Roark Artifacts - Vol. 14: "Kingston Deadbeats"

THROUGH THE

A R H Y T H M I C E S C A PA D E OF HOPE

L E E WA R D S I D E

D E A D B E AT S

KINGSTON

T H E J O U R N E Y B E G I N S I N A D I F F E R E N T PA R T OF THE WORLD EVERY SEASON. Telling stories of our travels by street or by trail inspiring a collection of adventure-ready goods. The chase for roark is never-ending and relentless.

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“ D R E A D L O C K S , T H E T I M E I S N O W, S TA N D U P F I G H T F O R Y O U R R I G H T S . ” An adequate calling card for Roark to say the least, and one that drew our adventurer to the heart of the Caribbean to explore culture, coastline and contraband. Stepping off the plane and into our old Defender was no different than meandering through Bob Marley’s “Catch a Fire” or running around town with Leroy Horse Mouth Wallace in the “Rockers” movie set in the 1970’s. Roark’s adventure began in Kingston 6 on the stomping grounds of Sister Nancy, the Marley’s and our trusted guide Luke “Stone Bar” Williams.” Parker Coffin, Jamie Thomas, Nate Zoller, Ivah Wilmot and LJ O’leary made up our crew of revivalists for the adventure, while Dylan Gordon, Jerry Ricciotti & Karina Petroni documented it.

Photography by Dylan Gordon, Revivalist.

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CONTENTS

K I N G S TO N D E A D B E AT S

YOU SPREAD, YOU SPILL

BOBOSHANTI FORTRESS

PRIEST RADCLIFFE

ORCHESTRA OF COLORS

BLOWING A GALE

I VA H W I L M O T " F U T U R E M Y S T I C "

A TRIP TO THE RECORD STORE

32 40 46 48 54 56 60

B L U E M O U N TA I N C O F F E E

H O W T O L I V E D E L I B E R AT E LY

PIGEON ISLAND

ORACABESSA FISH SANCTUARY

R E F U G E I N B O S T O N B AY

MR. CURTIS MARTIN

A H U M B L I N G S E N S AT I O N

VOLUME 14

CHAPTER 1

K I N G S T O N D E A D B E AT S

By Karina Petroni

I step foot off of the plane and a deep soulful pulse hits me. For such a small island, they produce some of the best things in the world: Reggae music, Blue Mountain Coffee, Marijuana, Usain Bolt and Bob Marley to name a few.

I’m greeted with a cold and refreshing Red Stripe as our fabulous guide Luke Williams fetches me from the airport, and yes, the Red Stripes taste twice as good in Jamaica! Luke is accompanied in the van by Ivah Wilmot, Shama the Superman and Roark’s own Rod Stewart. Little do I know at the time, but my relationship with this van would turn me into a delirious and giggling contortionist by the end of my 10 day journey.

Kingston, the city that drops beats, has a layout which resembles a stadium. We bank around the 7th largest natural harbor in the world and wind through all the streets, passing vibrantly painted walls while beautiful faces stare back at us. Jamaican cuisine was on the top of my list to dive head into first and Luke does not let me down with our first stop, which is an amazing Jerk spot in the depths of Kingston. Light drizzle pitter patters on the thatch roofs under which some picnic tables are spread about. The crew is there taking a break from skating. Amongst them are surfers and all around characters LJ O’leary and Nate Zoller, Jamie Thomas, photographer Dylan Gordon, cinematographer Jerry Riciotti and Roark’s front runners Rod Stewart and Elvis. It is a little intimidating at first to shake all their hands (and remember everyone’s names) although in the back of my mind I know we will practically be siblings by the time this journey is completed. The waitress comes over and drops a tray of rough cut jerk chicken on the table as hands go flying into the mix tearing it apart like feral dogs. My first taste of Jamaican jerk chicken washed down with a crisp Red Stripe and the faint sound of reggae music playing in the background; I have arrived.

CHAPTER 2

YOU SPREAD, YOU SPILL

We finish licking our fingers clean and head off

Children neatly dressed in uniforms on the

to our not so humble abode up in Jacks Hill.

way to school slow their stride with nervous

We again wind through the streets to arrive

curiosity, dropping their jaws to the spectacle

at The Marley’s house, yes, related to Robert

of this tall tattooed white man on a skateboard.

Nesta Marley. The house can sleep about 30

To their fearful surprise, Jamie stops and asks

people, and it has an amazing view of Kingston

them if they would like to try. Keep in mind,

and it’s harbor. The mango trees on the property

these kids are completely unaware of how

are out of this world, and there are about 7

well known Jamie is as a professional skater

different strains of mango’s just on one side

or that he has a wonderful wife and three

of the lawn. Over the course of our stay at his

kids of his own. They never expected what this

house, we are graciously introduced to all of

“tattooed” skater had in his heart to take the

them with morning mango tastings presented as

time to teach them anything. They hesitantly

a flight of mangoes if you wish.

nod yes as Jamie proceeds to win over their smiles and laughter with his big heart and

Ivah and Shama hang with us for the rest of the

gentle eyes, while showing them the basics of

afternoon and we make our way up to the roof

skateboarding. I witness first hand the impression

top terrace to watch my first Jamaican sunset.

that this particular act of kindness makes on these

I had never in my life seen a sunset resemble

children, an impression that would have been

the colors of a freshly ripening mango. In the

less touching in a more entitled part of the world

foreground sits a plump juicy mango, with hues

where most neighborhood garages boast a

of magenta, orange, yellow and fuchsia, while

collection of barely used skateboards. To quote

in the background gravity is getting the better

one of Papine’s most famous locals, Sizzla:

of the sun as it drips downward. This is a sweet

“Babylon - while you spread you spill,

and juicy introduction to an amazing island.

what we don’t have, every ghetto youth will.”

“And I would give anything I own, I’d give up my life, my heart, my own. And I would give

It is around 1pm as we head out of Papine and

anything I own, just to have you back again.”

start making our way to the town of Bull Bay.

These beautiful words sung by an older Jamaican

Forgive me, as I rewind a day: I am the only

gentlemen on the side of a busy intersection in

woman on this adventure. Having not acquired a

the town of Papine. We are posted up there for

plethora of information about what our itinerary

the majority of the day in a park situated in the

had in store for us, I was a bit in the dark

town’s center. An incredibly colorful and very

enjoying the serendipity of it all. While standing

lively part of Kingston, almost a little too lively

in The Marley’s kitchen, I was approached by one

and unsettling at times; all eyes are fixated on

of the guy’s that I had known for all of 8 hours.

us, especially Nate with his fluorescent pink

He walked up to me, leaned in like he was about

hair. The hustle and bustle of people crossing

to tell me a secret, trying to soften it as best he

the streets alone feels over stimulating, and

can, and says: “Are you on your period?”.

yet the experience of being immersed in the

I hesitantly responded: “No I am not, actually”

deep rooted culture of Kingston in an urban

with a cocked head and a bewildered expression.

street setting was quite profound. People of all

He responded back: “ Oh man, that’s great because

ages gather around to see Jamie nail trick after

this Rasta Camp we’re headed to wouldn’t let

amazing trick in the middle of the park.

you through the gates if you had been on your period.” We both ended that hilarious, awkward and very short lived conversation with a: “Well, Praise be to Jah for dat!”

8

“A N D I W O U L D G I V E A N Y T H I N G I O W N , JUST TO HAVE YOU BACK AGAIN.”

We proceed through the gate and come to

CHAPTER 3

BOBOSHANTI FORTRESS

a stop as The Gatekeeper approaches like a customs and border protection officer. He does an overall assessment of our crew and upon laying eyes on my bare legs protruding from my shorts he says: “Yah mus covah yah legs”.

“The only thing this man was missing was some sort of semiautomatic weapon and you would have thought we were entering a rebel army camp.”

Praise Jah for the sarong, a very versatile travel companion that was about to become my appropriate ensemble. I’m not out of the woods yet; he continues his inspection and says: “Yah mus covah yah head.” A t-shirt suffices for about 5 minutes until I see him walking back to me, smiling from ear to ear, holding what looks like a small green tablecloth.

He steps behind me, tilts my head back, and proceeds to meticulously wrap up my locks until not one strand of my dirty-blonde hair is

We wind and swerve out of Kingston towards Bull Bay,

visible. What service, not unlike having your

the home of Shama and Ivah. We hang a left and

own personal stylist, although there is only one

start making our way up a semi steep incline, passing

look around here for the ladies and it resembles

many people that are waving and smiling as we

a more colorful version of being a Nun.

cruise through their little neighborhood. Alas, we see an older man, his locks wrapped tightly in a turban on

Now that I am finally equipped with the proper

top of his head. The man is making a motion with his

wardrobe, we proceed further into the camp

hand, insisting that we keep on driving as he appears

and it becomes very apparent that there are no

to be a lookout perched on a grassy knob.

other women around. My only guess is that Aunt Flow may be paying a visit to all of the

The only thing this man was missing was some sort

Empresses and they had to go into hiding.

of semi-automatic weapon and you would have

We walk through the very humble, rustic,

thought we were entering a rebel army camp.

yet impeccably clean camp to a small building

Quite the opposite: we are headed to the BoboShanti

which is used as a museum to pay tribute to

camp, one of the most notorious Rastafari

fellow Rasta’s. There are many photos and

camps in all of Jamaica and certainly a more

newspaper clippings exalting His Majesty,

orthodox interpretation of the creed. Our tires

Emperor Haile Selassie I. We all inscribe our

are spinning out in the muddy gravel filled

names into a welcome book, state where we

road as we finally arrive outside a very large

are from, and then make preparations for the

and in charge wooden wall with a massive gate

welcome prayer. First, we must empty all

vibrantly painted red, gold and green with black

materialistic items from our pockets as you are

stars. There is a beautiful view below us of Bull

forbidden to have any foreign objects touching

Bay and 9-Mile Beach. We approach the gate in

you other than your clothes. The men must

our vehicles and a man steps out from behind

put their hands together with just fingertips

the gate to verify who we are. Luke gives him

touching and point them away from their

a big “Rahspec!”, puts his left hand over his

bodies. The women, or just myself, must put

heart, and says what would become a staple

the left hand over the heart. We all must face

saying on the trip: “Give tanks an Praise.”

towards the door opening.

11

Revivalists - Boboshanti Fortress, Jamaica

it is short, sweet and meaningful. Once the prayer has concluded, we receive a beautiful tour around the rustic and spiritual camp.

We congregate into the main gathering area to observe a few of the BoboShanti camp leaders perform songs; better known as niyabinghi chants, which are strong, deep, impactful, and sing of hard times and struggles endured.

The music and the lesson that is preached brings to light that these Rasta’s in a whole are not pleased with Reggae music and certainly are not as psyched on Bob Marley as you and I are. Did Bob have it all wrong? Was it blasphemy and similar to how Ray Charles took gospel music and turned it into blues and jazz hits? True Rastafarian music is 6 beats whereas most reggae that is played now is 4 beats.

The rain starts to fall with the heavy beat of the goat-skinned drum and the sun gleams through the tiny holes in the corrugated steel roof. The children gather around, small and beautiful with big innocent brown eyes; all of them with their locks wrapped up in different colored turbans. Once the musical performance is over, the kids lead us to the trails that connect the whole camp together. They eagerly start to climb the trees and toss down beautiful little sweet plums. These children with beaming smiles couldn’t have been more hospitable

r

.” e s i a

and welcoming. We end at a long shed, where

a

n p

CHAPTER 4

PRIEST RADCLIFFE

The prayer is said by one of the camp leaders;

Priest Radcliffe shows us how they are able to sustain their lifestyle in this humble fortress.

“We make deez broom and den we gwan down da streets and sell dem in Kingston town.” A very crude and rustic broom, similar to a witches broom with what appears to be an actual tree branch for the stick. We walk out with our own Boboshanti Broom, a prized possession and a very special souvenir.

As we drive out of the gates, we carry with us a totally different viewpoint and feeling in our hearts than when we first drove in a couple hours back.

We wind down the steep gravel road with tires skidding, the brakes trying their best to keep up as the little BoboShanti kids chase after us. Grabbing onto the back of the truck, they bump all the way down the hill with us, smiling from ear to ear and giggling uncontrollably. They finally jump off, knowing that their walk back up the steep hill to their Boboshanti fortress is now a significant hike.

The simplicity and pure gentleness in their faces is something I’ll cherish forever. They were nothing but kind to us and they were only embracing the truest and most beautiful part of life while strictly living in the moment. We may all be different, pray differently and have different traditions, but in the end we all just want to smile, laugh and truly learn to live in the moment. As these little Boboshanti children skip back up the hill, in and out of the setting sun’s shadows, I watch them in the side view mirror become even smaller, and I start to grasp the true meaning of “Give tanks an Praise.”

“Giv e t

an

ks

CHAPTER 5

“MUMS”

ORCHESTRA OF COLORS

“ The greatness of a man is not in how much wealth he acquires, but in his integrity and his ability to affect those around him positively.”

16

"MUMS"

Luke turns to us and says: “How ya’ll feel bout washin ya locks at da same beach Bob Marley washed his?” Sounds like a good plan! After stopping at the main road that led us here from Kingston, we hang a left and make our way up the road a little bit further into Bull Bay until we see a small rusted steel sign with the faded inscription: “9 mile Beach.” My favorite time of day is when the light is fleeting and the angels are just coming out to perform their orchestra of colors on the sky.

That time of day when everything goes golden and you start to feel alive. Our timing is impeccable.

We drive all the way until we’re unable to drive

We make our way back down to the waters edge

any more. There is not a soul on the beach and

with our hands full of small cups of white rum

the smell of the sweet Caribbean Sea drifts in

and fresh juice, looking like dodgey pirates that

over the dark sand, soft and beautiful like the

just found the hidden loot on a remote island.

local people’s skin. I couldn’t have been more

We drop down into the soft pebbles along the

excited to get into the ocean after sweating in

shoreline and sip happily as we watch yet

Kingston for the last couple of days. I race over

another exceptional mango colored sunset. Ivah

the warm sand, carefully navigating the soft yet

shakes his dreads as the golden sunlight shines

slippery cobblestones that line the shore as I

through them, and the sun dances and sparkles

plunge myself into the cool and refreshing sea.

off the sandy pebbly beach. A poetic moment

There is a little beach shack that sells all

making one feel as if living in slow motion

“da likkle tings” one might need while you enjoy

is possible. Behind us, rusty shacks stand at

the sunset on 9-Mile Beach. The beach shack is

the base of a very vast hill as the moon rises

run by a “Mums” (what you call a Jamaican lady

above. In this moment of unison, I now fully

that’s extremely hospitable). She serves us little

understand why the Rasta’s replace “me” with

bathroom cups filled with some seriously leaded

“I” and why they use “I” in place of “we”. It is

white rum and fresh squeezed plum juice.

to symbolize oneness between all humans and

They are the same plums that the little

God. This harmony is all very apparent in this

Boboshanti kids were picking for us out of the

moment surrounded by friends, the ocean, the

trees a few hours ago. Life couldn’t be any

setting sun and the rising moon.

more symbolic at this point as it seems like we are right where we are supposed to be. It’s

We make our way back up the beach to Mums

a beautiful thing when you find yourself so

shack, purchase a couple of snacks from her

content with your surroundings, especially when

and post up around a standing only table that

everything is so rootsy, rugged and simple, and

is knocked up around a tree. You have to be

yet you still feel like a king. Bob was right when

careful where you walk, as you may tread on a

he said: “ The greatness of a man is not in how

small Kaya plant. This particular plant is being

much wealth he acquires, but in his integrity and

guarded by sticks and some fish net as it is just

his ability to affect those around him positively.”

a “likkle” delicate one that is decided to grow

I feel like this mantra applies to every minute of

in the most inconvenient place, (foot traffic

every day in this extraordinary country.

speaking), but it certainly took precedence.

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CHAPTER 6

BLOWING A GALE Oysters in Jamaica? I am very skeptical for the first time on this trip. Port Royal is a crazy and fascinating place and I have had a slight obsession with this settlement for quite some time. Founded by the Spaniards in 1518, Port Royal was

dancing across the ocean. We depart this sweet little slice of paradise with peace in our hearts."

sound echoes off the cliff side as they hum and chant in perfect harmony with the moon’s light

A couple of Rasta men start to beat “pon some drums” under a nearby tree. The slow and steady

"As dusk falls over the sand and sea, the moon shines its silver gleam across everything.

once the largest and evilest city in all of the Caribbean, while functioning as the region’s center of shipping and commerce. This was a place where you could find a naval commander willingly or unwillingly rubbing shoulders with the pirate Blackbeard, and tropical parrots gathering around to drink from large open barrels filled with ale.

A place full of loose morals, yet an undeniable sense of courage and bravery. The amount of loot that passed through Port Royal is unimaginable and the history that was established here is probably some of the most fascinating in the world. With Kingston Harbor being the world’s 7th largest natural harbor, Port Royal made for the perfect hub. It is conveniently situated on the tip of a peninsula, providing an immediate safe and rowdy refuge.

The Lord does work in mysterious ways. In 1692, Port Royal was mostly destroyed when an earthquake with a following tsunami washed a large portion of it away and submerged it about 40 feet under the harbor’s seafloor. Legend has it that when the seas are really rough and it’s blowing a gale, you can hear the church bell’s clanging if you dive below the ocean’s surface. A myth that big is good enough to believe and I’m certainly going to roll with it because it makes everything even more eerie.

We walk the streets of Port Royal and there is definitely a shift in the air. You can feel that this place has seen it all and the energy of the town has an evilness to it, an evilness that you

can’t get enough of. The lure is very strong, just like the lure of treasure that doesn’t necessarily belong to you.

We round the corner and alas find our oyster man, standing behind what looks like a room service cart from the 1800s with a pile of strange looking oysters on top of it. Fitting for Port Royal, this was a “walk up—shuck em and slurp em operation” and, like a bartender with a 100 different booze bottles, this intimidating looking oyster man has a lineup of every different pepper sauce concoction known to man. He has a portable clip-on spot light jury rigged to his cart which is plugged into a lonely outlet. I figure all that hot pepper could kill just about anything, so I give an oyster the infamous sniff test, slosh an excessive amount of pepper sauce on the slimy booger and down the hatch she goes... Delicious! Port Royal sends my head spinning even more, the perfect juxtaposition of evil and good times.

The humidity is thick and this tropical moisture in the air awakens me. I shuffle into the kitchen to find our gracious host arranging a flight of mangoes for another mango tasting. He lays them all out for me: big, fat and juicy slices. “Dis here be a bline tastin, yah tell me vich vun yah favorite.” I bite into the slices which overwhelm me with deliciousness, until I taste one slice that must be the flavor of heaven. Like a true pirate, he withholds the exact name of that particular strain of mango. He tells me that the seed for this exotic mango came over on a ship from Africa years ago, found it’s way into his lush yard, and now he is able to sell them to foreigners for a couple hundred dollars a mango. While this mysterious strain of mango’s juice streams down my face, little do I know this is just the beginning to a very decadent and delicious day.

“ You can feel that this place has seen it all and the energy of the town has an evilness to it, an evilness that you can’t get enough of. ”

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Revivalists - Kingston, Jamaica

Jamie Thomas, Nate Zoller and LJ O’leary

“FUTURE MYSTIC” Revivalist - Ivah Wilmot

Founder

CHAPTER 7

It all made sense when Ivah Wilmot walked into Caveman Studios in Kingston to lay down lyrics with his Father to his new song, “Be Alright.” I’d been hanging out with Ivah for a week, talking for over a year and I’d be hard pressed to find anyone else like him.

B Y R YA N H I T Z E L

“FUTURE MYSTIC” Revivalist - Ivah Wilmot

“ H I S U N D E R S TA N D I N G , RESPECT AND LOVE FOR HIS ROOTS WILL KEEP H I M B U O Y A N T. ”

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“FUTURE MYSTIC” Revivalist - Ivah Wilmot

Born as the last son to Billy and Miss Maggie, the royal surf family of Jamaica – Ivah had much to live up to. His grandfather Fredrick Wilmot was in the Royal Canadian Air Force and moved to Jamaica to become an influential music journalist and community pillar in Bull Bay, outside of Kingston.

While on a global tour as the front man of the “Mystic Revealers,” his father Billy fell in love with surfing and brought it back to Jamaica. Since then, he’s worked hard to develop the sport and culture that syncs so well with the spirit of the Island and Rastafari. His brothers are accomplished surfers, photographers and a Marine Biologist – all talented and enlightened.

But what about brother Ivah? What would his path be?

A conversation with Ivah is well paced. Naturally he’s quiet and measured, but his words hold weight both lyrically and substantively. His surfing follows suit.

It’s more of a dance - part skank, part ballet. Each word in a sentence, or alternatively, turn on a wave has purpose and is well placed, although sometimes unorthodox. Life imitates art. It’s easy to feel the connection between what Ivah loves and equally refreshing that it’s no fluke.

He hasn’t created a style to fit a niche, it was bestowed upon him by a culture and family. That’s not to say Ivah hasn’t tweaked it. You’ll also find that Ivah has a modern sensibility that builds upon the past without rejecting it.

As Ivah migrated away from competitive surfing, he began riding twin fins and anything else he could get his hands on – Donald Brink Asyms, Tyler Warren grand swallowtails and retro hand-me-down Merricks.

Stunningly, he still won contests. But he began to love surfing in a different way. His way.

“ I t ’s m o r e o f a d a n c e -

As far as my realization back at Caveman Studios, that afternoon Ivah would record a song for the first time with his father, an impressive sign that no matter how far he goes - his understanding, respect and love for his roots will keep him buoyant. It stokes me to see a creative person venture out into the unknown, as it can be a lonely place. We look forward to his future mystic reveals.

part skank, part ballet.”

27

Revivalist - LJ O’leary

CHAPTER 8

S T R E E T,

ONCE

DUBBED

ON BEAT STREET

B E AT S T R E E T B Y L O C A L S A N D

REC ORD STORE

B A K E D A N D Q U I T E E V I D E N T LY O F F T H E B E AT E N T O U R I S T T R A I L .

THE BIRTHPLACE OF REGGAE MUSIC, IS NOW DUSTY AND SUN-

ORANGE

A TR IP TO THE

BY BEAU FLEMISTER

Parker Coffin, Ivah Wilmot, LJ O’Leary and Dylan Gordon followed their guide Luke into the small, dark cave of a space brimming with rhythm and culture and sound with a heartbeat.

Shop manager, curator, reggae historian and mystical selector, Mitchie Williams, greets them behind the counter and hands the crew ice-cold Red Stripes and a joint. Perhaps the greatest greeting to a place of business they had ever known. Though only 10-by-20 feet in size, the vibe in Rockers was much larger than life. All around, the faces of reggae legend and lore looked down upon them from their vinyl sleeve covers. Barrington Levy winked at Parker, Beres Hammond smiled slyly at LJ, Peter Tosh grinned at Ivah and Rockers founder, Augustus Pablo, stared proudly into the ever-after.

Mitchie asked each of the boys what they felt like listening to, and through clues and clairvoyance, disappeared into the back room, returning with a Cremo Milk carton full of secret-stash 45’s. Upon an ancient record player plugged into a massive matrix of hidden sub woofers, he dropped the needle on wax and suddenly the boys felt like they were IN the songs, which blasted from the shop so loudly you could surely hear the beat a mile away.

A treasure trove of knowledge, Mitchie knew every fact and liner note detail about each record he played us; from dates of first releases to behind-the-scenes rumors about reggae’s greatest artists that have graced these dark walls both in person and in sound-waves.

Parker and LJ were told to have a seat on the counter and let the sound sink in, while Mitchie gave them a music course between the tracks.

“Music is our biggest export,” Mitchie explained.

“More than banana, yam, sugar, more than even sports. Reggae music is the greatest thing that Jamaica has ever created.”

Sure, Rockers International is one of the last remaining vinyl shops in all of Kingston and, yeah, the music biz has taken a little beating in the last couple decades, but as the crew felt the beat hit them in their chests, a lyric came to them, perhaps from Bob Marley smiling down on the wall.

And that was: “One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain…”

Revivalist - Parker Coffin

CHAPTER 9

B L U E M O U N TA I N C O F F E E

34

The dirt bikes rev and spit out

with the almighty Jah. It feels

rocks from the back tires as

like only moments ago I was

we try to keep control in the

perspiring in the Kingston

slimy red mud, while climbing

heat with mango juice running

through 3,000 feet and

down my face, and now I

rounding corners that would

ďŹ nd myself needing a eece

make one have plenty of talks

jacket. I stop to gaze down over

Kingston Harbor looming

Coffee, a coveted trademark

tell a lie, and I have heard so

often blended with generic

in the distance, and I can’t

belonging only to Jamaica

much about unblended Blue

Aribica beans, diluting the

get over the geographical

just like Champagne belongs

Mountain Coffee and how it

natural taste. We are so high

diversity of this incredible

to France, your plantation has

is practically like drinking

up in these mountains that we

nation. In order for you to

to be situated above 4,000

gold. I have never had the

are literally in the clouds, and

qualify into the prestigious

feet in the mountains. I am

opportunity to get my hands

I cannot see the next guy up

club of Blue Mountain

quite the coffee snob, I can’t

on the pure stuff as it is most

ahead of me riding his bike.

“WE ARE SO HIGH UP IN T H E S E M O U N TA I N S T H AT W E A R E L I T E R A L LY I N THE CLOUDS.” 35

We slow our roll and finally arrive to Mr. David

the use of chemical fertilizers and pesticides

Twyman’s fine establishment, the Old Tavern

while employing traditional fermentation and

Coffee Estate. This quaint and rustic estate

sun drying processes. The guys put us to work

could have been pulled out of a story book.

so we gain a full fledged understanding and

In the front, an old John Deere tractor lies

respect for the business; this is quite the hand

permanently out of operation with its bucket

over hand and almost primitive process! We lug

converted into a huge flower bed. There

the bags off of the pick up truck and drop them

are winding stairs cut into the side of the

next to the peeling machine, which looks like a

mountain that lead you down to the little

giant cheese grater standing under a small shed

cafe where coffee and homemade pastries are

with a corrugated steel roof. On one side of the

served. A tall, dark and handsome Jamaican

wall lies the cheese crater, or “Pulper,” while

fella, standing proud in head to toe Camo with

on the other side lies a trough that catches

a ball cap that reads “Entrepreneur at Work”,

the bean once it has been pulped. They use an

leads me to the back of a nearby parked pickup

apple crate to measure the beans so they can

truck. Going off of his elaborate and confident

keep tabs on how much they’re pulping. We

ensemble, this was a man I certainly wasn’t

start by emptying the berries into the apple

going to argue with; let’s just say he looked

crates and then, once full, we empty that batch

like he knew what he was doing. The bed

into 5 gallon buckets to make pouring into

of the pick-up truck is chock a block full of

the top of the machine easier. After pouring

bags wreaking of vinegar. I say with a sour

the berries into the machine, the cheese grater

face: “What is that smell?” He replies with a

starts spinning at a rapid rate, chewing up the

sarcastic grin: “Dat’s coffee!” He opens up

berries and spitting the pulp out everywhere.

one of the bags for me and it is bursting with

The smell of vinegar is even stronger now as

electric colored red berries that are leaching

the machine spins a million miles a minute,

out an aroma which is far different from the

simultaneously spitting out pulp and sending

“Elegant and Balanced Dark Roast” I am used

beautiful little virgin green beans into the

to. I run my hand through the berries that were

trough in the back. Once the de-pulping

just hand picked moments ago. “We are in the

process is completed, the raw baby beans are

very beginning stages here, follow us,” says the

taken to ferment and dry in the sun for weeks

chief-entrepreneur.

before finally going to roast.

We hop back onto the bikes and follow the truck down another bumpy road that is extremely enchanting. It looks like you just fell down the same hole as Alice. In this Wonderland, the ferns are so big you feel you could lay on them like a tropical day bed, and the mist in the air is so thick you could fill up a water bottle. It is so mystical, I find myself waiting for a fairy to cross my path. We arrive to yet another incredibly rustic and quaint cottage, this one looking more like a plantation home that you would see in the movies. The Twymans’ take a natural approach on the farm: limiting

37

38

Once our lesson is completed,

standing in the mountains of

brewed coffee and a couple

exclusive plantation, taking a

we head over to the other side

a gorgeous tropical island.

of locally made clay coffee

sip of the golden blend tastes

of the property to witness the

The natural mystic is certainly

cups, which he sets on top

smoother than butter. It is

amazing clouds dancing in

blowing through the air,

of the Defender’s hood. The

excellent and it doesn’t need

and out of the valleys of the

and I believe this is one of

whole set up is once again

a drop of cream nor a grain

Blue Mountains. We watch

the elements that sets this

such a contrast: so rugged,

of sugar. I savor the silkiness

as the clouds bring a curtain

coffee apart from all others.

yet so classy. After everything

of the ethereal pedigree Blue

of mist to cover the land. It is

David Twyman brings over

we have gone through today

Mountain Coffee, while gazing

enchanting and hypnotic,

a large thermos of freshly

to reach this small and very

upon the natural mystic clouds.

“ W E WAT C H A S T H E C L O U D S B R I N G A C U RTA I N O F M I S T TO COVER THE LAND.”

39

Revivalist - Parker Coffin

“ H O W T O L I V E D E L I B E R AT E LY ” Karina Petroni

CHAPTER 10

Back in the day, after skipping town for a while to find his own adventure in nature, Henry David Thoreau famously wrote: “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived… I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life...”

BY BEAU FLEMISTER

“ H O W T O L I V E D E L I B E R AT E LY ”

On our recent trip to Jamaica,

girl was catching her own fish by

Layne Beachley and Rabbit

a woman named Karina Petroni

age 3, learned to drive by 9 and

Bartholomew helped her to

joined us to write about the

recalls her Latin childhood as,

gain temporary residency in

adventure. She utterly personifies

“An incredible playground of

Oz where she became a pro

the life Thoreau urges us to live.

pure adventure and risk and

surfer, living the transient life

Karina, however, never “went

beauty with no TV, no streetlights

of contests and photo shoots,

to the woods,” — she was born

— just otherworldly.”

surfing through 6 continents

there. The Panamanian jungle,

and qualifying for the World

actually, where during her

The fam moved to North

childhood, her father was a boat

Florida in the late-80s and

pilot on the Panama Canal. It was

Karina got hooked on surfing

Losing interest with the jersey,

there that the golden-haired half-

by 9. Fully sponsored by 11,

Karina began modeling and

Scandinavian, half-American

Aussie world champions

dabbling in TV.

44

Tour by age 18.

On her way to a Discovery

with a penchant for diving

has definitely made me more

Just yesterday, when we were

Channel gig to work on a

with sharks, she worked

capable and appreciative

gulping in 20-second breaths

treasure hunting program,

on the film Shark water as

of everything,” she says.

to find some fish, she came up

the shoot fell apart, but

well as the Oscar-winning

“Even things like electricity

after a few minutes underwater

serendipitously, she met her

documentary The Cove.

and water [laughs], it’s a

with four lobster and five

fascinating, non

conch to feed us pathetic boys.

conventional livelihood.”

She still rips. Is a total babe.

match (and future husband), a brawny, Indiana Jones-type

And today? She picks and

marine salvager based in the

chooses her projects, travels

Caribbean. Though quickly

often with her husband on the

They live on a private island

it’s plain to see how every step

inseparable, Karina never

marine salvage off-season, and

by themselves in the Bahamas

she takes through life expresses

lost her lust for adventure.

jumps of choppers to saves plane

(or somewhere around there)

the idea of living deliberately.

A world-class free diver

wrecked in the Cuban passage

and when they want seafood,

and spearfisher woman

when the season’s on. “The job

they hop in the ocean and catch it.

And when it comes to Karina,

45

Revivalist - Parker Coffin

CHAPTER 11

PIGEON ISLAND The Rasta kids sail little sunfish boats all over the marina, yelling “Starboard” in a Jamaican accent while dreadlocks fall in front of their faces. We drop dock lines at the local Kingston marina and set sail on a 40-foot sloop out of the harbor, en route to a remote island off the southern coast. The sun begins to slip below the horizon as it casts a beautiful glow back on the rugged and virgin coastline. The Red Stripes flow amongst all of us pirates and our vessel rolls gently through the swells. We thread the needle into the Portland Bight, and find ourselves off the coast of our own deserted private island. The moon cascades its silver gleam across the water while we load up our dinghy with campsite gear. Choosing to let the swells rock me to sleep, I remain on the bow of the sloop with my sleeping bag and curl up under a star filled sky; kissed by the sea breeze.

The “sun rise up and shine hard.” To our surprise, it shines down on our three hard looking Rasta neighbors on this so called “deserted private island.” Tattered clothes, gold chains, and mean mugs give us nervous thoughts that we may end up an unsolved tourist murder case previewed on a local Jamaican news network. However, as it turns out, these barbarians enjoy small acting roles for social media handles and are also savvy to barter beer for Tang. Clearly these Rastas had never seen anything like this in their lives: here is a bunch of white people on a tiny spit of sand in the middle of the ocean off the southern coast of Jamaica, and LJ pulls out his laptop and two boxes of kids fruity cereal. We gather around, one of the Rastas holds the laptop while the other two hold the cereal, and we all “cheese” in unison. I would be bold enough to say that this particular act made LJ’s top 5 “Saturday Morning Cartoons” to date.

48

These Rasta Fishermen become our new buddies, even though we remain suspiciously skeptical of their true and dark motives. Their Patwa slang is so thick we can barely decipher a sentence.

Nods, chuckles and hand signals go a long way.

“ A T T H I S P O I N T, WE ARE STILL TRYING TO FIGURE OUT IF THESE THREE DUDES ARE R E A L LY O U T HERE FISHING, OR JUST MOONLIGHTING FOR A DRUG RUNNING O P E R AT I O N . ”

They run us out in their dug out canoes hoping we will trade our catch with them, and they

seem to be pretty impressed and shocked that I know how to spearfish.

Everything is a group effort when you’re camping, especially on a remote tropical island. Food seems to taste much better when your living quarters are made up of fabric and sticks. Later in the

evening, we conjure up a feast on the open fire

with our “fruta del mar,”and our new salty friends join in on the feasting. At this point, we are still

trying to figure out if these three dudes are really out here fishing, or just moonlighting for a drug running operation. We feast and swill on local

rum like true pirates and watch as the moon light shines down on the Kentucky Derby of soldier crabs scurrying through the fallen sea grape leaves; the entertainment was on point.

The entertainment continues, with all of us sardine canned in the miner’s tent with our new buddies.

The beauty of travel is that you never know which

situation you will find yourself in; you must relish in the moments in which you are removed from

your comfort zone. You may find yourself sleeping

in a miners tent with 6 dudes, 3 of whom are actual drug runners hot-boxing the tent with ganja smoke.

You may find yourself: laying there in the midst of it all being doused by torrential downpours,

realizing it is truly one of the most awful experiences of your life; but you can rest assured it is going to make for a damn good story based solely

on the fact that you were in the same tent with

bonafide Jamaican drug dealers and somehow you made it out alive.

FISH SANCTUARY ORACABESSA

CHAPTER 12

B Y R E V I VA L I S T - J E R R Y R I C C I O T T I

“A man in a spring suit sharpens the tip of a spear by the dock. A joint possibly hangs out of his mouth, my memory evades me. He points out a large grouper beneath the dock.” I nod, thinking little about the significance of the large predator swimming idly beneath us. That large fish, I would soon learn, isn’t as common as one might expect in this part of the Caribbean.

Invasive lionfish, degradation of coral reefs, and

“A lot of Jamaicans can’t swim” Ini tells us.

overfishing have had a dramatic impact on the fishery

“I’d say 98% of Jamaicans have never snorkeled...

here in Oracabessa. Fishermen started noticing the

they’ve never had a personal experience with the reef.”

reduction in fish populations decades ago and reacted

A big part of what Oracabessa does, with a meager

like anyone would: by moving closer to the reef and

funding from the Jamaican government as well as

taking species of fish they previously didn’t target.

outside donors, is educate their neighbors about the

Ivah’s brother Inilek Wilmot is the manager of this extremely successful fish sanctuary on Fisherman’s Beach. It’s one of 10 fish sanctuaries on the coast in Jamaica - the result of a push by the government to

very complex ecosystem in their backyard. Taking kids snorkeling for their first time demystifies the ocean and hopefully begins a connection to their environment that will carry on for generations.

fight back against diminishing fisheries. Wisely,

Another big part of Inilek’s job, and one that he’s

the government has mostly taken a hands-off approach

especially well suited for, is to work with fisherman

to these sanctuaries, allowing NGO’s to manage

to establish catch limits and fishing zones around

themselves and letting the communities decide where

the reef. They’ve taken special care not to

these no-fishing zones should be created.

arbitrarily outline where people can and can’t fish

“ I ’ D S AY 9 8 % O F J A M A I C A N S HAVE NEVER SNORKELED...

THEY’VE NEVER HAD A PERSONAL EXPERIENCE W I T H T H E R E E F. ”

- instead Ini led several meetings between fishery experts and local fishermen to decide where they want to create a “no fishing” zone in the sanctuary.

Ini, who is surf royalty in Jamaica, spent his entire life on the ocean surfing with his family around Buff Bay. He’s a marine biologist with a knack for simplifying complicated scientific theories into digestible nuggets for us laypeople. Ini is essentially trying to convince fisherman to change how they’ve been doing their jobs for their whole lives. Something Ini, as a Jamaican and a biologist, is much better suited to doing than any well-intentioned NGO on an ocean, or even a valley away.

“It's hard for people who are not from 3rd world situations to understand why someone would kill the last fish, ya know? You have to understand that level of desperation - you really have to say ‘well how can you protect the fish while at the same time enabling a community to thrive?’ Our approach has always been that we see the reef as enabling the community to thrive, therefore they should care about it not just because it’s there and pretty.”

Taking kids snorkeling is super important for educating the next generation but it’s Oracabessa’s work with local fisherman that is making the most immediate impact. Since its declaration in 2010, the amount of live coral is increasing: tarpon, snook and snapper are returning and you can see the occasional tuna now. One survey reports a 600% increase in parrot fish on the reef in the last 6 years. That’s staggering change. "Last year we saw a 1700% increase in fish biomass. If you told fisherman themselves that 6 years ago they wouldn’t have believed that.”

I’ve shot a few docs about sustainable fisheries in America and I have a modestly well informed opinion about what makes them work, but I’m glad I didn’t rock into town with my suit throwing money around talking about what brought the red snapper fishery back to Texas because Ini makes a way better point than I ever could.

Inilek Wilmot, Oracabessa Fish Sanctuary - Manager

53

Revivalist - Nate Zoller

CHAPTER 13

R E F U G E I N B O S T O N B AY

The skies unleash tropical fury onto the North coast. We seek refuge at a nearby motel outside of Port Antonio as we are being faced with borderline tropical storm conditions. Trees have fallen into the streets and treacherous landslides are taking place as a result of the horrific flooding. We are told by Billy Mystic that Kingston is practically underwater and therefore it is very unsafe to drive back, so we ride it out on the North coast. We try our best to remain optimistic, hoping the conditions will subside.

With no sign of anyone upstairs turning off the faucet, we decide to make the most of it and head into the streets, carefully navigating each turn until we arrive safely to Boston Bay. The bay is a tiny little cove with two headlands practically kissing each other; the opening is just big enough to let the swell pass through. It has the look of a perfect pirate’s getaway. The swell is raging, and a strong pulse is rolling through the small opening making this tranquil cove look more like “Victory at Sea.” Boston Bay isn’t only lovely little coves and beaches, it is also home to the notorious flavor of “Jerk.” Nothing could have lifted our damp spirits more than when we came across a very rootsy “Jerk” stand.

Revivalist - Jamie Thomas, Boston Bay, Jamaica

where the dance hall beat is thumping, and we run into a very interesting person.

We continue roaming the streets with our guards up, ďŹ nding ourselves in a lively alleyway

gathering to watch in hopes of witnessing a big crash. Their hopes do not come to fruition.

We roam the distressed streets and Jamie spots a steep hill to bomb. The locals stir,

CHAPTER 14

MR. CURTIS MARTIN

58

Meet Mr. Curtis Martin: Curtis is a man well into his 60’s.

He adorns a paper clip in his afro because his clothes are so torn and tattered they have no pockets to house the paper clip safely. He hustles around Port Antonio cleaning out hair salon drains for extra coin just to get by to another day.

His paper clip is his money maker and his afro is his toolbelt. Curtis quickly notices us, and when he lays eyes on Jamie’s skateboard he wastes no time in running up to ask if he can ride it. Jamie hesitantly hands over his board, concerned that this may be the last time he sees it. Curtis snatches the board up, pushes off and immediately proceeds to bust out a 360 while continuing to do power-slides all the way down the street; the crowd errupts. As it turns out, Curtis is from South Florida and is a US Military Veteran. We hoot and holler as he rips around exchanging tricks back and forth with Jamie; the local crowd is entirely entertained and giving us big “Bless Ups”. Before we know it, the X’Games are taking place in the deep dark streets of Port Antonio.

Elvis and Rod, patriarch one and two spot “Sharon’s Bar,” a tiny little hole in the wall owned and operated by sweet Sharon. Since we comprise about 98% of her customers, she allows Jerry to help her bartend. Sharon tells us that Port Antonio is primarily safe, with the occasional petty theft.

“It’s safe here Mon, aint nahbody gon mess witcha, dey gon make sure yah safe and cumfuhtable.” She recalls back to the days when the big cruise ships would come into the port and bring many visitors. All of that has come to a screeching halt and now only a “likkle trickle” comes in, mainly from European visitors. Port Antonio is not the place where you are going to see your standard herd of sunburnt, pleasantly plump, map in hand, tropical shirt wearing American tourists. Curtis Martin is the only American we have stumbled across in days...

59

Revivalist - Ivah Wilmot

CHAPTER 15

A H U M B L I N G S E N S AT I O N

Departure time is drawing near and all of us can

I sit in the same exact seat back to Nassau that

sense it. The last day graces us with fun waves

I sat in on my flight ten days prior. The irony

to surf at one of Luke’s most favorite and secret

of it all consumes my thoughts and nostalgia

spots. The rain continues to fall and the sky

overcomes me. My head spins around the single

is still gray but, in light of it all, the weather

question: “Is Jamaica simultaneously trapped

lends us with the most stunning contrast as the

in the middle of it’s past and it’s future?” I feel

palm trees are intensely emerald green against

as if I have been on the road for over a year

the gloomy backdrop. The waves roll in and

with all the eye opening experiences I have

offer us short and sweet rides all the way to the

encountered. The saying: “Don’t ever judge

pebble-stone shoreline.

a book by its cover” stands true in Jamaica.

It’s inescapably clear to me now, that one

The drive back to Kingston is bittersweet. We opt

should never let the parody that the tourist

to take the longer and more scenic route to the

industry creates, cast a shadow on the real Jamaica.

city, and we spend most of the drive hanging out the window in awe of the tropical jungle that we

The diversity of the nation can throw you off guard,

are weaving through. This jungle runs alongside

but in the end everything in this beautiful country

the Tom’s River and looks like something out of

seems to amaze you with every new turn you

an animated film. The foliage is layered as high

take. I gained a deep-rooted appreciation for that

as it is deep; it is dense, three dimensional, and

special oval shaped island. I sigh and smile

you expect to see Tarzan swinging from a vine at any moment. We zoom past tiny little shacks where I can just catch a glimpse of laundry hanging out to dry in the backyard. Although these lots may have only been 40x40 feet, there are six exotic fruit trees occupying each small sliver of land. The people living there may have nothing in the bank, but they have so much in the earth. A humbling sensation overcomes us all, as we feel incredibly blessed to be witnessing this pristine and majestic slice of nature.

"DON’T GAIN THE WORLD AND LOSE YOUR SOUL."

as I gaze out the window, and watch Jamaica become smaller and smaller, resting easy with Bob’s words: “Don’t gain the world and lose your soul, wisdom is better than silver or gold...”

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VOLUME 14

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