Jamaica

On the shallows of the Black River, I met a man who refused to give up his freshly-caught silver fish as a crocodile approached. The croc bit him in the head, and one of its teeth got stuck. The man kept the tooth, but someone stole it from his house.

An experienced fisherwoman encountered a 17-foot crocodile who was new to the Black River, having come from someplace else. He grabbed the woman and dragged her beneath the water until she drowned. The authorities shot the beast, who was so long that his tail hung over the pick-up truck as they carried him away.

Story upon story unfolds along the rugged southern coast of Jamaica, a journey from Montego Bay that may be two-and-a-half hours but is a world apart from the tucked-in resorts you’ve left behind. I went there to meet Floyd, the famous Jamaican whose sea-stilt home became the Pelican Bar. I wanted to tell him my own recent tale, and after listening in his captivated way, he threw back his head and laughed, shouting “Victory!”

The most famous of all stories must be the one told about Lover’s Leap, which I descended then climbed with the support of an immensely strong athlete, who sang Bob Marley’s “One Love” to me as, woozy from heat and with bright green dragonflies darting before me, I nearly succumbed from exhaustion. According to local legend, a pair of lovers fled from a jealous plantation owner and jumped from the cliff, where in the light of the moon, they were caught in a golden net that descended to the sea.

And so it begins. “I walked into the Gold Rush Bar and shared a Red Stripe with Eric and Birdman, their blue eyes betraying a lineage descended from shipwrecks. Stepping out into the dry heat, a Rastafarian thundered past on his motorcycle, dreads stuffed in his giant red tam with a joint dangling from his lips. Frigate birds wheeled overhead…” or do you prefer a swallowtail hummingbird? You decide, traveler, as now it’s time for your Jamaican story.

Here’s my photo essay on Jamaica.