Everything that can go wrong, goes wrong in this fun filled adventure of getting to the Montego Bay airport
Making Plans
I was on the 14th day of my 15 day yoga retreat when I started obsessing over the most efficient and cost-effective ways to get to the airport for my flight home the next day.
Using my fingers, I counted backwards from the airline’s anticipated departure time and subtracted the estimated travel time to the airport. The simple math of this calculation would lead me to the precise minute I should wake up.
Duration and cost are the two most important factors I take into account when making travel decisions. Comfort is never a consideration for me as high comfort tends to equate to a higher cost and I prefer to spend my money elsewhere.
The first option I scribbled on the page was to take a private car to the airport that would cost $150. One downside is the cost and the other downside is that I would be hermetically sealed into a comfortable car with supple leather seats. The sweet sound of smooth jazz would billow through invisible speakers while frigid air would evaporate all humidity and keep me chilled like a fine wine in a rustic cellar. When traveling, I prefer to travel as the locals do so I can absorb the sights, sounds and smells as they are. This is experienced best when bouncing in the back of a repurposed school bus, not in the back seat of a luxury town car.
The other viable option to the airport is to catch the local bus to Montego Bay. The bus would take a bit longer, but I would spend that time looking out the window, reminiscing and catching up on journaling. The cost was financially optimal, as it was less than $22. With a few taps on the mobile app, I booked my bus ticket and felt a sense of relief that I had a plan in place. The only thing left to do was to reserve a taxi to pick me up from the retreat and take me to the bus depot in time for the 5:30 am departure.
I concluded that I should wake up at 4:15 am and the taxi should meet me at the front gate at 4:30 am.With this calculation I was sure we would have plenty of time to make the 25 kilometers journey to the Port Antonio bus depot and have enough time to grab a cup of bad coffee before boarding the bus.
Confirming Plans
Feeling good about my plan, I enlisted Atalia, the tall Jamaican house mother, to leverage her self-proclaimed connections to set up transportation to the bus depot. I shared my plan and showed her that I would need to be picked up no later than 4:30 am. She furrowed her eyebrows as she looked over my math. I felt like I was in second grade waiting for my teacher to give me a gold star, the lickable ones, for my effort. Instead, Atilia shrugged her shoulders, rolled her eyes and picked up her cell phone.
She dialed the number of a Mr. Delroy Robinson, an elderly sophisticated gentleman with proper manners and punctual timing. She asked him if he was available to meet me at the front gate at 4:30 am the next morning.
After a few rounds of “Yes, AM!”
” Yes, 4:30 in the morning.”
“That’s right, tomorrow morning!” She hung up and told me I was all set. Based on what I heard, I wasn’t entirely convinced that Mr. Delroy would pick me up. I pleaded with Atilia to call him once more to be sure he understood the timing and urgency of my request.
Reconfirming Plans and Saying Goodbye
Before she left for the day, Atilia let me know that she called Mr. Delroy once again and confirmed my 4:30 am pickup.We hugged, took a few pictures, and promised to keep in touch.
Departure Day
4:15 AM
My alarm did its job as promised and was right on schedule. Interrupting my dreams with the sound of a large dump truck backing up outside my window at 4:15 sharp. I brushed my teeth, piled my unkempt hair into a messy bun and pulled on my yoga pants.
4:25 AM
So far, I successfully executed the first few steps of my project plan and walked to the rusty entrance gate, banana in hand. At this time of day, it was dark. Really dark. I had no depth perception or ability to distinguish colors. Everything was black, even my banana.
4:32 AM
Mr Delory was always on time. Always. Except for today. It was 4:32 am and my nerves started to alert the banana in my belly that it should move through an orifice either in my mouth or the one inside my undies. I used a relaxation method I learned over the past few days and squeezed my eyes and sphincter tight for a few seconds. I exhaled the stale air through my mouth and sphincter.
4:46 AM
My bowels were rumbling with my rising anxiety. I fretted over calling Attila because it was so early, but I was in crisis mode. Attila answered as if she was expecting my call. I informed her that Mr. Delroy had not yet arrived and I was getting a bit worried.
She told me to wait a few minutes and she would call me back.
4:49 AM
My phone rang, and it was Attilia. She told me Mr. Delroy was on his way. I wasn’t convinced of this report, so I probed a bit further.
“When you say he’s on his way, where… exactly… is… he?”
Attila said she didn’t know.
But I did.
Mr. Delroy was still snuggled in his bed like a newborn baby wrapped in a warm blanket.
“He’s not even out of bed, is he?” I snapped.
I heard her exasperated exhale through my phone. I asked her what I should do now.
She suggested I stand in the middle of the road and wave down a taxi.
“Be sure to stand on the other side of the road next to the goat field. That’s the side of the road leading to Port Antonio,” she said.
“What?” I screamed.
Thanks for the suggestion Atilia but my skills waving down a taxi in midtown Manhattan are not transferable to Jamaica. Taxis here are unmarked and usually carry many passengers like Uber ride share but without passenger limits or comfort.
4:51 AM
Frustrated, I hung up. All of my promises made over the past several days to be a better person were now gone. I was pacing like a hungry lion waiting for a meal to be tossed in the cage. I started doing math. If a car arrived now and it took 30 minutes to get to the depot, I could still make it with a few minutes to spare. No time to pick up my coffee, but it was a sacrifice I would gladly make if a car arrived NOW.
Time waits for no one and the clock is still moving.
4:55 AM
My phone rang. It was Attilia. She called to let me know that she had arranged for a different car to pick me up.
“When?” I frantically asked.
“Very soon. Don’t worry,” she said before the phone went dead.
4:58 AM
Every time I heard the low hum of a car approaching, adrenaline filled my veins. As the sound of an engine got louder, I gripped my backpack tighter, ready to grab any door handle of any vehicle that slowed down. But none of the cars slowed down. They must not have heard the news that I was in distress and needed a ride. Like, right now!
5:08 AM
As the light of day rose, my hopes of catching the 5:30 bus fell. There is no way I would make the bus, no matter which scenario I played out in my head.
Just about the time I wanted to give up, I heard another muffle of an engine as it approached. A car rounded the corner on two wheels and one headlight and skidded to a stop less than 12 inches from my toes and spit gravel on my shins.
My ride was here.The car was black ,but not a typical black car one might imagine. It was a 2008 Nissan Sentra with dings and dents from the savage Jamaican roads.
The driver was young. Maybe too young to hold a license, but I was more focused on getting to the depot than checking his credentials. He promised me we could make it. I didn’t question his confidence as I jumped into the back seat.
5:09 AM
His name was Boysie. If pressed, I could never have identified Boysie in a line-up as I only saw the back of his head and his smile from his reflection in the rearview mirror. Boysie pressed the accelerator hard, and I was sucked back into the seat like an astronaut leaving the launch pad. As he navigated the treacherous corners of the route, I felt like I was in a scene of the “Fast and Furious”. He was driving way too fast and way too furious for my comfort. I buckled my seat belt just in case.
The road to Port Antonio is straight, if you were a crow flying to the depot. But if you are driving a 2008 Nissan Sentra, the 25 kilometer road is twisted like an old man’s back. These roads suffered ill repair, inadequate signage and large pot holes. These obstacles were no challenge for Boysie. He gripped the steering wheel tight as he downshifted through the corners. The bald tires slid on the loose gravel as we careened way too close to the water’s edge. As promised, Boysie was making great time! The windows were open, and the air blew away my worries.
5:11 AM
My body slammed into the side door every time the car rounded a corner. I unbuckled my safety belt and moved to the center of the back seat. I positioned my body like a starfish and grabbed the handles above each door and planted one foot into each of the floor wells and hung on for dear life.
5:20 AM
Boysie was driving much faster than the posted 25 kph. I felt like a meerkat peeking over the front seat to look at the speedometer. The white needle pointed way past 100. Boysie pressed on the accelerator instead of heeding the advice of a bright yellow caution sign ahead. We were airborne as we rounded a dangerous corner. There was a loud thud, a few sparks and the unforgettable sound of metal scraping pavement when his car met the road. The combination of the under-inflated tires, bad shocks and aggressive driving were no match for these roads.
5:21 AM
The tires sounded like they were rumbling over the historic cobblestone streets in Belgium.
“We got a flat!” he screamed.
Air escaped my body faster than the tire. Boysie was exasperated and so was I.
He got out of the car, slammed the door and rummaged through the trunk as he looked for tools and the spare tire. I considered sitting in the car like the Queen while he jacked up the car, but got out and sat on the roadside a few meters away from the carnage. Boysie changed the tire with the speed and efficiency of a Formula One pit crew. With this unplanned mishap, I have officially missed the bus.
5:32 AM
As cars passed, they slowed down and offered to help, but Boysie waved them off. While he lowered the car to the ground, another car approached and then stopped. The passenger in the rear rolled down the window. It was Attila and all of her magical motherliness.
“Hello Dear! Oh my, what’s happened here?” she asked in the most disinterested manner.
I gritted my teeth and smiled while Boysie stated the obvious.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Bye now, sweetie,” she said and rolled up the window as her driver pulled away.
5:41 AM
In less than 10 minutes, we were back on route to somewhere. Now that we were driving the speed limit, I asked Boysie where we were going.
“I’m going to take you to the bus,” he said with a focus like Mario Andretti racing for the checkered flag.
I informed him that the only bus to Montego Bay left the depot 10 minutes ago, and we were still 10 minutes away.
He then asked me how much money I had. My eyebrows furrowed and created deep trenches of worry on my forehead.
“If I am going to get you to the bus, I’ll need more money,” he said matter-of-factly.
I travel with very little cash just in case I am ever in this very situation. A shakedown. I tell him I have twenty dollars and wonder if that is enough of an incentive to get me to where I need to go. Probably not.
5:58 AM
We entered the bus depot on two wheels and I slammed into the side door once again. My thighs now had bruises that matched the interior car door panel. We pulled up to a baby blue building with pink trim. A sign with a happy font advertised that we arrived at the place I should have been an hour ago.
Boysie jumped out of his car and asked the attendant if the bus to Montego Bay left. She looked at him with the same set of furrowed brows I had and dramatically pulled her sleeve up over her watch. She raised her arm and moved the watch face close to Boysie’s face and tapped the watch. “Right on time, man. Right on time,” she said.
6:00 AM
Boysie frowned at the reality that he was now responsible for getting me to the airport. He told me not to worry as he picked up his cell phone and called a friend.
“We will get you to the bus, don’t worry.” he said.
I didn’t want to tell him that I was filled with worry as there was now a “We” in the equation. With a WE, there is a greater opportunity that there would not be a ME after this is all said and done.
A rusted silver 1990 Toyota Corolla station wagon pulled next to us. Boysie smiled and waved frantically, and the car pulled a few feet in front of us.
As we got out of Boysie’s car, Boysie introduced me to his friend, Pinky. When Pinky extended his hand to shake mine, I was able to quickly deduce how he got his name. Pinky had only four digits on his right hand, with his namesake being the missing extremity.
I pulled open the back door of Pinky’s car and noticed the seat looked like a rabid dog ate through the padding of the bench seat. I tossed my bag in the trunk and slid over the rusted springs that pressed through the faded fabric.
6:19 AM
The dynamic duo of Pinky and Boysie were now my chauffeurs.
Pinky punched the accelerator and told me that we were going to race the bus and try to catch it as it made its way up the coast to Montego Bay.
He raised his eyes to meet mine in the rear-view mirror.
“How much money do you have?” he asked with no shame.
Another shake down. I told him I had $20 cash, the same amount I told Boysie earlier.
Pinky and Boysie spoke to each other quietly so I could not hear.
Boysie turned his body toward me to begin negotiations to get me to the bus or airport. “Since you have no money, I would like you to use your credit card to fill up the car at the gas station. And then you will take out an extra $40 from the ATM,” he explained matter-of-factly.
My anxiety rose and caused my face to brighten like cock combs on a rooster while my mind buzzed with questions like angry wasps ready to sting.
As I looked out the window, I quickly realized I was in no position to negotiate. If I said no, would they pull over and push me out of the car, literally in the middle of nowhere with no cell service?
I nodded my head in agreement, and Pinky punched the pedal with gusto.
7:15 AM
90 minutes into our journey and not a word was spoken. My head bounced against the window as I tried to focus on the blurred scenery.
Pinky pulled into a gas station in Port Maria. Five shady looking guys sat in the shade of the building. Boysie got out of the car and told me to follow him. The only thing missing in this scene was the butt of a pistol in my lower back. We walked into the market and he informed the toothless cashier that I would pay to fill up their car.
“And I would like her to take out forty dollars in cash using her debit card,” he added.
The attendant looked over her dirty bifocals, and gave me a look as if to say, “Are you ok with that?” I nodded and swiped my card. She handed me a small receipt and handed Boysie my forty dollars.
I walked out the door and felt like my blood was siphoned out of my body. Pinky repeatedly pushed his body against the car, causing the car to sway, providing space for a few more drops of fuel to be added to the tank.
Pinky slid back into the driver’s seat. His tank was full of gas, Boysie’s wallet was full of cash, and I was depleted of everything.
7:18 AM
Boysie tossed me a danish wrapped in loud cellophane. I had no appetite for a gas station pastry, let alone one with that expired two years ago. I stuffed it in between the springs and yellow foam of the seat back and leaned back to make sure it was secure in its new home.
7:57 AM
We drove another 40 minutes in more uncomfortable silence. I paid my dues and was ready to leave the confines of this moving prison cell.
Pinky turned into a congested and bustling parking lot. I was quickly overwhelmed by the chaos of morning rush hour at the Ocho Rios Transport Center. My eyes dilated with angst and my heart raced as Pinky navigated through pedestrians, goats, dogs, and pop-up food stalls. People moved around with a purpose, each one knew where they needed to go. Except me. I sat frozen in the back of the hot car.
Boysie told me this is where I would be getting out and pointed to a long line of dirty white Toyota passenger vans.
“Hurry, the bus leaves at eight o’clock!!” he snapped. I grabbed my backpack from the back of the car and followed Boysie over to one of the bored, tired and hungover drivers standing next to their van. They exchanged pleasantries and five dollars before the driver nodded for me to get in.
There were already 14 passengers in the 12-seater minivan who had already claimed a spot. There was no place for me and my luggage. I turned back to tell Boysie that this solution would not work, but he and Pinky were already gone.
11:08 AM
The bus stopped long enough for me to get out. I swear I felt a few hands on my back, encouraging me to get out faster than I wanted. I turned around to grab my backpack, but the impatient passengers already pushed it out. It rolled in the dirt, looking like a dead body wrapped in high-tech canvas a few meters away. I turned around to wave goodbye, but instead, was enveloped in the warm dark exhaust of the bus as it disappeared over the horizon.
I dusted myself off and began the 3 kilometer trek to the airport and lumbered onward like a zombie focused on finding his next meal. A loud horn blasted from behind and startled me out of my trance. I must have drifted into the bus lane in my desire to get to the airport faster. As the vehicle passed, I noticed the bright pink and blue decals advertising the cool comfort of riding on the Knutsford Express. That was the bus I was supposed to be on!
The long way home
The bus stopped a few feet in front of me and I swore I felt a soft plume of cool air billow around my body when the driver opened the bus door. The happy and rested passengers stepped off the bus and surrounded me as we all made our way into the terminal.
We all arrived at the same place at the same time, but I had a much better story to tell.
