Ah, family vacations. That phrase so dear to some, and yet so unbearable to others, continues to be loaded with a multitude of connotations and almost never predictable events that haunts families all over the world. My immediate family, being split from our entire extended family by the whole of the United States, lived an almost exclusive bicoastal vacation lifestyle and never ventured anywhere outside the confines of California, barring a Minnesota/ Wisconsin trip one time that thankfully was never repeated. Wild stuff, believe me. Somehow, even with one sister married, one brother engaged, and me living across the country, my mom managed to scrape together a family vacation someplace other than our grandparents' houses for the very first time.
A family friend was getting married at a Sandals resort in Jamaica, so obviously that means the entire Demmon clan finally had an excuse to get some stamps in our passports together! My sister, brother-in-law, and I, not invited to the wedding, spent the first two days mainly relaxing at our Sandals resort and planning activities once we joined with the parents, brother, and sister-to-be post-nuptials. Sandals, if you are unfamiliar with the eye-glazing concept of complete and utter middle American tourist propoganda, is a chain of all-inclusive resorts that cater to 99% honeymooners and fat white people drinking pina coladas who are getting their love handles sunburned. Of course, me being not one to judge, wholeheartedly embraced the obvious antiquated ideals of rich and faux rich white folk being served by a darker shade and relished in my glorious location unfortunately sans fiancee in what seems to be a place where a lady missing a man compares with missing a nose.
Obviously, there's a tangent that burns within me, but the real reason I actually think people might be interested in my experience in Jamaica is for the one activity that A) I picked, B) was off-resort, and C) crazy as it might seem, actually involved physical movement. I could add D) there was not a drink with an umbrella to be seen all day, but I have to admit the "Dirty Banana became a guilty favorite of mine.
100% downhill, the Blue Mountain Bike Tour was hardly the Tour de France, but it was a fantastic opportunity to see actual Jamaica and not just the inside of a gated resort that honestly could have been absolutely anywhere in the world. A 2 hour bus ride through the heart of Jamaica was the only time I was able to even catch a glimpse of what this country has to offer, despite the fact I was still seeing it through windows of a moving bus. Still, it was a nice change than the barrage of beluga whales and their drunk husbands and horny newlyweds.
Off topic again.
The lush greenery of the countryside overwhelms the majority of the mountainous island and serves as the representation of green on the nation's flag. Coffee is one of the biggest exports of Jamaica and Jamaican
Blue Mountain Coffee can be found across the world and remains highly regarded as some of the best coffee on the planet. Amongst the endless advertisements for activities available for Sandals patrons, nestled somewhere between a authentic "Jamaican bobsled" experience and a steel drum show was a flier for the
Blue Mountain Bike Tour, touted as a "must-do" for islandgoers looking for something a bit more adventurous. Being a single, bored white tourist with an appetite for delicious and a yearning to see "real" Jamaica, I signed myself, my sister Lauren, and mom Patty up for the next day's tour.
We left the hotel at 8 AM sharp and aboard a massive tour bus were able to observe small villages, bustling markets, catch glimpses of unbelievably humongous cruise ships docked near a rock quarry, a house shaped like a cruise ship built by a retired eccentric boater, Mick Jagger's quaint island getaway, and an abundance of palm tree farms and working fields that seemed to take us back in time to plantation days. We eventually made it to the foot of the mountain, but the ever-long twisting and winding, often surprisingly narrow and treacherous "road" kept us on the edge of our seats for at least another half hour until we reached the middle of the mountain where our journey really began.
The Blue Mountain house welcomed us with a Cajun style French breakfast, complete with some of the freshest coffee in the world. Even with a more experience palette than most, the first sip caught me by the seat of my pants and kicked my ass. Strong doesn't begin to describe what I can only imagine is the coffee equivalent of crack! Our guides were pleasant, patient, extremely knowledgeable, and let us load up on plenty of piping hot black coffee and beignets before walking us through the life of the coffee bean.
Much of the old traditions remain in Jamaica, partly due to lack of modernization, along with a will to replicate the extremely hands-on approach to maintain what the world expects in quality.
Would you believe that the black substance you suck down every morning from lattes to cappuccinos starts its life as a red berry? The thick shell must be hand peeled to reveal the inner seed, which resembles a small nut. Once roasted, it takes the familiar form of the bean we all know, love, cherish, and grind into oblivion. Infinite factors play infinite roles in breathing life and flavor into the bean which ultimately distinguishes it as a certain flavor or roast, depending largely on the human handling component. Temperature, location, and length of grow time are larger components taken into consideration, but minor steps such as roasting time, place, the fineness of grind, etc. all play major roles in shaping the complex bean into beverage.
Our guide demonstrated the old way of hand-grinding the roasted beans into powder in a wooden container not unlike a mortar and pestle. The sooner the ground beans mix with hot liquid, the fresher the flavor. I don't doubt that the coffee we had was the freshest coffee I have ever had. Barely out of the ground, every raindrop and molecule that ever came in contact with the plant made its presence known on my tongue. For me, it was a religious experience.
I couldn't resist at least ONE dorky tourist photo, complete with safety gear for the ride ahead! Does this make me the most legit barista or what?
I'm sure the warnings against leaving the resort have some merit, but looking at the gorgeous landscape around me, I can't help but wonder if part of the indigenous population smiles knowing they have this unspoiled beauty almost all to themselves.
After breakfast and our coffee lesson, we claptrapped our way down the mountain at about 5 mph on ancient cruisers to soak in the scenery and make sure the old folks didn't fall off the cliff to our right. Traces of civilization were apparent (the occasional car, power line, and a parade of school children complete with snappy uniforms that would make any nun weep with delight), but for the most part I have to hand it to the bike company- with numerous waterfalls, unusual plants, exotic birds, and an unbeatable view, they have got this tourist thing down pat. Around every few turns we'd come across one of these old coffee depots, an old community center of sorts where farmers could combine their goods to share with all. Sort of an antiquated farmers market, where the only goods were coffee.
Our guide explained that many children walk to school, sometimes miles, since the mountain is a large community and small pockets of families could easily be separated by a different side of the mountain. A number of them leave school halfway through the day to work the coffee fields with their families, and uniforms are required in all schools to ensure no one appears to be of a higher or lesser status due to their clothes. They were ordinary, silly kids but very disciplined in their group walk home, but we still got a couple curious kids who, when they heard the rattle of what must be a daily event, lined up to give our entire group the longest moving high-five train I have ever seen. Still, there was a shy one or two in the bunch.
We had probably ridden for about a half hour before we came across the post office that served the entire mountain. Rain, snow, or sleet, right? How'd you like to climb a mountain for your job every day?
Across the bridge lives the resident Rastafarian elder. (white folks with dreads, try not to drool). Rastafariansm lives, jah love. You can tell when he's home by the barrage of black SUV's parked outside. This has nothing to do with coffee but was bizarre.
Our coffee lesson and ride ended at the picture-perfect location, complete with the obligatory beer-drinking contest (which I clearly should have entered based on the offensively bad performances given by all). The ice cold water was as fresh as anything I have ever tasted, and as cliche as it was to swim under a waterfall in Jamaica, I have to admit it was perfectly engineered for a great ending of an extremely enlightening experience.
