Our first stop was the historic Rose Hall Plantation, the infamous home of Annie Palmer, the White Witch Voodoo Queen, whose ghost supposedly haunts the solitary Georgian mansion that sits atop a hillside overlooking the sea.
The story of Rose Hall is one of those tales that transcends history and is shrouded in mystery. Some say it’s total crap and others say they have witnessed Annie’s ghost.
Barbara drove us up the winding drive to the plantation where we paid our $15 entrance fee and were met by a young Jamaican girl in period costume, who led us around the mansion and told us the rest of the story.
In 1750, George Ash, an Englishman with deep pockets purchased Rose Hall, encompassing 6000 acres of volcanic-rich soils tended by 2000 slaves.
Ash later sold the estate to John Palmer, another wealthy Englishman, who soon married Annie, whose parents had emigrated to Haiti and then died of yellow fever when she a small child. Annie was raised by a Haitian nanny who taught her witchcraft and voodoo.
After a brief period of marital bliss, Mr. Palmer died under mysterious circumstances – perhaps yellow fever –some said at the hands of Annie. And this pattern was to repeat itself two more times.
In between murdering her rich husbands, supposedly Annie took great pleasure in torturing her slaves down in the basement dungeon while hosting wild sex orgies, including a torrid affair with her black overseer Takoo, who was also a practitioner of voodoo.
After murdering her last husband, she instructed several of her slaves to haul the shrouded body to the ocean via a network of secret escape tunnels running under the property. After dumping the corpse in the sea, the litter bearers were murdered, hence the old adage, “Dead men tell no tales.”
Annie eventually had an affair with a young bookkeeper who she hired to handle the estate’s finances. When her new lover took up with one of the house slaves, Millicent, who was Takoo’s granddaughter, Annie put a voodoo spell on the young girl. Nine days later Millicent died from the curse and in a fit of rage Takoo stole into the house one night and smothered Annie with a pillow as she slept in her bed.
And since that day, Annie’s ghost has haunted the mansion.
Inside the airy two story house made of Jamaican mahogany there are lovely European antiques and the walls are draped in silk fabric, depicting palms and birds. There is also a very unique grandfather clock given by Johnny Cash who lived nearby at Cinnamon Hill. Johnny was a big fan of Rose Hall and even wrote a song called “The Ballad of Annie Palmer”.
But there are some pretty creepy items there too.
There’s a picture of Annie with four small children, painting a scene of domestic tranquility. But Annie had no children, so if you look closely, you will see that the children’s heads are fashioned after dolls. But even weirder, the painter utilized a strange technique that gives the impression that Annie’s eyes are following you, no matter where you view the painting.
Bear traps were found down in the dungeon. But there were never any bears on Jamaica. Legend has it that Annie used them on her slaves.
Several cast members of the hit TV show “Love Boat”claim that when they stayed at the mansion, they woke up one morning to the sound of a baby crying, and when they got up to see where the noise was coming from, it suddenly stopped. Upon returning to their room, they found their coffee cups smashed on the floor.
Over the years, several people who have taken pictures in Annie’s bedroom were shocked to see her murky image in the mirror hanging by her bed.
A few years ago, a group of international mystics – whatever the hell that means – visited Rose Hall in order to prove whether Annie’s ghost really existed. They focused their attention on the special grave that Takoo had built in order to imprison her spirit. When they tried to channel her ghost, they got nothing. Apparently Takoo and his conspirators had botched the grave, allowing her spirit to escape the tomb. So, maybe she’s real, and maybe she’s not. Who knows?
But if history is any judge then the following fact is enlightening. During the Christmas rebellion of 1832, 70 of the great houses on Jamaica were burned and only the kind masters’ houses were spared. But Rose Hall was not burned out of fear of Annie’s ghost.
Today, Rose Hall is owned by the Rawlings family from Wilmington, Delaware, and they allow daily tours and are slowly restoring the estate.
We pushed on to Montego Bay, a tip top destination brimming with fancy estates, world-class resorts, golf courses, and shopping malls. We drove by an especially nice golf course called the Half Moon Club where golfers and their caddies strolled manicured fairways as if roaming the grounds of their private estate.
The fanciest of the fanciest neighborhoods is Iron Stone. Barbara took us for a drive around the Iron Stone perimeter and informed us that it is home to many movie stars like Eddie Murphy and Sylvester Stallone. And Prince Charles recently visited friends there touring the Bob Marley Center in 2011.
We continued on toward Montego Bay and soon came to a funky street filled with hippie-dippy shops overflowing with EVERYTHING reggae. This is the Hip Strip.
Barbara found a parking space in front of a gaudy shop and we bailed out of the van. The inside of the crowded store was crammed with all sorts of trinkets decorated in the Jamaican colors of yellow, green and black. Larry and I were looking for a Bob Marley beach towel and they had a selection of about twenty or more. I also picked up a fiery red cotton Hawaiian shirt – except it was Jamaican.
Then it was back in the van and we were off to our next stop, Richmond Hill, a former plantation Great House built in 1804, overlooking Montego Bay. The estate is now a hotel that is also open to the public for tours and special events, like weddings. We paid our $2 and roamed the manicured grounds and the antique-filled rooms of the mansion.
Two very friendly Austrian ladies own the place. We talked to them for a few minutes and they invited us to come back for a longer stay. It’s a little far from the beach, but it is very kris – as the Jamaicans are very fond of saying when referring to some place that is very friendly and laid-back.
On the way back into Montego Bay Barbara stopped at the Overton Plaza and led us into a small take-out restaurant where she bought us all a local delicacy known as a Jamaican Patty – a flaky pastry filled with spiced beef. They were delicious! We tried to pay her, but she insisted that it was her treat. We couldn’t believe how gracious it was for a lady who really didn’t know us from Adam, and who clearly was struggling to make ends meet, to buy us all lunch.
“Now I take you to my favorite beach,” said Barbara as she finished her patty.
“Dave’s Cave?” I suggested. I knew it was somewhere nearby.
“That’s where all the tourists go,” chuckled Barbara. “I take you to the beach where all de locals go. Where I take my family.”
The Aqua Sol Water Theme Park was rockin’ when we exited Barbara’s van. As Bob Marleys “Get Up, Stand Up” blared from a large amplifier, a young Rasta DJ hopped off a small stage by the blue and yellow restaurant-bar and greeted us with a happy-glazed smile.
“What are your names and where you from, Mon?” asked the grinning ring master.
We gave him our particulars and he jogged back to the stage and announced to all the patrons. “Let’s welcome Steve and Inna from Maryland, and Larry and Teri from Florida.”
Aqua Sol was a funky mix of all sorts of weird stuff: the MoBay 500, the only Go-Cart racing track in Montego Bay, featuring both single-seat and double-seat Honda carts; tennis and volleyball courts; ping-pong tables and a professionally managed gym; sets of dominoes, ludo and draft which guests are free to use; a children’s playground with swings and slides; water trampolines and jet skis; banana boat rides; wave runners; kayaks, pedal boats, and a glass bottom boat; snorkeling on the nearby reef; scuba diving lessons and guided scuba diving; parasailing; lockers, showers, and changing rooms; chairs and umbrellas; Internet facilities; a gift shop; art and crafts store; and a children’s snack bar; plus reasonably-priced food and beer.
The beach was shaded from the road by large palms which framed the shallow half moon bay where local families relaxed in the sun to the pulsing rhythm of non-stop reggae music.
We headed for the far side of the beach where there were two large sea grape trees and some cool shade. Everyone we passed gave us a welcoming wave.
Larry went over to the bar to get a beer and check out three guys playing homegrown reggae while the rest of us went swimming.
I swam across the bay checking out the beach scene and then decided to walk around the park and see the sights. Young women were giving massages to people laying in the sand while others braided customer’s hair into long dreadlocks. Behind the main building, where the craft shops were located, I came upon a crowd of folks oohing and aahing as a fire spitter walked on broken glass.
Barbara came up to me and said, “What you t’ink?”
“It’s like a strange dream,” I replied with a laugh.
“Da trut,” agreed Barbara with a big smile.
Perhaps the oddest thing about the whole scene was that I never smelled any weed.
I went for a final swim, knowing it would be my last frolic in the Caribbean waters because the rest of our cruise would be aboard the ship, and then we packed up our gear and headed for the shack porch bar where Larry was nursing a Red Strip and smiling like Buddha. He was transfixed on the three musicians who were as odd as the rest of the place. An ancient and nearly toothless fellow in a red Jamaican shirt strummed the world’s oldest banjo, playing it like a bass and singing with an easy grace, while another old geezer played a beat-up guitar as a young kid finger-picked a strum drum on the ground. We dropped some money in their tip jar and joined them for a roots tune. It was huge grins. And amazingly enough, they even had cd’s to sell. We would have loved to hang out longer – supposedly the place really went into orbit at night – but Barbara was waiting to take us back to the ship.
Back at the dock, we said a sad farewell to Barbara, promising to tell all of our friends to look her up on her website at: www.funfilledjamaica.com
We still had about an hour to kill before we had to get back on the ship, and even though we were tired after an incredibly wild day of sight seeing fun, we decided to check out the shantytown market near the terminal. We quickly realized this was a bad decision. It was the end of the day and the onslaught of people trying to sell us all manner of tourist junk was unreal – incredibly aggressive – and the whole process was demeaning for all parties involved.
One tall guy latched onto us like a smiling lamprey and assumed the role of impromptu tour guide, following us through the market and even into the historic business square, jabbering about the buildings and the food, and pointing to the spot where the rebel Samuel Sharp was hanged by the Brits before the turn of the last century. When we got to the obligatory water fountain in the center of the business district we had reached our limit and told our unwanted friend to take a hike.
The people of Falmouth were promised that the new cruise terminal was going to usher in tourists with fat wallets, just itching to buy the local crafts, but the promises have proven to be a bit hollow. And you could almost feel the distrust and hostility as yet another day in Cruiseland was winding down and the last of the boat people were about to set sail without adequately spreading the wealth.
As we walked back to the ship through the security gate and passed the same items that we had just seen in the market, now nicely displayed in the tidy Georgian shops, I suddenly felt disoriented and in need of a drink.
Back on board, I headed for the pool bar. This time, I ordered a beer instead of a boat drink and stared off into the green jungle void beyond Falmouth, lost in my muddled thoughts.
The Captain suddenly broke my conflicted reflections with an announcement over the intercom. He informed us that two people had missed the boat, and he said with a little laugh that our departing ship would make an interesting photo taken from the dock for the two tardy travelers. It was a joke. We were going to wait a few minutes for them to join us. No one would be left behind on this journey.
The people of Jamaica have always struggled to break the bonds of physical and mental slavery. Bob Marley is just Samuel Sharp with a guitar, the throbbing bass line of poverty always right there beneath the lyrics, promising much tribulation and a brighter day. The prophecy rings true. Falmouth is better off because of Royal Caribbean, of that I have no doubt.
But, as Bob Marley once sang:
“Cost of livin’ gets so high,
Rich and poor they start to cry:
Now the weak must get strong;
They say, “Oh, what a tribulation!”
Them belly full, but we hungry;
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain is fall, but the dirt it tough;
A pot is cook, but the food no ‘nough.”
Dem Want more …
Tip of the Day: The cost of ordering a bottle of wine in the dining room is about the same as your average restaurant and anything left over will be saved by your waiter for the next night. So it’s a very reasonable deal.
