here’s no better way to feel uncool in Jamaica than to show up early for the Thursday-night Roadblock Party, which is exactly what we’ve done. Killing time, my friend and I saunter over to buy a shot of rum from a dreadlocked gentleman who appears to have sampled too much of his homebrew. He entertains us by explaining, at length, that having dreadlocks does not mean you are Rasta. Being Rasta is a way of life that requires purity of mind, spirit and body, not just a hairdo. Eventually, the music booms extravagantly, and local revelers — men with gleaming muscles, women wearing sparkling miniskirts — drift up the road. An enormous man wearing a headscarf and medallion necklace strides over and clasps my friend in a bro-hug; he remembers him from a past visit. This party is infamous in Port Antonio, a forgotten slice of northeastern Jamaica that has it all: welcoming locals, gorgeous beaches, cultural authenticity — and, recently, a quiet revival.