Ocho Rios: Jamaica’s Garden Paradise

Ocho Rios: Jamaica’s Garden Paradise

Wonderland was found down a rabbit hole, Narnia through a wardrobe. As for Ocho Rios, the town awaits at the end of a winding, emerald-walled tunnel named Fern Gully.



Once
upon a time this was a river, but after an earthquake
filled the gorge with rubble it was transformed into a three-mile
road, which carves down between towering greenery so dense the
Caribbean midday sun is barely visible above us.


Fern Gully makes a fitting introduction to the “Garden Parish of
Jamaica”, as St Ann’s is often called. All those tales of Jamaica’s
gang-fuelled crime tribulations couldn’t feel further away in this
place of quiet sandy coves and jungle waterfalls. Adding to the
wholesome tone, my taxi driver Mickie insists I join him on a
singalong, duetting on a few numbers by Bob Marley, who was born
and buried in this parish – “everything in life can be a song!”
Mickie enthuses. Between renditions I learn that the name Ochos
Rios originates from the Spanish for “bay of waterfalls” (the more
direct translation of “eight rivers” is a misnomer, as there are
only four in the area) and spot road signs speaking of the region’s
mixed colonial past: Falmouth, Middlesex and Inverness rub
shoulders with Puerto Seco and Pedro River.

It’s not so much a song as a shrill wail that escapes when I
plunge waist deep into the most famous of these waterfalls, Dunns
River; the water feels icy compared with the steamy climate. The
stream gushes down over 600ft of travertine boulders until it
reaches the beach below, a dramatic natural set recognisable from
the James Bond film Dr No. It’s these giant stepping stones and
shelves that we grapple up in a human chain, bare feet blindly
seeking out holds as white jets rush over our legs. Crystal-clear
pools, honeycombed with sunlight, offer occasional natural respites
during the one hour climb, before the next burst of breathless
scrambling begins.


A motorboat ride back to my hotel – the legendary Jamaica Inn, which
has hosted Winston Churchill and Marilyn Monroe in its luxurious
colonial-style rooms – gives the chance to dry off as well as
revealing how much of this coast is still claimed by nature. Yes,
there’s the Sandals resort towering over Ochos Rios town, yet for
much of the ride there’s nothing but eruptions of ferns and palms
rushing right up to the waters’ edge, the occasional wink of a
pastel-coloured villa between the trees, and densely-forested
mountains hiding coffee plantations. The parish stretches all the
way to Discovery Bay, Christopher Columbus’ first landing point in
Jamaica.


Oracabessa is one spot where nature has decidedly out-muscled
man-made design. Hard to imagine this was once a thriving beach
resort, as I pick my way through a roofless shell peeling patches
of tropical wallpaper and veined with creepers. It’s the Angor Wat
of hotels – and perhaps the perfect setting for a horror film, as
one of our group helpfully points out. Stairs carpeted with weeds
lead us down to a sandy beach, all but deserted save for a dozen or
so people standing shiftily at the far end. So why has this motley
crew of tourists left their hotel sun loungers to gather here in
the final hour of daylight?


Oracabessa is one spot where nature has decidedly out-muscled
man-made design. Hard to imagine this was once a thriving beach
resort, as I pick my way through a roofless shell peeling patches
of tropical wallpaper and veined with creepers. It’s the Angor Wat
of hotels – and perhaps the perfect setting for a horror film, as
one of our group helpfully points out. Stairs carpeted with weeds
lead us down to a sandy beach, all but deserted save for a dozen or
so people standing shiftily at the far end. So why has this motley
crew of tourists left their hotel sun loungers to gather here in
the final hour of daylight?

The answer – all 143 of them, to be precise – lies just a few
inches beneath the sand. Our host scoops away several handfuls to
reveal a crawling mass of little black shells and flippers. Newly
hatched Hawksbill turtles, fighting their way out of an underground
nest towards light, air and sea. At first glance they’re more
beetle-like than endearing. Mel Tennant, a conservationist known
across Jamaica as “The Turtle Man”, instructs us to carry one in
each hand like scaly castanets, dip them in the sea to clean off
the sand and check for any problems. With illegal poaching rife,
this critically endangered needs all the help they can get. Timing
the hatch for shortly before sunset limits exposure to predators
such as herons, frigate birds and land crabs. A few of the
new-borns are underdeveloped and taken for incubation while their
healthy siblings are placed in a bucket for counting. That done,
the bucket is upended and the turtles make directly for the waves:
in a couple of days’ time they’ll be heading past the Cayman
Islands and may eventually travel as far afield as Portugal.


On this verdant coast, it’s no surprise that the local farmers’
market is packed with freshly picked, exotic edibles. Great green
orbs of breadfruit and coconut sit beside a traffic-light array of
scotch-bonnet peppers (a key ingredient in the ubiquitous jerk
seasoning), sorrel flowers heaped like rubies, cocoa beans and
spiky custard apples – all piled in newspaper-lined wooden crates
and shaded from the blazing sun by squares of tarpaulin strung over
the stalls. Guided by Jamaica Inn’s executive chef Maurice Henry,
we collect the ingredients to make saltfish and ackee – the latter
being Jamaica’s national fruit, its flesh akin to scrambled egg
once boiled and sautéed. It runs a close rivalry with jerk chicken
as the island’s favourite dish.

Nutmeg and allspice scent the air. The soundtrack is tinny
reggae drifting from a trader’s radio, accompanied by the
occasional languorous “Wha’appen” as shoppers greet each other in
patois; no rushed haggling here. Stalks of sugar canes seven feet
tall are hacked up and chewed on, sucking the juice from the tough
bark. It’s time to consciously slow down my pace – drilled by too
many rush-hour train journeys – and drift between the market stalls
in a syrupy haze. Natural highs come easy in the Garden Parish.

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