My wife sits quietly in the back of the cab, choking back the intense
fear that this ride imposing upon her. Its the rainy season in Jamaica
and we're placing our faith in a
Datsun which was clearly manufactured before the Warsaw Pact dissolved.
The driver not only battles the weather, but admits to us that he's not
sure where "Mount Edge" is located. "But we fig'er it out, 'ya?" he
says, the door sealing us in this rattling tomb. His horn blares as he
takes a blind curve in the opposite lane. Intense rain has washed
debris into many parts of the road. I can't blame her for not enjoying
the ride, but man...this is FUN.

I've long been a bigger fan of height than of depths. My wife acts as
my exact inverse, preferring to have her nose operated upon by way of
the back of her skull than to peer over a high cliff. Our journey to
Jamaica was slated to incorporate both, because--as I understand
it--Jamaica has an abundance of both water and mountains...particularly
blue ones. I was excited to stay a few days at the Mount Edge Guest House, in the Blue Mountains.

By the grace of god (or other appropriate deity), our driver was able
to ask around, follow signs, and locate the hostel. The rain even
managed to take a break from "torrential downpour" to "light storm"
while we unloaded our bags and tipped our driver/savior. A yell down to
the door yielded proof that the building in question was, in fact,
occupied. This is when we met "Ox".

Somewhere in this nothingness...

Mount Edge lives up to its name by being, quite literally, on the
edge of the Mountain. It sits in a remote location just off of the
Jamaican Defense Force (JDF) base at Newcastle, and about 4km from the
more famous accomodations of the area, Strawberry Hill. Our room had a
balcony that opened right into the valley; at $20 a night we felt like
we were ripping them off.

Until the storm cut power to the building.

In the middle of the rainy season, the guest house is lonely. Our
host, Ox, is an old rasta. He shows a photo album given by former
patrons. We see pictures of rebuilding; "Ivan...da 'urricane, ya'
know?" he says, as another wind gust blows the window open. The Sizzla Kalonji
banner waves in the breeze. Ox is a man of few words, in a land of few
attractions, and we have no electricity. Thank god this hostel serves
beer and has a good bookshelf.

My wife chooses a guidebook on Jamaica; I settle on a history novel by Richard Zack's called "The Pirate Coast". The light is waning, the view--despite the rain--is beautiful, and Ox will end up making us boiled fish and Ackee. We'll explore tomorrow.