The Road Less Traveled

Bike shop rusted rental bikes

I rode a rusted rented bicycle on a rutted road in Negril, Jamaica in the hot afternoon sun. The goal was to ride to the end of West End Road. With a name like West End, one would think that there may be an end and I was determined to find it. Of course, In keeping with my no itinerary philosophy, I didn’t bother to look at a map to see how long this adventure would be. What’s the fun in that?

Riding West

From sand beaches to lava fields

As I rode west, the seascape changed every few miles. Soft sandy beaches were replaced by tall sharp jagged cliffs that eventually leveled out into large expanses of dark lava fields that had the texture of razor blades. The road looked like the moon, soft lunar dust billowed behind me as I traversed the crust and mantle of the deteriorating road.

Hell holes

Men not at work here

 I tightened my grip around my handlebars as I traversed over chunky gravel, the occasional misplaced rock, and fine sediment that left a thin veil of earth’s powder on my body. I maneuvered my dilapidated bike around the deep cavities in the road created by years of neglect. My eyes watered as my lower jaw slammed into my skull whenever my front wheel hit one of these large divots. The squeals from my wheels, brakes and corroded shocks made mad music as I rushed over the terrain of the apocalypse.

Forensic Fecal Inspector

Fecal skid marks

Further down the road, shadows of dark traffic cones appeared above the promise of fool’s water in the heat-induced mirage. I peddled faster to get a closer look and saw that the road was spotted with smears of dried fecal matter. What I thought were dark traffic cones were actually large mounds of doo-doo. The size of these heaps was most notable. Bigger than my foot, but not as big as the bicycle wheel. These mounds reminded me of uncle Jerry’s thanksgiving dinner plate. Piled high with 4 servings of turkey, mashed potatoes and all the fixins. Stepping off my bike for a closer look, I deduced these excrements were created by omnivores, the grass-eating kind. There was no corn, hair, feathers, bones or flies? Curiously wondering why there were no flies. Are flies not vegan?

Process of elimination

Measuring the mound

I pulled my reading glasses out of my bra, wiped them off with the corner of my dress in preparation for a detailed inspection in an attempt to narrow down the doodie doer. It looked more like chocolate soft serve ice cream that fell from the heavens above if the devil lived there. This had to be a beast, a big one. But looking around, there were no farms, gates or any indication of domesticated animals. These creatures were roaming free through the thicket of the Jamaican jungle. I began to wonder if this fecal dispenser would jump out of the brush and impale me at any moment?

Gift shop

Seeing the dried poop, reminded me of a family vacation. When I was about 10 years old, my dad drove all of us to the Chesapeake island of Chincoteague, Maryland. Famous for the wild ponies and the popular children’s book series Misty of Chincoteague, a story about a pony with personality. My Mom led a scavenger hunt for me and my sister out in the hot marshes. We each were given a small zip lock baggie to collect any fossilized horse droppings we found. With a baggie in hand, I cried. “Why can’t we go to the gift shop like everyone else?” My mom sneered at her ungrateful daughter. “Nature provides the best gifts, and it’s free” she snipped.

Looking up

The corner-boys on the lookout

I spotted a flock of white birds perched high in the trees who were on the lookout for uninvited guests. They reminded me of the corner boys who are paid to call out to drug dealers when the police were coming. They rustled on the branches and called out to their camouflaged buddies that something was entering their corner. My adrenaline rose quicker than a thermometer in a bubbling pot of chocolate as I peered into the thicket of vines, branches and bushes. The birds screamed and flew away leaving me staring into the burning red eyes of the poop pile owner.

Standoff

The beast

The head of the 700-pound beast was surely larger than a breadbox. And his breath was definitely in need of some Listerine. We had an old-fashion standoff. My heart beat faster than a coked-up drummer on the stage of a rock concert. Sweat blurred my vision and burned my eyes but I held a steady gaze. Unable and unwilling to move for fear of startling my buddy, I stood as still as Michelangelo’s David. I was willing to stand here for hours but my body had a different plan.

A small bubble of gas squeezed through a resistant orifice in my underwear making a pleading sound as it escaped. It sounded like a circus clown releasing air from an over-inflated balloon. This squeak was enough to abruptly end the standoff. The bovine slowly and steadily backed away while maintaining intense eye contact. He pushed back into the curtain of tangled foliage until he disappeared taking the bad smell of my gasses with him. Leaving me alone with the residue of my perspiration, palpitations and paranoia.

The End

West End Road ends here

I jumped back on my bike, hands sweating, legs shaking and nerves shot. The investigation was over, but I was committed to finding the end of the road.  I rode a few more miles until the road unceremoniously ended. The road turned into a footpath and dropped off into the ocean. Marking the end of West End road.

The Pictures of Proof 

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