By Rosemary Parkinson, Freelance WriterLAST WEEKEND I again did that 'out of Kingston' t'ing I do when the city heat scares me away into 'country'.
This time I headed to the Calabash Literary Festival in Treasure Beach,
St. Elizabeth, with Nick Gillard of MacMillan Publishers. I had never been and, apart from a back that forced a pharmaceutical stop on the way to numb the
ferocious 'screamings' of pinched nerves, it
was a wonderful experience. (My room
is already booked for nex' year.)
We took off from the capital city starving on purpose. Just before the Old Harbour/May Pen Highway where masses of in-season fruits are piled high on wooden tables or packaged neatly and offered to passersby the Hi-Way Jerk Centre (on the left) beckoned. Although all manner of good Jamaican fare is available in the little restaurant, I made a beeline for the jerk counter where 'my man' knows that I am not into overcooked, leather-like food. So what we got was meat that would be considered by any Jamaican worth his salt to be 'not readi yet'. But for us cooked right through but not killed it was perfection.
Had some amazing jerk sausage and between that, the pork, chicken and the
festivals, satisfaction reigned. By the way, dem 'ave de bes' jerk sauce, you see? I believe one day I will be able to extricate the recipe. Serious stuff.
Once over the highway we saw a rather well put-together fruit stand the real attraction cold coconuts. Icy they were and after also purchasing mangoes, we were off again. What a way every type of mango is in season right now. I just love a Julie though guess that's the Trini in me. 'Nutting' like a juicy Julie (a statement that always creates much mango heated discussion).
Arriving at Sunset Resort (a small homely hotel with rooms named Blue Dolphin, Mermaid, Black Beauty and Sunset Dream) in Treasure Beach, Mr. Gillard went up to his 'tower' overlooking the wide expanse of beach below with its little fishing enclave at the far left. I found my niche in Sunset Dream with a group of 'literary ladies' who make Calabash their home every year. That evening my back was soothed with Reiki (the art of healing by hands much thanks to Jocelyne Josiah and my spiritual guides) and further treated with more mangoes, naseberries, that grand chicken from PriceSmart in Kingston, morsels of other t'ings brought in from Paris (thank you Sonia Mills) and the love that surrounds a bunch of women of good mind and heart. This was all touched by an amazing full moon that caressed the horizon, showering its light onto the ocean ending in ripples close to the cliff over which our rooms overlooked. There is a God.
Next morning Calabash time. Arriving to Anthony C. Winkler reading from his new book, The Annihilation of Fish and Other Stories. The story Absentee Ownership Of Dogs had the crowd in absolute stitches, causing standing ovations and an encore. The Dog produced the same uproar as its author belted out his inimitable Jamaican humour on all those who had come to listen. Maybe 'twas the bellyful of laughter that brought on the hunger pangs that forced me to creep silently away (as yet another writer took the podium) in search of food, glorious food.
Quenched my thirst at Jack Sprat (restaurant), then sauntered over to the big event Little Ochi. Little Ochi puts on a huge spread every year and I was ready fi dem. But janga catch me first red, peppery local river shrimp almost the size of baby lobsters with or without pepper. As much as I love my scotch bonnet, I find these Jamaican delicacies over the top hot, killing the taste, so I chose the ones without pepper now dat was good. Great way to start di day. I walked around as I munched, visiting the various stalls with woodcarvings, clothing, jewellery, paintings, etc. until I was able to rebuild that appetite. Back to the Little Ochi fare. I was a little disappointed in the fried fish, but a helping of curry goat put me in a much better mood. Then it was back to bed after that with the ol' back.
Sunday, a joyous swim in both sea and pool, a little sunshine on my bones, the wonders of wonders Joshua Lee Stein and his Massage Therapy and Healing Body Work (blessings) and another Reiki session from Stewart Maxwell (blessings again), I was able to live.
Pain gone, food come. This time I chose the hotel. Shanique the waitress informed me right away: "All meals are cooked to order so it's going to take a likkle bit." And it certainly did, but hey, I was happy to know that my order would be fresh, not zapped by those horrid purveyors of nuclear rays or whatever. However, more than
anything, I rather enjoyed the quiet (all
had gone off to Calabash) and the
beautiful view.
The menu offers everything from breakfast to dinner. An 'American' or Jamaican breakfast costs US$8. Yep, everything in U.S. dollars. The owner is obviously from there, flying his flag right beside the proud Jamaican one. Sandwiches run from US$4 and there's enough to satisfy all tastes. From imported U.S. sirloin to snapper to jumbo ocean shrimp and Treasure Beach lobster, this kitchen offers a good selection. I chose the Cordon Bleu Chicken (check your spelling on the menu do! Although it did cause a giggle) stuffed with jerk roast ham and 'cheddar cheese, which arrived with a good helping of freshly mashed potatoes, and a bevy of julienne vegetables that were crispy and perfect. Never mind the cheese in the Bleu was our Jamaican favourite that bright yellow processed t'ing out of a tin it actually gave a sort of Jamaican flair and believe you me tasted pretty good. I was suitably impressed. After lunch, Calabash over at Jakes greeted me with reggae rhythms and live performances by Ken Lazarus and Ernie Smith all literary giants joining with fans in a frenzy of pure unadulterated movement the soul of Jamaica.
On the return to Kingston, driving up Spur Tree Hill caused, yep, hunger. The first jerk centre on the right, once you pass the curry goat places sorry Alex, your shop was shut tight caused us to delve headlong into the jerk pork, convincing the 'pitmaster' that the pieces chosen were quite safe for consumption. Sitting high above that cool misty valley, the bauxite company below appeared to be a hive of activity, workers oblivious to all those looking down on them, Red Stripe and platefuls of food in hand. Ah, well.
This trip was also the first opportunity I've had to stop at Juici Beef, just outside of May Pen, since writing the Tale of The Red Pea Soup some time ago. The soup was finished but the staff was friendly and helpful (Congrats). I bought two large sodas to
keep us going 'til we reached the city
lights of Kingston.
Rosemary Parkinson is now a Calabash groupie. Nex' year, yu' hear.
