Smooth runnings 5

This is the final episode of our trip round the mineral baths of Jamaica (which I last blogged about on December 17). After a super-long early morning session in the water at Milk River (well, I reasoned, I've built up some immunity now) we set off for Bath. The downside of driving from Milk River to Bath is that you have to go through Kingston: we ended up in the market district downtown surrounded by traders pushing carts and shouting at everyone and everything. The girls were a bit alarmed after the tranquility of Milk River, but we quickly made our escape and re-entered the gentler world of rural Jamaica.
Bath Fountain is a similar building to Milk River, although the setting is far more luxuriant. A left turn out of the town takes you on a twisting, climbing three-kilometre drive in one of the lushest parts of St Thomas. This is real market-garden territory, tucked away in the foothills where the John Crow and Blue Mountain ranges collide. The road leads directly to the hotel, which sits on one side of a gorge where hot and cold springs mingle. Nearby is the second oldest botanical garden in the world. Everywhere things are growing, greening, ripening. The contrast with the parched landscape we had just left could not have been stronger.
And, unlike Milk River, there were many 'guides' at Bath, all anxious to help us 'find' the real fountain (as distinct from the one pumped into the hotel). We decided to live dangerously and go with them. Merrise conducted a series of interviews and selected Anthony, Delroy and David to lead the expedition, which involved crossing a small stone bridge in front of the hotel, walking along the opposite bank and then wading upstream.
The spring is impossible to miss: steam rises from the river where the hot water pours out of cracks in a rock face and a strong smell of sulphur permeates. Delroy and his crew maintain an elaborate arrangement of bamboo pipes that have been suspended from overhanging branches and wedged into the rock face to create showers. Nearby the sulphurous outpourings have worn a natural basin in the rock. Huge boulders with convenient flat surfaces surround the basin. This is Delroy's massage parlour.
I dipped my feet in the water. It is scalding hot - 132 degrees (that's 55C in new money), Delroy assures me. Grabbing my towel he plunges it into the water. Tossing it gingerly from hand to hand he wrings it out, then slaps it around my back. The heat is almost unbearable. "This is the original spring found by a runaway slave in 1609 (the land was sold to the government for development as a spa in 1699, according to Phillippo) He found this place when he was trying to bathe following a severe beating. His sores were cured after a few days," continued Delroy, slapping the towel on again. "Rita Marley was here last week," he added by way of royal seal of approval.
I moved off to inspect the bamboo shower arrangement, leaving the boys to concentrate on chatting up my wife and daughters. An elderly dreadlocks was jigging around under the stream of water. "Yea mon. This water good for rheumatism, gout, every likkle ting. Give thanks." Another, younger rastaman joined us, introduced himself as a dub poet and invited everyone to a dance he is appearing at the following night. Shelley meanwhile has surfaced from Delroy's hot towel routine. "Wow. I can touch my toes now," she says approvingly.
The historian Long writing about Bath Fountain in the 18th-century reports that "some notorious topers have quitted their claret for a while and come here merely for the sake of a little variety in their practice of debauch and enjoy the singular felicity of getting drunk with water." Bath water owes its reputation to the fact that it is thermal, sulphurous, and contains traces of both sodium and calcium. This last point is most important since most sulphur springs contain either calcium or sodium, but rarely both. The old dread is cupping his hands and drinking the scalding water. "It good fe the insides as well," he assured us.
After an hour or so of dancing around under the bamboo pipes and being beaten by hot towels - and a lot of good-natured banter - we decided to head back. The girls, having been paid an inordinate amount of attention by our guides, were positively glowing. I considered the final fee, negotiated by Delroy, of $JA1500 (approx £23 when we vistited) a bargain. "You're a soldier," he said, as the posse jumped into the back of a beat-up pick-up and headed back into town.
I had a quick look around the hotel, courtesy of one of the staff I'd just met under the bamboo pipes. The baths are tiled in the approved manner but more like conventional individual bathrooms. Each bath is run to order. Upstairs there is the obligatory dining room with sombre dark-wood furniture. The bedrooms are big, with high wooden ceilings. Most have balconies, one of which spectacularly overlooks the river.
But staying there would mean coming prepared with mosquito nets and a pioneer spirit. There is no air conditioning and there didn't appear to be any ceiling fans. Instead we spent the night in a small hotel a few miles away on the coast at Whispering Bamboo Cove. It is all the things the hotels in Milk River and Bath are not. It's modern but with a traditional Jamaican feel, light and airy with high wooden ceilings in the bedrooms and air con units that work silently. Outside, the gardens are a delight. Great care goes into arranging flowers every morning in the reception and dining areas. The staff are well trained and helpful, even rustling up a super fish supper late in the evening. "If only this place was just up the road . . ." I found myself saying to Merrise. In the early morning, Shelley and I went for a walk along the adjoining beach and watched some fishermen pulling in their nets.
On the short drive around the east coast to our final destination, Reach Falls, we took stock of the effect of the waters so far. Milk River made our skin feel smoother, we all agreed. Bath Fountain felt more cleansing, probably because of the powerful combination of sulphur and heat. And we looked very healthy. Spots and skin blemishes had miraculously vanished.
"In fact, with a lick of paint and a bit of investment Jamaica would have the most attractive spas in the world," concluded Shelley. Her words echoed Dr Phillippo's from more than a century ago: "It but requires the hand of man and a comparatively small expenditure to make the mountains of Port Royal the goal of the sick and debilitated from all parts of the western hemisphere." Given that Jamaica is seeking to diversify away from the sun-and-sea package stereotype, it's about time they heeded the good doctor's advice.
Reach Falls (http://reachfalls.com/) is one of many waterfalls that cascade through the virgin rainforest in the interior of Jamaica. Dunn's River Falls is probably the best-known but is impossibly crowded most of the time. The YS Falls near Black River (which we could have visited on the way to Milk River if not so pressed for time) is equally stunning, but I had always harboured a desire to see Reach after I learned that it was the location for the steamy love scene in the film Cocktail.
We arrived mid morning when few other tourists were around. After paying the JA$140 entrance fee (£1.00) an official guide gave us a brief introduction to the falls, pointing out where it was safe to dive and what depth the water was. If we wanted to explore further upstream, he would be glad to help us. He would be on duty as a lifeguard when we were ready to get in the water, he added. After the hustle of Bath, this was a much more relaxed experience.
Viewed from above as you descend into the basin below the falls, the water has an almost surreal jade colour. We splashed about happily for an hour or so, virtually on our own, gasping as the icy water cascaded around our heads. Although idyllic, it's hardly the right temperature for a sexy romp. And anyway, the children were watching. Finally we plucked up the courage to jump in off one of the banks. As midday approached and the tour buses from Oche Rios began to pile up in the car park, we reluctantly decided to leave.
As we stood by the car, narcissistically inspecting our super-cleansed, velvet-smooth skin a young man pushing a cart of fresh coconuts called out: "Smooth runnings, mon, smooth runnings!"