Wild Jamaica

The room was trying to spin I noticed. Somewhere I had heard that if I focused my eyes on one point while spinning, I wouldn’t become dizzy. In all of my years of battling a spinning room, the only thing that has beat it is water, time, and Rally’s–or some combination thereof. The night was certainly beautiful though. You could make out the faintest shadows of the homes I had passed on the way into the hotel, some creatively lit with what seemed to be improvised lighting or straight up barrel fires. I had always been reared to be resourceful, but in the face of the Jamaican population who were forming a reputation with me as hustlers and gamers, my attempts to figure out “making it” seemed feeble. I sparked up a conversation with a couple ladies behind me who were cousins and frequent travelers by the sounds of it. They were black and had attractive and complementary features, dreads, and overall happy demeanors. They had come to Jamaica many times they told me and that this particular Margaritaville wasn’t like cookie-cutter party experiences I was brooding over. It was a more of a club that both visitors to Jamaica and locals frequented because it was good, independent of the brand. I contended that I’d have to see it to believe it.