Crocodile Safari

September flew by as I adjusted to the pace of working life at the school, and I didn’t really have the inclination or the energy to do much else besides work. But after a particularly quiet weekend as the month ticked over into October, I realized my time left here is starting to run out, and I should make the most of it while I can.

Joanne and Lando

I decided to go on a trip the following weekend and see somewhere else on the island, as I hadn’t been out of Old Harbour since I got back from Albert Town. A guy from Leeds I’d been put in touch with while staying at CCCD, Steve Burnell, had recommended visiting Black River, a small coastal town built around the mouth of the eponymous river, which is one of Jamaica’s longest and the main water way in a large swamp called the Great Morass where around 600 wild crocodiles still live. He’d given me the name of a good, cheap guest house and the number of a guy he recommended for going on a crocodile safari up the river.

Black River is about 60 miles west of Old Harbour in St Elizabeth, but the route taxi journey takes you way in-land, avoiding the still fairly remote coastline in Clarendon and Manchester, to Mandeville via May Pen, before heading through Santa Cruz on the way to Black River. As I was passing through Mandeville, I thought I’d see if Joanne, the EVS volunteer who is at CCCD at the moment, fancied coming along. As it turned out, it was her birthday on Monday and a trip sounded like a good way to celebrate, so I arranged to meet up with her as I passed through.

Mangrove mangle

 Knowing that the six-stage journey, if you include the taxis up to CCCD and back to collect Joanne, might take a little while, I forbade myself even the briefest lie in my aching, tired body pleaded for to get up at 6am and was on the road at 7am. For once, the morning was cloudy and pleasantly cool – in fact, it occurred to me a bit later that this was the first time I’d seen cloud before noon in weeks. However, although I don’t have many definite beliefs about matters spiritual or beyond the universe we can observe, I do believe in a law of life variously attributed to a couple of fellas named Murphy and Sod (who knows, maybe they’re the same person). This law proved itself true once again as it started to pour down as the bus pulled in to May Pen. An area of low pressure caused by the fringes of a storm way out to sea had settled over the island for the weekend. After weeks of waiting for the promised rains which would bring genuine relief to the sapping heat and humidity, I’d got it right when I was heading for the seaside.

It felt a little chilly up in the rain-soaked hills of Mandeville (a cool low 20 degrees C, I reckon) as I walked between taxis, and the rain just made this very English town seem more familiar than ever. It was good to visit CCCD again, even if I didn’t see anyone because everyone was inside sheltering from the rain. – anyone, that is, except for Spike the dog, who seemed to recognize me as he wagged and came for a stroke when I said his name.

It was THIS big...

This was to be Joanne’s first experience of the wonders of the route taxis, and I was pretty pleased when the guy who took us from Mandeville to Santa Cruz turned out to be the kind of skilled lunatic who enjoyed racing on-coming traffic to complete overtaking manoeuvers – especially good fun when hurtling through the spectacular switchbacks of Shooters Hill on the way down into the St Elizabeth plain. We got to chat properly for the first time and in one of those bizarre coincidences that always seem to crop up in far-flung places, it turns out she knows a good friend of mine, Ben Hague, through her brother who, like me, has played in a band with Ben. Maybe the world isn’t all that big afterall.

Black River is one of the oldest continuously inhabited town’s in Jamaica, dating back to the end of the 16^th Century. It thrived as a port for the export of logwood and sugar, was the first town on the island to get electricity and was the birthplace of such luminaries as politician and hero of the independence movement Norman Washington Manley. Given its history, I was slightly surprised when we finally arrived at about 12.30pm at how small it is – even on a Saturday afternoon, there was no bustle, no hurry, as if the pace of the 21^st Century hadn’t quite reached the old-fashioned wooden colonial houses as they sat like tired old couples looking out over the sea.

Waterloo Guest House

First mission was to check we had somewhere to stay for the night, so we headed along the main street just out of town to the Waterloo Guest House. It’s easy to find – there’s a wrecked boat stuck in the shallow water a few meters from the shore right opposite the front gate (although the wreck is no so rusted it might not be there as a handy landmark much longer). The hotel itself is a lovely old wooden mansion, with a wide veranda running all the way round on the first floor, sat in a large garden full of massive breadfruit trees. At the back was a second, modern block of rooms with a small swimming room in front. There didn’t seem to be many other guests, and for just over a tenner each we got a decent first floor twin room in the old building, all creaking wooden floors and polish, just down the corridor from the veranda as it looked out over the sea in front.

It was cloudy and a little dull, and the sea looked like glass it was so still, but at least it wasn’t raining, so it was time to go and find some crocodiles. Steve had given me the number of a guy called Lando, a local fisherman, who he said would be able to take us up the river and, if we wanted, out to sea to the Pelican Bar, a bar built on stilts on a shallow sand bar a kilometer off the shore. I’d phoned Lando the day before to check he was ok to take us on a trip, and, as they do here, he said no problem. I’d said we’d arrive about lunchtime, and by the time we reached the iron bridge over the river and called him, Lando was already waiting for us, waving us down to the quayside.

Joanne and friend

Without any discussion of money or what we wanted to see, Lando greeted us and handed us a pair of bright orange life jackets As he brought his boat round, Joanne made friends with a friendly old chap who told us about his times in America working as a migrant labourer picking fruit. As we got in, Lando gave what I reckon is probably a common greeting by seafarers to land lubbers, jokingly rocking the boat from side to side to scare us. All it did for me was get the song “Don’t Rock The Boat Baby” in my head for most of the trip.

A minute or two upstream and both banks of the wide rive were already clogged with mangroves, impossible-looking tangles of thousands of aerial roots growing down into the water from the large green trees they sprouted from. It was like seeing trees grow upside down, as you could see some of the younger branches hanging half way between the river and sky, having not yet reached the water to drink. This was crocodile habitat,  but Lando had some bad news – he explained that because of the recent rain and relatively cool, overcast conditions, crocodiles were less likely to be out and active, as they need the heat of the sun to warm their cold-blooded bodies into action. On the plus side, the combination of the grey sky and black peat-bottomed river, the water took on the properties of a mirror and gave spectacular reflections of the trees above.

Not sure the orange suits me

Lando talked us through some of the birds we saw, as well as the water lilies and water hyacinths we passed, and explained that the large clumps of plant matter floating down the centre of the river came from work to clear some of the banks upstream, following the same route on the wide expanse of water the logwood did in the town’s heyday. The mangrove swamp gave way to high, reed-shrouded earth banks as the river widened then forked off into two and veered sharply to the right, before narrowing into a corridor where the mangrove grew up and over to form a corridor. But still no crocodiles. As we turned around and headed back, Joanne questioned whether we were likely to see any now, only for Lando to reply with some conviction that we would. I wasn’t so sure and had enjoyed the trip anyway.

The croc

We arrived back in the harbour area and I was about to start feeling smug about not trusting Lando’s promises that we’d see a crocodile when suddenly he pointed over to the left to a big ugly brute laid up on the quayside, utterly motionless with its mouth open. It was so still that Joanne asked if it was real – the thought had crossed my mind, too – so to prove it was, Lando decided to pull up close to it and start splashing it with water. It moved, not much, but it moved. So we had seen a real life croc after all – on the quayside outside the crocodile nursery. Does that count as wild? Well seeing as it was free to jump in the river and swim where it wanted, I’m having it.

By this time we had talked money with Lando, and, finding him reasonable, and with the afternoon still pretty young, we asked him if he’d take us out to the Pelican Bar as well. Again I shook a mental fist at Messrs. Murphy and Sod – all those hot, sweltering, sun-drenched afternoons I’d have killed to be heading out to a quirky bar in the middle of the sea, and here I was, speeding across the sea with storm clouds on the horizon and unbroken grey overhead. Oh well, it was still far from cold and there was always beer to be had…

The Pelican Bar

The Pelican Bar is touted in the guide books as the coolest bar in the world. It isn’t. Ok, so it’s in a pretty amazing location on a just-submerged mini-island off the shore, and the way it had been built out of rough and sometimes quite random lumps of wood nailed together had its appeal, but a good bar needs atmosphere. This had three bored-looking Jamaican guys playing dominoes and no customers. It wasn’t as if they were expecting many visitors, either – the cool box was devoid of anything better than Red Stripe Light, the usual watery piss that gets fobbed off using the ‘light’ label. You got what this bar was about by the pile of tourist tat for sale in the corner and inflated bar prices. But all the same, sitting on the pier sticking out the back of the bar looking through the cracks down at the sea and watching the birds wheel around wasn’t a bad way to pass an hour. While we talked and drank, Lando got a call and quickly headed back to the near shore to pick up a couple who seemed to stay at the bar for about 10 minutes before asking Lando to take them back to shore, That was how impressed they were, then.

By the time we reached Black River it was starting to drizzle – not the torrential downpour I’ve come to expect in Jamaica, but a light drizzle that made the place feel a bit like Whitby. We said our goodbyes to Lando and with nothing much else to do headed back to the hotel to collect our room key (it was still being cleaned when we arrived). I was just happy to have a pillow, never mind a TV, which was a rare luxury to be savored. After a short while it became apparent that the rain had stopped and the sun had finally put in an appearance – just in time to watch the sun go down over the sea, as Joanne pointed out. We took a walk round town as we waited, the sky over the horizon perfectly clear, our trigger fingers itchy on our cameras. Somehow, from somewhere, in the minutes it took to walk up around the market and back along the high street to the sea front, a mass of clouds had risen up on the horizon, blocking our view of the sun. To make matters worse, the restaurant advertising pizzas we’d spotted round the corner turned out to be shut. Darn and drat.

I was quite glad we ended up eating at the hotel, actually – with no veggie option, I just asked for some steamed veg (just softened in garlic, scallion and seasoning), rice and peas and bammy (which was boiled, a new one for me, and in a gorgeous pepper gravy) and got a pile. It seemed like the only party in town was going on in the hotel bar, with music blasting out at usual Jamaican volumes to the handful of people (including the bar maid) in the small room, but even cold Guinness couldn’t keep me away from my bed for long, I was exhausted (even though I did manage to watch half of Die Hard on some US cable channel).

Sunset from Black River

I had sworn I was going to go for a swim in the pool the next day, but awoke to find it pouring down, with that same, persistent coastal rain that reminded me of home. Looking out from the veranda, there was barely any life to be seen in town or in the sea – there was barely a sound apart from the steady drumming of the rain, save the tolling of the church bell, which only added to the eerily gothic atmosphere. As we left, we crossed the road to walk on the path next to the sea, and just as we passed the shipwreck, Joanne suddenly stopped and shouted ‘Look!’ pointing out to sea. I just caught a fin disappearing into the waves in a ripple of water – a dolphin. We stood and watched it for a few minutes as I tried my hardest to get a photo of it, but the stupid delay on my camera from pushing the button to the shutter closing meant that every time I saw the dolphin surface and pressed, it was already under water by the time the picture took. An unexpected bonus though, My First Wild Dolphin to go with My First Wild Crocodile.



View of the boat wreck



We waited ages for a taxi in Black River, this sleepy town apparently shutting down more than most on a Sunday, and as we passed through the rain-soaked St Elizabeth countryside on our way to Santa Cruz, passing high hedgerows and open fields, I again got a strong feeling of how English it all looked. I dropped Joanne off in Mandeville and then got soaked walking all the way to the bus park only to discover buses don’t run on a Sunday and I’d have to walk right across town again to get a route taxi. Back in Old Harbour, I stopped to buy some veg off a lovely old woman who kept forgetting the prices she’d told me for the different vegetables I was picking up, giving running totals that I knew were below what she’d told me each cost, before trying to give me back too much change once we’d finally agreed the price it all should have been. When I handed her back a $100 bill, she thanked me like I’d just returned a precious piece of jewelry she’d lost.