jamaica 2

Ran into a rasta man named King Marco up in Ochos Rios. The beach was wack, the place too touristy, Marco was our only hope. He promised to show us the real Ocho Rios, what it looked like before the tourists came.

Next thing I know we’re stopping at a shop to pick up some herbals. He passes the bag back, gives us each a single Rizzla, and tells each one of us to roll up our own. So we bless up, and listen while King Marco starts talking.

“Rastafaria!!! Yessum. Yess. Respect Mon. Yea Mon. We have a good time. Real ting. Yea man. bless.” Pounding his right fist to his heart every few seconds to accentuate his depth. A worn rasta cap covered his naps, and a thick beard hugged his face.

“You see this plant here. That’s the most sensitive plant in the world. Touch it, and it folds up. Just goes away. Just like that. But it know when you leave, and it open back up.”

We tried, it worked.

“And see that one there. That we use them there for tea. Cleans the body. And this one…” He picks another pack of leaves, and tells me to smell. “This one for meditation. And the root, we use for soup.” He then went on to explain the numerous combinations of leaves, fruits, and root he’d used to make remedies. I ask Marco how a cab driver manages to know so much. His response: “The elders man. The elders taught this to us,” he laughs. “Everyone knows this.”



Picture walking alongside a road in the hillside with jungle to one side, and the Caribbean sea to your right. Now imagine, you veer off on an unmarked path towards the jungle, and find a valley with a river running through it. The river forms into a waterfall every 100 yards or so as you go further down into the hills.

He led us along the river to a waterfall which looked like the fountain of youth. An open pool of clear blue resting quietly under the open sun.



Ryno steps up, and jumps down. Devin does the same. She first looks down, is hella scared by drop, and backs off. After some motivational cheers, she jumps.

I’m content just seeing it, snapping pictures and trying to take in the moment, but as Devin’s drying herself off, explaining how she got the nerve to jump, two words escape her mouth which trigger reaction within me. Those words: why not. Spoken loosely, almost as though they belonged at the end of every sentence, triggered something.

“At first I didn’t want to jump, but then I thought to myself, I’m in Jamaica, why not?” A few seconds later I was stepping up to the diving board, living rather than thinking. Moving instead of wondering what-if.

And well worth it. Just beneath the waterfall is a cave that you can actually swim into. The rocks provide a ceiling just high enough for you to breath. To one side is darkness, the other, water falling onto water, and the fountain of youth that brought you here.

And rasta-man Marco, who took us there was just as happy. This was his little secret haven, where he could meditate, relax, take in the sun, and swim in the water. He jumped off a few waterfalls with us, and after drying his dreads, placed a spliff in between his lips, smiled with joy like he was a 7 year old boy again. “Too blessed to be stressed,” he tells me. Indeed.