Planet Tourist

Last weekend, I was in another world. A world where the scent of sun tan lotion and chlorinated pool water fills the air. Where the sound of sanitized reggae music rings in your ears. Where the taste of weak piña colada and French fries lingers in your mouth. Yes, we touched down on Planet Tourist on a Friday evening.

“It’s like arriving at the White House,” commented one of my colleagues in awe, as our humble bus drew up at the entrance. Soaring white pillars and soft lights greeted us. I think I heard someone tickling the keys of a piano. I felt like a scruffy little woman from the city, suddenly, as we were deposited in a vast lobby area. Hotel guests sauntered around in various stages of semi-undress; but they all looked very clean and very stylish. (I learned later that the lobby is the only place where you can get free wifi; elsewhere, the cost is exorbitant). We were whisked off to a special room, where we were checked in and presented with a welcome drink by smiling uniformed ladies. I’ve no idea what it was, but was so tired from the seemingly endless journey that I gulped it down thankfully. It tasted sweet (like everything else).

The White House effect. (My photo)

Then off to our rooms. This was a major excursion in itself. This all-inclusive hotel on Jamaica’s north coast is simply vast. Every ceiling is so high that bats might well be roosting in its upper reaches. You cross acres of marble-tiled floor (or something resembling marble) to get from A to B. There are no signs, so one has the same kind of helpless, lost feeling that I have often experienced at Miami International Airport. This is just a more laid-back version, without the aggressive customs officers. You just kind of drift along for a while, then spin around and ask the nearest member of staff (if there is anyone near) “Where am I?”  My room number was so long that I couldn’t memorize it. Not very good with numbers. Apparently this hotel has close to 1,000 rooms.

Once in my room, I wondered if I would be trapped there. Afraid to venture out in case I got lost, I ordered something from room service. A waiter carrying a towering stack of trays tapped on the door twenty minutes later. I carefully removed mine from the top, afraid it was all going to go crashing. What an amazing balancing act. It was a modest toasted cheese sandwich. Room service there is 24/7, so if you wake at 3:00 a.m. with a raging desire for a cheeseburger or a shrimp cocktail, you can just pick up the phone and order one.

My room. It had columns, too. (They are very fond of columns). (My photo)

My room was cool and purred quietly, as hotel rooms do. It was also ridiculously large, with off-white walls and colonial Spanish-y dark wood furniture, including a big four-poster bed. I went over to the window and stood on the balcony. Below was an elaborately winding swimming pool, glowing with that harsh swimming pool blue. Beyond, somewhere, might have been the sea. To one side was a huge white tower with rows of balconies like mine. I didn’t see many humans, but it was late.

After taking a shower, I positioned myself in the middle of the vast bed, along with approximately 1,000 cushions. I watched a mawkish Lifetime movie about a feather-brained woman with an eighties hairstyle who fell for some trickster with lots of teeth. There were a couple of plumply adorable kids, too. I never watch these things at home, and we don’t have a TV in our bedroom either. Maybe that’s why I like to do these things in hotels. Sleep arrived quickly.

The next morning, I looked out of the window again. A delightful vista greeted my bleary eyes. The blue pool (no getting away from that) and arcs of water sprinkling the paths and carefully manicured gardens. Beyond the pool was a kind of ridge and, maybe, a beach? Beyond that, the glorious fuzzy blue of the Caribbean Sea, completely empty except for one fishing boat.

So blue. The view from my balcony. (My photo)

Dressed and ready for breakfast (where?) I stood in my doorway, looking to left and right. To my left, the hallway stretched off into the distance. I took the road more traveled, and found a small elevator, which turned out to be the staff only one, with metal walls.

Don’t ask me how I found my way to the dining room. I sort of used the lobby as a base camp and ventured out from there. By the time I reached food, I had five minutes to gulp down some crispy bacon and eggs and swill a cup of coffee before the workshop started. I envied those guests who were making a leisurely social occasion out of breakfast. I noted very few children at meal times, which was a relief for me. Well, I am not a morning person. And I need my head space not to be filled with whining vacationing kids.

The lobby, my base camp. Not sure what the huge statue represents, exactly. (My photo)

A lonely fishing boat, far away… (My photo)

Fast forward to Sunday (I still had not been near the sea. It was just a blue backdrop). A noisy group of us decided to have lunch at a Jamaican-flavored outdoor restaurant where you could buy something resembling jerk chicken, burgers etc. I opted for some pasta (not much of a meat-eater these days). The atmosphere was a lot more laid back than the dining room, where everyone sits looking at each other and noting what is on their plate. Here the reggae music was louder and bouncier. The occupants of the table next to us were almost as noisy as us (being Jamaicans, we were all discussing politics at high volume) – but the Red Stripes had been flowing for a while over there, I think. But they were happy, comfortable, well-tanned visitors from chilly climes. We were intense Jamaicans from Kingston, just stopping over. So the quality of the noise was different.

Down on the jerk deck. (My photo)

Then along came a tall, skinny young man in the usual mento-style flowery shirt and white pants that hotels tend to dress their waiters in. He was balancing a tray full of drinks on his head – at least six glasses full, none of them spilling. Quite a feat. Our neighbors found him delightful. As he approached their table, he started a series of songs and wisecracks, some of which may have been lost on his customers – but they laughed anyway, because they were happy tourists and they were enjoying themselves.

On the other side of this enormous property, a surprise beach… Not, apparently, a public one but all part of the complex. (My photo)

The young man put on quite a comedy act, complete with singing and dancing and harmless, inoffensive jokes. Our friends at the next table just lapped it up. He ended with a version of (yes, you’ve guessed it) Bob Marley’s “One Love.” The table joined in the chorus gamely, and sounded quite tuneful too. By the way, if you have been to a few all-inclusive hotels in Jamaica, you will never, ever want to hear that song again!

One of my colleagues commented quietly that the young man made her feel quite uncomfortable – a kind of performance for the tourists. I must admit it made me cringe a little, too. But, as I pointed out – he was doing his job; this is what he gets paid to do (and I hope it is decent pay!) And he did it well.

I got fidgety and decided to take a stroll around the huge deck (did I already say that everything here was over-sized?) festooned with those bristling straw roofs that are a staple of every tourist development. Leaning over a wall, I contemplated the peaceful ocean beyond. Looking down, I saw a small beach where one woman was tentatively poking her toes in the water…and beyond – well, a large, white beach curving round a bay. Where did that come from? A completely new beach. At least, it looked new. Questions: Was a beach there before, and if so was it open to the public? Answers: Maybe, and probably yes.

I noticed that there was no one swimming in the sea, although it was a lovely day. Many guests were wearing fashionable swimming outfits, with the obligatory floating draperies over them to provide a little modest covering. But they were all dry. No one was in the water. How different from a Jamaican public beach, where everyone heads straight for the water to splash around (even though most Jamaicans can’t swim!)

But there was no connection with nature, really. There were photographers, glossy duty-free shops, stores selling everything from T-shirts to fluorescent kitchen magnets to chocolate bars. There were masseuses and masseurs and tour operators and chambermaids in pink and white. There were entertainers and singers and bartenders and hairdressers and waiters. There were sports bars and restaurants and discos and lounges. It was a whole city. Everything you need, and many things you don’t need.

But where was Jamaica? Where was its beauty? A lonely cattle egret flew across the acid-blue swimming pool. That was all.

Back on the bus…to Planet Reality.

This enormous complex was built, by the way, in a pretty place called Pear Tree Bottom, and was officially opened six years ago. I remember Pear Tree Bottom well. But the memories are starting to fade.

Sunset at Pear Tree Bottom, before the development. (Photo: Wendy Lee)