The Beach House Blog

Book of the week No2

2008-01-31T23:49:00.000Z

 The Three Novels of Roger Mais  
(The Hills Were Joyful Together, Brother Man, Black Lightning)  Jonathan Cape 1966  
Roger Mais is a fascinating writer to study for anyone who is interested in tracing the impact of the nationalist movement of the 1930s on the development of Caribbean arts and literature. Born in 1905 into a middle class ‘brown’ family, well educated (although fellow writer John Hearne complained that ‘Roger Mais simply did not know enough and what he knew was not digested’) and hugely talented as both a writer and an artist, he came to his maturity when many of the assumptions that underpinned his position in colonial society were coming under intense scrutiny.
As Norman Manley writes in the introduction to this volume: ‘It was a strange world they (artists and writers) discovered: strange, most of all, in the fact that it was not a world where different cultures had blended into any single significant pattern, but a world divided and split in a manner as peculiar as it was deep-seated. It was not just a question of colour, nor yet of rich and poor; it was a matter of differences that involved widely different acceptances and rejections of values, different interpretations of reality, the use of identical words to express different concepts and values . . . ‘
This concept of the light-skinned elite as explorers, venturing out into the ghettos and bringing back reports and then having a kind of epiphany about the cultural and political significance of being surrounded by a majority black underclass that they knew nothing about - and for whose culture, beliefs and aspirations they had previously cared even less about - is expressed with almost disarming candour. Mais’s own Road to Damascus moment occurred on his way to enlist as a special constable during the riots and strikes of 1938. He never recorded why, but he changed his mind and joined the strikers instead. His conversion to the anti-colonial cause led to a six-month sentence for sedition a few years later in 1944 when he famously denounced one of Churchill’s more offensively imperialistic war speeches.
His novels reflect the conscious attempt he and many of his generation made to re-connect with their island’s African roots (or, in some cases, simply to connect) whilst at the same time attempting a synthesis with the European cultural traditions that they had been schooled in. Just as Rex Nettleford proposed equilibrium between the rhythm of Africa and the melody of Europe, so Mias, too, was searching for a nativist or creole aesthetic that could encompass both worlds.
Of the three novels collected in this edition, the most famous and influential is undoubtedly Brother Man, which was first published in 1954. A great deal of its fame rests on the fact that this was the first positive portrayal of a Rasta protagonist – and this nearly two decades before reggae music had evolved to the point where it was starting to carry the Rasta message to a wide audience, both within Jamaica itself and later internationally.
What is startling to a reader coming to the book 50 years or more after its first publication, is how presciently Mais identified that it would be the Rastas – the most despised, the most cast out of the outcasts – who would provide Jamaica with new role models in the struggle to create a post colonial identity. Brother Man is not just a Rasta, he is everyman. We learn, as the story unfolds, that he worked as a field labourer, sideman on a truck, street preacher, longshoreman and now as a cobbler. He has spent time in prison on a set-up ganja charge but now finds that he has a strange and wonderful power to heal – which he freely places at the disposal of his community.
Ranged around him are a cast of characters who, in their various ways, seek to make a life in the harsh, slum environment of West Kingston. It’s the same world Bob Marley evoked in his song Concrete Jungle, and the plaintive refrain of that song – ‘Where is there love to be found?’ – is the underlying leitmotif of Brother Man. The doomed love of Girlie for the worthless hustler Papacita, the deranged love of Cordelia which leads to infanticide and then suicide, the fickle love of the crowd who one moment embrace Bra’ Man and the next turn against him, the innocent love of Jesmina and Shine which is cut short by a murderous ‘bearded man’ and which precipitates the bloody climax of the novel – are all pitted against the simple, sincere faith of the Rastaman.
Mais evokes the strength of public feeling about the Rastafarians (again anticipating events such as the island-wide persecution of Rastas that followed the so-called Coral Garden massacre in 1963) in this passage towards the end of the book: “The leading newspapers played up the angle that a community of bearded men in their midst, formed together into a secret cult, was a menace to public safety. People began writing letters to the press. All bearded men should be placed behind barbed wire. They should be publicly washed (?) and shaved! They should be banished to Africa. They should be sterilised. They should be publicly flogged. They became identified with a certain political party. They should be denied the vote. They were, in fact, potential rapists and murderers all.”
This, of course, was exactly the distorted stereotype that so incensed Rex Nettleford a decade later in Mirror, Mirror, and which Rastafarians have to contend with – Marley and others notwithstanding – to this day.
Mais, however, saw something quite different:
“He saw all things that lay before him in a vision of certitude, and he was alone no longer.
‘Look at me,’ he said
Her gaze met his, unfaltering.
‘You se it out here too?’
She looked up above the rooftops where that great light glowed across the sky.
She said: ‘Yes, John, I have seen it.’
‘Good,’ he said, and again, ‘Good.’

Book of the week No1

2008-01-15T13:03:00.000Z

Mirror Mirror
Identity, Race and Protest in Jamaica
Rex Nettleford
(William Collins and Sangster, Jamaica, 1970)

One of the unexpected pleasures of taking over the Beach House was discovering a storeroom full of books. There was a brief moment of euphoria when I thought I’d found a first edition of James Joyce’s Ulysses amongst the musty stacks, but it turned out to be a rather less valuable third edition, although very pleasing all the same. There were a lot of thrillers and Hollywood biogs, but the real treasure turned out to be a select collection of books about Jamaica.
It’s my intention to make my way through this stack and blog about each one over the next few months. I’m starting with Rex Nettleford’s pioneering study of identity and race in Jamaica because this book had such a profound influence on me when I first read it back in the late 1970s. In fact, it was with undisguised joy that I picked it up and carefully tried to peel away another volume that had stuck to the front cover. This is the original hardback edition: long ago I possessed a paperback edition and this was much nicer.
Rex Nettleford has become one of the pre-eminent intellectual and cultural voices from the Caribbean since this book was first published, and I was fascinated to see how well it had aged. Nettleford, who was a Rhodes scholar, returned to Jamaica in 1961 to take up a position of the University of the West Indies. He was a co-author of the first study into the Rastafarian movement in 1961, and two years later he founded the National Dance Theatre Company of Jamaica - which toured extensively in the 70s and 80s. As an academic, social historian and cultural practitioner, he has been at the forefront of the debate about race and identity for nearly half a century. This book collects together various essays he wrote in the 1960s when the issue of Jamaican national identity became a major focus for the newly-independent island.
It was a tumultuous decade: it witnessed a flowering of popular culture in music and the arts that was to have a lasting international impact; the Rastafarians were on the march, and Jamaicans everywhere were faced by the
question: Who are we?
As Nettleford observes: “Notions of national identity centred for a long time on the fight for self-government . . . But once this phase of the ‘struggle’ was won, the question of national identity shifted to definitions about who comprised this ‘native population’ and, by implication, what constituted the ‘nativeness’ of the society.”
Central to these questions, of course, is the position of black Jamaicans in a society “still enslaved in the social structure born of the plantation system in which things African, including African traits, have been devalued and primacy still given to European values …” As a black-skinned Jamaican himself, this concern with the redemption of black people, their culture, self-belief and history in the remaking of post colonial Jamaica made Nettleford remarkably sensitive to the crucial debates that emerged in the 60s.
At a time when they were vilified openly by most middle class Jamaicans, Nettleford wrote sympathetically about Rastafarians - those who had been (and what a haunting phrase this is) ‘liberated from the obscurity of themselves’. He saw quite clearly how the many questions the movement raised about notions of European superiority over all things African would be appropriated by the wider society in the years ahead if Jamaica was to mature as a viable, democratic country. One only has to look at the way images of Bob Marley have been used to advertise – and symbolise - everything Jamaican in the intervening years to see how prescient his concerns were.
The final essay in this collection – The melody of Europe, the Rhythm of Africa – is where we see Nettleford’s essential humanism most fully expressed. He begins the chapter by referencing a poplar Jamaican proverb:
‘Every John Crow ‘tink him pickney white’. John Crow is the Jamaican name for a vulture, so if someone is described as a John Crow it means they are a scavenger, a low-bred and unlovely person. So the proverb translates as “Even the blackest, lowest scavenging beast thinks his child is white’.
Nettleford’s answer to this devastating ‘psychological downpression’ (as Rastafarians call it) is to propose that society moves towards an equilibrium, where “the dynamic interplay of attraction and repulsion
(creates) a third dimension of beauty that can be textured, rich and life-giving.”
“One thing is certain,” he concludes, “There must be the liberation of the Jamaican black … from the chains of self-contempt, self-doubt and cynicism. Correspondingly, there will have to be the liberation of Jamaican whites, real and functional, from the bondage of a lop-sided creole culture which tends to maintain for them an untenable position of privilege. .. Melody and rhythm will no longer be regarded as mutually exclusive phenomena and best of all, no john crow living will feel the need to ‘tink him pickney white’.

Smooth runnings 5

2008-01-08T13:29:00.000Z

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!"

MoBay Marine Park on Facebook

2007-12-30T22:40:00.000Z

During the obsessional 'waiting for the container' phase of this blog, I omitted to mention a very entertaining afternoon I spent with Andrew Ross, the director of Montego Bay Marine Park. The park was set up in the early 90s after it had become apparent that the unchecked raiding of coral to make trinkets for tourists and over-fishing of the coastal waters inside the reefs, combined with the impact of hurricane Gilbert, was leading, inexorably, to a major ecological disaster. It was one of the first such parks in the world, and although the indiscriminate destruction of the coral has stopped, many of the issues concerning declining fish stocks and how to develop economically viable eco tourism still remain.
Andrew and I had been emailing for several months and had met briefly a week or so before for the first time: now we settled down on the patio with a couple of Red Stripes to see how I could help with the park’s work, possibly by writing an article in The Daily Telegraph’s Travel section.
Andrew has a refreshingly pragmatic approach to conservation. He points across the bay where, about a mile away, the last uninhabited bit of Bogue Lagoon stretches out to sea. Not for long. Plans are now well advanced for a 700-room hotel complex, part of which will sit next to the only beach in the area where turtles still come to lay their eggs. Does this worry him? No, because he thinks it’s better to embrace tourism and do a deal with the hotel so that they are legally obliged to protect the turtles. ‘I used to think that conservation meant keeping the things the same, but if we leave the turtles alone, what happens is that someone comes along and digs up the eggs. It’s better to have someone responsible for looking after them. And, after all, that’s why people are paying high prices to come to the hotel – so that they can see the turtles.’
Andrew has drawn up an ambitious development plan for the park designed to turn it into a world-class dive centre over the next two years with man-made reefs sunk to provide alternative attractions for tourists while the coral is allowed to recover. At the same time he hopes to enforce restrictions on fishing to build up stocks by a factor of three. There is still the unresolved issue of how incorporate the handful of local fishermen who resist any kind of change into this bright new, eco-friendly future. But one thing he’s certain of is that the marine park needs tourism dollars to achieve its aims.
During the course of our conversation I suggested Andrew set up a MoBay Marine Park page on Facebook as a way of gathering the park’s many friends and supporters worldwide into a viable group for supporting some of the projects he was proposing. Well, bless him, he’s done it: so I urge you to look up MoBay Marine Park on Facebook and sign up to be a fan immediately.

Smooth Runnings 4

2007-12-17T12:19:00.000Z

Merrise finally managed to extract our UPS shipment from Air Jamaica cargo on Friday, but then had to pay around £30 to have it delivered. So much for the door-to-door service I paid for. The dog continues to grow at an alarming rate and there are now fears that her father was a Great Dane.
The relative lack of action in real time means that I can return to our family trip around the spas of Jamaica I last blogged about on November 13.
If you can recall, we were planning to tour the island, visiting as many spas as possible. We set off from Montego Bay, leaving the delights of Doctor's Cave Beach, after lunch the following day driving almost due south towards Black River on the south coast. After passing miles of rich farmland in the interior of the island, the final stretch along a lonely, winding shoreline to Milk River was quite eerie. The pitted limestone rocks and desolate cacti at the side of the road began to assume strange, exotic shapes in the fading afternoon light. It began to feel as if we were travelling back in time and the first sighting of Milk River Mineral Bath confirmed this feeling. It's a fine 19th-century colonial structure, with the dining room and bedrooms on the first floor, surrounded by a wide veranda. The baths are on the ground floor: nine blue doors open into narrow cavern-like rooms, with steps down to a private, mini pool, into which flows the mineral spring. Inevitably, the first thing we did after a hot day in the car was dump our bags in the rooms (en-suite with a big bed, a big old air con unit and an even bigger old telly) and jump into a bath.
The water is crystal clear, pleasantly warm and has a strong saline taste. Dr Phillippo reports that Savory and Moore of London had analysed the water, revealing the following constituents: "Chloride of sodium, sulphate of soda, chloride of magnesium, chloride of potassium, and chloride of calcium, besides traces of lithia, iodine, bromine and silica. These constituents with its temperature of 92 deg place this spring among the thermal calcic waters of Hamburg, Weisbaden, Kassingen, Bourbonne, Schlangenbad, Gastein and Kranznach. It has the soapy unctuous feel that characterises the Schlangenbad and the warm springs of Virginia, imparting to the skin a velvet smoothness to the touch which continues after leaving the bath."
After what seemed like only a few minutes of floating blissfully in the water, a rude knocking at the door reminded us that guests are only allowed to bathe for 20 minutes at a time ("de watah so powerful, y'see," explained the attendant). We withdrew to the dining room to examine the effect of the first dip. No question: we felt a distinct smoothness. Velvety smooth, in fact.
We spent most of the mealtime involuntarily caressing our bare arms and shoulders to reconfirm the 'velvety feel'. Meals, it has to be said, are not Milk River's strongest point. The menu has a determinedly Jamaican solidness - cornmeal porridge at breakfast, yam, banana and rice with the evening meal. I found myself, in Phillippo-esque mode complaining to my wife Merrise: "If only they had a really creative, more health conscious, Jamaican chef here - imagine, fresh fruit juices, lobster with green pawpaw and chillies . . ."
The following day, fortified by a substantial breakfast of banana porridge, ackee and salt fish with fried dumplings and a helping of calaloo, we decided to get some exercise. After bathing early we set off for the nearby Farquar's beach. "How far to the beach?" I asked a young boy who came past on a bicycle. "About eight chains," he replied. "How many chains to a mile?" I asked. None of us knew. "Isn't a chain the length of a cricket pitch?" I asked no one in particular. The use of such long-abandoned (in the rest of the world, anyway) units of measurement emphasised the other-worldliness of this part of Jamaica. We passed some fishermen's cottages, with a few men sitting around mending their lobster pots. The ambience was completely tranquil. Everyone said "Good morning" and no one begged any money - although most of the residents looked as if they could do with a few extra dollars. The beach was deserted save for 30 or so fishing boats, all pulled well clear of the water. On the way back we noticed a tree with what appeared to be a huge outpouring of flickering blossom. Closer inspection revealed it to be a bush covered by hundreds of butterflies. Nearer the hotel we saw a sign saying 'Beware of the crocodiles'. The girls rushed back into the hotel, keen to take another dip in the baths.

Never, ever, send anything by UPS

2007-12-13T15:18:00.000Z

Merrise emailed to say that UPS called Mr Bish-TON to confirm that the shipment from Uncle Eneil had definitely arrived in Montego Bay (via Miami, Kingston, and Miami again). So, that’s just the six weeks to get from New Orleans. Fantastic service. But that’s not the end of the story. After she had tracked down the UPS agents in Mo Bay (not easy - backstreet dive, round the corner, turn left up the concrete stairs, hope someone opens the door type of place) and taken the documents to the Air Jamaica cargo office at the airport, they refused to release it to her because UPS had forgotten to put my name on the address line. At this point, she gave up for the day, and will try tomorrow.
I tried to email UPS customer service to complain about the whole process. This turns out to be impossible because the pre-set email form requires that all fields, including the tracking number, be filled in. I put in the tracking number I had been supplied with, but the form refuses to recognize it, and consequently will not send the email. It is now entirely possible that a shipment I began negotiations to send back in August with the friendly but totally useless Fred in the UPS office in New Orleans will now not arrive before Merrise leaves Jamaica on December 17. UPS – Unbelievably Protracted Service.

Of bats and rats

2007-12-11T13:08:00.000Z

Yes, it was the container. History and I worked like dervishes to get everything under cover in case it rained. I have never felt so tired in my life. Finally left Jamaica on Saturday, after three days of lugging boxes around and packing everything away safely so that next time I can really get down to some serious work (painting walls, fixing taps, putting up curtains and so on). Managed two mini outings in the inflatable tender, but didn’t have time to try out the outboard, so I just rowed around the lagoon in the early morning stillness. The water was incredibly clear and it was possible to see all kinds of fish beneath the boat.
Also unpacked the wind chimes (which I had bought on a whim) because History says they are the best way of getting rid of bats. We’ve always had bats, but they seem to have become much bigger this time around. They love the almond tree on the terrace, and at night it’s quite entertaining to watch them swoop over the pool, dipping down to touch the water. However, now they’ve grown, the amount of bat poo splattering onto the tiles under the tree has become a real problem. It's also quite disturbing when an almond with all the green flesh eaten away suddenly drops like a stone out of the tree when you're sitting underneath. It's like the bats are trying to dive bomb us. History says the wind chimes disturb their radar, but I think I may have to ship out a few more to see if this approach works. If anyone has any suggestions, I'd be grateful: they live in the tree during the day, as far as I can ascertain.
Back in the UK I was faced with a rodent problem of a different sort: a rat has taken up residence in the engine compartment of my car. I opened the bonnet on Sunday night to find five tiny rats, obviously only a day or so old, nestling up to the engine block. I picked them out and thought that would be the end of the matter. But this morning I checked again, and there were another five babies, in the same spot. I am now a serial baby rat killer. Ten kills to my name and counting.

The lull before the container storm

2007-12-05T01:06:00.000Z

We spent yesterday at the docks in Kingston again, this time trying to clear our container for delivery. Again, we got up early (3am) and drove through the early morning to arrive in time for a breakfast at the container depot (calaloo and yam with sweet coffee). Hours passed as the process of bringing the container into the customs shed dragged on. Then our inspector appeared. She was new, someone our man Dave from the Jamaican shipping agents had not encountered before. She was clearly determined to make her mark and ordered that the entire contents be removed and each of the 131 packages opened for her perusal. Lunch, taken promptly at 1pm, interrupted the process and it was not until 3.45 that Merrise emerged from the ordeal with a bill of JA$20,000 (£1= JA$145) to pay for the ineligible items (which included her brother Oliver’s hydraulic slab-making machine). Merrise has asked me to make it quite clear that my role was to stay outside in case sight of my white (and therefore rich) face pushed up the amount of duty we would be asked to pay. It was she who did all the work. By the time the officious new customs officer (who, incidentally specialised in the Kingston ‘look’, a super sized version of the one commonly available in Jamaican circles elsewhere) had satisfied her desire to peer into every corner of our life, our hopes of getting the container delivered that day had gone. So I’m writing this as I wait for it to arrive today. It seems incredible that when we calculated the time it would take for the container to get to us, we took the shipping company’s estimate, added a further three weeks, than added another week, and that was supposed to coincide with our arrival on the island nearly three weeks ago. I was supposed to be returning to the UK tomorrow, but that’s impossible now so I’ve had to re-book for a flight on Saturday.
While I was dozing in the unforgiving heat at the docks as Merrise and Dave supervised the removal of the packages, our phone rang. It was UPS. “Hello Mr Bish-TON” (Jamaicans always accentuate the last part of my surname). “I can confirm that your consignment (from Uncle Eneil) is now in Miami.” Even by the convoluted standards that this shipment has already involved, this seems faintly unreal. “But last week it was in Kingston,” I stammered. “Yes, I know Mr Bish-TON, but I’m assured by Miami that it will be sent to Montego Bay late on Friday.” I’m speechless. I thank her for calling.
As I write, I’m interrupted by the sound of a huge American truck pulling into the drive, and swiping a bit off the gate column. Can this really be the container?

Still waiting on the container

2007-12-01T19:45:00.000Z

Wednesday we got up (by mistake) at 1.25am – I thought it was 5am – and drove to Kingston. After about an hour, when the sunrise stubbornly refused to appear, I looked at my watch again, and realised my mistake. We arrived in Kingston in good time, needless to say, for our 8.30 appointment with destiny. In terms of distance, the journey is about the same as the one I regularly make from London to Birmingham, but in every other respect it’s like driving on a different planet. There’s a great highway from Mo Bay along the north coast going east, but the moment the road takes to the mountains – Kingston lies on the south coast bounded by some seriously high mountains – things start to change. The incessant rain that fell for the best part of three months during this year’s hurricane season has turned some of the twisting bends on the mountainsides into something more akin to a battle scene. Huge chunks of road, turned upside down by the sheer force of the water. At one point, the tarmac had huge channels gorged into it by the water, so that it looked like a monstrous withered tree root. At these points, progress is slow. In retrospect I was glad it was so early because at least there were no trucks struggling along.
We got lost in Kingston, drove through Denham Town along a road that separates it from Tivoli Gardens – which, in spite of its gentile name, is a war zone. Finally made it to the freight office. The rest of the day for me passed dozing in the car with the engine running and air con on, as Merrise went through the endless procedures designed to establish her entitlements for duty free import. Now they have to find the container so that customs can inspect it. This was supposed to be Friday. But we knew as we drove back on Wednesday that it was unlikely.
Meanwhile UPS continue to fail to deliver the pedal boat sent by Uncle Eneil. The online tracking system says that it has arrived in Mo Bay but it lies: we know it is sitting on some lonely piece of tarmac at Kingston airport. This may finally have made it to Mo Bay last night but as there’s no one picking up the phone at UPS, who knows?
On the plus side, History caught about 7lb of lobster this morning, so we’re going to grill them tonight.

Waiting on the container

2007-11-25T01:21:00.000Z

The container should be here; the shipment from Uncle Eneil in New Orleans (which includes a peddle boat) should be here; the internet access via Skyweb should be here: but, of course, none of them are. This is Jamaica. No problem. We have Mark Lobban from MPS shipping in London working on trying to find where our container has got to, and we have Fred Mundy in the UPS office in New Orleans trying to work out why our peddle boat is sitting in a warehouse in Kingston, instead of on the sea shore here. The good news is that as I started to write this blog, the guys from Skyweb arrived. They’re fixing a satellite dish facing towards the hills behind Montego Bay where a mast will connect us to the rest of the world. In just a few minutes I may be able to sit here on the patio, facing the open sea and wirelessly publish this blog. This has been such a long-cherished dream of mine that, along with the almost full moon rising, it almost makes up for the fact that 131 boxes inside a container haven’t turned up.
To be honest, part of me is relieved. The thought of heaving those 131 boxes off the container and into their designated spots would have been a daunting prospect straight off the plane – even with the help of Shelley and Hamish who came out specifically to help us negotiate the container, and have now returned to London without lifting a box in anger.
Instead we did a lot of cleaning, painting and general repairing. And eating. We’ve done a lot of eating. On my birthday we went to the Houseboat, which is moored directly across the lagoon from us (conch fritters followed by grilled prawns with wild rice, topped off nicely with a chocolate soufflé). I might have gone for the lobster, but the previous evening History, the Rasta fisherman who looks after the place for us when we’re not here, barbequed about 10lb of lobster using only butter and garlic. Believe me, this is to die for.
Yesterday, Hamish’s last night, we went to the Plantation Inn, a beautiful restaurant about a mile out of town run by Paul Hurlock and his wife Jennifer. Paul was a professional musician during the hey-day of the north coast music scene in the 60s and 70s, before starting his restaurant project 30 years ago. He’s a charming man with a wide range of passions: he spent all evening at our table and we talked about everything from gazebo design using old 70s-style (ie huge) upturned satellite dishes for the roof, to the Rastafarian settlement in Ethiopia. Fabulous smoked marlin starter followed by jerked grey snapper.
We also managed the obligatory pit stop at the Pelican (a wonderful Mo Bay diner that hasn't changed in all the 26 plus years I've been coming to Jamaica)) where I consumed a chocolate milk shake followed by curried shrimp, Yard-style. In between, Hamish and Shelley made lots of raw vegetable salads supplemented by fried kingfish and patties from Miss Mell’s roadside bar. History followed up his first lobster dish with stewed lobster – the tails cooked in the shell in a soy-inspired sauce. Waiting for a container is a tough business.
Mr Campbell and his assistant from Skyweb were here for five hours installing the dish and wireless router. It was past 10 when they finally left. hey did a fantastic job, were extremely professional and really helpful. So we're finally online on the ocean.
PS The weather is unbelievably beautiful. My brother-in-law phoned today to say it was minus five in Birmingham. Hah!

Of horses and dogs

2007-11-23T17:08:00.000Z

Note: this post was written on November 18 but only posted today due to internet connectivity issues which should happily be resolved later today.
Friday was my birthday and as a special treat I got the day off. We went horse riding at Chukka Blue in the morning. This was my first time on a horse, and I really felt very comfortable: all those hours as a kid watching the Lone Ranger and Rawhide now paying dividends as I sat straight-backed in the saddle, reigns nonchalantly but firmly held in the left hand, leaving my right free to draw the Colt45. Chukka Blue offers a range of ‘adventure’ experiences in Jamaica – from horse riding, quad biking, tree canopy swinging, and so on. Our trip was well organised, plenty of guides on horseback to cajole and organise the group, with a good line in patter that took in history, culture, wildlife and ecology. Riders are taken on a 90-minute stroll through part of the old Maggoty sugar estate and then for a gallop through the sea. The route goes via small hamlet where kids with bare feet gaze up, but without a great deal of interest because they see this twice a day. The place is grindingly poor, but very clean and tidy. Chukka Blue have helpfully provided some branded trash cans. Further on we take a detour through the grounds of Kennilworth great house, where the ruins of what must have been a stupendous 18th century stone house are now part of Kennilworth training college - where youngsters from places like the hamlet we’ve just ridden through are training to be waiters, barmen and cocktail waitresses. The ruins we’re looking at were destroyed during the Sam Sharpe Christmas rebellion of 1831, when tens of thousands of slaves working on sugar plantations (which then covered virtually the whole of the western end of the island) rose up demanding emancipation. Now, the descendants of those rebels are studying in the grounds of said great house to be waiters. What with the heat and everything, it’s quite easy to be overwhelmed by the irony of it all. But it’s a good half-day out – they pick you up from the front door and drop you back afterwards.
Later on we went to look for a dog. The Dog Saga has been going on for a long time. We need a nice dog for the Beach House, we keep saying to one another. It’s complicated by the fact that we’ve never kept dogs, and our only experience is that Merrise was bitten by one when she was a young girl in Jamaica, and I had one when I was boy (called Rex) but he was taken way pretty sharpish when identified as a potential source of my asthma attacks.
Briefly: we went to see our friend Gloria who runs a guest house just outside Lucea (pronounced ‘Lucy’), saw three dogs, didn’t take any, went back next day and brought home one - a sweet mongrel bitch, with a lot of labradour in her, so now we have a dog called Lucea (pronounced ‘Lucy’). OK. So don’t mess with us. We ride horses. We have a dog.

Touchdown

2007-11-16T21:02:00.000Z

Yesterday was my first full day at the house, having arrived the previous afternoon. The flight had a goodly number of elderly Jamaicans, wisely deciding against ‘being shut up in the North’ for the winter and, like me, taking the first ‘cheap’ Virgin flight of the winter season. That’s £400, if you want to know. At Montego Bay, a stack of wheelchairs awaited them. I wondered briefly if any of them were planning a trip to the healing waters of Bath. Sangster airport has been undergoing massive expansion recently, fuelled by excitement over hosting some of the games in last year’s cricket World Cup, and the pressure exerted by airlines such as Virgin who required much bigger facilities to cope with the numbers pouring out their Boeing jumbo jets which had taken over slots vacated by Air Jamaica. Anyway, the new facilities are pretty much completed now, with a new departure lounge and massively enlarged baggage reclaim hall have opened since I was here in April. Even the passport control point was properly staffed, with helpful staff smiling and directing passengers quickly and efficiently. Whatever happened to the ‘look’?
Outside, it was chaos as usual. The pick-up area has been enlarged but when, as happened on Wednesday, a thunderstorm rolls over the hills and disgorged its contents in sheets of monsoon rain for about 40 minutes, just as the passengers from Virgin flight V065 are exiting, well, it’s just chaos and it’s difficult to think of it being any other way. Merrise was circling the pick up point with Hamish riding shotgun on the look-out for me.
Anyway, yesterday was picture perfect. We swam in the pool around nine, after Hamish had come back from a 5km run down towards Hopewell. Shelley did some vague stretching and curling up on the bed exercises. Then did 40 lengths. I managed an heroic 25.
Our mission for the day was to clear out one remaining store room on the side of the apartment building which we had never, in three years, got round to doing. It’s a small, L-shaped room, created out of what might once have been a reception point. It’s full of dress-making materials: row upon row of paper pattern hanging from the ceiling, bales of material, boxes of buttons, jar after jar of bits and pieces. There’s three old, damaged Singer sewing machines. And, in amongst it all is a portfolio of designs, address books with measurements. They all belong to Trevor Owen, the previous owner who died five or six years ago, I think. There are three boxes of labels bearing his name in elegant black lettering. Trevor Owen : Montego Bay : Jamaica WI. I keep the portfolio and all the paperwork, thinking maybe I’ll frame up one of his sketches. They are so evocative of a different time and place – where rich ladies sent postcards from England saying ‘Trevor, I shall be out in November. Can you run me up three of those cocktail dresses?’
Trevor bequeathed us many other little bits and pieces around the place, all of which we have tried to preserve. We want his ghost to be at peace. Because looking after ghosts out here in Jamaica is a very serious business.

Smooth runnings 3

2007-11-13T13:54:00.000Z

OK, back to the trek around Jamaica. After the exertions at Doctor's Cave Beach, we didn't actually get going until after lunch the following day. Originally I had intended to stop off at the YS Falls, a superb set of waterfalls about 50 miles south of Mo Bay on the south coast, near Black River. However, the late start meant we had to give these a miss. After passing miles of rich farmland on the road over the island, the final stretch along a lonely, winding shoreline to Milk River was quite eerie. The pitted limestone rocks and desolate cacti at the side of the road began to assume strange, exotic shapes in the fading afternoon light. It began to feel as if we were travelling back in time and the first sighting of Milk River Mineral Bath confirmed this feeling. It's a fine 19th-century colonial structure, with the dining room and bedrooms on the first floor, surrounded by a wide veranda. The baths are on the ground floor: nine blue doors open into narrow cavern-like rooms, with steps down to a private, mini pool, into which flows the mineral spring. Inevitably, the first thing we did after a hot day in the car was dump our bags in the rooms (en-suite with a big bed, a big old air con unit and an even bigger old telly) and jump into a bath.
The water is crystal clear, pleasantly warm and has a strong saline taste. Dr Phillippo reports that Savory and Moore of London had analysed the water, revealing the following constituents: "Chloride of sodium, sulphate of soda, chloride of magnesium, chloride of potassium, and chloride of calcium, besides traces of lithia, iodine, bromine and silica. These constituents with its temperature of 92 deg place this spring among the thermal calcic waters of Hamburg, Weisbaden, Kassingen, Bourbonne, Schlangenbad, Gastein and Kranznach. It has the soapy unctuous feel that characterises the Schlangenbad and the warm springs of Virginia, imparting to the skin a velvet smoothness to the touch which continues after leaving the bath."
After what seemed like only a few minutes of floating blissfully in the water, a rude knocking at the door reminded us that guests are only allowed to bathe for 20 minutes at a time ("de watah so powerful, y'see," explained the attendant). We withdrew to the dining room to examine the effect of the first dip. No question: we felt a distinct smoothness. Velvety smooth, in fact.
We spent most of the mealtime involuntarily caressing our bare arms and shoulders to reconfirm the 'velvety feel'. Meals, it has to be said, are not Milk River's strongest point. The menu has a determinedly Jamaican solidness - cornmeal porridge at breakfast, yam, banana and rice with the evening meal. I found myself, in Phillippo-esque mode complaining to Merris(e): "If only they had a really creative, more health conscious, Jamaican chef here - imagine, fresh fruit juices, lobster with green pawpaw and chillies . . ."

Picking up the passport

2007-11-12T23:45:00.000Z

Another real time update: It’s Monday night and Merris(e) left this morning with our daughter Shelley for Jamaica. This followed several days of complete brinkmanship with regard to our final preparations. First, there was the business of M’s Jamaican passport. Because of the missing ‘e’ in her name, and the subsequent delays occasioned by this rogue letter, the passport didn’t make it back into the UK until last Friday. It had to be picked up from the Jamaican High Commission in London, and so I was the obvious courier, especially since M was in Birmingham, dealing with other things.
Now I have to say that, on the whole, M’s dealings with the High Commission have been very cordial: the incredibly helpful Anita who sorted out the business of the missing ‘e’ with the authorities in Jamaica, also thoughtfully telephoned M on Friday morning to say that the passport had now arrived. Off I went, assured that it would be a two-minute job – trying to banish thoughts such as ‘But it’s never a two-minute job in Jamaica’. Sure enough, as I stepped into the passport section (round the back and in through the tradesman’s entrance) my heart sank.
I was immediately transported back to those painful hours I spent queuing in the water and electricity payment offices in Mo Bay when we were trying to sort out the outstanding amounts left unpaid by previous owners of the Beach House. First, the waiting room was full. The doorway was half-blocked by a group of men all exchanging hard luck stories. ‘Maan, me a tell yu, de woman say I don’t have all the documents I suppose to have.’ ‘Yes man, ‘ said the second, ‘She suppose to help I but she just tell the I to “G’way”.’ In the seats, arranged like pews in a church, sit a group of dancehall queen look-alikes, all with amazing hairstyles, most with a small, very bored child wriggling on their lap. I look at them as I enter: they give me the ‘look’ back. In an obscure corner of the room is one, small glass partition, where a mature woman with several decades’ experience of giving the ‘look’ to forlorn passport seekers is holding court. It is her I must attract the attention of in order to pick up M’s passport. Unfortunately, there are five or six people in front of me, all trying (and failing) to attract her attention as well. I look round in desperation. I pluck a ticket from the queuing machine. Number 49. I look up. ‘Now serving number 14’ says the electronic board. My heart sinks.
Suddenly, the woman – or number 14 as we shall call her - who is being attended to at the glass counter walks away. There is a sudden surge forward. We are all talking at once. ‘I’ve just come to pick up my wife’s/brother’s/husband’s, child’s passport’ we babble. The mature woman walks away from the glass partition and is hidden from view. I try to stay clam. I know that the slightest sign of irritation on my part will be taken very badly by the mature woman, and push me further down the pecking order. There is another white bloke in the queue. He turns to me and says forlornly: ‘I’m only here to pick up my wife’s passport. She said it would be a two-minute job.’ I empathise, but not too much.
Finally, in desperation I call M and ask her to try to contact the helpful Anita to let her know I’m there. After about 10 minutes, M calls back and says that Anita says I must push a button on the right hand side, near the door. I see a button. I push. Miraculously, another door next to the tiny glass counter opens, and four of us pile into a space just big enough for one. With difficulty, we close the door to discourage other queue-jumpers. Inside the cubicle is another glass counter and a woman holding four brown envelopes. We grab them and make good our escape. The men are still grumbling by the door. One of the toddlers has broken free from his mother’s lap and is beating out a rhythm on the water cooler, but I am back into the bright sunlight of Kensington.

Smooth runnings 2

2007-11-08T12:15:00.000Z

OK, back to the business of Jamaican spas. My plan was to circumnavigate the island clockwise in four days - via the radioactive mineral spring at Milk River, the hot sulphurous spa at Bath Fountain and the natural spring at Reach Falls.
We started our water quest in Montego Bay at the Casa Blanca, a graceful old building dating from the early 1930s, which snakes along the seafront next to Doctor's Cave Beach. Although there are plenty of alternatives for the Mo Bay tourist, none (to my mind) have quite the romantic atmosphere that pervades the Casa Blanca, with its wonderful marble floors and exquisite seafront location. You look out from the bar across the lucid blue waters stretching west towards Negril Point and fully expect to see Errol Flynn mooring his yacht - as once he did, when flash Buiks with big bumpers and white wall tyres lined the street outside.
Today, the Casa Blanca is owned by Norman Pushell, a Canadian who has lived on the island for so long his accent has picked up a distinctive Caribbean lilt, and his beautiful Jamaican wife Lorraine. (Mr Pushell's other great claim to fame is that he sold the Beach House to me and Merris(e).) I asked him how the neighbouring Doctor's Cave Beach had earned its reputation for curing illnesses. "Well, wouldn't you feel better if you left England every winter and spent a month or two lazing in the sun here?" he asked incredulously.
In fact, Doctor's Cave Beach dates from 1906 when a Mo Bay doctor donated his beachfront property to form a bathing club. Until 1932, when it was destroyed by a hurricane, the beach was entered through a hole in a cave - thus explaining its rather curious name. Word of its curative properties spread in the late 1920s when British architect Sir Herbert Baker spent some time there and later published a paper claiming he had been cured of various muscle and joint-related ailments. Doctor's Cave retains its slightly exclusive air - the club still charges a few dollars for entry - and it remains one of Montego Bay's most pleasant places to see and be seen.
The morning after our arrival was a classic, flawless Jamaican day, so we slipped off to the beach to try out our new snorkelling gear. Emerging from a marathon stint inspecting the reefs which fringe Doctor's Cave, I found myself gently expiring next to an elderly woman in a designer swimsuit. She enquired about my health. I mentioned something about the supposed healing properties of the sea hereabouts. We were chatting happily when suddenly my new friend asked me: "How old do you think I am?" I hesitated in my polite English way. She might be in her mid or maybe late 70s, I thought. "Well, I'm 92," she said. " I come here every year from New York in the winter. And I come to the beach almost every day. I still swim."
Elyse Whyte had run a travel agency in the US for many years, and she was still totally on the case. "I have email you know," she said. I could swear she was trying to chat me up.
I returned to the Casa Blanca feeling seriously optimistic. If this is what the ordinary Jamaican seawater does, what could we expect from the spas?

The saga of the missing 'e'

2007-11-06T14:17:00.000Z

I'm interrupting the tale of our family trip around the spas and natural waters of Jamaica, to report on the matter of my wife's first name. All the time I've known her, her name has been Merrise (pronounced to rhyme with cerise). 'What a lovely name," I said when I first met her. 'Where does it come from?’ She gave me the 'look' - anyone who has asked a Jamaican a potentially sensitive question will know about the ‘look’, so I fell silent. Eventually she said: ‘My father called me Merrise. I think it was the name of an obscure French actress popular in the 1940s.’
Those who have only a passing acquaintance with Jamaican naming traditions will confirm that they are the most original and inventive in the world. An entire generation was named after Ken Barrington, the English cricketer who somehow took the fancy of Jamaicans during the 1950s, for example. And what about filmmaker Don Letts? His father’s first name is St Leger. So the idea of being named after an obscure French actress seemed perfectly plausible, if just a little esoteric even by Jamaican standards.
Fast forward nearly 30 years, and Merrise decides to re-new her Jamaican passport. She’s held a UK passport for many years, of course, but a valid Jamaican passport is required to claim certain tax refunds, which she qualifies for as someone returning to set up a home in the country of her birth. Since 9-11, Jamaica (along with just about everywhere else) has been obliged to review its passport requirements, so the mere fact of once having held a Jamaican passport is no longer a guarantee that it will be renewed. In order to do this, she needs her original birth certificate – something she mislaid many years ago. I will not detail the labyrinthine processes involved in securing this document – several visits to the Jamaica High Commission in London (where a goodly number of the employees also specialise in the ‘look’), the Royal Courts of Justice, help from our good friend and solicitor Mike Dyer. All appeared to going well, if slowly, until last Thursday when a phone call from Jamaica spread panic. “It appears,” said a voice from the Registrar General’s office (and from the tone of the voice it was clear this was a person who could also do the ‘look’) “that your application will have to start over again because according to your original birth certificate, your first name is spelt ‘Merris’ – without an ‘e’.”
This was not just a blow because of the amount of time, money and energy already expended, but doubly so because with the container due to arrive in Kingston in a week or so, the passport was needed quickly. Failure to clear the container within five days of arrival attracts storage charges of US$200 a day.
Merrise (or, as I now call her, Merris) was so incensed that she flew into a frenzy of activity and called the Jamaican High Commission. Amazingly, someone answered the phone (anyone who has tried to call the JHC will know how unexpected this is) and, even more amazingly, she found herself talking to a very helpful woman called Anita. Thanks to her, it seems that Merris may receive her Jamaican passport before she leaves next week.
In the meantime, I’ve been doing a bit of research. I can’t find any French actresses – obscure or otherwise – with the name Merrise. There is, however, a French connection with Merris, a small town in northern France where Australian Forces distinguished themselves in a World War 1 action in 1918. Could that have been the inspiration behind her name? Even in the complex, multi-layered, post-colonial hybridity that is Merrise’s family history, that seems a bridge too far.

Smooth runnings 1

2007-11-01T12:29:00.000Z

It was while I was visiting Hay-on-Wye more than a decade ago that the idea of taking a tour of the mineral and volcanic springs of Jamaica first popped into my head. The inspiration was a tiny volume called The Mineral Springs of Jamaica, by the Hon J C Phillippo MD, first published for the Jamaica Exhibition of 1891.
I had plucked it from the groaning shelves of a second-hand bookshop by pure chance. As I turned the pages they began to crumble like an ancient papyrus. I decided to delay detailed perusal but not before I had absorbed that Jamaica had many different kinds of natural waters, most of them hot and all of them good for a number of different ailments - from skin conditions to rheumatism.
"To invalids shut up during the long winter of the North by gout, rheumatism, bronchitis, and consumption, "Dr Phillipo's introduction enthused, "we can not only give a mild and equitable temperature, cloudless skies and abundant occupation, but we can also give them our healing waters." I drew immediate comfort: after all, one day I might find myself shut up in the North with gout or bronchitis.
The Mineral Springs of Jamaica report is a fascinating read in every respect. First, it yields a detailed history of the discovery and development of Jamaica's natural resources in colonial times. Dr Phillippo relates how Sir Hans Sloane, the founder of the British Museum, speaks in his introduction to the History of Jamaica, published in 1707, of "a hot bath or spring near Morant, situated in a wood, which has been bathed in and drunk of late years for the belly-ache with great success."
He reveals also the aspirations of the educated landowners and their desire to have a spa town like the famous ones in Europe. "There are states and principalities in Europe that have been kept in a state of solvency by revenues derived from their springs," he says wistfully, perhaps thinking of Spa in Belgium, or Baden in Switzerland. Finally, the report embodies the Victorian obsession with measuring things and recording nerdy detail. It contains the first - and probably the only - really detailed analysis of the water from three of the island's most potent springs, complete with (favourable) comparisons with other, more famous, springs from all over the world.
But perhaps the most striking thing about Dr Phillippo's narrative is his basic sense of bemusement. Having discovered it had world-beating natural spas - and not just one sort, every sort, all packaged up in a small island paradise - Jamaica had failed to capitalise on them. At every turn, Phillippo is forced to lament the state of repair of the resources he is describing, and to stress the urgent need for funds to develop them to attract wealthy patrons from overseas. More than a century after the good doctor's report was published, I was about to experience a sense of déjà vu.

A Bob Marley playlist

2007-10-31T09:26:00.000Z

I first visited Jamaica in 1981 because Merrise told me it was the most beautiful place on earth, and I wanted to see for myself. The fact that I have ended up where I have will tell you all you need to know about the accuracy of her statement. But it was not just the majestic range of scenery - the mountains, beaches, waterfalls, rivers and natural springs - that alone seduced me. It was the impossible contradictions of the place as well. Anyone who walked through Trenchtown - as Merrise and I did (with considerable misgivings on her part, I might add) 26 years ago - and saw at first hand the grinding poverty of the people who lived there would have found it hard to believe that anything so spiritual and uplifting as reggae music could have been born and nurtured there. No one embodies those contradictions more nobly than Bob Marley - so this post is dedicated to him.
“You getting a three in one music. You getting a happy rhythm with a sad sound and a good vibration. It’s roots music,” said Bob about the music of the ghetto. His characterisation of the reggae aesthetic as one of multilayered possibilities goes right to the heart of explaining why, more than a quarter of a century after his death at the age of 36, his music continues to be played by millions in every part of the world. Marley has sold far more albums since he died in 1981 than he managed in his lifetime, and received an almost continuous stream of posthumous awards, including having his 1977 album Exodus voted Album of the 20th century by Time magazine.
Reviled and ridiculed while he was alive for his Rastafarian beliefs, the passing of time has only served to expand the universal appeal of his lyrical and musical genius. It’s virtually impossible to not to hear a Marley song when you visit Jamaica, so here’s the Beach House perfect playlist – which deliberately avoids any of the tracks on Legend, the posthumous collection which nearly everyone in the world owns.

1 Trenchtown Rock
From LIVE! (1977)
Recorded originally in 1971, this is one of Marley’s most powerful statements about the redemptive power of his music. “One good thing about music/When it hits you feel no pain,” he assures us. This live performance at London’s Lyceum captures all the raw energy and excitement of a Marley concert, and the band led by the Barrett brothers never sounded better.

2 Concrete Jungle
From CATCH A FIRE (1973)
Marley’s most perfectly realised anthem to the ghetto that nurtured his talents. There’s nothing romantic in his evocation of the suffering and persecution of 1970s Kingston, and yet this song moves effortlessly from the lone voice of a lover seeking comfort, through an analysis of how slavery is replicated in the post-colonial power structures, to a final, defiant sense of hope even in the very heart of darkness. Stunning poetry enhanced by Chris Blackwell’s inspired (although very controversial at the time) addition of a wailing rock guitar.

3 Natty Dread
From NATTY DREAD (1975)
The first album after the split with original Wailers - Bunny Wailer and Peter Tosh - saw Marley drafting in his wife Rita along with Judy Mowatt and Marcia Griffiths to form a new harmony backing group called the I-Threes. The change seemed to inspire him - this album includes, amongst other gems, the original studio version of No Woman, No Cry. “Children get your culture” he urges in this paean to the spiritual qualities of the Rastaman, the prophetic role already beginning to settle on his slight shoulders. Note how cleverly he evokes the actual grid system of Kingston streets to map out a symbolic seven-street journey to spiritual enlightenment.

4 Turn Your Lights Down Low
From EXODUS (1977)
In December 1976 Marley survived an assassination attempt at his Kingston home, but the sense of betrayal he felt continued to trouble him for the rest of his life. He fled to the Bahamas, then to London, and was almost constantly on the road thereafter. Although his feelings about Jamaica were ambivalent – it was, after all, Babylon – he missed the sunshine and the sense of the natural world. During this double exile, and with his always-complicated love life in crisis (his relationship with former beauty queen Cindy Breakspeare was undermining his credentials as a roots man), he produced some of his most beautiful and haunting songs. Turn Your Lights Down Low is a seduction song to rival anything put out by Marvin Gaye or Al Green.

5 She’s Gone
From KAYA (1978)
Legendary reggae producer Lee Perry – who worked with the Wailers in the early 1970s when many of the songs Marley included on later albums were originally conceived and recorded – claims he was drawn to Marley because of the sense of vulnerability he showed in his lyrics. Outwardly the tough ghetto warrior, Marley constantly surprises us with his emotional honesty. She’s Gone is a lament devoid of self-pity and pretence: the woman has gone because “she felt like a prisoner who needs to be free”.

6 Sun is Shining
From KAYA (1978)
“Sun is shining, weather is sweet,” sings Marley (and never was the word “sweet” imbued with such sensual overtones) “makes you want to move your dancing feet” and we are swept away by one of the all-time great warm-weather dance tracks. Marley’s craftsmanship as a writer is supreme here: having seduced us he takes us on a lyrical journey, counting out the days, into the beautiful Jamaican countryside and the heart of the rainbow. The perfect Beach House song.

7 Misty Morning
KAYA (1978)
The sun is constantly invoked in Marley’s work as a source of rebirth, renewal and hope: a Misty Morning, by definition, is a moment of doubt and uncertainty. When Marley released Kaya it was panned by critics (especially in Jamaica) as “too soft”. Time has generated a more measured verdict, and this, the most enigmatic and puzzling of all his songs, seems to have no answer to the age-old question of why the wicked seem to prosper and the righteous suffer.

8 Natural Mystic
From EXODUS (1977)
This is another song that Marley lifted from the treasure trove of his time with Scratch Perry – although this version has a completely different bass line and vibe from the original. Overshadowed when first released by the album’s title track, this song has come to define the essence of Marley’s philosophical take on the world – that the unknowable mysteries of life are best approached by facing up to earthbound realities and finding joy (usually through music) beyond the pain.

9 So Much Trouble in the World
From SURVIVAL (1979)
Following the triumphant Exodus tour of 1977, Marley’s status as prophet and peacemaker in Jamaica soared. As the bitter feuds between rival gangs supporting the two major political parties escalated and the death toll reached epidemic proportions, Marley was lured back to headline a peace concert where he achieved the unlikely feat of getting bitter enemies Edward Seaga and Michael Manley to join hands on stage. Survival marked a new sense of mission – no love songs, no recast oldies from the Perry era – and is by far his most politicized work, setting out the agenda for the final apocalyptic showdown between the children of Jah and Babylon.

10 Forever Loving Jah
From UPRISING (1980)
By the time Marley came to London to record the songs for this album in early 1980, he knew the cancer that had started in his toe was spreading through his body. He was tired and ill, and the strain shows clearly in photographs taken at the time. And yet he worked with frantic energy, creating some of his most enduring and powerful work, turning the intimate details of his own personal story into a narrative with universal meaning. Redemption Song is possibly the most moving example of this but Forever Loving Jah is as close to a hymn as its possible to get in a pop song

Who feels it, knows it

2007-10-30T11:04:00.001Z

There are very few instances in my relationship with Merrise when I can honestly say we both agreed about something instantly, at the same time. That’s not to say that we disagree about everything, it’s just that we have a natural check and balance in our relationship. I am the impetuous one: I fall in love with an idea, a book, a piece of music, a glass of red wine at the slightest provocation. She is more circumspect, more grounded and wary. I fell in love with her face the first moment I saw her. She took months to even acknowledge that I existed.
Our first visit to the Beach House stands out, therefore, as one of those, rare and precious moments when we both agreed about something at precisely the same moment. We had to have this house.
That was three years ago.
But a love affair with a house is a very dangerous thing - especially when said house is 8,000 miles away from where you spend most of your time.

The container is on its way

2007-10-29T11:37:00.000Z

Well, we hope it is anyway. After two years of scouring eBay for bargains, rushing into Aldi at the slightest provocation and buying the latest low-price tools, and generally behaving like a pair of demented magpies, we have finally packed off a 20ft container for the house in Jamaica. It's funny how the business of acquiring useful bits and pieces for a second home starts to take over your life. At first, my wife was mildly quizzical. Slowly, though, the questions - 'Why do you need a new chain saw?' or 'Where are you going to put a table football machine?' - gradually gave way to 'Look what I just found in the bargain bin at Aldi' as the collecting bug took over. In the end, we had to send the container because we could hardly get into the house, as the boxes of 'really useful stuff' started to take over. First the conservatory went awol (and with it the view of the garden), then the dining room half of our main downstairs room filled up with cane sofas, carpets and curtain rails. Then the hall started to become blocked with big cardboard boxes. Finally, when the kitchen started to be overwhelmed, it was time to call it a day. Of course, that doesn't include the back garden patio area which had already disappeared under tons of scaffolding ('Honestly darling, it will be really useful when a hurricane blows off the roof'). Anyway, it's all gone now, and is due to arrive in Jamaica sometime early in November.