Negril

Imagine the perfect Caribbean resort. Think pure, white sand; a golden sun; shallow blue seas of astonishing clarity; and picture-postcard sunsets. You are imagining Negril, an incredible fulfilment of every tourists’ imaginary Caribbean.

My group of about 30 students travelled halfway across Jamaica (a three hour journey) in a packed minibus, blasting out reggae at 60 decibels and leaving behind trails of dust and weed smoke – certainly a memorable (and migraine-inducing) experience. But this was only the beginning: described by my guidebook as ‘Jamaica’s shrine to permissive indulgence’, Negril has a heady mix of blasting live music, ganja, and sex tourism, attracting a young crowd and an air of permanent partying. Hustlers jostle for your attention, young gigolos target white females, and a haze of people like a cloud of flies tries to sell you tourist tat and jewellery. And fruit. And cigarettes. And marijuana. And sex. But the people and the parties are only a peripheral distraction from the main appeal – sun, sand, and sea.

So began a weekend of pure relaxation. I drifted between the small cottages we were staying in, the bar, and the beach, getting into conversation with hustlers and friendly (usually high) Rastafarians. Hustlers are everywhere, and are well practised at quickly establishing a friendly rapport with hapless tourists, who easily succumb to their persuasive selling. My own attempts at “No thank you”, given at their first advance, were met with the killer “What – are you afraid to talk to me?”, said in hurt voice with big eyes. I considered this an affront to my sociability (they are evidently apt judges of psychology), and would say EVERY TIME without fail, “Of course not – I love talking to people!” and from then on I would be hooked, drawn into a conversation about how they longed to visit England, or had a sister in Solihull, or a favourite brother also called John, or about what I was doing in Jamaica, or how they ‘liked me’ and were going to give me a special offer. And then it was impossible to get away from them.

Friendly Rastafarians were rather more manageable. They’re a staple feature of Jamaican life; everywhere you go, you will see the trappings of Jamaica’s newest and most visible religion. Red, gold and green drape every other shop; Peace and One Love are emblazoned across fruit stalls; and dreadlocked men amble around happily, smoking ganja and greeting everyone with “Respect”. They’re always amiably interested in who you are, where you are from, and what you are doing; occasionally they will start preaching about One People with One Love, and remind you that we are all brothers and sisters heading to Zion. Nothing like a bit of philosophy to go with your beach holiday.

The highlight of the weekend was undoubtedly snorkelling off Negril’s eastern coral reefs. It was the first time I’d worn a snorkel, which was a rather uncomfortable experience in which I swallowed half of the Caribbean Sea. But the water was amazing: crystal clear, dappled warmly in the sunshine. The underwater world was breath taking. It wasn't the largest or most homogenous of reefs, consisting of clumps of coral of varying size and composition; purple alien fans, bright yellow pillows, dull brown organ pipes, and pink maze-like brains, all alive with different types of colourful fish. They seemed totally unafraid of humans, with schools getting close enough to reach out and touch. It was certainly nothing like the Technicolor dream world of Finding Nemo; the reef seems to suffer from bleaching and damage by tourists, with no guidance for ignorant swimmers on how to behave. Several people in the group snapped off pieces to take home, whilst it was all too easy to accidently damage a delicate reef by a misaimed kick. But the total experience remained breath taking: a sudden insight into another world entirely. An incredible distraction from the World Cup finale.