Journey to 'paradise'

Paul H. Williams, Sunday Gleaner Writer

So, for the first time, I had taken prescribed sinus medication. I was warned of certain side-effects by the pharmacist. Nevertheless, I went ahead. Two weeks after, the first signs of the side-effects appeared, and within a week, the rashes surfaced as if there were no tomorrow. I spent Christmas day and night scratching. On Boxing Day, I decided to go to my favourite spot in the entire island.

The adventurer I am, I took public transport from Kingston to Morant Bay, St Thomas, and from there to the botanical gardens at Bath. To my destination, I walked several miles on a curvy and narrow, but well-kept road, along which the serpentine Sulphur River meandered on the right and across to the left.

It was a joy to hear the rushing sound of the river and the many streams that met it along the way. Nature was in symphony - bamboos sighing and swaying to the cold December breeze, cocks crowing, hen cackling and birds warbling. Old men peeped from broken little houses, as I gazed at the luxuriant flora.

Almost there

My calves hurt, but what did I care? I was in paradise, well nearly, for it was really atop the hills at the end of the road, where youths - males and females - self-appointed masseurs and masseuses, lined the road waiting for their customers.

They recognised me from previous visits. We chatted, and just as I was about to cross the high bridge to go into the hills, my left calf got very painful. I sat and waited, and sweated. Fifteen minutes of rest, then up the steep incline I went. Afraid of heights, I looked over the precipice and looked away, and looked down again. The view was breathtaking. And getting nearer to paradise I was.

More water sprang from the hillside. Smoke rose from a little hut. Ital stew and sip (soup) were over the fire. Rastamen plied their wares; a woman was selling drops. And then it appeared, my little spot. Some white folks were leaving. We exchanged greetings. Ah, the scent of sulphur was in the air. Steam rose from the area where piping hot water ran into the ice-cold river. A carnival of half-naked people I came upon, getting all sorts of treatment - hot-water baths and showers, mud rubs, massages - or they were simply soaking up the steam.

Soon, I, too, was covered with greenish sulphuric mud. For about an hour, I lay on the rocks, embracing nature and delighting in its generosity. Then into the ice cold river I sank, exposing only my head. With the mud totally washed off, I went to get my shower of hot water coming from the PVC pipe embedded in the rock. My scalp bawled out as the water beat down on me, stinging me, burning me. I told it to shut up.

An elderly Rastaman partially submerged himself several times into a pool of hot water. Husbands and boyfriends watch as their women are massaged and pampered by strangers. Screams of pain and moans of pleasure compete with the sounds of water rushing against rocks.

It was now getting dark, and I have had enough. I wanted to leave some of the joy for the next time. So back to the hut I went, devoured yellow rice served with ital stew, trudged down the partially slippery slope to the bridge, for the long trek back to the gardens, where I sat for a while admiring the giant royal palms. Before long, I jumped into a cab, back to Morant Bay, to Kingston, the concrete jungle.