Negril Notes

Yoga Center Trip April 2004 – Final

March 6, 2005

Tedds with Yasmine

We returned to the bus/taxi lot to find a ride back to Sav-La-Mar. Being mid-afternoon, there weren’t many people headed to Sav so we had to wait for the taxi to fill. At only 150J a head, the taxis don’t leave till then, preferably not til over-full.

It had gotten really warm and we needed of some refreshment, so we walked over to a fruit cart and ordered a pineapple from the big scary looking vendor. If you never had a pineapple in Jamaica, you don’t know what you’re missing. The Pineapple Guy takes hold of said fruit by the leafy cactussy part, pulls out a gigantic machete and lops off the bottom half inch in one smooth motion. Expertly he carves off the rough skin, and with the speed of a Cuisinart he slices it into thin discs. The discs fall onto a shiny metal plate balanced precariously atop a rickety wooden fruit crate, and at about the time you’re getting over the shock of the menacing twenty four inch blade whipping about, he scoops the pieces into a clear plastic bag and hands it to you with a gold tooth accentuated smile. The entire process takes about forty seconds and only cost a dollar US. What a show!

Watching as he wiped the residual juice off the heavy knife, I nodded and thought to myself, “Theft must be rare from this cart!”

The Pineapple Guy nodded back as if to say “Your Damn Right!”

Back in the shade of the minivan I opened doors on both sides to make the best of the slight breeze blowing over from the town center. We sat quietly and enjoyed both the sweetness of our pineapple and the sweetness we seemed to be finding in each other.

By the time we were finished we were on Jamaica Route A2 headed back to Sav. There were only four other people in the minivan which the driver didn’t seem too happy about.

Yasmine put her feet up, leaned against my chest and closed her eyes for this leg of the trip. My arm was draped over her sleeping shoulder and my hand rested gently on her belly as it rose and fell with each breath. Not wanting to risk waking her, I looked out the opposing window and timed my breath with hers.

The entire time I fought with myself, trying to keep my demons at bay. The normal thing to do would be to fall asleep with her, but my brain would have none of that! “What if you wake her up with your snoring, or worse, with you drooling all over her head?!”

Luckily for my sanity, my innate negativity towards my romantic success was over shadowed by the intoxicating scent of her chocolate brown hair. I found a quiet place in my mind by thinking of a love song written by my daughter Kristine. Somehow her words turned my doubts into hope and gave me peace.

Yasmine woke just minutes before we reached the Sav-La-Mar Taxi Station. We arrived right in the middle of the Jamaican version of rush hour and in minutes we were in a Negril bound taxi. There would be no sleeping on this leg of the trip though, we were stuffed in the back of a small Japanese sub-compact, and between the driver’s exuberance and the Westmoreland roads we were on a rollercoaster ride.

Approaching Negril I remembered we’d talked about visiting Tedds Shroom Boom, I broached the subject with Yasmine and she was all for it!

“Woo Hoo!!” I thought, “There’ll be lovin’ in the hammock hut tonight!!”

I told the driver we needed to get out before the end of the route. I did it just in time because in what seemed like a minute later we were de-taxiing in front of Tedds colorful little yard.

It looked much like it did on my last visit about two years earlier, except this time the sign was inside the fence and I was concerned he may no longer be in business, but, to my relief, Garland came to the door as we approached the porch.

“Hi!!” I said with a big wave. Garland pretended to remember me, but his acting wasn’t all too convincing. Now, since my last trip I’d spoken to fellow Negrilista who told me to make sure I asked for “Double Strength Tea,” something I would soon regret, well sort of, in retrospect I don’t, but that day I did, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Anyone who’s tried mushroom tea knows it is about as tasty as bat shit. Bat shit, mixed with water and honey. Suffice to say it’s nasty. Yasmine had no idea what to expect, she thought we’d be sitting in a quaint little cafe sipping something more like a cross between Earl Grey and the broth they use in wonton soup. Boy was she surprised!

Garland brought us over our tea and I paid him the $20US he asked for. Yasmine thought I should have haggled but I knew it was a good price.

I can’t describe the look of shock and horror on her face as she took the first sip, but it was a lot like that of Brad and Janet when they realized what really happened to Eddie.

I thought she’d fold like a cheap camera, but, to her credit, she choked down the slimy psilocybin and honey concoction with the demure class with which she did most things.

We were having a really nice time, but I knew from experience we needed to get back to the Yoga Centre before this stuff really kicked in. We said out good-byes to Garland and his son, just as a group of six Hedo People took our place.

We walked out front and hailed a taxi. I knew this was an “In-Town” taxi and would cost whatever the market would bear, but I also knew we needed to get back because the waves of trippy shroomage were beginning to lap ever so gently on the shores of my scull!

By the time we got back to the Yoga Centre were giggling like characters in a Dr. Seuss book. OK, for a minute I thought we WERE characters in a Dr. Seuss book, but the calm was shattered when the driver asked us for $5US for the ride.

Yasmine’s flabber was ghasted, “We only paid 70J to Sav!!” She shrieked in her here-to-fore sexy French accent.

The driver looked at me with eyes that said, “I don’t want to deal with this.” I peeled off 200J (about $3.25US) and he seemed happy to get out of there. Yasmine seemed mad at me for giving in and I just laughed, trying to diffuse the situation and herded her into the Yoga Center gates. We split up and headed for showers in our respective cabins and planned to meet at the breakfast table afterwards.

The “Double Strength” hit hard!! It relentlessly toyed with my sanity as I tried to shower, brush my teeth, and roll a fatty. I tried to take a moment and record this awesome day in my journal, but when I grabbed my pen I was overtaken with the banality of expressing life is such a small, bourgeois, and utterly meaningless form as words or language! Yeah, I was out there!

Walking from my cabin, I came across Alan and the Kiwi couple. I dove right into conversation with them when, unfortunately, I realized the power of speech was well beyond my current mental state. I didn’t see Yasmine so I asked Alan to tell her where I was. At least that was my intent.

Some time later Alan joined me in the Hammock hut and the next thing I know I was knocking on Yasmine’s door. Now, I knew at some level that I was in the full clutches of the “Double-Strength Tea,” but I also knew I had a hundred pounds on poor Yasmine. Physically she seemed fine, but looking into her eyes told a different story. The lights were on and somebody was definitely still home, but they were about to go on holiday for the next eight to ten hours!

Realizing, fresh air, liquids and maybe some ganja would be the best thing to keep us afloat in the midst of these rising tides, she headed across the yard to the hammock hut, and I went to my cabin for supplies. I soon joined her and we shared a hammock. Being with Yasmine made me feel great, the testosterone bubbled up through the waters, but making any moves on a woman in this state would be quite sumbaggedly of me so we rock and rolled with the increasing waves, within the safety of our sturdy hammock.

I awoke some time later, Yasmine was gone, and Alan was there. I knew I had to move, Alan was talking but I was no longer of this planet. I rushed back to my cabin and guzzled several Red Stripes and somehow managed to roll two big sloppy slpiffs. After a cold shower I was stabilized enough to eat the sweet bun in my refrigerator and drink some water. I walked out side and sat at the breakfast table.

No sooner did I relax did it all come flooding back over me, it was still strong, maybe stronger than before, but I seemed able to control it. Maybe it becomes more cerebral and less physical as time wears on. As my vision seemed to melt anything I looked at for more than a few seconds, I felt like Neo in the Matrix. I began to realize this “reality” is nothing but subjective energy fields that on some level we “agree” to see in a certain way.

I began to fixate on a large flowery bush under the spotlight near the center of the yard. It was actually a close knit series of individual shoots all integrated under the surface. On some level we were aware of each other and I was acutely aware of all the energy ebbing and flowing all around me, it was cool. In that moment I gained and understanding of the essence of life, if not the meaning. I knew this was a fleeting moment, and in the morning, like a day in OZ, I would be back in Kansas, and everything would be in black and white.

Over the next hour or so, I was lost between these worlds, debating which was real, and if the “Double Strength Tea” was causing it, or was it opening my doors of perception and allowing me a see it. I guess that’s the big question.

After a night of fitful sleep, and really wild dreams, I was awoken by a knock on my door. It was Eddie my driver I’d hired to take me to the Airport. It was 7AM. I told him my flight wasn’t till 1PM and he said he’d be back at ten.

I was all kinds of confused. The tea had run its course, but there was a residual effect mixing with my hangover, I’d drunken eight beers from about six and midnight and I felt them. Stumbling into the shower, the cold water invigorated me. I must have drank a gallon of water the standing there. I knew the entire place slept till eight so I packed, the whole time very worried how Yasmine made it through the night.

I had a dream where she thought I’d poisoned her, and Alan and I ended up chasing her all over Negril ending up in the swamps behind the strip. I laughed as I recalled my wacky dream but found myself checking my sandals for swamp mud before I put them in my duffel just to be on the safe side.

I dressed in my travel clothes and made for the breakfast table. One of the security guys was high up in the mango tree shaking some fresh mangoes loose, Alan and Marie were standing below to catch the fruit before it hit the ground.

A few minutes later I was having a coffee and fresh mango breakfast. I apologized to Alan for my lack of coherence the previous evening and told him about Tedds, he smiled and took it in stride. I asked if he’d seen or heard from Yasmine. He said he ran into her a few times last night and though she was smiling, she didn’t say anything to him.

She never made it to breakfast and only moaned when I knocked on her door to say good-bye.

“She’s Pissed,” was my first thought, but somehow I knew she wasn’t. I joked to myself, “If she’s pissed it’s because she was denied my lovin’!”

What woman wouldn’t be?

I hopped into my taxi and headed north to Sangster International Airport.

Epilogue

Before I left Alan and I traded emails and I gave him a note for Yasmine. I’d have to wait to contact her since she was headed to Treasure Beach for the next week.

So, as I got back to my life, and made plans for another trip in the fall, I filled my journal with thoughts and memories of my wild week. A few weeks later I received an email from Yasmine, she regaled our day together and how Rasta George helped her find her place in Treasure Beach, and how she met a couple who went on the “Tourist” boat up Black River, but didn’t get to go to “Our” little cove. The funniest thing was while she was under the effects of the tea she thought she had been poisoned and spent some time in her cold shower as well.

As for Patty, Erin and the Kuyaba folks, we’ve kept in email touch.

I’m still a faithful boardie and get to as many webcasts as I can!

Peace