The G-Spot

Greetings again from sunny, warm Jamaica. As expected, life here is slowing like lava. Today we plan another day of doing nothing, just hanging out by the pool, swimming in the ocean, relaxing and reading. Tonight we plan another meal at Strikie T's, a sort of farewell to Treasure Beach from the guy who gave me jerk lessons oh so many days ago. It feels like we've been here for a long time now so I guess that means the vacation is taking hold.

After a brief bike ride to Fort Charles beach yesterday, we got to frolick in the water by a stretch of sand five miles long, with only Julia, me and Button Bay dog, Flower. It's difficult to put into words the place I'm writing this blog, I'm completely surrounded by flowers and looking out to a turquoise sea, listening to the surf that crashes on the rocks just below me. This is what you expect from a tropical holiday. Ah Jamaica!

Yesterday evening, Julia and I ventured out to a hotel for a buffet in honour of Mother's Day, and met up again with Fern Loukie who was with a group of friends. We listened to some young men play a rousing drum concert then headed over to Frenchman's Reef for a band with our driver Brent and his girlfriend Denise. The band was like a caricature of lame resort reggae bands you read about where the tourists get all "irie" with the performers and dance their white person shuffle awkwardly to the off beat rhythm. We left after the set because Brent wanted to go to a dance hall. We said "we're in your hands, Brent."

As we were getting into the car, one of the performers from the evening, a guy named Freddie, wearing an Oxford knit sweater, jumped into the van with us. Freddie and I talked about reggae all the way to the dance hall, a fifteen minute drive from Treasure Beach through country roads up into the hills. We finally arrived at the dance hall at about 11:30 and as Brent promised it was hopping. The assured us going in: "don't worry mon, dis place safe."

The club was built like an old west brothel with a large second floor balcony that swung right around the entire building. Bass heavy music blared from inside, but there we many people milling around outside as well. The place had the sophisticated name of "The G-Spot Drinking Saloon" and we quickly realized this was a low-end strip club, where hookers advertized their greasy ware to the oggling men. I asked Denise if people actually stayed upstairs and she said, "for a hour or so, however long it takes with the lady." So this actually was a functioning brothel, and Julia and I were there, with people we just met, in a place we could never find again, and it was after midnight. Oh well, go with the flow, I had a drink of "roots juice" with Freddie and we gyrated in the dance area among blue light and clouds of ganja smoke. It was all very surreal, but despite being only two of four white faces in a croud of about three hundred, it was all cool. We bid Freddie farewell and left at 1:00 am, and chalked it up to another truly local experience in Jamaica. That's what adventure is all about. Who knows what Negril has to offer.