So a father and son walk into a Jamaican waterfall ...
BEN KAPLAN FINDS JAMAICA AND ITS WATERFALLS AN IDEAL SPOT FOR FATHER-SON BONDING — EVEN MINUS THE GANJA
‘Glide,” says the guide hal f way up t he waterfall to my father, a great man, a distinguished man, but a man who does not — can not — glide. The waterfall is Dunn’s River Falls, one of the largest vertical stretches from sea to mountain in the western hemisphere; we’re in the St. Ann parish of Jamaica. The rocks are jagged. The water is rushing. And the guide is singing “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley.
I begin to fear for my father’s life.
My old man, vulnerable with his shirt off, in sneakers and swim trunks, attempts to paw his way north on uncertain ground; bending, twisting and climbing in a manner I point out to him that reminds me of a furry Frankenstein polar bear attempting to scale up a rope. ( To which he replies that, at my age, he had both more hair on his head and less on his back than I have at 41).
At 100 feet, we reach a red steel bridge and halt. Our path is designed to take us under, not over, the structure. The space between the bottom of the bridge and the rushing water is about three feet and my dad looks it over, appraisingly. His look can best be described as the opposite of what one’s face does upon discovering a crepe station at a breakfast buffet.
Again, the guide addresses my father: “Glide,” he says, unaware of the fact that the bridge has more flexibility than he does. Then my dad, on all fours, bear- crawls his way beneath our impasse — the top of his shoulder just avoiding the bottom of the structure while the water rushes downstream in the opposite direction. My dad clears the obstacle, catches his breath and floats for a moment in a shallow pool of fresh water. Pop then shoots me a glance, and heads carefully toward a staircase to take him out of harm’s way.
“I don’t think it’s going to much serve our purposes if I spend the rest of the trip with a broken neck,” he tells me. “You go on up ahead, and I’ll save my strength for when we get back to the hotel and have a rum at the bar.”
Every year, I take a trip alone with my father and it’s the kind of thing where I pack a week before my plane leaves. Some of it has to do with the fact that my children are one and three and some of it has to do with my father — a man who’s as happy to discuss the meaning of life as he is to tackle a roast beef sandwich.
This year, we head to Montego Bay and hang our hats (so our scalps don’t burn) at the Riu resort, a Spanish hotel chain specializing in allinclusive, with six locations in Bulgaria alone. At the Riu in Montego, the pool bar is a much more popular morning destination than the health club and that serves my dad and I fine. From what I can gather, everything in Jamaica bounces: a steel band plays Bob Marley at the Montego Bay airport and there’s a bar at the Rose Hall Great House, master’s quarters of a former slave plantation that’s become a tourist attraction and haunted house. The Caribbean island’s economy runs on tourism — it amounts to 50 per cent of GDP — and the mix of mountains, reggae and ocean makes a place like Dunn’s River Falls an impressive and unusual afternoon jaunt. Pop tells me that Jamaica’s a major producer of bauxite, used in aluminum production, and as we explore the island we see a gigantic cargo ship receive a shipment bound for Panama.
On our first morning, I follow my dad on a horse into the Caribbean Sea. We’re just under the crest of Nine Mile, Bob Marley’s birthplace, and our young guides sing and tell jokes as we weave through the forest beneath a Van Gogh blue sky. My dad was born on the Lower East Side of New York and, when he was in my shoes, when I was three and my sister was one, our family was living in Brooklyn. Freed from the city, horseback riding has held a late-life appeal and he holds the reins with one hand and leans into and out of our climbs and descents, employing all sorts of riding techniques that I don’t. My look now matches his on that waterfall — can you be green and sunburnt at the same time? Pop keeps looking back at me to see if I’m OK and I focus on singing along to Buffalo Soldier with my mind on one word: appreciation. These trips started because I know we won’t always have each other. I won’t always have someone looking back at me making sure I’m OK.
After the horse ride, we realize that it’s been four hours since we’ve last eaten and, in a panic, we head to Scotchies Too, a venerable Jamaican i nstitution. At Scotchies, there’s a whole pig splayed out on their surfboard-size barbecue and lunch is served in the shade of a thatched hut. We order jerk chicken by the pound and also get pork, yams and something called festival, which is fried dough — the kind of thing you can’t stop eating even after you’ve ingested a pound of jerk chicken and already feel the size of a Jamaican horse.
My dad and I sit in the shade with our bottles of Red Stripe. While I love travelling with my father, now I miss Julie, my wife. I want her to have this feeling of peace.
There are other dalliances with adventure for my father and I across our three evenings, including an attraction at Mystic Mountain that emulates the ride of the 1988 Jamaica bobsled team, but through the trees. It’s dumb amusement park fun, but what the hell — it feels like it’s been a long time since I got to act like a kid. It’s also tempting, of course, to sample Jamaica’s other major production (besides bauxite), but the opportune moment never presents itself for my dad and I to smoke weed.
In the U. S., with Washington and Colorado experiencing tourism booms and increased tax revenue thanks to the decriminalization of pot, a representative from the Jamaica Tourism Board tells me that the island is considering following suit. Currently, ganja’s illegal to sell in Jamaica, but it’s legal to possess up to two ounces. From Mahee Bay, the body of water behind the Riu Resort (and opposite Sandals), and along the shops of Doctor’s Cave, Montego Bay’s best beach, everyone makes it clear that pot is for sale.
First , entrepreneurs present bracelets and birdshaped wooden trinkets, and then they quickly shift gears and pantomime the universal symbol of hoofing back an enormous spliff. In the name of research, and being stoned, I can’t say I’m not tempted, but the version I’m offered seems sketchy. Like a risk I just don’t need to take. However, with Cuba opening its ports to Americans and competing with Jamaica for tourism dollars, expect the island to further explore relaxing both their marijuana laws and their stance on gaming.
In Jamaica, the church opposes gambling — but the church in the Dominican Republic and the Bahamas also fought the casino, and you can currently play table games at both places. On our next trip to Jamaica, maybe my dad and I will legally get baked and play poker, although that doesn’t sound like a terrific idea.
Still, we were able to find plenty of entertainment, and my last memory of the journey brings me back to where we started: my father and I heading north through the waterfall and up a cliff. I remember dad asking the guide if anyone’s ever been hurt doing this and the guide smiled.
“No, man,” he said, “Dunn’s River is safe.”
After our climb was finished, we were walking back to our touring van and an ambulance passed us, lights flashing, coming up the mountain in the other direction. My dad didn’t say anything, just shot me a glance and we got in the car and made our way back to the bar.