August 9, 2008
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Commissioned by the magazine HiLife, I went to check out Negril Beach Village in Jamaica, being met by Debo, a hostess whose T-shirt read HEDONISM. Round-the-clock nudity except in the dining room, hallucinogenic mushroom tea at Mother Brown's, late-night skinny dipping and a rousing disco were part of the advertised program and, she advised: "The time to sleep is between seven and eight in the morning". As at Club Med, no money was in circulation, the currency being strings of plastic "sharks' teeth" hung around the neck and in some cases down to the ankles. Seeing me en route to the beach next morning, Debo cautioned; "There's a lot of sea urchins around. If you accidentally step on one and get the spines in your foot, the best thing is to piss on it or have someone else piss on it." Failing that, she added helpfully, one could always go to the nurse and ask her for an ammonia solution. "Unless, of course you can get her to piss on it". The nude beach, a series of tiny coves masked with trees, were filled with guests reclining on plastic couches and gossiping maliciously about their fellow-guests. The conversation centered on why so many of the young people were not nudists and preferred the other beach. "They're all sat over there talking about sex" ventured a hearty playboy wearing only a T-shirt, which read DIVERS DO IT DEEPER. "I'm just waiting for lobster night" he confided. "I figure I could grab half a dozen of them and store them in the ice dispenser outside my room". In the evening, a score of macho types paraded in bulging shorts for the male beauty contest. Coincidentally, the following day's Jamaica Star ("the people paper") reported that the Miss Jamaica Pageant had been denounced by a group called the Committee of Women for Progress. This had been prompted by a letter signed by 17 contestants who claimed to have been treated "like heifers at a cattle auction". Star columnist Vernon Witter was unsympathetic, labeling the protesters "joyless Marxists" whose motive was jealousy. "We stay glued to the TV to look at the girls but switch off when the Marxists trot out their canned gobbledygook" he wrote. "It's sheer envy, that's what it is". Negril Village, to which I walked along the beach carrying my clothes and plunging occasionally into the sea to cool off, was a tiny whistle stop with a handful of grubby shops including a welcome bicycle rental. On a rickety model ($7 a day plus $40 deposit) I set off for Rick's Cafe where the locals all gathered in the late afternoon. "There will never be another sunset like the one at Negril today" the sign read, and truly it was a spectacular sight. It was obvious by the attitude of the nude beach crowd next day that they'd gotten to know each other more intimately. Led by a guy with a Pancho Villa moustache they were all clowning around, posing for suggestive Polaroid photos and making off-color remarks to each other. I felt more alienated than ever and set off for Negril in search of some ganja dealer I had been informed would be easy to find. He was indeed, standing at his gate smoking the largest spiff I'd ever seen, and after $10 changed hands I was in possession of a newspaper wrapped bundle the size of a baseball. Walking back home I was accosted by four black hookers who closed around me, enmeshing me like a ship in the tangled weeds of the Sargasso Sea. All asked me where I was going in such a hurry and why didn't I stick around and have some fun? Yielding to the blandishments of the comely Lorraine, I followed her with some nervousness to her battered shack on the hill, furnished only with a dresser, two single beds, a chair and chamber pot. "Forty dollars for all night" she grinned. "Outrageous" I replied, "but OK". (This was 1976). About halfway through the night two of her roommates arrived undressed in the dark and went to sleep in the other bed. My own sleep was fitful, disturbed by the constant shouts for the apparently popular Lorraine and the occasional thud of fruit falling off adjoining trees onto the shack's tin roof. About 7am, the fourth roommate came home, ready to sleep in Lorraine's bed which I had just vacated. A long conversation ensued between them in a patois I didn't recognize and when I asked them what they were chattering about Lorraine said: "About our friend who lives next door. She has the clap and won't go to the doctor. the girls are trying to make her go. If she doesn't it is bad for all of us". Thirty hours later, sitting in the airport restaurant on standby for a flight back to New York, the waiter asked me if I knew anybody who would sponsor him as an immigrant to the US. I thought of suggesting he seek out one of the numerous blue-haired ladies I had noticed who were clearly there in search of young black studs but I kept my thoughts to myself and merely left him a big tip. click here to return to main article NEXT: ================================= |
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