Craigs Stories, Tales, Views, BS, Opinions, Blog
“But a Rasta never Marry, Cause a Rasta Never Sorry”
The tune still sticks in my head – it was part of a walking song our Jamaican friends called out as they trekked over the hills and ravines leading us to their bush outposts.
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Readers of this post should first catch up by reading the first part.
After hanging with Ken (the Fisherman) for a day or two, he pulled us aside for a personal chat and said “you folks don’t belong here (in town). I have some people I’d like you to meet”. Heck, we figured anyone who was alright with Ken was fine by us, so we answered in the affirmative.
He took us on a long walk up the coast road……for those who know Negril, this is past the caves and cliffs where the road gets lost in the bush. At some point we turned into the bush, and walked down a rugged path into the hills. Read More…
Soon after my childhood sweetheart moved in with me, we both developed a case of wanderlust. We had both been working jobs in the center city philly area, and although it was an interesting existence we knew that we would eventually have to get out of the city in order to experience the real world. We hatched a plan to save up some money and take a trip to Jamaica, a place which seemed quite exotic at the time (1970-71). Besides, we heard they had some decent pot at very low prices!