poked through a hole at the bottom, clutching "spliffs" — the fat Jamaican cousin of a joint. Obtaining ganja, if one wished to do so, was definitely "no problem," mon.
The tour of the grounds cost $20. Our guide — all the guides work for tips — was named "Crazy," and he had a shtick that supported his name. He literally laughed like a donkey, cracking jokes as he brayed, and was so immaculately stoned that it took him a good while, even by the island standard, to climb the steps to the modest gift shop where the tour began.
First stop was the mausoleum of Cedella, Marley's mother, who died this year. It sits up from the house in which she lived, the one in which Bob was born and raised. The house is little more than a neat, simply appointed shack, a reflection of a no-frills way of life still led by the people of the village that is built into the hillside outside the compound.
To enter Marley's birthplace, visitors must remove their shoes. It's a sign of respect.
A short walk through the gardens, past assorted outbuildings painted red, green and yellow, led to the mausoleum where Marley's body is kept, flanked by Jamaican and Ethiopian flags — Ethiopia being the promised land of the Rastafarian religion. Outside the crypt, which is enshrined by a nice, chapel-looking building, is the primary tourist photo-op — a rock, now painted Rasta colors, where Marley is purported to have rested his head as a child. It's as factual as you want it to be — no worries.
No cameras are allowed in the mausoleum. Shoes and hats must be removed. Even the Rastafarians, who keep their long locks under knit caps, take off their headgear in respect — "serious bidness."
The sides of the tomb hold artifacts to Marley left by visitors; votives flicker softly. It is peaceful. Light streams from the east through two glass windows adorned with stars of Judah. The ambience is powerful, spiritual — almost healing, a special place.
As we were leaving, a friend of our driver's, upon learning that we were on a pilgrimage of sorts, asked if we would like a tour of "the plantation" for $10. Our driver nodded. Respect.
We drove for a bit and were given to our new guide, enormous spliff in his hand, a machete in his belt, covered by his shirt. He began to lead us through the expanse of thick jungle. It didn't take long for our cerebral warning systems to start blaring that this may not have been our best idea. Nervous looks were exchanged. A visitor or two could … disappear in jungle such as this.
Picking up on our unease, our guide brushed aside some foliage, pointed out our driver in the distance, then began a botanical tour, pointing out different fruit trees, talking about certain flowers, then, pushing through brush, led us to acres of tall, well-cultivated ganja plants. We gawked as we walked. He smoked. He explained the cultivation process of certain potent hybrids — "AK-47" was one. We stared. To our disbelief, he told us to take pictures, and then offered to show us "the big field."
We politely declined. He led us back, wished us "much respect and blessings," and said, when asked, that he had "no worries" about his field's security. He smiled. He knew what we could not see.
We headed back, moved by and reeling from the whole experience, happy in the knowledge that we had seen another part of the real Jamaica. It had been a sharing of culture, some of it most unexpected, with experience and knowledge gained that no resort could offer.
No problems. At all.
Author: Ed Bumgardner
Source
