Cruise Report Part 1 of 4, Jamaica: The Armpit of the Caribbean

The first port of call on my spring break cruise was Montego Bay, Jamaica. Featured in the Beach Boys' song "Kokomo" and homeland of Bob Marley and marijuana, we expected Jamaica to be an island paradise. As we ate breakfast that morning we looked out over the clear blue water and green forests and figured to be correct. However, "drug-ridden cesspool" would be a more accurate description of Montego Bay.

Our shore excursion that day would be a snorkeling trip. We signed up for some sort of snorkeling-like activity at each port and this was our first, so we did not know what to expect. At minimum I expected a certified instructor, a sturdy vessel, and some of that goopy stuff that keeps your mask from fogging up. In reality I found none of these.

We got off the boat and asked the nearest local which way to the snorkeling. "Talk to 'da Rasta" was his response, and he pointed to a shoeless, dreadlocked, possibly stoned man with glazed-over eyes. This nameless Rastafarian then took out tickets and pointed off in the distance, referring us to "Horace" who would take us out on the water.

After walking a ways down the shore, we came upon another shoeless man and a rickety wooden "boat" which had large gasoline tanks sitting next to the seats. This apparently was Horace, and he issued us snorkels, masks, and fins, all of which were sitting in paint buckets full of dirty ocean water. Despite my better judgment I took one of each and tried them on, and once everyone was on the "boat" we shoved off for the reef.

Most of you have probably seen coral reefs in movies and magazines. Colorful tropical fish swimming through a bed of colorful coral and plants was the image I had in my head. Instead, after a short ride on the "boat" that reeked of gasoline and had an engine that didn't sound like it could power a pencil sharpener, we dropped anchor in murky water. There were fish, not the least bit colorful or tropical, but they were hard to see since the water was so dirty. It didn't help that our masks were not exactly spotless either. The only color in the coral was the dull orange of fire coral, which would sting and burn if we touched it. After about 30 minutes of avoiding fire coral and looking for signs of life in the dirty water, we loaded back on the boat and once again prayed that it would not spring a leak or explode.

After our snorkeling adventure with Horace and the stoned Rastafarian, we went shopping in the duty-free stores next to the pier. These were not the quaint tropical shops you imagine either, instead they were located inside a warehouse that was guarded by Jamaican customs agents. We purchased a few souvenirs, and one shopkeeper attempted to teach Pete how to smuggle embargoed Cuban cigars into the US, then quickly ran back onto the boat and out of the country that prides itself on its pot-smoking heritage.

Next Time, Grand Cayman: In Which We Drive on the Wrong Side of the Road And Snorkel Again