June 16 2001, perhaps a little after 9am
       Yesterday's storm passed with a sparse barrage of nickel-sized raindrops and then moved out to sea. I watched Rachel's bizarre interaction with the many little skittering creatures here. She'd been looking for a nice shell to bring back for a friend and as luck had it, found one in the middle of the tile path we took to the road. Joyfully she picked it up to examine it, but an instant later, a shriek and the shell was returned to earth — it had grown legs, the home of a hermit crab. It wasn't long though before fear became amusement and she became caught in a cycle of watching the little shell run, clapping to make the crab hide inside, giggling and picking it up again, only to shriek and repeat the entire process over and over.
       Her relationship with the small crabs that burrow in the sand and scavenge washed up cadavers is not that different. Most of the time these crabs are almost motionless, but they are more than capable of launching themselves across the sand at rather extreme velocities. Anyway, their relationship consists of Rachel gingerly — and grinning the whole time — inching toward them. Suddenly the crab launches into motion, with no apparent goal — sometimes toward the ocean, sometimes toward Rachel, and sometimes into its hole. Rachel's reaction is far more predictable — a childlike gleeful shriek as she runs from the beach. It's not long before the crabs have decided that she is not a threat and no longer run, prompting her to kick sand at them to provoke their reaction.
       Among a myriad of other animals, this region appears overrun with finger-sized lizards — I wait with anticipation to see how they will get along.

June 16 2001, about noon
       While the ocean reassures me, most of this reminds me that I am a child of the North. The room I grew up in had malfunctioning heating which has still not been fixed after more than twenty years. In the winter months, a glass of water placed by the window would be ice by morning.
       I forgot to bring a bathing suit, but that was fairly inconsequential — it's so hot here that sweat alone gives me the illusion of having been swimming in my clothing. The one thing I do regret not having brought though is footwear — nothing but an old pair of boots accompanied me since I assumed I'd simply go barefoot. Now, that is true, but it was a painful mistake. Even the grass is heated to temperatures enough to burn — my soles have been converted to blisters and each step is agony.
       We'd heard rumor that in the opposite direction of the fisherman's beach was another one, perhaps less scattered with carrion, so we set off this morning to find it. I chose my path carefully, trying to set upon the coolest patches, and crisscrossed the road for grass. We found no beach and I faced the knowledge that every painful step toward it (or the lack of it) was one I'd have to repeat in double the pain upon my return. Eventually we came back and I must admit that any beach would have had difficulty competing with the tranquility of a cold beer drank in the shade to the song of the waves.
       When we finally returned to our room, we found a map which clarified: there was no beach to the left.

June 16 2001, during an overcast mid-afternoon at a rough sea, pummeled by a hail-like rain
       I have to cut this short — the rain is increasing and I see my words beginning to blur on the page. More later.

June 16 2001, some time later in the afternoon, post-rain
       Yesterday I had convinced myself that there were perhaps three bearable hours in the Jamaican day; a period surrounding dusk where the sun had stopped yelling so loud. I now extend that period to include storms.
       I'd forgotten to describe our journey here. Rachel surprised me by upgrading our tickets to first class — a first time for both of us. On a pure comfort level it is worth it. The seats are wide, with plenty of legroom and they recline nearly horizontal, making sleep come easily. The first class cabin is almost silent due to its distance from the rear-mounted engines. Breakfast was served to us not from a mass-manufactured tray, but in two courses with a table cloth and real china and metal flatware. We were of course the first to leave the plane; not into a terminal tunnel, but via a rolling staircase right onto the runway, a short walk from arrivals. Clearing customs was an entirely unquestioned procedure and we met with our driver who took us to his faux-fur lined Camry.
       The drive across the island is short as the crow flies, but via car it is two hours of tight, treacherous, and seemingly never-ending roads. By the halfway point we were entirely unsure what our fate might be — perhaps Conroy would simply rob us and dump our corpses into the jungle.
       But, we did make it and I sit here in what has become my favorite perch. An elderly woman, prone to brief but very vocal outbursts during lovemaking is swimming in the waves below me in an unflattering bathing suit. The ocean is far too rough there, and studded with sharp coral outcroppings. I do not believe I will put my swimming to the test if she meets her demise.

June 16 2001, as sunset nears
       The only thing that keeps me from travelling more is my cursed weak digestive system. We do not have a happy relationship. While I admit I am in part to blame for this, it doesn't seem like there's much I can do to stop it... every time I eat exotic food — and I do love to do so — I live in fear of scatological self-immolation. Suffice it to say that it makes travelling increasingly paranoia fulfilled every mile I move farther away from washroom facilities. Not fun!

June 17 2001, perhaps 7am
       Last night contained far less slumber than I had hoped for. Rachel seems particularly sensitive to mosquitoes and spent much of the night rolling and kicking in an attempt to keep them off of her. We sleep under a mosquito net and keep a bug coil burning. I am dubious as to the effectiveness of the smoke from the coil — in part because a fan blows it away (it seemed to work better when the power failed), and in part because any evolution-minded bug would soon associate that smoke with the sweet soft blood-bag of a human.
       Unfortunately I did not fully escape the brunt of the mosquitoes feeding either it seems. From my knees down, the part of my oversized anatomy which extended past the protection of the netting, I am pockmarked with a hundred small red mounds... each one screams out to me, and like an animal gnawing off its leg to escape a trap, I cannot help but to rub them against sharp coral rocks. The pain is almost orgasmic as it replaces the itching.
       Our plan had been — and still is — to visit YS falls this morning. A secondary disagreement I have with my bowels is a marked lack of communication with them. There are no warning signs, and no signals they send me until minutes before imminence. Sometimes they heal themselves instantly, and sometimes I'll spend a month in discomfort.
       Well, I suppose I can't complain even if I simply stay here among the butterflies and hummingbirds. The mosquitoes seem to hide during the day. I guess that's the story of most beauty though — the evil only shows itself when it feels it flies in camouflage.

June 17 2001, noon
       I've just spilled the entire contents of my beer thanks to Rachel hurling her sunglasses at me from the ocean. I will now finish the dregs fate has left me and try and find a dead fish to taunt her with — although it may backfire as she may well be less squeamish than I.

June 17 2001, about 1:30 in the afternoon
       The Jake's web page says we're located half an hour from YS falls. The paperwork in our room estimates forty minutes and the girl at the front desk guessed it would be about an hour and fifteen minutes. It has become entirely clear that Jamaicans are unable and unwilling to quantify time in even the most vaguely accurate manner — however, even after only a few days here, I find my own ability to do so waning quickly.
       In any case, the journey was somewhere just short of an hour, thanks to our driver tearing through the tight streets at a maniacal rate, never slowing below ninety except when trapped behind a more prudently piloted vehicle. YS falls are beautiful, and I believe the photos will clarify that so unless my film fails to develop, I will not dull them with my words.
       You may have noticed that I have written very little about the people or culture here, saving my words for the thoughts brought on by the landscape. I fear anything I would write might be tainted with first-world snobbery and three thousand years of white man's inbred racism. My eyes are open, but I can feel it there like a festering vestigial organ.
       I wonder who I'd become after a year here?

June 17 2001, perhaps 4pm
       I'm not sure if it is our obviously foreign tattoos and piercings, or simply our general antisocial nature and inability to either start or sustain a conversation, but we are very clearly outsiders here. Even Dougie, the bartender with the mannerisms of a nervous elder chimpanzee is jovial with everyone but treats me with a gruff reservation. I have seen the other guests mingling and getting to know each other — some even eating together. I on the other hand have had but a single short conversation. I was getting a drink from the outdoor bar and another patron sat waiting for his pina colada. An American-accented couple spoke to us:
       "Where are you from?"
       "Canada."
       "What part of Canada?"
       "Toronto."
       "Toronto is a nice city. I used to work for ATI."
       "I have a friend that does hardware for ATI."
       "I was an evangelist for them in San Jose."
       "That's cool," I replied, and since my beer had arrived I parted company and sat far away from everyone else drinking it. Rachel, starved for human contact, made me repeat every word of the conversation she'd missed. Even these few words were listened to with a rapture that should realistically be reserved only for the most epic and gripping tales.
       I'm finishing another Red Stripe right now, watching the elderly owners (Jake and Sally) play in the ocean — not too differently than Rachel and I were doing a short time ago. This land has a handicapping yet positive effect on its residents and visitors, turning us into simpletons concerned only with the necessities and forgetting about any responsibility. It's really no surprise that clocks here move both forward and backward at erratic speeds, apparently with the primary purpose of heightening the owner's lethargy.

June 18 2001, morning
       The previous page of my journal has been torn out. What it contains only yesterday knows, and here most of all it is not my duty to try and sort out which pieces of the soup of dreams and truths and nightmares reside there. I see no reason why today cannot exist as an independent moment.
       Last night we drenched ourselves in bug spray — something we should have done the first as I was bitten no more than twice last night, and only in those intimate spots I'd rather not marinate in chemicals strong enough to kill a small animal.
       The sea is calm this morning, and a deeper turquoise than any day yet. I'm sure it's tempting me to become lost in it, but in a few short hours I'm back in a small car slaloming through the mountains toward Montego Bay. Twelve hours from now I'll be in Chicago, and in twenty-four, Toronto.
       While the mysteries of the sea are simple and beautiful, they are not meant to be answered. I am however left with many questions about this place. Why is the power out so often? Why do people ride their bikes with legs out at odd angles as if one a bike two sizes too small? Why do local men travel with the spirits of rapists and lecherously vulture about any white woman they see? Why are half the buildings in a state somewhere between half-construction and demolition? Why are car horns honked so often? Why do coconuts wash up in bunches on the shore? What do the local children I see wandering about spend their days at? Why does Pepsi taste differently here? Why have I seen almost no one with dreadlocks on the south shore? Why do people assume I am German?
       I know that the answers to some of these questions will frighten and upset me, and others will endear me. But, as they say, my bourgeois nature is still under construction, and I have one real question left for today: Does the airport have a first-class lounge?